Lysimachus brought him the fiddle, and Triplet essayed a merry tune; but it came out so doleful, that he shook his head, and laid the instrument down. Music must be in the heart, or it will come out of the fingers--notes, not music.
"No," said he; "let us be serious and finish this comedy slap off.
Perhaps it hitches because I forgot to invoke the comic muse. She must be a black-hearted jade, if she doesn't come with merry notions to a poor devil, starving in the midst of his hungry little ones."
"We are past help from heathen goddesses," said the woman. "We must pray to Heaven to look down upon us and our children."
The man looked up with a very bad expression on his countenance.
"You forget," said he sullenly, "our street is very narrow, and the opposite houses are very high."
"James!"
"How can Heaven be expected to see what honest folk endure in so dark a hole as this?" cried the man, fiercely.
"James," said the woman, with fear and sorrow, "what words are these?"
The man rose and flung his pen upon the floor.
"Have we given honesty a fair trial-- yes or no?"
"No!" said the woman, without a moment's hesitation; "not till we die, as we have lived. Heaven is higher than the sky; children," said she, lest perchance her husband's words should have harmed their young souls, "the sky is above the earth, and heaven is higher than the sky; and Heaven is just."
"I suppose it is so," said the man, a little cowed by her. "Everybody says so. I think so, at bottom, myself; but I can't see it. I want to see it, but I can't!" cried he, fiercely. "Have my children offended Heaven?
They will starve--they will die! If I was Heaven, I'd be just, and send an angel to take these children's part. They cried to me for bread--I had no bread; so I gave them hard words. The moment I had done that I knew it was all over. God knows it took a long while to break my heart; but it is broken at last; quite, quite broken! broken! broken!"
And the poor thing laid his head upon the table, and sobbed, beyond all power of restraint. The children cried round him, scarce knowing why; and Mrs. Triplet could only say, "My poor husband!" and prayed and wept upon the couch where she lay.
It was at this juncture that a lady, who had knocked gently and unheard, opened the door, and with a light step entered the apartment; but no sooner had she caught sight of Triplet's anguish, than, saying hastily, "Stay, I forgot something," she made as hasty an exit.
This gave Triplet a moment to recover himself; and Mrs. Woffington, whose lynx eye had comprehended all at a glance, and who had determined at once what line to take, came flying in again, saying:
"Wasn't somebody inquiring for an angel? Here I am. See, Mr. Triplet;" and she showed him a note, which said: "Madam, you are an angel. From a perfect stranger," explained she; "so it must be true."
"Mrs. Woffington," said Mr. Triplet to his wife. Mrs. Woffington planted herself in the middle of the floor, and with a comical glance, setting her arms akimbo, uttered a shrill whistle.
"Now you will see another angel--there are two sorts of them."
Pompey came in with a basket; she took it from him.
"Lucifer, avaunt!" cried she, in a terrible tone, that drove him to the wall; "and wait outside the door," added she, conversationally.
"I heard you were ill, ma'am, and I have brought you some physic -- black draughts from Burgundy;" and she smiled. And, recovered from their first surprise, young and old began to thaw beneath that witching, irresistible smile. "Mrs. Triplet, I have come to give your husband a sitting; will you allow me to eat my little luncheon with you? I am so hungry." Then she clapped her hands, and in ran Pompey. She sent him for a pie she professed to have fallen in love with at the corner of the street.
"Mother," said Alcibiades, "will the lady give me a bit of her pie?"
"Hush! you rude boy!" cried the mother.
"She is not much of a lady if she does not," cried Mrs. Woffington. "Now, children, first let us look at--ahem--a comedy. Nineteen _dramatis personae!_ What do you say, children, shall we cut out seven, or nine? that is the question. You can't bring your armies into our drawing-rooms, Mr. Dagger-and-bowl. Are you the Marlborough of comedy? Can you marshal battalions on a turkey carpet, and make gentlefolks witty in platoons?
What is this in the first act? A duel, and both wounded! You butcher!"
"They are not to die, ma'am!" cried Triplet, deprecatingly "upon my honor," said he, solemnly, spreading his bands on his bosom.
"Do you think I'll trust their lives with you? No! Give me a pen; this is the way we run people through the body." Then she wrote ("business."
Araminta looks out of the garret window. Combatants drop their swords, put their hands to their hearts, and stagger off O. P. and P. S.) "Now, children, who helps me to lay the cloth?"
"I!"
"And I!" (The children run to the cupboard.)
_Mrs. Triplet_ (half rising). "Madam, I--can't think of allowing you."
Mrs. Woffington replied: "Sit down, madam, or I must use brute force. If you are ill, be ill--till I make you well. Twelve plates, quick!
Twenty-four knives, quicker! Forty-eight forks quickest!" She met the children with the cloth and laid it; then she met them again and laid knives and forks, all at full gallop, which mightily excited the bairns.
Pompey came in with the pie, Mrs. Woffington took it and set it before Triplet.
_Mrs. Woffington._ "Your coat, Mr. Triplet, if you please."
_Mr. Triplet._ "My coat, madam!"
_Mrs. Woffington._ "Yes, off with it-- there's a hole in it--and carve."
