“Yes; she verily believes that I am dying with impatience to carry her off to Scotland, and at four o’clock to-morrow morning she trips down stairs out of the garden-door, of which she keeps the key, flies across the park, scales the gate, gains the village, and takes refuge with her good friend, Miss Lacy, the milliner, where she is to wait for me. Now, in the mean time, the moment the coast is clear, I fly to you, my real angel.”
“Oh, no, upon my word,” said Lady Augusta, so faintly, that Dashwood went on exactly in the same tone.
“I fly to you, my angel, and we shall be half way on our trip to Scotland before mademoiselle’s patience is half exhausted, and before Miladi S—— is quite awake.”
Lady Augusta could not forbear smiling at this idea; and thus, by an unlucky stroke of humour, was the grand event of her life decided.
Marmontel’s well-known story, called Heureusement, is certainly not a moral tale: to counteract its effects, he should have written Malheureusement, if he could.
Nothing happened to disconcert the measures of Lady Augusta and Dashwood.
The next morning Lady S—— came down, according to her usual custom, late to breakfast. Mrs. Temple, Helen, Emma, Lord George, Mr. Mountague, &c., were assembled. “Has not mademoiselle made breakfast for us yet?” said Lady S——. She sat down, and expected every moment to see Mlle. Panache and her daughter make their appearance; but she waited in vain. Neither mademoiselle, Lady Augusta, nor Dashwood, were any where to be found. Every body round the breakfast-table looked at each other in silence, waiting the event. “They are out walking, I suppose,” said Lady S——, which supposition contented her for the first five minutes; but then she exclaimed, “It’s very strange they don’t come back!”
“Very strange—I mean rather strange,” said Lord George, helping himself, as he spoke, to his usual quantity of butter, and then drumming upon the table; whilst Mr. Mountague, all the time, looked down, and preserved a profound silence.
At length the door opened, and Mlle. Panache, in a riding habit, made her appearance. “Bon jour, miladi! Bon jour!” said she, looking round at the silent party, with a half terrified, half astonished countenance. “Je vous demande mille pardons—Qu’est ce que c’est? I have only been to take a walk dis morning into de village to de milliner’s. She has disappointed me of my tings, dat kept me waiting; but I am come back in time for breakfast, I hope?”
“But where is my daughter?” cried Lady S——, roused at last from her natural indolence—“where is Lady Augusta?”