I gave the pledge she required; took an affectionate leave; and, lighted by Susan, returned to the parlour.
Lobbies, like flower-knots, are dangerous places for adieux! Poor Susan was faintly remonstrating against a second kiss, when a third actor popped upon the stage unexpectedly, and terminated at once the contest. The intruder was my foster-brother. All parties evinced annoyance; Marc Antony looked very silly, and the demoiselle, bounding up the stairs, leaned over the balustrades, and spoke a hurried farewell.
“Heaven bless you, Master Hector—mind your poor mother’s parting words, and all prosperity attend you.” Then, turning a wrathful look at the “fosterer,” * she continued, “Don’t mind what that false villain says. Ah, you wicked wretch! are you not afraid the roof will fall?” and, shaking her clenched hand at him, vanished.
What could have roused the anger of the dark-eyed Abigail was to me a puzzle: I entered the parlour, and the crest-fallen fosterer followed, and closed the door.
“Why, Marc, what’s the matter? Your old friend, Susan, seems in but indifferent temper with you.”
Mr. O’Toole fiddled with his hat, picked the wool off by pinches, and appeared wofully confused.
“Did you want me, Marc? or was it Susan you were looking for?”
“I just wanted to speak to you,” said my foster-brother, “for fear I should miss you in the morning.”
“Well, Marc, here I am.”
“I’m going, Master Hector, to try my fortune either in England, or the North.”