LYDIA. Fear not, my Cashel: I will bail thee out.

CASHEL. Never. I do embrace my doom with joy.

With Paradise in Pentonville or Portland I shall feel safe: there are no mothers there.

ADELAIDE. Ungracious boy--

CASHEL. Constable: bear me hence.

MELLISH. Oh, let me sweetest reconcilement make By calling to thy mind that moving song:--

[_Sings_] They say there is no other--

CASHEL. Forbear at once, or the next note of music That falls upon thine ear shall clang in thunder From the last trumpet.

ADELAIDE. A disgraceful threat To level at this virtuous old man.

LYDIA. Oh, Cashel, if thou scorn'st thy mother thus, How wilt thou treat thy wife?

CASHEL. There spake my fate: I knew you would say that. Oh, mothers, mothers, Would you but let your wretched sons alone Life were worth living! Had I any choice In this importunate relationship?

None. And until that high auspicious day When the millennium on an orphaned world Shall dawn, and man upon his fellow look, Reckless of consanguinity, my mother And I within the self-same hemisphere Conjointly may not dwell.

ADELAIDE. Ungentlemanly!

CASHEL. I am no gentleman. I am a criminal, Redhanded, baseborn--

ADELAIDE. Baseborn! Who dares say it?

Thou art the son and heir of Bingley b.u.mpkin FitzAlgernon de Courcy Cashel Byron, Sieur of Park Lane and Overlord of Dorset, Who after three months' wedded happiness Rashly fordid himself with prussic acid, Leaving a tearstained note to testify That having sweetly honeymooned with me, He now could say, O Death, where is thy sting?

POLICEMAN. Sir: had I known your quality, this cop I had averted; but it is too late.

The law's above us both.

_Enter_ LUCIAN, _with an Order in Council_

LUCIAN. Not so, policeman I bear a message from The Throne itself Of fullest amnesty for Byron's past.

Nay, more: of Dorset deputy lieutenant He is proclaimed. Further, it is decreed, In memory of his glorious victory Over our country's foes at Islington, The flag of England shall for ever bear On azure field twelve swanlike spots of white; And by an exercise of feudal right Too long disused in this anarchic age Our sovereign doth confer on him the hand Of Miss Carew, Wiltstoken's wealthy heiress. [_General acclamation._

POLICEMAN. Was anything, sir, said about me?

LUCIAN. Thy faithful services are not forgot: In future call thyself Inspector Smith. [_Renewed acclamation._

POLICEMAN. I thank you, sir. I thank you, gentlemen.

LUCIAN. My former opposition, valiant champion, Was based on the supposed discrepancy Betwixt your rank and Lydia's. Here's my hand.

BASHVILLE. And I do here unselfishly renounce All my pretensions to my lady's favor. [_Sensation._

LYDIA. What, Bashville! didst thou love me?

BASHVILLE. Madam: yes.

'Tis said: now let me leave immediately.

LYDIA. In taking, Bashville, this most tasteful course You are but acting as a gentleman In the like case would act. I fully grant Your perfect right to make a declaration Which flatters me and honors your ambition.

Prior attachment bids me firmly say That whilst my Cashel lives, and polyandry Rests foreign to the British social scheme, Your love is hopeless; still, your services, Made zealous by disinterested pa.s.sion, Would greatly add to my domestic comfort; And if----

CASHEL. Excuse me. I have other views.

I've noted in this man such apt.i.tude For art and exercise in his defence That I prognosticate for him a future More glorious than my past. Henceforth I dub him The Admirable Bashville, Byron's Novice; And to the utmost of my mended fortunes Will back him 'gainst the world at ten stone six.

ALL. Hail, Byron's Novice, champion that shall be!

BASHVILLE. Must I renounce my lovely lady's service, And mar the face of man?

CASHEL. 'Tis Fate's decree.

For know, rash youth, that in this star crost world Fate drives us all to find our chiefest good In what we _can_, and not in what we _would_.

POLICEMAN. A post-horn--hark!

CASHEL. What noise of wheels is this?

LORD WORTHINGTON _drives upon the scene in his four-in-hand_, _and descends_

ADELAIDE. Perfidious peer!

LORD WORTHINGTON. Sweet Adelaide----

ADELAIDE. Forbear, Audacious one: my name is Mrs. Byron.

LORD WORTHINGTON. Oh, change that t.i.tle for the sweeter one Of Lady Worthington.

CASHEL. Unhappy man, You know not what you do.

LYDIA. Nay, 'tis a match Of most auspicious promise. Dear Lord Worthington, You tear from us our mother-in-law--

CASHEL. Ha! true.

LYDIA.--but we will make the sacrifice. She blushes: At least she very prettily produces Blushing's effect.

ADELAIDE. My lord: I do accept you. [_They embrace. Rejoicings._

CASHEL [_aside_]. It wrings my heart to see my n.o.ble backer Lay waste his future thus. The world's a chessboard, And we the merest p.a.w.ns in fist of Fate.

[_Aloud._] And now, my friends, gentle and simple both, Our scene draws to a close. In lawful course As Dorset's deputy lieutenant I Do pardon all concerned this afternoon In the late gross and brutal exhibition Of miscalled sport.

LYDIA [_throwing herself into his arms_]. Your boats are burnt at last.

CASHEL. This is the face that burnt a thousand boats, And ravished Cashel Byron from the ring.

But to conclude. Let William Paradise Devote himself to science, and acquire, By studying the player's speech in Hamlet, A more refined address. You, Robert Mellish, To the Blue Anchor hostelry attend him; a.s.suage his hurts, and bid Bill Richardson Limit his access to the fatal tap.

Now mount we on my backer's four-in-hand, And to St. George's Church, whose portico Hanover Square shuts off from Conduit Street, Repair we all. Strike up the wedding march; And, Mellish, let thy melodies trill forth Broad o'er the wold as fast we bowl along.

Give me the post-horn. Loose the flowing rein; And up to London drive with might and main. [_Exeunt._