114 



A PIC NIC. 



her; — and was not Mrs. Eglantine there?" She even proposed 

 that the dancing should recommence, if it were onlj to remove 

 all chance of chill from the rain. The music was summoned 

 into the hall for the young ones, and more shawls and more negus 

 for the chaperons. But it would not do. The effort to renew 

 the festivities was vain. No Adelaide appeared, and no Lord 

 D.; and, what seemed really to surprise and annoy Mrs. Ailing- 

 ton, no Mrs. Eglantine. *' She must be gone home to the 

 bower," said Mrs. Allington ; " and she has taken her companions 

 with her. Her judgment is so correct I cannot be uneasy." 



Morning dawned. All were tired, and glad to get Home. So 

 all departed, kindly hoping that nothing fatal had happened; 

 and several, in their solicitude, suggesting for consideration well 

 authenticated histories of death by lightning. It was clear that 

 Mrs. Allington had her own springs of comfort in her own strong 

 mind. How she slept I know not, but slumber was a stranger 

 to me. The more I reflected on what I had seen, the more was 

 I astonished at the conduct of each of the parties concerned. I 

 was at a loss which most to admire: the daring reach of the 

 mother's ambition — the criminal supineness of the father — the 

 heartless vanity and inconstancy of the daughter, or the officious 

 interference of the female friend, for mere mischiefs sake. I 

 was, however, so thoroughly out of temper with all things and 

 persons, that I felt ill prepared for the scene of deep dissimula- 

 tion which awaited me at the family breakfast. So I walked out, 

 early, and alone, to indulge myself in bad humour and useless 

 meditation. 



I returned about the middle of the day. More wonders: 

 Mrs. Allington was in fits. Her younger daughters ministering 

 salts and sympathies. Adelaide, on both knees, smiling, weeping, 

 blushing, and begging pardon and a blessing, all together. 

 Accompanied she was, and supported by a husband — not Lord 

 D., but the playmate of her infancy, and the lover of her choice, 

 Tom Burton. 



And all was soon explained. Honest John had known a trick 

 worth two at least of his wife's. He had received her peremptory 

 orders to shut his eyes to the elopement of his daughter. He 

 had done more — he had abetted in it. He had played the prac- 

 tical diplomatist. He had procured a licence, and had given his 

 formal consent to the two parties the most interested, that the 

 marriage should be solemnized privately, but very thoroughly, 

 that morning in his own parish church. Adelaide, on the prece- 



