It is the amiable defect of the English public never to know when
they have had enough of a good thing. They actually try to encore one
of her characters--an old north-country lady; modeled on that honored
preceptress in the late Mr. Vanstone's family to whom I presented myself
at Combe-Raven. This particular performance fairly amazes the people. I
don't wonder at it. Such an extraordinary assumption of age by a girl of
nineteen has never been seen in public before, in the whole course of my
theatrical experience.
I find myself writing in a lower tone than usual; I miss my own dash of
humor. The fact is, I am depressed about the future. In the very height
of our prosperity my perverse pupil sticks to her trumpery family
quarrel. I feel myself at the mercy of the first whim in the Vanstone
direction which may come into her head--I, the architect of her
fortunes. Too bad; upon my soul, too bad.
She has acted already on the inquiries which she forced me to make for
her. She has written two letters to Mr. Michael Vanstone.
To the first letter no answer came. To the second a reply was received.
Her infernal cleverness put an obstacle I had not expected in the way of
my intercepting it.
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