“The devil is come among you!” said Mr. Toobad.  “How came my daughter here?”

Marionetta, who had fainted, opened her eyes and fixed them on Celinda.  Celinda, in turn, fixed hers on Marionetta.  Scythrop was equi-distant between them, like Mahomet’s coffin.

“Celinda,” said Mr. Toobad, “what does this mean?  When I told you in London that I had chosen a husband for you, you thought proper to run away from him; and now, to all appearance, you have run away to him.”

“How, sir?  Was that your choice?”

“Precisely; and if he is yours, too, we shall both be of a mind, for the first time in our lives.”

“He is not my choice, sir.  This lady has a prior claim.  I renounce him.”

“And I renounce him!” said Marionetta.

Scythrop knew not what to do.  He therefore retreated into his stronghold, mystery; maintained an impenetrable silence, and contented himself with deprecating glances at each of the objects of his idolatry.

The Hon. Mr. Listless, Mr. Flosky, and other guests had been attracted by the tumult, multitudinous questions, and answers en masse, composed a charivari, which was only terminated by Mrs. Hilary and Mr. Toobad retreating with the captive damsels.  The whole party followed, leaving Scythrop carefully arranged in a pensive attitude.

IV.—­Scythrop’s Fate

He was still in this position when the butler entered to announce that dinner was on the table.  He refused food, and on being told that the party was much reduced, everybody had gone, requested the butler to bring him a pint of port and a pistol.  He would make his exit like Werter, but finally took Raven’s advice—­to dine first, and be miserable afterwards.

He was sipping his Madeira, immersed in melancholy musing, when his father entered and requested a rational solution of all this absurdity.

“I will leave it in writing for your satisfaction.  The crisis of my fate is come.  The world is a stage, and my direction is exit.”

“Do not talk so, sir; do not talk so, Scythrop!  What would you have?”

“I would have my love.”

“And pray, sir, who is your love?”

“Celinda—­Marionetta—­either—­both.”

“Both!  That may do very well in a German tragedy, but it will not do in
Lincolnshire.  Will you have Miss Toobad?”

“Yes.”

“And renounce Marionetta?”

“No.”

“But you must renounce one.”

“I cannot.”

“And you cannot have both.  What is to be done?”

“I must shoot myself!”

“Don’t talk so, Scythrop!  Be rational, Scythrop!  Consider, and make a cool, calm choice, and I will exert myself on your behalf.”

“Well, sir, I will have—­no, sir, I cannot renounce either.  I cannot choose either, and I have no resource but a pistol.”

“Scythrop—­Scythrop, if one of them should come to you, what then?  Have but a little patience, a week’s patience, and it shall be.”