My father sternly demanded how long I had been thus honourably employed.  This was a question which I had anticipated, and, therefore, very readily replied “Only two or three days;” that I had left Portsmouth for what we called “a lark,” and I thought it very amusing.

“Very amusing, indeed, sir,” said my father; “and pray, may I venture to inquire, without the fear of having a lie told me, how long this ‘lark,’ as you call it, is to continue?”

“Oh, to-morrow,” said I, “my leave expires, and then I must return to my ship.”

“Allow me the honour of keeping your company,” said my father; “and I shall beg your captain to impose some little restraint as to time and distance on your future excursions.”

Then rising in his tone, he added, “I am ashamed of you, sir; the son of a gentleman is not likely to reap any advantage from the society of strolling vagabonds and prostitutes.  I had reason to think, by your last letters from Portsmouth, that you were very differently employed.”

To this very sensible and parental reproof I answered, with a demure and innocent countenance (for I soon regained my presence of mind) that I did not think there had been any harm in doing that which most of the officers of the navy did at one time or another (an assertion, by-the-by, much too general); that we often got up plays on board of ship, and that I wanted to practise.

“Practise, then with your equals,” said my father, “not in company with rogues and street-walkers.”

I felt that the latter name was meant for Eugenia, and was very indignant; but fortunately kept all my anger within board, and, knowing I was “all in the wrong,” allowed my father to fire away without returning a shot.  He concluded his lecture by commanding me to call upon him the next morning, at ten o’clock, and left me to change my dress, and to regain my good humour.  I need not add that I did not return to the stage that night, but left the manager to make his peace with the audience in any way he thought proper.

When I informed Eugenia of the evening’s adventure, she was inconsolable:  to comfort her, I offered to give up my family and my profession, and live with her.  At these words, Eugenia suddenly recollected herself.  “Frank,” said she, “all that has happened is right.  We are both wrong.  I felt that I was too happy, and shut my eyes to the danger I dared not face.  Your father is a man of sense; his object is to reclaim you from inevitable ruin.  As for me, if he knew of our connection, he could only despise me.  He sees his son living with strolling players; and it is his duty to cut the chain, no matter by what means.  You have an honourable and distinguished career marked out for you; I will never be an obstacle to your father’s just ambition or your prosperity.  I did hope for a happier destiny; but love blinded my eyes:  I am now undeceived.  If your father cannot respect me, he shall at least admire the resolution of the unhappy Eugenia.  I have tenderly loved you, my dearest Frank, and never have loved any other, nor ever shall; but part we must:  Heaven only knows for how long a time.  I am ready to make every sacrifice to your fame and character—­the only proof I can give of my unbounded love for you.”