Mrs. Bradley (from without). Edward, come here right away. I want you to move the hat-stand, and see how many people can be seated in this hall.
Bradley. Oh yes, certainly, my dear—of course. Right away. My name is Legion—or Dennis.
Yardsley. That’s the spirit. (A crash is heard without.) Great Scott! What’s that?
Mrs. Perkins (without). Oh, Thaddeus!
Bradley. They’ve dropped the cook’s delight.
[He comes down from the stepladder. He and Yardsley go out. The pictures are piled up on the floor, the furniture is topsy-turvy, and the portières lie in a heap on the hearth.
Enter Mrs. Perkins.
Mrs. Perkins. Dear, dear, dear! What a mess! And poor Thaddeus! I’m glad he wasn’t hurt; but I—I’m afraid I heard him say words I never heard him say before when Mr. Barlow let the table slip. Wish I hadn’t said anything about the table.
Enter Mrs. Bradley.
Mrs. Bradley. These men will drive me crazy. They are making more fuss carrying that laundry table up-stairs than if it were a house; and the worst of it is our husbands are losing their tempers.
Mrs. Perkins. Well, I don’t wonder. It must be awfully trying to have a laundry table fall on you.
Mrs. Bradley. Oh, Thaddeus is angelic, but Edward is absolutely inexcusable. He swore a minute ago, and it sounded particularly profane because he had a screw and a picture-hook in his mouth.
Yardsley (outside). It’s almost as heavy as the piano. I don’t see why, either.
[The four men appear at the door, staggering under the weight of the laundry table.
Perkins (as they set it down). Whew! That’s what I call work. What makes this thing so heavy?
Mrs. Bradley (as she opens a drawer and takes out a half-dozen patent flat-irons and a handle). This has something to do with it. Why didn’t you take out the drawer first?
Yardsley. It wasn’t my fault. They’d started with it before I took hold. I didn’t know it had a drawer, though I did wonder what it was that rattled around inside of it.
Bradley. It wasn’t for me to suggest taking the drawer out. Thaddeus ought to have thought of that.
Perkins (angrily). Well, of all—
Mrs. Perkins. Never mind. It’s here, and it’s all right.
Yardsley. That’s so. We musn’t quarrel. If we get started, we’ll never stop. Now, Perkins, roll up that rug, and we’ll get things placed, and then we’ll be through.
Barlow. Come on; I’ll help. Bradley, get those pictures off the rug. Don’t be so careless of Mrs. Perkins’s property.
Bradley. Careless? See here now, Barlow—
Mrs. Bradley. Now, Edward—no temper. Take the pictures out.
Bradley. And where shall I take the pictures out to?
Yardsley. Put ’em on the dining-room table.
Perkins (aside). Throw ’em out the window, for all I care.
Bradley. Eh?
Perkins. Nothing. I—er—I only said to put ’em—er—to put ’em wherever you pleased.
Bradley. But I can’t say where they’re to go, Thaddeus. This isn’t my house.
Perkins (aside). No—worse luck—it’s mine.
Mrs. Perkins. Oh—put them in the dining-room; they’ll be safe there.
Bradley. I will.
[He begins carrying the pictures out. Perkins, Barlow, and Yardsley roll up the rug.
Yardsley. There! You fellows might as well carry that out too; and then we’ll be ready for the scene.
Barlow. Come along, Thaddeus. You’re earning your pay to-night.
Perkins (desperately). May I take my coat off? I’m boiling.
Mrs. Bradley. Certainly. I wonder you didn’t think of it before.
Perkins. Think? I never think.
Yardsley. Well, go ahead in your thoughtless way and get the rug out. You are delaying us.
Perkins. All right. Come on. Barlow, are you ready?
Barlow. I am. [They drag the rug out.
Yardsley. At last. (Replaces the tub.) There’s the fountain. Now where shall we put the cook’s delight?
Mrs. Perkins. Over here, I should say.
Mrs. Bradley. I think it would be better here.
Bradley (who has returned). Put it half-way between ’em, Yardsley. I say give in always to the ladies; and when they don’t agree, compromise. It’s a mighty poor woman that isn’t half right occasionally.
Mrs. Bradley. Edward!
Yardsley (adopting the suggestion). There! How’s that?
Perkins (returning). Perfect. I never saw such an original conservatory in my life.
Mrs. Perkins. I suppose it’s all right. What do you think, Emma?
Mrs. Bradley. Why, it’s simply fine. Of course it requires a little imagination to see it as it will be on the night of the performance; but in general I don’t see how it could be better.
Barlow. No—nor I. It’s great as it is, but when we get the hot-bed covers hung, and the fountain playing, and plants arranged gracefully all around, it will be ideal. I say we ought to give Yardsley a vote of thanks.
Perkins. That’s so. We’re very much indebted to Yardsley.
Yardsley. Never mind that. I enjoy the work very much.
Perkins. So glad. (Aside.) I wonder when we get a vote of thanks?
Bradley (looking at his watch). By Jove, Emma, it’s after eleven!
Mrs. Bradley. After eleven? Dear me! I had no idea it was as late as that. How time flies when you are enjoying yourself! Really, Edward, you ought not to have overlooked the time. You know—
Bradley. I supposed you knew we couldn’t pull a house down in five minutes.
Perkins. What’s become of the clock?
Mrs. Perkins. I don’t know. Who took the clock out?
Barlow. I did. It’s under the dining-room table.
Mrs. Bradley. Well, we mustn’t keep Bessie up another moment. Good-night, my dear. We have had a delightful time.
Mrs. Perkins. Good-night. I am sure we have enjoyed it.
Perkins (aside). Oh yes, indeed; we haven’t had so much fun since the children had the mumps.
Yardsley. Well, so-long, Perkins. Thanks for your help.
Perkins. By-by.
Barlow. Good-night.
Yardsley. Don’t bother about fixing up to-night, Perkins. I’ll be around to-morrow evening and help put things in order again.
[They all go out. The good-nights are repeated, and finally the front door is closed.
Re-enter Perkins, who falls dejectedly on the settee, followed by Mrs. Perkins, who gives a rueful glance at the room.
Perkins. I’m glad Yardsley’s coming to fix us up again. I never could do it.
Mrs. Perkins. Then I must. I can’t ask Jennie to do it, she’d discharge us at once, and I can’t have my drawing-room left this way over Sunday.
Perkins (wearily). Oh, well, shall we do it now?
Mrs. Perkins. No, you poor dear man; we’ll stay home from church to-morrow morning and do it. It won’t be any harder work than reading the Sunday newspapers. What have you there?
Perkins (looking at two tickets he has abstracted from his vest-pocket). Tickets for Irving—this evening—Lyons Mail—third row from the stage. I was just thinking—
Mrs. Perkins. Don’t tell me what you were thinking, my dear. It can’t be expressible in polite language.
Perkins. You are wrong there, my dear. I wasn’t thinking cuss-words at all. I was only reflecting that we didn’t miss much anyhow, under the circumstances.
Mrs. Perkins. Miss much? Why, Thaddeus, what do you mean?
Perkins. Nothing—only that for action continuous and situations overpowering The Lyons Mail isn’t a marker to an evening of preparation for Amateur Dramatics.
Enter Jennie.
Jennie. Excuse me, mim, but the coachman says shall he wait any longer? He’s been there three hours now.
[CURTAIN]
THE FATAL MESSAGE
CHARACTERS:
MR. THADDEUS PERKINS, in charge of the curtain.
MRS. THADDEUS PERKINS, cast for Lady Ellen.
MISS ANDREWS, cast for the maid.
MR. EDWARD BRADLEY, an under-study.
MRS. EDWARD BRADLEY, cast for Lady Amaranth.
MR. ROBERT YARDSLEY, stage-manager.
MR. JACK BARLOW, cast for Fenderson Featherhead.
MR. CHESTER HENDERSON, an absentee.
JENNIE, a professional waitress.
The scene is laid in the library of the Perkins mansion, on the afternoon of the day upon which an amateur dramatic performance is to be held therein. The Perkins house has been given over to the dramatic association having the matter in charge. At right of library a scenic doorway is hung. At left a drop-curtain is arranged, behind which is the middle hall of the Perkins dwelling, where the expected audience are to sit. The unoccupied wall spaces are hung with paper-muslin. The apartment is fitted up generally to resemble an English drawing-room; table and chair at centre. At rear stands a painted-canvas conservatory entrance, on left of which is a long oaken chest. The curtain rising discovers Mrs. Perkins giving a few finishing touches to the scene, with Mr. Perkins gazing curiously about the room.
Perkins. Well, they’ve transformed this library into a scene of bewitching beauty—haven’t they? These paper-muslin walls are a dream of loveliness. I suppose, as the possessor of all this, I ought to be supremely happy—only I wish that canvas conservatory door hadn’t been tacked over my reference-books. I want to look up some points about—
Mrs. Perkins. Oh, never mind your books, Thaddeus; it’s only for one night. Can’t you take a minute’s rest?
Perkins. One night? I like that. It’s been there two already, and it’s in for to-night, and all day to-morrow, I suppose. It’ll take all day to-morrow to clean up, I’ll wager a hat. I’m beginning to rue the hour I ever allowed the house of Perkins to be lured into the drama.
Mrs. Perkins. You’re better off than I am. I’ve got to take part, and I don’t half know my lines.
Perkins. I? I better off? I’d like to know if I haven’t got to sit out in front and watch you people fulfil your diabolical mission in your doubly diabolical way, and grin at the fearful jokes in the dialogue I’ve been listening to for weeks, and make the audience feel that they are welcome when they’re not. What’s been done with my desk?
Mrs. Perkins. It’s down in the laundry. You’re about as—
Perkins. Oh, is it? Laundry is a nice place for a desk. Plenty of starch handy to stiffen up a writer’s nerve, and scrubbing-boards galore to polish up his wits. And I suppose my papers are up in the attic?
Mrs. Perkins. No; they’re stowed away safely in the nursery. Now please don’t complain!
Perkins. Me? Complain? I never complain. I didn’t say a word when Yardsley had my Cruikshanks torn from their shelves and chucked into a clothes-basket and carried into the butler’s pantry, did I? Did I say as much as one little word? I wanted to say one little word, I admit, but I didn’t. Did I? If I did, I withdraw it. I’m fond of this sort of thing. The greatest joy in life is to be found in arranging and rearranging a library, and I seem to be in for joy enough to kill. What time are the—these amateur Thespians coming?
Mrs. Perkins (looking at her watch). They’re due now; it’s half-past four. (Sits down and opens play-book. Rehearses.) No, not for all the world would I do this thing, Lord Muddleton. There is no need to ask it of me. I am firm. I shall—
Perkins, Oh, let up, my dear! I’ve been getting that for breakfast, dinner, and tea for two weeks now, and I’m awfully tired of it. When I asked for a second cup of coffee at breakfast Sunday, you retorted, “No, not for all the world would I do this thing, Lord Muddleton!” When I asked you where my dress ties were, you informed me that it was “what baseness,” or words to that effect; and so on, until I hardly know where I am at. (Catches sight of the chest.) Hello! How did that happen to escape the general devastation? What are you going to do with that oak chest?
Mrs. Perkins. It is for the real earl to hide in just before he confronts Muddleton with the evidence of his crime.
Perkins. But—that holds all my loose prints, Bess. By Jove! I can’t have that, you know. You amateur counterfeiters have got to understand just one thing. I’ll submit to the laundering of my manuscripts, the butler’s-pantrying of my Cruikshanks, but I’ll be hanged if I’ll allow even a real earl, much less a base imitation of one, to wallow in my engravings.
Mrs. Perkins. You needn’t worry about your old engravings. They’re perfectly safe, I’ve put them in the Saratoga trunk in the attic. (Rehearsing.) And if you ask it of me once again, I shall have to summon my servants to have you shown the door. Henry Cobb is the friend of my girlhood, and—
Perkins. Henry Cobb be—
Mrs. Perkins. Thaddeus!
Perkins. I don’t care, Bess, if Henry Cobb was the only friend you ever had. I object to having my prints dumped into a Saratoga trunk in order that he may confront Muddleton and regain the lost estates of Puddingford by hiding in my chest. A gay earl Yardsley makes, anyhow; and as for Barlow, he looks like an ass in that yellow-chrysanthemum wig. No man with yellow hair like that could track such a villain as Henderson makes Muddleton out to be. Fact is, Henderson is the only decent part of the show.
Mrs. Perkins (rehearsing). What if he is weak? Then shall I still more strongly show myself his friend. Poor? Does not—
Perkins. Oh, I suppose it does—(Bell rings.) There comes this apology for a real earl, I fancy. I’ll let him in myself. I suppose Jennie has got as much as she can do sweeping my manuscripts out of the laundry, and keeping my verses from scorching the wash. [Exit.
Mrs. Perkins. It’s too bad of Thaddeus to go on like this. As if I hadn’t enough to worry me without a cross husband to manage. Heigho!
Enter Perkins with Yardsley. Yardsley holds bicycle cap in hand.
Yardsley. By Jove! I’m tired. Everything’s been going wrong to-day. Overslept myself, to begin with, and somebody stole my hat at the club, and left me this bicycle cap in its place. How are you getting along, Mrs. Perkins? You weren’t letter perfect yesterday, you know.
Mrs. Perkins. I’m getting it all right, I think. I’ve been rehearsing all day.
Perkins. You bet your life on that, Henry Cobb, real Earl of Puddingford. If you aren’t restored to your estates and title this night, it won’t be for any lack of suffering on my part. Give me your biking cap, unless you want to use it in the play. I’ll hang it up. [Exit.
Yardsley. Thanks. (Looks about the room.) Everything here seems to be right.
Perkins returns.
Mrs. Perkins (rehearsing). And henceforth, my lord, let us understand one another.
Perkins. Certainly, my dear. I’ll go and have myself translated. Would you prefer me in French, German, or English?
Yardsley. I hope it goes all right to-night. But, I must say, I don’t like the prospect. This beastly behavior of Henderson’s has knocked me out.
Perkins. What’s the matter with Henderson?
Mrs. Perkins. He hasn’t withdrawn, has he?
Yardsley. That’s just what he has done. He sent me word this morning.
Mrs. Perkins. But what excuse does he offer? At the last moment, too!
Yardsley. None at all—absolutely. There was some airy persiflage in his note about having to go to Boston at six o’clock. Grandmother’s sick or something. He writes so badly I couldn’t make out whether she was rich or sick. I fancy it’s a little of both. Possibly if she wasn’t rich he wouldn’t care so much when she fell ill. That’s the trouble with these New-Englanders, anyhow—they’ve always got grandmothers to fall down at crucial moments. Next time I go into this sort of thing it’ll be with a crowd without known ancestors.
Perkins. ’Tisn’t Chet’s fault, though. You don’t suspect him of having poisoned his grandmother just to get out of playing, do you?
Mrs. Perkins. Oh, Thaddeus, do be serious!
Perkins. I was never more so, my dear. Poisoning one’s grandmother is no light crime.
Yardsley. Well, I’ve a notion that the whole thing is faked up. Henderson has an idea that he’s a little tin Booth, and just because I called him down the other night at our first rehearsal he’s mad. That’s the milk in the cocoanut, I think. He’s one of those fellows you can’t tell anything to, and when I kicked because he wore a white tie with a dinner coat, he got mad and said he was going to dress the part his own way or not at all.
Perkins. I think he was right.
Yardsley. Oh yes, of course I’m never right. What am I stage-manager for?
Perkins. Oh, as for that, of course, you are the one in authority, but you were wrong about the white tie and the dinner coat. He was a bogus earl, an adventurer, wasn’t he?
Yardsley. Yes, he was, but—
Perkins. Well, no real earl would wear a white tie with a dinner coat unless he were visiting in America. I grant you that if he were going to a reception in New York he might wear a pair of golf trousers with a dinner coat, but in this instance his dress simply showed his bogusity, as it were. He merely dressed the part.
Yardsley. He doesn’t want to make it too plain, however, so I was right after all. His villany is to come as a painful surprise.
Mrs. Perkins. But what are we to do? Have you got anybody else to take his part?
Yardsley. Yes. I telegraphed right off to Bradley, explained as far as I could in a telegram without using all the balance in the treasury, and he answered all right. Said he’d bone at the part all day, and would be here at five letter perfect.
Mrs. Perkins (with a sigh of relief). Good. He’s very quick at learning a thing. I imagine it will be all right. I’ve known him to learn a harder part than that in five hours. It’ll be pleasanter for Emma, too. She didn’t like those scenes she had as Lady Amaranth the adventuress with Henderson. He kept her off the middle of the stage all the time; but with her husband it will be different.
Perkins. I’ll bet on that! No good-natured husband of a new women ever gets within a mile of the centre of the stage while she’s on it. She’ll have stage room to burn in her scenes with Brad.
Mrs. Perkins. I think it was awfully mean of Mr. Henderson, though.
Yardsley. Disgusting.
Perkins. It was inconsiderate. So hard on his grandmother, too, to be compelled to knock under just to get him out of a disagreeble situation. She ought to disinherit him.
Yardsley. Oh, it’s easy enough to be sarcastic.
Perkins. That’s so, Bob; that’s why I never am. It’s commonplace. (Bell rings.) Ah, there’s the rest of the troupe, I guess. [Exit.
Yardsley (looking at his watch). It’s about time. They’re twenty minutes late.
Mrs. Perkins (rehearsing). So once for all, Lord Muddleton—(derisively)—ha, ha! Lord Muddleton! that is amusing. You—Lord Muddleton! Ha, ha! Once for all, Lord Muddleton. I acquaint you with my determination. I shall not tell Henry Cobb what I have discovered, since I have promised, but none the less he shall know. Walls have ears—even that oaken chest by yinder wonder—
Yardsley (irritated). Excuse me, Mrs. Perkins; but really you must get that phrase right. You’ve called it yinder wonder at every rehearsal we’ve had so far. I know it’s difficult to get right. Yonder window is one of those beastly combinations that playwrights employ to make the Thespian’s pathway to fame a rocky one; but you must get over it, and say it right. Practise it for an hour, if need be—yonder window, yonder winder—I mean, yonder window—until it comes easy.
Mrs. Perkins (meekly). I have, and it doesn’t seem to do any good. I’ve tried and tried to get it right, but yonder window is all I can say.
Yardsley. But yinder window is—I should say, yonder window is correct.
Mrs. Perkins. Well, I’m just going to change it, that’s all. It shall be yonder casement.
Yardsley. Good idea. Only don’t say yonder basement by mistake.
Enter Perkins, followed by Barlow.
Perkins. Here’s Mr. Featherhead. He’s rehearsing too. As I opened the door he said, “Give me good-morrow.”
Barlow (smiling). Yes; and Thaddeus replied, “Good-yesterday, me friend,” in tones which reminded me of Irving with bronchitis. What’s this I hear about Henderson’s grandmother?
Yardsley. Thrown up the part.
Barlow. His grandmother?
Yardsley. No—idiot—Henderson. He’s thrown up his grandmother—oh, hang it!—you know what I mean.
Mrs. Perkins. I hope you’re not going to net gervous, Mr. Yardsley. If you break down, what on earth will become of the rest of us?
Yardsley. I hope not—but I am. I’m as nervous as a cat living its ninth life. Here we are three or four hours before the performance, and no one knows whether we’ll be able to go through it or not. My reputation as a manager is at stake. Barlow, how are you getting along on those lines in the revelation scene?
Barlow. Had ’em down fine on the cable-car as I came up. Ha-ha! People thought I was crazy, I guess. I was so full of it I kept repeating it softly to myself all the way up; but when we got to that Fourteenth Street curve the car gave a fearful lurch and fairly shook the words “villanous viper” out of me; and as I was standing when we began the turn, and was left confronting a testy old gentleman upon whose feet I had trodden twice, at the finish, I nearly got into trouble.
Perkins (wish a laugh). Made a scene, eh?
Barlow (joining in the laugh). Who wouldn’t? Each time I stepped on his foot he glared—regular Macbeth stare—like this: “Is this a jagger which I see before me?” (Suits action to word.) But I never let on I saw, but continued to rehearse. When the lurch came, however, and I toppled over on top of him, grabbed his shoulders in my hands to keep from sprawling in his lap, and hissed “villanous viper” in his face, he was inclined to resent it forcibly.
Yardsley. I don’t blame him. Seems to me a man of your intelligence ought to know better than to rehearse on a cable-car, anyhow, to say nothing of stepping on a man’s corns.
Barlow. Of course I apologized; but he was a persistent old codger, and demanded an explanation of my epithet.
Perkins. It’s a wonder he didn’t have you put off. A man doesn’t like to be insulted even if he does ride on the cable.
Barlow. Oh, I appeased him. I told him I was rehearsing. That I was an amateur actor.
Mrs. Perkins. And of course he was satisfied.
Barlow. Yes; at least I judge so. He said that my confession was humiliation enough, without his announcing to the public what he thought I was; and he added, to the man next him, that he thought the public was exposed to enough danger on the cable cars without having lunatics thrust upon them at every turning.
Perkins. He must have been a bright old man.
Mrs. Perkins. Or a very crabbed old person.
Barlow. Oh, well, it was an experience, but it rather upset me, and for the life of me I haven’t been able to remember the opening lines of the scene since.
Perkins. Well, if the audience drive you off the stage, you can sue the cable company. They ought to be careful how they lurch a man’s brains out.
Yardsley. That’s right—joke ahead. It’s fun for you. All you’ve got to do is to sit out in front and pull the curtain up and down when we ring a bell. You’re a great one to talk about brains, you are. It’s a wonder to me you don’t swoon under your responsibility.
Mrs. Perkins (rehearsing). So once for all, as he says, so say I—
Perkins. Ah! Indeed! You take his part, do you?
Mrs. Perkins (rehearsing). You must leave this house at once and forever. I once thought I loved you, but now all is changed, and I take this opportunity to thank my deliverer, Fenderson Featherhead—
Perkins. Oh—ah—rehearsing. I see. I thought you’d gone over to the enemy, my dear. Featherhead, step up and accept the lady’s thanks. Cobb, join me in the dining room, and we’ll drown our differences in tasting the punch, which, between you and me, is likely to be the best part of to-night’s function, for I made it myself though, if Tom Harkaway is in the audience, and Bess follows out her plan of having the flowing bowl within reach all the evening, I’m afraid it’ll need an under-study along about nine o’clock. He’s a dry fellow, that Harkaway.
[Exit Perkins, dragging Yardsley by the arm.
Barlow (calling after them). Don’t you touch it, Bob. It’s potent stuff. One glass may postpone the performance.
Yardsley (from behind the scenes). Never fear for me, my boy. I’ve got a head, I have.
Barlow. Well, don’t get another. (Turning to Mrs. Perkins.) Suppose we rehearse that scene where I acquaint you with Cobb’s real position in life?
Mrs. Perkins. Very well. I’m ready. I’m to sit here, am I not? [Seats herself by table.
Barlow. And I come in here. (Begins.) Ah, Lady Ellen, I am glad to find you alone, for I have that to say—
Mrs. Perkins. Won’t you be seated, Mr. Featherhead? It was such a delightful surprise to see you at the Duchess of Barncastle’s last evening. I had supposed you still in Ireland.
Barlow (aside). Good. She little thinks that I have just returned from Australia, where I have at last discovered the identity of the real Earl of Puddingford, as well as that of this bogus Muddleton, who, by his nefarious crime, has deprived Henry Cobb of his patrimony, of his title, aye, even of his name. She little wots that this—this adventurer who has so strongly interested her by his nepotic—
Mrs. Perkins (interrupting). Hypnotic, Mr. Barlow.
Barlow. What did I say?
Mrs. Perkins. Nepotic.
Barlow. How stupid of me! I’ll begin again.
Mrs. Perkins (desperately). Oh, pray don’t. Go on from where you left off. That’s a fearfully long aside, anyhow, and I go nearly crazy every time you say it. I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s easy enough for Mr. Yardsley to say occupy yourself somehow, but what I want to know is, how? I can’t look inquiringly at you all that time, waiting for you to say “Ireland! Oh, yes—yes—just over from Dublin.” I can’t lean against the mantel-piece and gaze into the fire, because the mantel-piece is only canvas, and would fall down if I did.
Barlow. It’s a long aside, Mrs. Perkins, but it’s awfully important, and I don’t see how we can cut it down. It’s really the turning-point of the play, in which I reveal the true state of affairs to the audience.
Mrs. Perkins (with a sigh). I suppose that’s true. I’ll have to stand it. But can’t I be doing some sewing?
Barlow. Certainly not. You are the daughter of a peer. They never sew. You might be playing a piano, but there’s hardly room on the stage for that, and, besides, it would interfere with my aside, which needs a hush to be made impressive. Where did I leave off?
Mrs. Perkins. Hypnotic power.
Barlow. Oh yes. (Resumes rehearsing.) She little wots that this—this adventurer who has so strangely interested her with his hypnotic power is the man who twenty years ago forged her father’s name to the title-deeds of Burnington, drove him to his ruin, and subsequently, through a likeness so like as to bewilder and confuse even a mother’s eyes, has forced the rightful Earl of Puddingford out into a cruel world, to live and starve as Henry Cobb.