Being a letter from Miss Tossie Trilbina, of No. 000, Giddingham Mansions, W., to the Editor of “The Keyhole,” an illustrated Weekly Journal of Caterings for the Curious.

Dear Sir,

Since reserve and reticence can be carried too far by a lady, I drop the present line of explanation, the newspapers having took so kind a interest in the differences between me and Lord Wretchingham. And if poets ask what’s in a name, the experience of me and many another young lady whose talent for the Stage, developed by application and go-aheadness, not to say good luck—for that there is such a thing must be plain to the stubbornest person—has made her friends from the Orchestra—(you’d never guess how the Second Violin can queer you in an accomp. if you hadn’t experienced it!)—to the highest row in the Threepenny Gallery at The Druids, or the shilling one at The Troc.—would answer, more than people think for!

My poor dear mother, who has been pretty nearly crazy about the affair, in that shrinking from publicity which is natural to a lady, told the young gentleman from The Keyhole, who dropped in on her at her little place at Brixton, to fish and find out for himself why the marriage-engagement between her daughter and his lordship should have been broken off on the very verge of the altar.

Of course, I don’t assume his lordship’s proposal wasn’t a compliment to a young lady in the Profession; but lordly roofs and music halls may cover vice or shelter virtue, as one of the serio characters so beautifully said in the autumn show at dear old Drury Lane, the name of which has slipped me. And I don’t pretend that my deepest and holiest feelings were not wrenched a bit by me having to say in two words, after mutual vows and presents of the solemnest kind had been exchanged between me and Lord Wretchingham: “All is over between you and me for ever, Hildebrand; and if you possess the mind as well as the manners and appearance of a gentleman, you will not force me to give you the definite chuck.”

He went on awfully, grinding the heels of his boots into a brand-new Wilton carpet, and telling me over and over that I had no heart and never loved him, concerning which I prefer to keep myself to myself. There are those that make as much noise when things go wrong with ’em as a one-and-fourpenny sparking-plug, and there are others that keep theirselves to theirselves and suffer in silence, of which I hope I am one. Even supposing my ancestry did not toddle over with Edward the Conkeror, which they may, for all I know.

It was on the very first night of the production of The Pop-in-Taw Girl, by the Trust or Bust Theatrical Syndicate, at the Hiram P. Goff Theatre, W., that Lord Wretchingham caught my eye. Musical Comedy is my strongest weakness, for though a principal boy’s part, with heaps of changes, and electro-calcium with chromatic glasses for every song and dance touches the spot, pantomime is not so refined. Perhaps you may recall the record hits I made in “Freddy’s Flannel Waistcoat Wilted in the Wash,” and “Lay Your Head on My Shoulder, Dear.” Not that it’s my habit to refer to my successes, but the street organs alone will rub it in when you happen to be the idol of the hour.

He sat with his mouth wide open—of course, I refer to Lord Wretchingham—all the time yours truly was on the stage, and I will say no gentleman could have a more delicate regard for a young lady’s feelings than his lordship did in sending a perfect haystack of the most expensive hothouse flowers addressed to Miss Tossie Trilbina, with a diamond and turquoise muff-chain twined round the moss handle of the basket, and not a speck of address on the card for my poor dear mother to return the jewelry to, her being over and above particular, I have often thought, in discouraging attentions that only sprang from gentlemen’s appreciation of the performance, and masked nothing the smallest objections could be taken to.

She quite warmed to Lord Wretchingham, I will say, when him being respectfully presented by the Syndicate, and me being recommended fresh country air by the doctors when suffering from tonsils in the throat, his lordship placed his motor-car at my disposal. With poor dear mother invariably in the glass compartment behind, the tongue of scandal could not possibly find a handle, and her astonishment when she discovered that Hildebrand regarded me with a warmer feeling than that of mere admiration gave her quite a turn.

We were formally engaged—me and Lord Wretchingham. We kept the thing so dark I cannot think how the newspapers managed to get hold of it. But a public favorite must pay the price of popularity in having her private affairs discussed by the crowd. My poor dear mother felt it, but there! what can you do? With interviewers calling same time as the milk, and Press snap-shotters lurking behind the laurel bushes in the front garden, is it to be wondered at that Hildebrand’s family were apprised of our betrothal not only by pars., but by the publication of our photographs, taken hand-in-hand on my poor dear mother’s doorstep, with a vine climbing up behind us, Hildebrand’s motor car, an 18.26 h. p. “Gadabout,” at the bottom of the doorsteps, with the French chofore parley-vousing away a good one to the three Japanese pugs, and poor dear mother, looking a perfect lady, at her fancy-work, in the front parlor window. How the negative was obtained, and how it found its way into all the Illustrated Papers, and particularly how it got upon the postcards, I don’t pretend to guess. It’s one of those regular mysteries you come across in real life.

Hildebrand, or, possibly, as all is over, I should say Lord Wretchingham’s family, went into perfect fits when the news of our betrothal leaked out. The Earl of Blandish, his father, raged like a mad bull; and the Countess, his mother, implored him on her knees to break the engagement.

“Oh,” she said, with the tears in her eyes, “my own boy,” she said, “do not, I beg of you,” she said—for, of course, I got it all out of Hildebrand afterwards—“show yourself to be of so weak and unoriginal a cast of mind as to follow the example of the countless other young men of rank and property,” she said, “who have contracted unequal and unhappy unions with young women on the boards,” she said—and like her classy cheek! Upon which Lord Wretchingham calmly up and told her that his word was his bond, and that I had got both; my poor dear mother having insisted from the beginning that things should be set down in black and white, which the spelling of irrevokable almost proved a barrier the poor dear could not tackle, his education having been neglected at Eton to that extent.

Me and my poor dear mother being—I don’t mind telling you on the strict—prepared for a struggle with Wretchingham’s family, was more than surprised when, after a Saturday to Monday of anxious expectancy, a note on plain paper with a coronet stamped in white from Lady Blandish informed us that her ladyship had made up her mind to call. And she kept the appointment as punctual as clockwork, driving up in a taxi, and perfectly plainly dressed; and when I made my entrance in the dearest morning arrangement of Valenciennes lace and baby ribbon you ever saw, I will say she met me like a lady should her son’s intended, and said that Lord Blandish and her had come to the determination to make the best of their son’s choice, and invited me down to stay at Blandish Towers, in Huntshire, when the run of The Pop-in-Taw Girl broke off for the autumn holidays.

“Oh,” I said, “Lady Blandish,” I said, “of course, I shall be perfectly delighted,” and let her know how unwilling I felt as a lady to make bad blood between Lord Wretchingham and his family. “But, of course,” I said, “my duty to the man who I have vowed to love and honor leaves me no choice.”

“My dear Miss Tossie Trilbina,” she said, “your sentiments towards Wretchingham do you the utmost credit,” she said, and I explained to her that though the surname sounds foreign, there is nothing of the Italiano-ice-creamo about yours truly.

“Oh!” she said, in that sweetly nasty way that the Upper Ten do seem to have the knack of, “do not trouble to explain, my dear Miss Trilbina. Lord Blandish and myself are quite prepared,” she said, “to accept the inevitable,” she said, and kissed me, and smiled a great deal at my poor dear mother, who was explaining to her ladyship that her family did not regard an alliance with the aristocracy as anything but a match between equals, and that my education had been of the most expensive and classy kind you can imagine. And smiled herself into her taxi, and motored away.

That was in the middle of the summer season, and I bespoke my costumes for my visit to my new relations next day. Of course, I expected a house-party of really hall-marky, classy swells, and meant to do the honors and help Lady Blandish to entertain as was my duty bound. And my shooting and golfing and angling costumes, and motoring get-up and riding-habit, and tea-gowns and dinner-dresses and ball-confections, were a fair old treat to see, and did Madame Battens credit.

Wretchingham drove me down in his 18.26 h.p. “Gadabout,” with my dresser-maid in the glass case behind, and an omnibus motor from the garage behind us with my dressing-baskets, and I thought of poor dear mother at home, I don’t mind telling you, when the Towers rose up at the end of an oak avenue longer than Regent Street, and Wretchingham’s two sisters came running down the steps to hug their brother and be presented to their new sister, and the white-headed family butler threw a glass door open and Wretchingham led me in between six footmen, bowing, three on each side.

What price poor little me when I heard there wasn’t any House-Party? Cheap wasn’t the word, with all those costumes in my dress-baskets. However, I faked myself up in a frock that I really felt was a credit to a person of my rank and station, and swam down to what her ladyship called a “quiet family dinner.”

The Earl of Blandish came in, leaning on his secretary’s arm, with a gouty foot, and did the heavy father, calling me “my dear.” I sat on his lordship’s right hand, and certainly he was most agreeable, telling me the black oak carvings in the great hall were by Jacob Bean, and that the walled garden with a separate division for every month in the year and a bowling alley in the middle had been made by a lady ancestor of his who lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and was a friend of the person who wrote Shakespeare.

“Oh!” I said, “I suppose,” I said, “in those days bowls were not considered a low form of amusement. Though if ever my poor dear mother and father did have to call words, it would be over his weakness for bowls and skittles as a waste of time and leading to betting and drink. And as for Shakespeare, I call it all very well for literary swells with nothing else to do,” I said, “but what the Halls cater for is the business gentleman who drops in with a pal to hear the popular favorite in a ten-o’clock turn over a cigar and a small Scotch. And gardening never was much in my line,” I said, “though when a child it was my favorite amusement to grow mustard and cress on damp flannel. Hunting is my passion,” I said, “and as Wretchingham has told me you keep a first-class stable of hunters and hacks, besides carriage beasts, I hope to show your lordship that I shan’t disgrace you,” I said, and asked him when the next meet would be?

The Earl’s old eyebrows went up to the top of his aristocratic bald forehead as he said not until October, and then only for cubbing, and the two girls flushed up red, trying not to laugh, and wriggled in their chairs, and Lady Blandish said in her nice nasty way that every day brought innovations, and one might as well ride to hounds in August as skate on artificial ice in May.

“And if you are fond of sport,” Lord Blandish said, “we could possibly find you some fishing. Don’t you think so, my dear?” and he looked at his wife.

“I have my salmoning costume with me,” I said, just to let them know, “and a rod, and everything. And I suppose Wretchie won’t object,” I said, giving the poor thing a smile, “to prompt me if I am fluffy in the business.”

“Dear me!” said Lady Blandish, “how stupid of me not to have explained before,” she said, “that this is a trouting County and not a salmon County, and that such trout as there are run very small.” And the two girls choked again in the most underbred way I ever.

I said I’d fall back on golf, having a killing get-up in my basket, but there wasn’t a links within miles, Lady Blandish said, and how sorry she was. All the hot-weather entertainment she had it in her power to offer me in their quiet country home, she said, was an occasional flower-show, or County cricket-match, or a garden-party, or a friendly dinner with people who were not too exacting. In September there would be the birds, but then I would not be there. It was too unfortunate, she said. Not that her saying so took me in much.

I thought the top of my head would have come off with yawning that evening, I really did; and when I remembered that there were three weeks more of it before me I could have screamed out loud. Me and Wretchingham went for a spin in his T-cart next morning before lunch, and that drive settled me in deciding to off it on the next chance.

“Tossie darling,” said the poor dear thing, “it has gratified my father exceedingly to ascertain,” he said, “that you are fond of the country; because a condition of the provision he is willing to make for us when we are married,” he said—and he would have put his arm round my waist only the trotter shied—“is that we reside at the Dower House,” he said, “twenty miles from here, and lead a healthy life in accordance with his views as regards what is appropriate for future land-owners who will one day hold a solid stake in the County. Of course, you will leave the Stage forever, my darling,” he said, “as a future Countess of Blandish cannot figure upon the Lyric Boards,” he said, “without in some degree compromising her reputation and bringing discredit upon the family of which,” he said, “she has become a member. My father will allow us two thousand a year at first,” he said, “which will enable us to keep a couple of motor-cars and a hack or two, and with an occasional week-end in Town, I have no doubt,” he said, “that our married life will be,” he said, “one of ideal happiness for both of us. You observe,” he said, pointing with his whip straight over the trotter’s ears, “that rather low-pitched stone building of the Grange description down in that wooded hollow there? The house is quite commodious,” he said. “You will appreciate the exceptional garden; and as there is a good deal of arable land comprised,” he said, “in the estate, I shall take up farming,” he said, “with enthusiasm.”

“You may take up farming,” I said haughtily, “with enthusiasm, dear old boy; but what I say is, you will not take it up with yours truly! Do you suppose in cold blood that Tossie Trilbina is the sort of girl to sit down in the middle of a ploughed field and lead a life of ideal happiness with a farming husband in gaiters,” I said, tossing my head, “telling me how the turnips are looking every evening at dinner, and taking me up to Town for a week-end,” I said, “every now and then as a treat? No, Hildebrand,” I said, “clearly understand, much as I regret to say it, that I am not taking any; and unless the old gentleman can be brought to see the reason,” I said, “of a flat in Mayfair, all is over betwixt me and you, and I shall go back to my poor dear mother by to-night’s express,” I said, “if the lacerated state of your feelings does not permit,” I said, “of your taking the steering-wheel.”

Of course, the poor dear thing was dreadfully upset, and did his little best to bring Lord Blandish to weaken on his spiteful old determination; and Lady Blandish said heaps of nice-sounding nasty things, and the two girls tried to be sympathetic and not to look as if they were really ready to jump for joy. But the Earl remained relentless, and Lord Wretchingham is free. I must now close. Hoping you will accept this explanation in the spirit in which it is made,