If the last line extracted from my dear father's Diary does not contain explanation enough in itself, I add some sentences from Marmaduke's letter to me, sent from the theater last night. (N.
B.--I leave out the expressions of endearment: they are my own private property.). . . "Just remember how your father talked about theaters and actors, when I was at Cauldkirk, and how you listened in dutiful agreement with him. Would he have consented to your marriage if he had known that I was one of the 'spouting rogues,' associated with the 'painted Jezebels' of the playhouse? He would never have consented--and you yourself, my darling, would have trembled at the bare idea of marrying an actor.
"Have I been guilty of any serious deception? and have my friends been guilty in helping to keep my secret? My birth, my name, my surviving relatives, my fortune inherited from my father--all these important particulars have been truly stated. The name of Barrymore is nothing but the name that I assumed when I went on the stage.