fragments off the rich man's table. Lady Bountiful, who was bountiful in
nought but reviling, was the person whom I met. Bridewell and the stocks
was the tune, and the big dog sang the chorus at my heels. But I'll be
more than even with her. If I have the heart to feel an injury, she
shall find that I've a head to help my heart to its revenge. Revenge--I
love it!
_Bill._ That you do, missus; I'll answer for you there. If you be
affronted, you be the most cantackerous hanimal that ever boiled a pot.
Come, Dick, let's take the jacket off our customers, for fear of
mischief. (_Dick and Bill retire with the poultry._)
_Nelly_ (_assuming a more elevated manner_). Heigho! how many things,
long forgotten, come to my memory on this spot! Hard by I was brought
up, and even from this place I can see where my father and mother lie
buried. Here I was once innocent and happy. No, not happy, or I should
have stayed, and still been innocent. But away with the useless thought!
The steward's son--it must be young Bargrove. I did not meet him
yesterday when I was at the village, but I saw and spoke to Lucy, his
sister, who was nursed at this breast; and how I yearned to press her to
it! Pretty creature, how she hath grown! Little did my lady think, when
she drove me away, that I was the Nelly who used to be so much at the
Hall, nursing Lucy, whilst Mrs Bargrove gave her breast to Miss Agnes.
Little did Lucy, when she loaded my wallet with victuals, think that she
had so long lain in these arms. Heigho! bye-gone is bye-gone! What a
haughty woman is that Lady Etheridge! And yet, she was once a farmer's
daughter, but little better than myself. Could I be revenged on her! Ah!
I may; I know every particular connected with the family; but here comes
the lad. [_Nelly retires_
_Enter Peter Bargrove, book in his hand._
_Peter._ O solitude--solitude! what a quiet thing is solitude!
especially when you hold your tongue. I only wish that I had a dozen of
my old schoolfellows here to enjoy it with me, for, as this divine
Shakespeare says, it is so sweet to be alone. I wonder whether, if I
were to take to study, if I could not in time write a Shakespeare
myself? I'm blessed if I couldn't! How proud father ought to be of such
a son! But father wouldn't care if I did: he thinks of nothing but the
harvest: what a difference there is between father and me! I can't
account for it. O, here comes the woman of fate. What a gaunt-looking
body! What eyes! She can see through a post! Her looks go through me
already.
_Nelly_ (_advancing_). There is a bright leaf in the book of your fate,
young sir, that waits only for my finger to turn it.
_Peter._ Then wet your thumb, good woman, and let's have the news in a
twinkling.
_Nelly._ Not so fast, thou youth of lustrous fortunes! The time is not
yet come. Time was, time is, and time shall be!
_Peter._ Bless me! how very prophetical!
_Nelly._ Meet me here, three hours hence; I shall then have communed
with the astral influences!
_Peter._ Astral influences! I know of no such people hereabouts.
_Nelly._ The stars--the noonday stars!
_Peter._ The noonday stars! who can see the stars at noonday?
_Nelly._ The gifted.
_Peter_ (_looking up_). Well, then, I ar'n't one of the gifted.
_Nelly._ Yes; but you might be, if you had but faith.
_Peter._ Well, I'm sure I've got plenty--try it.
_Nelly._ Very well; stand thus. Now wave your hands thus high in the
air, then shade the sight, and close the left eye; look up, and tell me
what thou seest there.
_Peter._ Three carrion crows.
_Nelly._ Nought else?
_Peter._ No.
_Nelly._ Not all the heavenly hosts?
_Peter._ Not a star as big as a sparkle from a red-hot horse-shoe.
_Nelly_ (_pointing up_). Seest thou not those two bright stars, Castor
and Pollux?
_Peter._ No, I can't, upon my honour.
_Nelly._ Not Copernicus, so fiery red? not the Great Bear?
_Peter._ Why, I don't know; I really think I do see something. No I
don't, after all.
_Nelly._ Ah! then you want faith--you want faith. I, who see them all,
must read them for you. Away; in three hours hence, you'll meet me here.
(_Turns away._)
_Peter._ Well, you might at least be civil; but that's not the custom of
great people. What a wonderful woman, to see the stars at noonday! Well,
I'll put my faith in her, at all events.
(_Exit Peter. Dick and Bill come forward with the poultry picked._)
_Dick._ Well, missus, ban't he a soft cove?
_Nelly._ I have not done with him yet.
_Bill._ Now let's get our dinner ready. The fowls be a axing for the
pot.
_Dick._ And goose to be roasted.
_Bill._ No, I say; they'd smell us a mile. Your liquorice chops will
transport you yet.
_Dick._ Tell ye, Bill, goose shall be roasted. May I grow honest, but it
shall. I'll give up a pint--I'll sacrifice sage and innions. Eh, missus?
_Nelly._ The sooner they are out of sight the better. [_They retire; the
scene closes._
_Scene III._
_A Drawing-Room in the Hall._
_Enter Admiral and Lady Etheridge._
_Lady Eth._ Indeed, Admiral, I insist upon it, that you give the brutal
seaman warning; or, to avoid such a plebeian mode of expression,
advertise him to depart.
_Adm._ My dear, old Barnstaple has served me afloat and ashore these
four-and-twenty years, and he's a little the worse for wear and tear. In
a cutting-out affair his sword warded off the blow that would have
sacrificed my life. We must overlook a little----
_Lady Eth._ Yes, that's always your way; always excusing. A serving man
to appear fuddled in the presence of Lady Etheridge! faugh! And yet, not
immediately to have his coat stripped off his back, and be kicked out of
doors; or, to avoid the plebeian, expatriated from the portals.
_Adm._ Expatriated!
_Lady Eth._ How you take one up, Admiral. You know I meant to say
expatiated.
_Adm._ Ah! that is mending the phrase, indeed. I grant that he was a
little so so; but then, recollect, it was I who gave them the ale.
_Lady Eth._ Yes, that's your way, Sir Gilbert; you spoil them all. I
shall never get a servant to show me proper respect. I may scold, scold,
scold; or, to speak more aristocratically, vituperate, from morning till
night.
_Adm._ Well, then, my dear, why trouble yourself to vituperate at all,
as you call it? Keep them at a distance, and leave scolding to the
housekeeper.
_Lady Eth._ Housekeeper, indeed! No, Sir Gilbert; she's just as bad as
the rest. Once give her way, and she would treat me with disrespect, and
cheat you in the bargain; or, less plebeianly, nefariously
depropriate----
_Adm._ Appropriate, you mean, my dear.
_Lady Eth._ And appropriate I said, Admiral, did I not?
_Adm._ Why, really----
_Lady Eth._ (_raising her voice_). Did I not, Sir Gilbert?
_Adm._ Why, my dear, I suppose it was a mistake of mine. Well, my love,
let them appropriate a little--I can afford it.
_Lady Eth._ You can't afford it, Sir Gilbert.
_Adm._ My dear Lady Etheridge, money can but buy us luxuries; and as I
don't know a greater luxury than quiet, I am very willing to pay for it.
_Lady Eth._ You may be so, Admiral, but my duty as a wife will not
permit me to suffer you to squander away your money so foolishly. Buy
quiet, indeed! I would have you to know, Sir Gilbert, you must first
consult your wife before you can make a purchase.
_Adm._ Yes, my lady, it is a fatal necessity.
_Lady Eth._ Fatal fal, lal. But, Sir Gilbert, you were always a
spendthrift; witness the bringing up of the steward's children with your
own, mixing the aristocratic streams with plebeian dregs! Sir Gilbert,
the Bargroves are constantly intruding in our house, and Agnes will be
no gainer by keeping such company.
_Adm._ Whose company, my dear? Do you mean Lucy Bargrove's? I wish all
our fashionable acquaintance were only half so modest and so
well-informed. She is a sweet girl, and an ornament to any society.
_Lady Eth._ Indeed, Sir Gilbert! Perhaps you intend to wear the ornament
yourself. A second Lady Etheridge,--he, he, he! When you have vexed me
to death, or, to speak more like a lady, when you have inurned my mortal
remains.
_Adm._ Indeed, my lady, I have no idea of the kind. I don't want to
break the fixed resolution that I have long since made, never to marry a
second wife.
_Lady Eth._ I presume you mean to imply that you have had sufficient
torment in the first?
_Adm._ I said not so, my dear; I only meant to remark, that I should not
again venture on matrimony.
_Lady Eth._ I can take a hint, Sir Gilbert, though I don't believe you.
All husbands tell their wives they'll never marry again; but, as dead
men tell no tales, so dead wives----
_Adm._ (_Aside_). Don't scold.
_Lady Eth._ What's that, Sir Gilbert?
_Adm._ Nothing--not worth repeating. But to revert to the Bargroves; I
think, my dear, when you consider their father's long and faithful
services, some gratitude on my part----
_Lady Eth._ Which they may live not to thank you for.
_Adm._ Recollect, my dear, that the Bargroves are a very old, though
decayed family. One half of this estate was, at one time, the property
of their ancestors. It was lost by a suit in chancery.
_Lady Eth._ Then it never was rightfully theirs.
_Adm._ I beg your pardon there, my dear; chancery will as often take the
property from, as give it to, the rightful owner. Bargrove is of a good
old family, and has some money to leave to his children.
_Lady Eth._ Out of your pocket, Sir Gilbert.
_Adm._ Not so; Bargrove has a property of his own, nearly three hundred
acres, which has been in the family for many years.
_Lady Eth._ Ever since you afforded him the means of purchasing it.
_Adm._ I said many years, long before my name was added to the
baronetage.
_Lady Eth._ Well, Admiral, it may be the case; but still there is no
excuse for your folly: and mark me, Sir Gilbert, I will not have that
pert minx, Lucy Bargrove, closeted with my daughter Agnes. As to the
boy, it is a downright puppy and fool, or, to speak less plebeianly, is
a _non composite mentus_.
_Adm._ Peter is not clever, but, without education, he would have been
worse. It is not our fault if we are not blessed with talent. Lucy has
wit enough for both.
_Lady Eth._ Lucy again! I declare, Admiral, my nerves are lacerated; or,
to descend to your meanness of expression, it is quite shocking in a
person of your age to become so infatuated with an artful hussy. Now,
Sir Gilbert, am I to be protected, or am I to submit to insult? Is that
sea-brute to remain, or am I to quit the house?
_Adm._ (_Aside._) I should prefer the latter. (_Aloud._) Why, my lady,
if he must go----
_Lady Eth._ Must go? (_rings the bell_). Yes, Sir Gilbert, and with a
proper lecture from you.
_Enter William; Lady Etheridge sits down with a wave of her hand._
_Lady Eth._ Now, Admiral.
_Adm._ William, you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself, getting
half-seas over, and behaving in that manner--but--to be sure, I sent you
the ale.
_Will._ Yes, your honour, famous stuff it was!
_Lady Eth._ Sir Gilbert!
_Adm._ And that's no excuse. I did not tell you to get drunk, and the
consequence is, that that, without a proper apology----
_Will._ Beg your pardon, Admiral, and yours too, my lady.
_Lady Eth._ Sir Gilbert!
_Adm._ The fact is, that without the apology, in one word, you, you
(_looking round at Lady Etheridge_) must take warning, sir, you leave
this house, sir.
_Will._ Leave, yer honour, arter twenty-five years' sarvitude!
_Lady Eth._ Sir Gilbert!
_Adm._ Yes, sir, leave the house--damme!
_Will._ If yer honour hadn't given the ale, I shouldn't have got into
trouble.
_Lady Eth._ (_Rising, and as she is leaving the room_). Sir Gilbert, I
am glad to perceive that you have a proper respect for me and for
yourself. [_Exit._
_Adm._ William, William, you must be aware that I cannot permit you to
remain, when Lady Etheridge is displeased with you.
_Will._ First offence, yer honour.
_Adm._ But, however, I'll try and get you another place, as your general
conduct has been correct.
_Will._ Thank you. I little thought, that after twenty-five years'
sarvitude (_wipes his eyes_). I can always get a ship, Admiral.
_Adm._ Why, yes, and I only wish that I had one, in which to give you a
good rating, my good fellow; but William, you must be aware----
_Will._ Yes, yer honour, I see how the cat jumps.
_Adm._ What do you mean?
_Will._ I sees that yer honour is no longer in command of your own ship.
_Adm._ You scoundrel! What do you mean?
_Will._ Lord, Sir Gilbert, we all knows how the matter be, and as how
you can't call your soul your own. It warn't so in the _Menelaus_, when
your little finger was enough to make every man jump out of his shoes.
You _were_ a bit of a tartar, that's sartin,--and, now you've cotched a
tartar.
_Adm._ You insolent scoundrel!
_Will._ Your honour arn't angry, I hope, but we all pities ye, we do
indeed!
_Adm._ Unbearable!
_Will._ And we says in the servants' hall--and we be all agreed
_there_--that you be the kindest master in the world--but, that as for
my lady----
_Adm._ Silence, sir; what insolence is this? Out of the room
immediately; now, if I had you on board, you scoundrel, I'd give you as
good a four dozen as ever a fellow had in his life. I was just going to
pension the blackguard, now I'll see him hanged first.
(_The Admiral walks up and down the room in a rage, William still
remains behind._)
Well, well, even my servants laugh at, pity me. Here I am, cooled down
into the quietest man in the world, yet obliged to put myself in a
passion whenever my wife pleases. It is very hard to lose my temper and
my character at her bidding; but if I don't she would put herself into
such a rage with me, that I should be even worse off;--of the two evils
I must choose the least; but in falling in love, I was a great fool, and
that's the truth.
_Will._ So you was, Admiral, that's sartin.
[_The Admiral runs at him with a stick. William runs off._
_Adm._ Scoundrel! Well, it is the truth.
_Enter Lady Etheridge, O.P._
_Lady Eth._ What is the truth, Sir Gilbert?
_Adm._ Truth, my lady? why, that when a man's intoxicated, he commits
great folly.
_Lady Eth._ Yes, and ought to be punished for it.
_Adm._ (_Aside._) I am sure that I have been.
_Enter Agnes, who runs up and kisses her father._
_Adm._ Well, Agnes, my little clipper, where are you going this morning?
_Agnes._ Down to the homestead, papa, with Lucy Bargrove.
_Lady Eth._ I must request, Miss Etheridge, that you will be more select
in your company. A steward's daughter is not the proper companion for
the house of Etheridge.
_Agnes._ Indeed, mamma, the society of Lucy Bargrove will never be
prejudicial to me. I wish you knew what an unassuming girl she is, and
yet so clever and well informed. Besides, mamma, have we not been
playmates since we have been children? It would be cruel to break with
her now, even if we felt so inclined. I could not do it.
_Lady Eth._ There, Admiral, you feel the effect of your want of
prudence, of your ridiculous good-nature. An unequal friendship insisted
upon, and a mother treated with disrespect.
_Agnes._ Indeed, mamma, I had no such intention. I only pleaded my own
cause. If my father and you insist upon it, much as I regret it, it will
be my duty to obey you.
_Lady Eth._ Miss Etheridge, we insist upon it.
_Adm._ Nay, Lady Etheridge, I do not,--that is exactly--(_Lady Etheridge
looks astonished and bounces out of the room._) My dearest Agnes, I must
defend poor Lucy against the prejudices of your mother, if I can; but
I'm afraid,--very much afraid. Your mother is an excellent woman, but
her over anxiety for your welfare----
_Agnes._ There was no occasion to remind me of my mother's kindness.
When a daughter looks into a parent's heart through the medium of her
duty, she should see there no error, and believe no wrong.
_Adm._ That's a good girl. Now let us take a turn in the garden before
dinner.
_Agnes._ Shall I ask mamma to accompany us?
_Adm._ No, no, my love, she's busy, depend upon it. [_Exeunt ambo._
_Scene IV._
_The Hall of an old-fashioned farming house._
_Old Bar._ (_outside._) Don't take the saddle off her, boy, I'll be out
again in ten minutes.
(_Enter Bargrove._) Poof--this is, indeed, fine weather for the harvest.
We can't cut fast enough--and such crops! (_Seats himself._) My dear,
where are you?
_Mrs Bar._ (_outside._) I'm coming. [_Enters._
_Bar._ Is dinner ready? No time, my dear, to wait. We are carrying at
North Breck and Fifteen Acre. Good three miles off; the people will have
dined before I'm back.
_Mrs Bar._ Lord bless you, Bargrove! don't fuss--can't they go on
without you?
_Bar._ Yes, my dear, they can; but the question is, if they will. This
fine weather mustn't be lost.
_Mrs Bar._ Nor your dinner either. It will be ready in five minutes.
_Bar._ Well, well,--where's Lucy?
_Mrs Bar._ Upstairs, with Miss Agnes. She's a sweet young lady.
_Bar._ Yes, and so mild, and so good-tempered.
_Mrs Bar._ That sweet temper of hers don't come from her mother, but
from me.
_Bar._ From you?
_Mrs Bar._ Didn't I suckle her as well as Master Edward? 'Tis the milk
makes the nature.
_Bar._ Good-natured you are, my dear, that's certain. There may be
something in it, for look at Peter. He was nursed by that foolish woman,
Sally Stone, when you put him away for Master Edward. I can make nothing
of Peter, dame.
_Mrs Bar._ Well, really Mr Bargrove, I can't find much fault in him.
Bating that he's idle, and extravagant, and won't mind what's said to
him, and don't try to please you, and talks foolishly, I see no harm in
the boy.
_Bar._ No harm--heh?
_Mrs Bar._ All this may appear improper in another, but somehow, it does
not appear so very bad in one's own child.
_Bar._ He's his mother's child, that's plain; but I say (striking his
stick upon the ground), he's a foolish, ungrateful, wicked boy.
_Mrs Bar._ Not wicked, Bargrove, don't say that. He is a little foolish,
I grant, but then he's young; and, by-and-bye, he'll grow tired of being
idle.
_Bar._ That's what no one was ever tired of, when he once took a liking
to it. But, however, I will try if I can't bring him to his senses.
Where is he now?
_Mrs Bar._ Heaven knows! He was up very early for him this morning, and
took a book with him, so you see there are some signs of amendment.
_Bar._ Well, well,--we shall see. But I think dinner must be ready by
this time. Come, my dear, time's precious.
[_Exeunt ambo._
_Enter Agnes, in a walking dress, with Lucy._
_Agnes._ Now, Lucy dear, I will stay no longer, for your dinner is
ready.
_Lucy._ Indeed, Miss Agnes, I beg that you will not go so soon. Of what
consequence is it when I dine? I dine every day, but every day I am not
honoured with your company.
_Agnes._ Nonsense----honoured. How you have altered in your behaviour
to me lately--so formal, and so stiff, now, I quite hate you.
_Lucy._ Indeed my heart is neither formal nor stiff; but when I was
familiar with you, I was young, and knew not the difference of our
situations. I do now, and only pay respect to whom respect is due.
_Agnes._ Then you have become very stupid, and I shall detest you.
That's all your knowledge will have gained you, Miss Lucy; nay more, I
will not come here so often if you do not treat me as you used to do,
and call me Agnes.
_Lucy._ Rather than that you should stay away, I will obey you, but I
still think that it is not right. Consider, when we used to learn and
play together, I called your brother "Edward," but how improper it would
be if I were to call him so now.
_Agnes._ I don't think that his objections would be very decided, Lucy,
as you happen to be such a pretty girl: however, I'll ask him, when he
comes home to-day.
_Lucy._ Ah, Miss Agnes, pray, pray, don't mention it.
_Agnes._ Well, you are pretty enough without blushing so much. I'll let
you off, provided you speak to me as I wish. But now, Miss Gravity, I've
a secret to tell you.
_Lucy._ A secret?
_Agnes._ I have found out that there's a gang of gipsies in the wood.
_Lucy._ Is that your secret? Then dame Fowler was let into it last
night, for she lost her best turkey, and she frets about it very much.
It was the one that she intended to send to the Hall on Christmas Day.
_Agnes._ But that is not the secret, Lucy. The real secret is--that I
wish to have my fortune told; and you must contrive with me how to
manage it.
_Lucy._ Shall I send the woman up to the Hall; she was here yesterday.
_Agnes._ No, no, you stupid thing. Lady Etheridge hates the very name of
a gipsy. One was at the Hall yesterday, and she threatened her with
Bridewell.
_Lucy._ Well then, shall I find out where they are? and we can go
together.
_Agnes._ That's exactly what I wish, Lucy; but it must be soon, as we
expect my brother and his friend belonging to the same regiment, and I
must not be out of the way when they arrive.
_Lucy._ Who is this friend?
_Agnes._ A Captain Mertoun. (_Sighs._) I have seen him before.
_Lucy._ He is then acquainted with your family?
_Agnes._ Not with my father and mother. When I was at Cheltenham with my
aunt, I met him very often. There is a little secret there, too, Lucy.
_Lucy._ Another?
_Agnes._ Yes, another. Don't you long to hear it?
_Lucy._ (_Smiling_). If you long to tell it?
_Agnes._ How provoking you are! You know I do. Well, then, this Captain
Mertoun is--a very handsome man.
_Lucy._ Is that all?
_Agnes._ No; but it's something to the point, because he says he is very
much in love with me.
_Lucy._ I'll believe that. Who is not?
_Agnes._ Don't be silly, Lucy; but the last part of the secret is the
most important. I think, Lucy, that I like him--that is--a little--a
very little. Now, since my father has told me he was coming down with my
brother, I've been in a perfect fever, I don't know why--and so--and
so--that is the reason why I wish to have my fortune told. I know that
it's very silly, and all nonsense; but still nonsense is very agreeable
sometimes.
_Lucy._ But you will not believe a word that you are told.
_Agnes._ No, not one word, unless it happens to meet with my own wishes;
and then you know.--But I really must be gone. Good-bye, Lucy. Remember
our meeting in the wood. [_Exit Agnes._
_Lucy._ God bless thee, dearest Agnes; yet would that I had never seen
either you or your brother! What is intended in kindness is, too often,
cruelty. The kiss of affection that is implanted on the lips, may take
so deep a root, as to entwine the heart. Heigho! What an elegant young
man is Captain Etheridge! I recollect, when we used to romp, and
quarrel, and kiss; then, I had no fear of him: and now, if he but speaks
to me, I tremble, and feel my face burn with blushes. Heigho!--this
world demands more philosophy than is usually possessed by a girl of
nineteen.
_Scene V._
_The Gipsy encampment.--Enter Nelly._
_Nelly._ I have been plotting my revenge on Lady Etheridge; and I have a
scheme which may succeed. I must, however, be guided by circumstances;
yet, by the means of this senseless fool, I hope to make much mischief.
O, here he comes.
_Enter Peter._
Good day, again. I have been waiting for you. The stars are in the
ascendant.
_Peter._ I thought they were up in the sky.
_Nelly._ Exactly. Now let me read the lines on your face. The finest
gentleman in the land would give half his fortune for those lines.
_Peter._ Then pray, what is my fortune, good woman?
_Nelly._ One that requires gold, with which to cross my hand; and then
it would be too cheap.
_Peter._ Gold! Won't a shilling do?
_Nelly._ I wish you good-day, Sir; I thought you were a gentleman.
_Peter._ Well, so I am; but gentlemen are not always very flush of
guineas. However, I have one here, and it shall go for my fortune.
[_Gives money._
_Nelly._ The planet, Georgium Sidum, says, that you are the son of the
steward, and your name is Bargrove.
_Peter._ Now, that is surprising!
_Nelly._ But Georgium Sidum tells not the truth.
_Peter._ Do the stars ever lie?
_Nelly._ O, the new ones do. They have not been long in the business.
But the old ones never fail.
_Peter._ Astonishing! and only supposed to be Bargrove's son. Go on,
good woman, go on. What do the old planets say?
_Nelly._ Nay, I must stop a little. That is all I can see just now; but
more will be revealed to me by-and-bye. What does Artemidorus say in his
ninety-ninth chapter, written in double Chaldean before letters were
invented?
_Peter._ I don't know. What does he say?
_Nelly._ That you must gain great truths by little ones. So you must
tell me all you know about yourself, and I shall be able to find out
more.
_Peter._ I was educated with Mr Edward Etheridge; and, when our
education was completed, he went into the army and I was sent home to my
father's--that is--to Mr Bargrove's.
_Nelly._ I understand.