coom to Lon'on, that aw dunnot knaw whether to breighk thi yed, or to
goo wi' tho? There be thieves and there be robbers.
_Bill_. Never fear, daddy. You ain't worth robbin' of, I don't think.
_Tho._ How dosto knaw that? Aw've moore 'n I want to lose abeawt mo.
_Bill_. Then Mattie 'ill have som'at to eat--will she, daddy?
_Tho._ Som'at to eight, boy! Be mo Mattie hungry--dun yo think?
_Bill_. Many and many's the time, daddy.
_Tho._ Yigh--afore her dinner!
_Bill_. And after it too, daddy.
_Tho._ O Lord!--And what does hoo do when hoo 's hungry?
_Bill_. Grins and bears it. Come and see her, daddy?
_Tho._ O Lord! Mo Mattie, an' nothin' to eight! Goo on, boy. Aw'm beawn
to follow yo. Tak mo wheer yo like. Aw'll goo.
_Bill_. Come along then, daddy.
_James (collaring him_). Hullo, young un! You're the rascal as stole the
suvering: _I_ saw you!
_Bill_. Dunno what you're up to. I never stole nothink.
_James_. Oh no! of course not! What's that in yer fist now? (_Catches_
BILL'S _hand, and forces it open_.) There!
BILL _drops his stool on_ JAMES'S _foot, throws up the coin, catches
it with his other hand, and puts it in his mouth_.
_Tho._ Theighur! Theighur! The like ov that! Aw're agooin wi' a
thief--aw wur!
_Bill_. Never you mind, daddy. It wur guv to me.
_James_. That's what they allus says, sir.--You come along.--I'd be
obliged to you, sir, if you would come too, and say you saw him.
_Tho._ Nay! aw connot say aw seigh him steyle it.
_James_. You saw it in his hand.
_Tho._ Yigh! aw did.
_Bill_. It wis guv to me, I tell ye.
_James_. Honest boy, this one! Looks like it, don't he, sir? What do you
think of yourself, you young devil, a decoying of a grey-haired old
gen'leman like this? Why, sir, him an' his pals 'ud ha' taken every
penny you had about you! Murdered you, they might--I've knowed as much.
It's a good thing I 'appened on the spot.--Come along, you bad boy!
_Bill_. I didn't, take it. And I won't go.
_James_. Come along. They'll change it for you at the lock-up.
_Bill_. You didn't see me steal it! You ain't never a goin' to gi' me in
charge?
_James_. Wrong again, young un! That's? percisely what I am a goin' to
do!
_Bill_. Oh, sir! please, sir! I'm a honest boy. It's the Bible-truth.
I'll kiss twenty books on it.
_James_. I won't ax you.--Why, sir, he ain't even one o' the
shoe-brigade. He 'ain't got a red coat. Bless my soul! he 'ain't even
got a box--nothin' but a scrubby pair o' brushes as I'm alive! He ain't
no shoeblack. He's a thief as purtends to black shoes, and picks
pockets.
_Bill_. You're a liar! I never picked a pocket, in my life.
_James_. Bad language, you see! What more would you have?
_Tho._ Who'd iver lia' thowt o' sich wickedness in a boy like that!
_Bill_. I ain't a wicked boy, no. Nay, doan't thae tell mo that! Thae
made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd been a mak ov a
deevil--yo did.
_James_. He's one of the worst boys I know. This Timothy is one of the
very worst boys in all London.
_Bill (aside_). Timothy, eh? I twigs! It's Rainbow, by Peter and
Paul!--Look y'e here, old gen'leman! This 'ere's a bad cove as is takin'
adwantage o' your woolliness. _I_ knows him. His master guv me the
suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where your Mattie was.
_James_. Don't you fancy you're g' in' to take in an experienced old
gen'leman like that with your cock-and-bull stories! Come along, I say.
Hey! Police!
_Bill_. Here you are! _(Takes the coin from his mouth, rubs it dry on
his jacket, and offers it._) I don't want it. Give it to old Hunx
there.--He shan't never see his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, arter
all.
_James (taking the coin_). Now look here, Timothy. I'm a detective
hofficer. But I won't never be hard on no buy as wants to make a honest
livin'. So you be hoff! I'll show the old gen'leman where he wants to
go to.
BILL _moves two paces, and takes a sight at him_.
_Tho._ The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr Mattie then?
_James_. It's the dooty of a detective hofficer to know every girl in
his beat.
_Bill_. My eye! there's a oner!
_Tho._ Tak mo to her, sir, an' aw'll pray for yo.
_James_. I will.--If I cotch you nearer than Mile End, I'll give you in
charge at oncet.
_Bill (bolting five yards_). He's a humbug, daddy! but he'll serve you
right. He'll melt you down for taller. He ain't no 'tective. I know him.
_Tho._ Goo away.
_Bill_. Good-bye, daddy! He don't know your Mattie. Good-bye,
skelington! _Exit_.
_Tho._ Eh! sech a boy!
_James_. Let me see. You want a girl of the name of Mattie?
_Tho._ Aw do, sir.
_James_. The name is not an oncommon one. There's Mattie Kent?
_Tho._ Nay; it's noan o' her.
_James_. Then there's Mattie Winchfield?
_Tho._ Nay; it's noan o' her.
_James_. Then there's Mattie Pearson?
_Tho._ Yigh, that's hoo! That's hoo! Wheer? Wheer?
_James_. Well, it's too far for a man of your age to walk. But I'll call
a cab, and we'll go comfortable.
_Tho._ But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab--as yo co it.
_James_. You don't suppose I'm a goin' to put an honest man like you to
expense!
_Tho._ It's but raysonable I should peigh. But thae knows best.
_James_. Hey! Cab there! _Exeunt_.
_Re-enter_ BILL, _following them_.
_Bill_. I'll have an eye of him, though. The swell as give me the
yellow-boy--he's his master! Poor old codger! He'll believe any cove
but the one as tells him the truth!
_Exit_.
_Enter from the house_ MRS. CLIFFORD. _Enter from opposite side_
COL. G.
_Col. G._ I was just coming to see you, Clara.
_Mrs. C._ And I was going to see you. How's Arthur to-day? I thought you
would have come yesterday.
_Col. G._ My poor boy is as dependent on me as if I were _not_ his
father. I am very anxious about him. The fever keeps returning.
_Mrs. C._ Fortune seems to have favoured your mad scheme, Walter.
_Col. G._ Or something better than fortune.
_Mrs. C._ You have had rare and ample opportunity. You may end the farce
when you please, and in triumph.
_Col. G._ On the contrary, Clara, it would be nothing but an anticlimax
to end what you are pleased to call _the farce_ now. As if I could make
a merit of nursing my own boy! I did more for my black servant. I wish I
had him here.
_Mrs. C._ You would like to double the watch--would you?
_Col. G._ Something has vexed you, Clara.
_Mrs. C._ I never liked the scheme, and I like it less every day.
_Col. G._ I have had no chance yet. He has been ill all the time. I wish
you would come and see him a little oftener.
_Mrs. C._ He doesn't want me. You are everything now. Besides, I can't
come alone.
_Col G._ Why not?
_Mrs. C._ Constance would fancy I did not want to take her.
_Col. G._ Then why not take her?
_Mrs. C._ I have my reasons.
_Col. G._ What are they?
_Mrs. C._ Never mind.
_Col. G._ I insist upon knowing them.
_Mrs. C._ It would break my heart, Walter, to quarrel with you, but I
_will_ if you use such an expression.
_Col. G._ But why shouldn't you bring Miss Lacordère with you?
_Mrs. C._ He's but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head.
_Col. G._ She's a fine girl. You make a friend of her.
_Mrs. C._ She's a good girl, and a lady-like girl; but I don't want to
meddle with the bulwarks of society. I hope to goodness they will last
_my_ time.
_Col. G._ Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride _be_ a Christian virtue.
_Mrs. C._ I see! You'll be a radical before long. _Every_thing is going
that way.
_Col. G._ I don't care what I am, so I do what's right. I'm sick of all
that kind of thing. What I want is bare honesty. I believe I'm a tory as
yet, but I should be a radical to-morrow if I thought justice lay on
that side.--If a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn't he marry
her?
_Mrs. C._ She may be unfit for him.
_Col. G._ How should he fall in love with her, then? Men don't fall in
love with birds.
_Mrs. C._ It's a risk--a great risk.
_Col. G._ None the greater that he pleases himself, and all the more
worth taking. I wish my poor boy--
_Mrs. C._ Your poor boy might please himself and yet not succeed in
pleasing you, brother!
_Col. G. (aside_). She _knows_ something.--I must go and see about his
dinner. Good-bye, sister.
_Mrs. C._ Good-bye, then. You will have your own way!
_Col. G._ This once, Clara. _Exeunt severally_.
END OF ACT II.
ACT III.
SCENE.--_A garret-room_. MATTIE. SUSAN.
_Mat_. At the worst we've got to die some day, Sue, and I don't know but
hunger may be as easy a way as another.
_Sus_. I'd rather have a choice, though. And it's not hunger I would
choose.
_Mat_. There are worse ways.
_Sus_. Never mind: we don't seem likely to be bothered wi' choosin'.
_Mat_. There's that button-hole done. (_Lays down her work with a
sigh, and leans back in her chair_.)
_Sus_. I'll take it to old Nathan. It'll be a chop a-piece. It's
wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up.
_Mat_. I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content
with bread, I think.
_Sus_. Bread, indeed!
_Mat_. Well, it's something to eat.
_Sus_. Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone?
_Mat_. Bread's very good with a cup of tea.
_Sus_. Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!--If you'd
mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now!
_Mat_. I never tasted lobster-salad.
_Sus_. I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don't care
about your wittles: _I_ do. When I'm hungry, I'm not at all comfortable.
_Mat_. Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard.
_Sus_. I _can't_ eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain't dyin' of
'unger. It's only I'm peckish. _Very_ peckish, though. I could eat--let
me see what I _could_ eat:--I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen
oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken--if it
was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it--and a Bath-bun, and a
sandwich; and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except just that
crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle of
champagne.
_Mat_. I don't know what one of those things tastes like--scarce one;
and I don't believe you do either.
_Sus_. Don't I?--I never did taste champagne, but I've seen them eating
lobster-salad many a time;--girls not half so good-lookin' as you or me,
Mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. Oh dear! I _am_ so
hungry! Think of having your supper with a real gentleman as talks to
you as if you was fit to talk to--not like them Jew-tailors, as tosses
your work about as if it dirtied their fingers--and them none so clean
for all their fine rings!
_Mat_. I saw Nathan's Joseph in a pastrycook's last Saturday, and a very
pretty girl with him, poor thing!
_Sus_. Oh the hussy to let that beast pay for her!
_Mat_. I suppose she was hungry.
_Sus_. I'd die before I let a snob like that treat _me_. No, Mattie! I
spoke of a _real_ gentleman.
_Mat_. Are you sure you wouldn't take Nathan's Joseph for a gentleman if
he was civil to you?
_Sus_. Thank you, miss! I know a sham from a real gentleman the moment I
set eyes on him.
_Mat_. What do you mean by a real gentleman, Susan?
_Sus_. A gentleman as makes a lady of his girl.
_Mat_. But what sort of lady, Sue? The poor girl may fancy herself a
lady, but only till she's left in the dirt. That sort of gentleman makes
fine speeches to your face, and calls you horrid names behind your back.
Sue, dear, don't have a word to say to one of them--if he speaks ever so
soft.
_Sus_. Lawks, Mattie! they ain't all one sort.
_Mat_. You won't have more than one sort to choose from. They may be
rough or civil, good-natured or bad, but they're all the same in this,
that not one of them cares a pin more for you than if you was a
horse--no--nor half a quarter so much. Don't for God's sake have a word
to say to one of them. If I die, Susan--
_Sus_. If you do, Matilda--if you go and do that thing, I'll take to
gin--that's what I'll do. Don't say I didn't act fair, and tell you
beforehand.
_Mat_. How can I help dying, Susan?
_Sus_. I say, Don't do it, Mattie. We'll fall out, if you do. Don't do
it, Matilda--La! there's that lumping Bill again--_al_ways a comin' up
the stair when you don't want him!
_Enter_ BILL.
_Mat_. Well, Bill, how have you been getting on?
_Bill_. Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can't go on so. (_Holds out his
stool_.) It ain't respectable.
_Mat_. What ain't respectable? Everything's respectable that's honest.
_Bill_. Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin' about with a
three-legged stool for a blackin' box? It ain't the thing. The rig'lars
chaffs me fit to throw it at their 'eads, they does--only there's too
many on 'em, an' I've got to dror it mild. A box I must have, or a
feller's ockypation's gone. Look ye here! One bob, one tanner, and a
joey! There! that's what comes of never condescending to an 'a'penny.
_Sus_. Bless us! what mighty fine words we've got a waitin' on us!
_Bill_. If I 'ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it's for the right word in
the right place--as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him
up for purfane swearin'.--When a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, I
axes him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige me by givin'
of it to the first beggar he may 'ave the good fort'n to meet. _Some_
on 'em throws down the 'a'penny. Most on 'em makes it a penny.--But I
say, Mattie, you don't want nobody arter you--do you now?
_Mat_. I don't know what you mean by that, Bill.
_Bill_. You don't want a father--do you now? Do she, Susan?
_Sus_. We want no father a hectorin' here, Bill. You 'ain't seen one
about, have you?
_Bill_. I seen a rig'lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow.
_Mat_. What do you mean, Bill? Bill. A rig'lar swell--I repeats it--a
astin' arter a young woman by the name o' Mattie.
_Sus_. (_pulling him aside_). Hold your tongue, Bill! You'll kill her!
You young viper! Hold your tongue, or I'll twist your neck. Don't you
see how white she is?
_Mat_. What was he like? Do tell me, Bill.
_Bill_. A long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane with
a hivory 'andle.
_Sus_. He's a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can't abide him. If you tell him
where she is, she'll never speak to you again.
_Mat_. Oh, Susan! what _shall_ I do? Don't bring him here, Bill. I shall
have to run away again; and I can't, for we owe a week's rent.
_Sus_. There, Bill!
_Bill_. Don't you be afeard, Mattie. He shan't touch you. Nor the old
one neither.
_Mat_. There wasn't an old man with him?--not an old man with a long
stick?
_Bill_. Not with _him_. Daddy was on his own hook?
_Mat_. It must have been my father, Susan. (_Sinks back on her chair_.)
_Sus_. 'Tain't the least likely.--There, Bill! I always said you was no
good! You've killed her.
_Bill_. Mattie! Mattie! I didn't tell him where you was.
_Mat_. (_reviving_). Run and fetch him, Bill--there's a dear! Oh! how
proud I've been! If mother did say a hard word, she didn't mean it--not
for long. Run, Bill, run and fetch him.
_Bill_. Mattie, I was a fetchin' of him, but he wouldn't trust me. And
didn't he cut up crusty, and collar me tight! He's a game old cock--he
is, Mattie.
_Mat_. (_getting up and pacing about the room_). Oh, Susan! my heart'll
break. To think he's somewhere near and I can't get to him! Oh my side!
_Don't_ you know where he is, Bill?
_Bill_. He's someveres about, and blow me if I don't, find him!--a
respectable old party in a white pinny, an' 'peared as if he'd go on a
walkin' till he walked hisself up staudin'. A scrumptious old party!
_Mat_. Had he a stick, Bill?
_Bill_. Yes--a knobby stick--leastways a stick wi' knobs all over it.
_Mat_. That's him, Susan!
_Bill_. I could swear to the stick. I was too near gittin' at the taste
on it not to know it again.
_Mat_. When was it you saw him, Bill?
_Bill_. Yesterday, Mattie--jest arter you give me the tart. I sawr him
again this mornin', but he wouldn't place no confidence in me.
_Mat_. Oh dear! Why didn't you come straight to me, Bill?
_Bill_. If I'd only ha' known as you wanted him! But that was sech a
_un_likely thing! It's werry perwokin'! I uses my judgment, an' puts
my hoof in it! I _am_ sorry, Mattie. But I didn't know no better
(_crying_).
_Mat_. Don't cry, Bill. You'll find him for me yet--won't you?
_Bill_. I'm off this indentical minute. But you see--
_Sus_. There! there!--now you mizzle. _I_ don't want no fathers
here--goodness knows; but the poor girl's took a fancy to hers, and
she'll die if she don't get him. Run now--there's a good boy! (_Exit_
BILL.) You 'ain't forgotten who's a comin', Mattie?
_Mat_. No, indeed.
_Sus_. Well, I hope she'll be civil, or I'll just give her a bit of my
mind.
_Mat_. Not enough to change hers, I'm afraid. That sort of thing never
does any good.
_Sus_. And am I to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs, and sayin' _yes, ma'am_,
an' _no, ma'am_? Not if I knows it, Matilda!
_Mat_. You will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of
us.
_Sus_. An' what's that to me?
_Mat_. Well, I don't like to be thought a thief. Besides, Mrs. Clifford
has been kind to us.
_Sus_. She's paid us for work done; so has old Nathan.
_Mat_. Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took home
his slops?
_Sus_. Oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she takes it out in
kingdom-come.
_Mat_. You're unfair, Susan.
_Sus_. Well, it's little fairness I get.
_Mat_. And to set that right you're unfair yourself! What you call
speaking your mind, is as cheap, and as nasty, as the worst shoddy old
Nathan ever got gobble-stitched into coats and trousers.
_Sus_. Very well, Miss Matilda! (_rising and snatching her bonnet_). The
sooner we part the better! You stick by your fine friends! I don't care
_that_ for them! (_snapping her fingers_)--and you may tell 'em so! I
can make a livin' without them or you either. Goodness gracious knows it
ain't much of a livin' I've made sin' I come across _you_, Miss! _Exit_.
_Mat_ (_trying to rise_). Susan! Susan! (_Lays her head on the table_).
_A tap at the door, and enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD, _with_ JAMES _behind_.
MATTIE _rises_.
_Mrs. C._ Wait on the landing, James.
_James_. Yes, ma'am.
_Exit_ JAMES, _leaving the door a little ajar_.
_Mrs. C._ Well, Miss Pearson! (_Mattie offers a chair_.) No, thank you.
That person is still with you, I see!
_Mat_. Indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl.
_Mrs. C._ She is a low creature, and capable of anything. I advise you
to get rid of her.
_Mat_. Was she rude on the stair, ma'am?
_Mrs. C._ Rude! Vulgar--quite vulgar! Insulting!
_Mat_. I am very sorry. But, believe me, ma'am, she is an honest girl,
and never pawned that work. It was done--every stitch of it; and the
loss of the money is hard upon us too. Indeed, ma'am, she did lose the
parcel.
_Mrs. C._ You have only her word for it. If you don't give _her_ up, I
give _you_ up.
_Mat_. I can't, ma'am. She might go into bad ways if I did.
_Mrs. C._ She can't well get into worse. Her language! You would do ever
so much better without her.
_Mat_. I daren't, ma'am. I should never get it off my conscience.
_Mrs. C._ Your conscience indeed! (_rising_). I wish you a good morning,
Miss Pearson.--(_Sound of a blow, followed by scuffling_.)--What is
that? I fear I have got into an improper place.
SUSAN _bursts in_.
_Sus_. Yes, ma'am, and that you have! It's a _wery_ improper place for
the likes o' you, ma'am--as believes all sorts o' wicked things of
people as is poor. Who are you to bring your low flunkies a-listenin'
at honest girls' doors! (_Turning to James in the doorway_.) Get out,
will you? Let me catch you here again, and I'll mark you that the devil
wouldn't know his own! You dirty Paul Pry--you! (_Falls on her knees to
Mattie_.) Mattie, you angel!
_Mat_. (_trying to make her get up_) Never mind. It's all right between
you and me, Susan.
_Mrs. C._ I see! I thought as much!
_Sus_. (_starting up_) As much as what, then, my lady? Oh, _I_ know you
and your sort--well enough! We're the dirt under your feet--lucky if we
stick to your shoes! But this room's mine.
_Mrs. C._ That linen was mine, young woman, I believe.
_Sus_. An' it's for that miserable parcel you come a-talkin', an'
abusin' as no lady ought to! How dare you look that angel in the face
there an' say she stole it--which you're not fit to lace her boots for
her! There!
_Mat_. Susan! Susan! do be quiet.
_Sus_. It's all very well for the likes o' me (_courtesying
spitefully_)--which I'm no better'n I should be, and a great deal worse,
if I'm on my oath to your ladyship--that's neither here nor there!--but
_she's_ better'n a van-load o' sich ladies as you, pryin' into other
people's houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' yer flunkies!
_I_ know ye! I _do_!
_Mat_. Don't, Susan.
_Sus_. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye
good manners? I been better brought up myself.
_Mrs. C._ I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the matter
over to the police.
_Sus_. The perlice, indeed!--You get out of this, ma'am, or I'll make
you!--you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in
the face through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with
your--_insolence_--that's your word!
_Exit_ MRS. CLIFFORD.
_Mat_. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us?
_Sus_. She daren't do it--the old scrooge! But just let her try it on!
See if I don't show her up afore the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work my
fingers to the bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let me.
I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger,
which it's as true as gospel.
_Mat_. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey.
_Sus_. There _must_ be some good people somewheres, Mattie.
_Mat_. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, Sukey.
_Sus_. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women ha' done it afore.
It's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out--and they
shouldn't me. There's ne'er a one o' the redcoats 'ill cut up rougher
'n I shall--barrin' the beard, and _that_ don't go for much now-a-days.
_Mat_. And what should I do without you, Susan?
_Sus_. Do you care to have me, then?
_Mat_. That I do, indeed. But you shouldn't have talked like that to
Mrs. Clifford. Ladies ain't used to such words. They sound worse than
they are--quite dreadful, to them. She don't know your kind heart as I
do. Besides, the _look_ of things is against us. Ain't it now? Say
yourself.
_Sus_. (_starting up_) I'll go and beg her pardon. I'll go direckly--I
will. I swear I will. I can't abear her, but I'll do it. I believe
hunger has nigh drove me mad.
_Mat_. It takes all the madness out of me.--No, Susan; we must bear it
now. Come along. We can be miserable just as well working. There's your
sleeve. I'll thread your needle for you. Don't cry--there's a dear!
_Sus_. I _will_ cry. It's all I ever could do to my own mind, and it's
all as is left me. But if I could get my claws on that lovyer o' yours,
I wouldn't cry then. He's at the bottom of it! I don't see myself what's
the use of fallin' in love. One man's as much of a fool as another to
me. But you must go to bed. You ain't fit. You'll be easier when you've
got your frock off. There! Why, child, you're all of a tremble!--And no
wonder, wi' nothing on her blessed body but her frock and her shimmy!
_Mat_. Don't take off my frock, Sue. I must get on with my work.
_Sus_. Lie down a bit, anyhow. I'll lie at your back, and you'll soon be
as warm's a toast. (MAT. _lies down_.) O Lord! she's dead! Her heart's
stopped beatin'. (_Runs out of the room_.)
_A moment of silence. A tap at the door_.
CONSTANCE _peeps in, then enters, with a basket_.
_Con_. Miss Pearson!--She's asleep. (_Goes near_.) Good heavens!
(_Lays her hand on her_.) No. (_Takes a bottle from her basket, finds
a cup, and pours into it_.) Take this, Miss Pearson; it will do you
good. There now! You'll find something else in the basket.
_Mat_. I don't want anything. I had so nearly got away! Why did you
bring me back?
_Con_. Life is good!
_Mat_. It is _not_ good. How dare you do it? Why keep a miserable
creature alive? Life ain't to us what it is to you. The grave is the
only place _we_ have any right to.
_Con_. If I could make your life worth something to you--
_Mat_. You make my life worth to me! You don't know what you're saying,
miss. (_Sitting up_.)
_Con_. I think I do.
_Mat_. I will _not_ owe my life to you. I _could_ love you, though--your
hands are so white, and your look so brave. That's what comes of being
born a lady. We never have a chance.
_Con_. Miss Pearson--Mattie, I would call you, if you wouldn't be
offended--
_Mat_. Me offended, miss!--I've not got life enough for it. I only want
my father and my mother, and a long sleep.--If I had been born rich--
_Con_. You might have been miserable all the same. Listen, Mattie. I
will tell you _my_ story--I was once as badly off as you--worse in some
ways--ran about the streets without shoes to my feet, and hardly a frock
to cover me.
_Mat_. La, miss! you don't say so! It's not possible! Look at you!
_Con_. Indeed, I tell you the truth. I know what hunger is too--well
enough. My father was a silkweaver in Spitalfields. When he died, I
didn't know where to go. But a gentleman--
_Mat_. Oh! a gentleman!--(_Fiercely_.) Why couldn't you be content with
_one_, then?
_Con_. I don't understand you.
_Mat_. I dare say not! There! take your basket. I'll die afore a morsel
passes _my_ lips. There! Go away, miss.
_Con_. (_aside_). Poor girl! she is delirious. I must ask William to
fetch a doctor. _Exit_.
_Mat_. I wish my hands were as white as hers.
_Enter_ SUSAN, _followed by_ COL. G. CONSTANCE _behind_.
_Sus_. Mattie! dear Mattie! this gentleman--don't be vexed--I couldn't
help him bein' a gentleman; I was cryin' that bad, and I didn't see no
one come up to me, and when he spoke to me, it made me jump, and I
couldn't help answerin' of him--he spoke so civil and soft like, and
me nigh mad! I thought you was dead, Mattie. He says he'll see us
righted, Mattie.
_Col. G._ I'll do what I can, if you will tell me what's amiss.
_Sus_. Oh, everything's amiss--everything!--Who was that went out,
Mattie--this minute--as we come in?
_Mat_. Miss Lacordère.
_Sus_. Her imperence! Well! I should die of shame if I was her.
_Mat_. She's an angel, Susan. There's her basket. I told her to take
it away, but she would leave it.
_Sus_. (_peeping into the basket_). Oh, my! Ain't this nice? You
_must_ have a bit, Mattie.
_Mat_. Not one mouthful. You wouldn't have me, Susan!
_Sus_. _I_ ain't so peticlar (_eating a great mouthful_). You really
must, Mattie. (_Goes on eating_.)
_Col. G._ Don't tease her. We'll get something for her presently. And
don't you eat too much--all at once.
_Sus_. I think she'd like a chop, sir.--There's that boy, Bill,
again!--Always when he ain't wanted!
_Enter_ BILL.
_Bill_ (_aside to Susan_). What's the row? What's that 'ere gent up
to? I've been an' had enough o' gents. They're a bad lot. I been too
much for one on 'em, though. I ha' run _him_ down.--And, Mattie, I've
found the old gen'leman.
_Mat_. My father, Bill?
_Bill_. That's it percisely! Right as a trivet--he is!
_Mat_. Susan! take hold of me. My heart's going again.
_Bill_. Lord! what's up wi' Mattie? She do look dreadful.
_Sus_. You been an' upset her, you clumsy boy! Here--run and fetch a
sausage or two, and a--
_Col. G._ No, no! That will never do.
_Sus_. Them's for Bill and me, sir. I was a goin' on, sir.--And, Bill,
a chop--a nice chop. But Lord! how are we to cook it, with never a
fryin'-pan, or a bit o' fire to set it on!
_Col. G._ You'd never think of doing a chop for an invalid in the
frying-pan?
_Sus_. Certainly not, sir--we 'ain't got one. Everything's up the
spout an' over the top. Run, Bill. A bit of cold chicken, and two
pints o' bottled stout. There's the money the gen'leman give me.--'T
'ain't no Miss Lackodare's, Mattie.
_Bill_. I'll trouble no gen'leman to perwide for _my_ family--obleeged
all the same, sir. Mattie never wos a dub at dewourin', but I'll get
her some'at toothsome. I favours grub myself.
_Col. G._ I'll go with you, Bill. I want to talk to you.
_Bill_. Well, I 'ain't no objection--so be you wants to talk friendly,
sir.
_Col. G._ Good night. I'll come and see you to-morrow.
_Sus_. God bless you, sir. You've saved both on our lives. I _was_ a
goin' to drown myself, Mattie--I really was this time. Wasn't I, sir?
_Col. G._ Well, you looked like it--that is all I can say. You shall
do it next time--so far as I'm concerned.
_Sus_. I won't never no more again, sir--not if Mattie don't drive me
to it.
_Con_. (_to_ COL. G.). Come back for me in a little while.
_Col. G._ Yes, miss. Come, Bill. _Exit_.
_Bill_. All right, sir. I'm a follerin', as the cat said to the
pigeon. _Exit_.
_Sus_. I'll just go and get you a cup o' tea. Mrs. Jones's kettle's
sure to be a bilin'. That's what you would like.
_Exit_. _Constance steps aside, and Susan passes without seeing her_.
_Mat_. Oh! to be a baby again in my mother's arms! But it'll soon be
over now.
CONSTANCE _comes forward_.
_Con_. I hope you're a little better now?
_Mat_. You're very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon for speaking to
you as I did.
_Con_. Don't say a word about it. You didn't quite know what you were
saying. I'm in trouble myself. I don't know how soon I may be worse
off than you.
_Mat_. Why, miss, I thought you were going to be married!
_Con_. No, I am not.
_Mat_. Why, miss, what's happened. He's never going to play _you_
false--is he?
_Con_. I don't mean ever to speak to him again?
_Mat_. What has he done to offend you, miss?
_Con_. Nothing. Only I know now I don't like him. To tell you the
truth, Mattie, he's not a gentleman.
_Mat_. Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so?
_Con_. Do _you_ know anything about him? Did you ever see him?
_Mat_. Yes.
_Con_. Where?
_Mat_. Once at your house.
_Con_. Oh! I remember--that time! I begin to--It couldn't be at the
sight of him you fainted, Mattie?--You knew him? Tell me! tell me!
Make me sure of it.
_Mat_. To give you your revenge! No. It's a mean spite to say he ain't
a gentleman.
_Con_. Perhaps you and I have different ideas of what goes to make a
gentleman.
_Mat_. Very likely.
_Con_. Oh! don't be vexed, Mattie. I didn't mean to hurt you.
_Mat_. Oh! I dare say!
_Con_. If you talk to me like that, I must go.
_Mat_. I never asked you to come.
_Con_. Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I wouldn't hurt you
for the world.
_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) I beg your pardon, miss. I'm behaving
like a brute. But you must forgive me; my heart is breaking.
_Con_. Poor dear! (_kissing her_) So is mine almost. Let us be
friends. Where's Susan gone?
_Mat_. To fetch me a cup of tea. She'll be back directly.
_Con_. Don't let her say bad words: I can't bear them. I think it's
because I was so used to them once--in the streets, I mean--not at
home--never at home.
_Mat_. She don't often, miss. She's a good-hearted creature. It's only
when hunger makes her cross. She don't like to be hungry.
_Con_. I should think not, poor girl!
_Mat_. Don't mind what she says, please. If you say nothing, she'll
come all right. When she's spoken her mind, she feels better. Here she
comes!
_Re-enter_ SUSAN. _It begins to grow dark_.
_Sus_. Well, and who have we got here?
_Mat_. Miss Lacordère, Sukey.
_Sus_. There's no lack o' dare about _her_, to come here!
_Mat_. It's very kind of her to come, Susan.
_Sus_. I tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole. It _was_ stole,
miss!--stole from me--an' that angel there a dyin' in the street!
_Con_. I'm quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought anything else.
_Sus_. Not but I allow it was a pity, miss!--I'm very sorry. But,
bless you! (_lighting a candle_)--with all _your_ fine clothes--! My!
you look like a theayter-queen--you do, miss! If you was to send
_them_ up the spout now!--My! what a lot they'd let you have on that
silk!
_Con_. The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe. It's an Indian
one--all needlework.
_Sus_. And the bee-utiful silk! Laws, miss! just shouldn't I like to
wear a frock like that! I _should_ be hard up before I pledged _that_!
But the shawl! If I was you, miss, I would send 'most everything up
before that!--things inside, you know, miss--where it don't matter so
much.
_Con_. (_laughing_) The shawl would be the first thing I should part
with. I would rather be nice inside than out.
_Sus_. Lawk, miss! I shouldn't wonder if that was one of the differs
now! Well, I never! It ain't seen! It must be one o' the differs!
_Con_. What differs? I don't understand you.
_Sus_. The differs 'tween girls an' ladies--girls like me an' real
ladies like you.
_Con_. Oh, I see! But how dark it has got! What can be keeping
William? I must go at once, or what will my aunt say! Would you mind
going with me a little bit, Susan?
_Sus_. I'll go with pleasure, miss.
_Con_. Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the wide streets. You
couldn't lend me an old cloak, could you?
_Sus_. I 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what I stand up in--'cep' it
be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket-'an'kercher. Nobody 'ill know you.
_Con_. But I oughtn't to be out dressed like this.
_Sus_. You've only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss.
_Con_. (_drawing up her skirt_) I never thought of that!
_Sus_. Well, I never!
_Con_. What's the matter?
_Sus_. Only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my breath away, miss.
It ain't no use turnin' of _it_ up: you'll look like a lady whatever
you do to hide it. But never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as
you don't look down on the rest of us. There, miss! There you are--fit
for a play! Come along; I'll take care of you. Lawks! I'm as good as a
man--_I_ am!
_Con_. Good-bye then, Mattie.
_Mat_. Good-bye, miss. God bless you.
_Exeunt_.
END OF ACT III.
ACT IV.
SCENE.--_The Studio_.
_Enter_ COL. G. _Walks about restless and eager_.
_Col. G._ Thank heaven! If Bill has found Mr. Warren now,--_Exit_.
_Enter_ WARREN.
_War_. What can the fellow be up to? There's something odd about
him--something I don't like--but it can't mean mischief when he sends
for me. Where could Gervaise have picked him up?--Nobody here?
_Re-enter_ COL. G. _and hurries to him with outstretched hand_.
_Col. G._ My dear sir! I am greatly obliged to you. This is very kind.
_War_. (_stepping back_) Excuse me.--I do not understand.
_Col. G._ I beg your pardon. I ought to have explained.
_War_. I believe something of the sort _is_ necessary.
_Col. G._ You are my master's friend.
_War_. I should be proud of the honour. Can I be of any service to
him?
_Col. G._ I believe I can trust you. I _will_ trust you--I am his
father.
_War_. Whose father? Belzebub's?
_Col. G._ Arthur's--your friend Gervaise's. I am Sir Walter Gervaise.
You must help me to help him.
WARREN _regards him for a moment_.
_War_. (_stiffly_) Sir Walter, I owe your son much--you nothing yet. I
am _his_ friend.
_Col. G._ There is not a moment to lose. Listen. An old man came about
the place a few weeks ago, looking for his daughter. He has been got
out of the way, but I have learned where he is: I want you to bring
him.
_War_. I would serve your son blindfold: _you_ must excuse me if I
wish to understand first.
_Col. G._ Arthur is in trouble. He has a secret.--God forgive me!--I
feared it was a bad one.
_War_. You don't know him as I do!
_Col. G._ I know him now--and can help him. Only I can't _prove_
anything yet. I must have the old man. I've found his daughter, and
suspect the villain: if I can bring the three together, all will come
out, sure enough. The boy I sent for you will take you to the father.
He will trust you, and come. (_Bell rings_.) I must go to Arthur now.
_Exit_.
_War_. What a strange old fellow! An officer--and disguise himself!
_Enter_ BILL.
_Bill_. Here you are, sir!
_War_. No vast amount of information in that statement, my boy!
_Bill_. Well, sir--here _I_ are, sir.
_War_. That _is_ a trifle more to the point, though scarcely requiring
mention.
_Bill_. Then, here _we_ are, sir.
_War_. That'll do--if you know what comes next?
_Bill_. I do, sir.
_War_. Go on, then.
_Bill_. Here goes! Come along, sir. You'll have to take a bobby,
though.
_War_. We'll see about that. You go on.
_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ GERVAISE, followed by COL. G.
_Ger._ What a time you have been, William!
_Col. G._ I'm sorry, sir. Did you want anything?
_Ger._ No. But I don't like to be left. You are the only friend I
have.
_Col. G._ Thank you, sir. A man _must_ do his duty, but it's a comfort
when his colonel takes notice of it.
_Ger._ Is it _all_ from duty, William? Yet why should I look for more?
There was a little girl I tried to do my duty by once--My head's
rather queer still, William.
_Col. G._ Is there nothing to be done, sir?
_Ger._ No; it's here--(_putting his hand to his head_)--inside.
_Col. G._ I meant about the little girl, sir.--I can keep dark as well
as another.--When there's anything on a man's mind, sir--good _or_
bad--it's a relief to mention it. If you could trust me--(_A pause_.)
Men _have_ trusted their servants and not repented it.
_Ger._ No doubt--no doubt. But there is no help for me.
_Col. G._ You cannot be sure of that, sir.
_Ger._ You would help me if you could, I believe.
_Col. G._ God knows I would, sir--to the last drop of my blood.
_Ger._ That's saying much, William. A son couldn't say more--no, nor a
father either.
_Col. G._ Oh! yes, he could, sir.
_Ger._ And mean it?
_Col. G._ Yes.
_Ger._ If I had a father, William, I would tell him all about it. I
was but two years old when he left me.
_Col. G._ Then you don't remember him, sir?
_Ger._ I often dream about him, and then I seem to remember him.
_Col. G._ What is he like, sir?--in your dreams, I mean.
_Ger._ I never see him distinctly: I try hard sometimes, but it's no
use. If he would but come home! I feel as if I could bear anything
then.--But I'm talking like a girl!
_Col. G._ Where is your father, sir?
_Ger._ In India.
_Col. G._ A soldier, sir?
_Ger._ Yes. Colonel Gervaise--you must have heard of him. Sir Walter
he is now.
_Col. G._ I've heard of _him_, sir--away in the north parts he's been,
mostly.
_Ger._ Yes. How I wish he would come home! I would do everything to
please him. I have it, William! I'll go to India. I did think of going
to Garibaldi--but I won't--I'll go to India. I _must_ find my father.
Will you go with me?
_Col. G._ Willingly, sir.
_Ger._ Is there any fighting there now?
_Col. G._ Not at present, I believe.
_Ger._ That's a pity. I would have listed in my father's regiment, and
then--that is, by the time he found me out--he wouldn't be ashamed of
me. I've done nothing yet. I'm nobody yet, and what could he do with a
son that was nobody--a great man like him! A fine son _I_ should be! A
son ought to be worthy of his father. Don't you think so, William?
_Col. G._ That wouldn't be difficult, sir!--I mean with most fathers.
_Ger._ Ah! but _mine_, you know, William!--Are you good at the cut and
thrust?
_Col G._ Pretty good, sir, I believe.
_Ger._ Then we'll have a bout or two. I've got rusty.--Have I said
anything odd--or--or--I mean since I've been ill?
_Col. G._ Nothing you need mind, sir.
_Ger._ I'm glad of that.--I feel as if--(_putting his hand to his
head_). William! what could you do for a man--if he was your
friend?--no, I mean, if he was your enemy?
_Col. G._ I daren't say, sir.
_Ger._ Is the sun shining?
_Col. G._ Yes, sir. It's a lovely day.
_Ger._ What a desert the sky is!--so dreary and wide and waste!--Ah!
if I might but creep into a hole in a tree, and feel it closing about
me! How comfortable those toads must feel!
_Col. G._ (_aside_). He's getting light-headed again! I must send for
the doctor. _Exit_.
_Ger._ But the tree would rot, and the walls grow thin, and the light
come through. It is crumbling now! And I shall have to meet _her_!
And then the wedding! Oh my God! (_Starts up and paces about the
room_.)--It _is_ the only way! My pistols, I think--yes.--(_Goes to
a table, finds his keys, and unlocks a case_.)--There they are! I may
as well have a passport at hand! (_Loading one_.)--The delicate
thunder-tube! (_Turns it over lovingly_.) Solitude and silence! One
roar and then rest! No--no rest!--still the demon to fight! But no
eyes to meet and brave!--Who is that in the street?--She is at the
door--with him!
_Enter_ COL. G. _and seizes his arm_.
_Ger._ (_with a cry_). You've killed my Psyche! (_Goes to the clay,
and lifts the cloth_.) There's the bullet-hole through her heart!
_Col. G._ It might have been worse, sir.
_Ger._ Worse! I've killed her! See where she flies! She's gone! She's
gone! (_Bursts into tears_. COL. G. _leads him to the couch_.) Thank
you, William. I couldn't help it. _That_ man was with her. I meant it
for myself.
_Col. G._ Who did you say was with her?
_Ger._ You mustn't heed what I say. I am mad. (_A knock. He starts
up_.) Don't let them in, William. I shall rave if you do.
COL. G. _catches up the pistols and exit hurriedly_. GER. _throws
himself on the couch_.
_Re-enter_ COL. G.
_Col. G._ (_aside_). He is in love with her! Everything proves it. My
boy! My boy!
_Ger._ Father! father!--Oh, William! I was dreaming, and took you for
my father! I _must_ die, William--somehow. There must be some way out
of this! The doors can't _all_ be locked.
_Col. G._ There's generally a chance to be had, sir. There's always a
right and a wrong fighting it out somewhere. There's Garibaldi in the
field again! Die by the hand of an enemy--if you _will_ die, sir.
_Ger._ (_smiling_) That I couldn't, William: the man that killed me
would be my best friend.--Yes--Garibaldi!--I don't deserve it, though:
he fights for his country; I should fight but for death. Only a man
doesn't stop when he dies--does he, William?
_Col. G._ I trust not, sir. But he may hope to be quieter--that is, if
he dies honestly. It's grand for a soldier! He sweeps on the roaring
billows of war into a soundless haven! Think of that, sir!
_Ger._ Why, William! how you talk!--Yes! it would be grand! On the
crest of the war-cataract--heading a cavalry charge!--Tomorrow,
William. I shall be getting stronger all the way. We'll start
to-morrow.
_Col. G._ Where for, sir?
_Ger._ For Italy--for Garibaldi. You'll go with me?
_Col. G._ To the death, sir.
_Ger._ Yes; that's it--that's where I'm going. But not to-day. Look at
my arm: it wouldn't kill a rat!--You saved my life, but I'm not
grateful. If I was dead, I might be watching her--out of the lovely
silence!--My poor Psyche!
_Col. G._ She's none the worse, sir. The pistol didn't go off.
_Ger._ Ah!--She ought to have fallen to pieces--long ago! You've been
seeking to keep her shroud wet. But it's no matter. Let her go. Earth
to earth, and dust to dust!--the law of Nature--and Art too.
_Exit into the house_.
_Col. G._ (_following him_) I mustn't lose sight of him.--Here he
comes again, thank God!
_Catches up a coat, and begins brushing it_.
_Re-enter_ GER.
_Ger._ I don't like to see you doing that.
_Col. G._ Why shouldn't I serve my own--superior, sir? Anything's
better than serving yourself. And that's what every one does who won't
serve other people.
_Ger._ You are right. And it's so cheap.
_Col. G._ And so nasty!
_Ger._ Right again, William!--Right indeed!--You're a gentleman! If
there's anything I could help you in--anything gone wrong,--any
friends offended--I'm not altogether without influence.
_Col. G._ (_aside_) He will vanquish me with my own weapons!
_Ger._ But you _will_ go to Garibaldi with me?
_Col. G._ I will, sir.
_Ger._ And ride by my side?
_Col. G._ Of course.
_Ger._ If you ride by me, you will have to ride far.
_Col. G._ I know, sir. But if you would be fit for fighting, you must
come and have something to eat and drink.
_Ger._ All right. A soldier must obey: I shall begin by obeying you.
Only mind you keep up with me. _Exit, leaning on_ COL. G.
_Enter_ THOMAS.
_Tho._ Th' dule a mon be yere! Aw're main troubled to get shut ov
they reyvers! Aw'm olez i' trouble! Mine's a gradely yed! it
be!--Hoy!--Nobory yere! 'T seems to me, honest men be scarce i'
Lonnon. Aw'm beawn to believe nobory but mo own heighes, and mo own
oud lass. _Exit_.
_Re-enter_ GERVAISE, _followed by_ COL. G.
_Ger._ No, William; I won't lie down. I feel much better. Let's have a
bout with the foils.
_Col. G._ Very well, sir. (_Aside_.) A little of that will go far, I
know. (_Gets down the foils_.)
_Ger._ And, William, you must set a block up here. I shall have a cut
or two at it to-morrow. There's a good cavalry weapon up there--next
that cast of Davis's arm.
_Col. G._ Suppose your father were to arrive just after you had
started!
_Ger._ I shouldn't mind. I don't want to see him yet. I'm such a poor
creature! The heart seems to have gone out of me. You see, William--
_Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD.
_Ger._ Ah! How do you do, aunt?
_Mrs. C._ What's this nonsense about Garibaldi, Arthur?
_Ger._ Who told you?
_Mrs. C._ You don't mean it's true?
_Ger._ Quite true, aunt.
_Mrs. C._ Really, Arthur, you are more of a scatterbrain than I
took you for!
_Ger._ Don't say that, aunt. I only take after my father.
_Mrs. C._ Don't talk to me of your father! I have no patience with
him. A careless hard-hearted fellow--not worthy the name of a father!
(_She glares at_ SIR WALTER.)
_Ger._ You may go, William. (COL. G. _retires slowly_.)
_Ger._ Aunt, you have been a mother to me; but were you really my
mother, I must not listen to such words of my father. He has good
reasons for what he does, though I admit there is something in it we
don't understand. (_Aside_.) If I could but understand how Constance--
_Mrs. C._ What do you say? What was that about Constance?
_Ger._ Oh, nothing, aunt. I was only thinking how difficult it is to
understand people.
_Mrs. C._ If you mean Constance, I agree with you. She is a most
provoking girl.
_Ger._ (_smiling_) I am sorry to hear that, aunt.
_Mrs. C._ I'm very glad you were never so silly as take a fancy to the
girl. She would have led you a pretty dance! If you saw how she treats
that unfortunate Waterfield! But what's bred in the bone won't out of
the flesh.
_Ger._ There's nothing bred in her I would have out, aunt.
_Mrs. C._ Perhaps she originated her vulgarity. That is a shade worse.
_Ger. Vulgarity_, aunt! I cannot remember the meaning of the word when
I think of _her_.
_Mrs. C._ If you choose to insult me, Arthur--
_Exit_.
_Ger._ It is high time I were gone! If I should be called in now to
settle matters between--William! William!--William!
_Enter_ COL. G.
_Ger._ To-morrow, William. Not a word. If you will go with me, I shall
be glad. If you will not, I shall go without you.
_Exit_.
_Col. G._ Yes, sir.--I wish Warren were here with the old man. I don't
know what to do till he comes.
_Enter_ CONSTANCE.
_Con._ I thought my aunt was here, William.
_Col. G._ No, miss. She was here, but she's gone again.
_Con._ Could I see Mr. Gervaise for a moment?
_Col. G._ Certainly, miss. I'll tell him.
_Con._ Is he still determined on going, William?
_Col. G._ Yes, miss;--to-morrow, he says.
_Con._ To-morrow!
_Col. G._ Yes, miss. I think he means to start for Dover in the
morning.
_Con._ What am I to do?
_Col. G._ What's the matter, miss?
_Con._ What _can_ I do? I know he is angry with me. I don't quite know
why. I wish I had never--I can't help it now. My heart will break.
(_Weeps_.)
_Col. G._ Don't let him go to Dover to-morrow, miss.
_Con._ He would have listened to me once. He won't now. It's all so
different! Everything has gone wrong somehow.
_Col. G._ Do try to keep him from going, miss.
_Con._ He would but think me forward. I could bear anything better
than have him think ill of me.
_Col. G._ No fear of that, miss. The danger is all the other way.
_Con._ What other way, William?
_Col. G._ He thinks you don't care a bit about him.
_Exit_. CONSTANCE _drops on the dais, nearly under the veiled Psyche_.
_Enter_ GER. _and stands a moment regarding her_.
_Ger._ Constance.
_Con._ (_starting up, and flying to him with her hands clasped_)
Arthur! Arthur! don't go. I can't bear you to go. It's all my fault,
but do forgive me! Oh, do, do--_dear_ Arthur! Don't go to-morrow. I
shall be miserable if you do.
_Ger._ But why, my--why, Constance?
_Con._ I _was_ your Constance once.
_Ger._ But why should I not go? Nobody wants me here.
_Con._ Oh, Arthur! how can you be so cruel? Can it be that--? Do say
something. If you won't say anything, how can I know what you are
thinking--what you wish? Perhaps you don't like--I would--I have--I
won't--Oh, Arthur! do say something.
_Ger._ I have nothing to say, Constance.
_Con._ Then I _have_ lost you--altogether! I dare say I deserve it. I
hardly know. God help me! What can I have done so very wicked? Oh! why
did you take me out of the streets? I should have been used to them by
this time! They are terrible to me now. No, no, Arthur! I thank
you--thank you--with my very soul! What might I not have been by this
time! But I used to lie in that corner, and I daren't now!
_Enter_ COL. G. _behind_.
It was a happy time, for I had not offended you then. Good-bye. Won't
you say one word to me?--You will never see me again.
_She pauses a moment; then exit weeping--by the back door, behind
the Psyche_. COL. G. _follows her_.
_Ger._ How _could_ she love that fellow? (_Looking up_.) Gone? gone!
My Constance! My Psyche! I've driven her into the wild street!
O my God! William! William! Constance! Which door? I won't go,
Constance--I won't. I will do anything you ask me. What was that she
said?--_Good-bye_! God in heaven!--William! you idiot! where are you?
William!
_He rushes out by the front door. Re-enter_ COL. G. _by the back
door_.
_Col. G._ It was lucky I met Bill! He's after her like the wind. That
message will bring her back, I think. I could trust that boy with
anything! But where is he? (_Enter_ THOMAS.) What, friend! here at
last! Thank God! Just sit down a moment, will you? (_Peeps into the
room off the study_.) He's not there! I heard him calling this moment!
Perhaps he's in the house.--Did _you_ leave the door open, sir?
_Tho._ Nay. Th' dur wur oppen. Aw seigh sombory run eawt as aw coom
oop.
_Col. G._ My boy! my boy! It will kill him!--Stop here till I come
back. (_Rushes out_.)
_Tho._ Aw connot stop. Aw'm tired enough, God knows, to stop
anywheeres; mo yed goes reawnd and reawnd, an' aw'd fain lie mo deawn.
But aw mun be gooin'. Nobory can tell what may be coomin to mo Mattie.
Aw mun go look, go look! Ha! ha! they couldn't keep mo, owd mon as aw
wur! But aw wish aw hed a word wi' th' mon first.
_Enter_ WARREN.
_War._ (_aside_) This must be the old fellow himself! Here he is after
all! (_Peeps into the room_.)
_Tho._ Theer be nobory theer, sir. Th' maister's run eawt, and th' mon
after him.
_War._ Run out!
_Tho._ Aw niver says what aw donnot mane. An' aw'm glad yo're theer,
sir; for William he towd mo to stay till he coom back; but aw've not
geet so mich time to spare; and so be's yo're a friend ov th'
maister's, yo'll mebbe mind th' shop a smo' bit. Aw mun goo (_going_).
_War._ I say, old man--your name's Thomas Pearson--ain't it?
_Tho._ Yigh. Aw yer. But hea cooms to to knaw mo name?
_War._ I know all about you.
_Tho._ Ivvery body knaws ivvery body yere! Aw connot stur a fut fur
folks as knaws mo, and knaws mo name, and knaws what aw be after.
Lonnon is a dreedfu' plaze. Aw mun geet mo lass to whoam. Yo'll mind
th' shop till th' maister cooms back. Good neet (_going_).
_War._ (_stopping him_) They want you here a bit. You'd better stop.
The man will be back directly. You're too suspicious.
_Tho._ Nea, maister, thae'rt wrung theer. Aw've trusted too mich--a
theawsand times too mich.
_War._ You trusted the wrong people, then.
_Tho._ It taks no mak o' a warlock to tell mo that, maister. It's smo'
comfort, noather.
_War._ Well now, you give me a turn, and hear what I've got to say.
_Tho._ Yo're o' tarred wi' th' same stick. Ivvery body maks gam ov th'
poor owd mon! Let me goo, maister. Aw want mo chylt, mo Mattie!
_War._ You must wait till Mr. Gervaise's man comes back.
_Tho._ (_despairingly_) O Lord. Th' peack ov sunbrunt lies they ha'
been tellin' me sin' aw coom yere!--childer an o'!
_War._ Have patience, man. You won't repent it.
_Tho._ What mun be, mun. Aw connot ha' patience, but aw con stop. Aw'd
rayther goo, though. Aw'm noan sorry to rest noather. (_Sits down on
the dais_.)
_Enter_ BILL.
_War._ Here, boy! Don't let the old man go till some one comes.
_Exit_.
_Bill_. All right, sir! Hillo, daddy! There you are! Thank God!
_Tho._ What fur, boy? Wull he gie mo mo Mattie again--dosto think?
_Bill_. That he will, daddy! You come along, an' you'll know a honest
boy next time.--I can't till I see Mr. William, though.
_Tho._ Iv thae manes th' maister's mon yere, he's run eawt. An' aw
connot goo witho. Aw'm keepin' th' shop till he coom back. An' aw
dunnot mich care to goo witho. Aw dunnot mich trust tho. Th' Lord have
a care ov mo! Aw dimnot knaw which to trust, and which not to trust.
But aw _mun_ wait for maister William, as yo co' him.
_Bill_. All right, daddy!--Don't you stir from here till I come
back--not for nobody--no, not for Joseph!
_Tho._ Aw dunnot knaw no Joseph.
_Bill_. I'll soon let you see I'm a honest boy! As you can't go to
Mattie, I'll bring Mattie to you: see if I don't! An' if she ain't the
right un, I'll take her back, and charge ye nuffin for carriage. Can't
say fairer than that, daddy!
_Tho._ Bless tho, mo boy! Dosto mane it true?
_Bill_. Yes--an' that you'll see, afore you're an 'alf an hour older,
daddy. When Mr. William comes, you say to him, "Bill's been.--All
right."
_Tho._ Aw dunnot like secrets, lad. What don yo mane? Ivvery body
seems to mane something, and nobory to say it.
_Bill._ Never you mind, daddy! "Bill's been.--All right." That's your
ticket. I'm off. _Exit_.
THOMAS _gets up, and walks about, murmuring to himself. A knock
at the door_.
_Tho._ Somebory after mo again! Aw'll geet eawt ov th' way. (_Goes
behind the Psyche_.)
_Enter_ WATERFIELD.
_Wat_. Nobody here! I _am_ unlucky. "Not at home," said the
rascal,--and grinned, by Jove! I'll be at the bottom of this. There's
no harm in Gervaise. He's a decent fellow. (_Knocks at the door of_
GER.'S _room_.) I won't leave the place till I've set things
right--not if I've got to give him a post-obit for five thousand--I
won't!--Nobody there? (_Looks in_.) No. Then I'll go in and wait.
_Exit_.
_Tho._ (_peeping from behind the Psyche_). That's the villain! Lord o'
mercy! that's the villain! If aw're as strung as aw'm owd, aw'd
scrunch his yed--aw would! Aw'm sure it's th' mon. He kep eawt ov mo
way--but aw seigh him once. O Lord, keep mo hands off ov him. Aw met
kill him. Aw'm sartin sure ov him when aw see him. Aw'll not goo nigh
him till somebory cooms--cep' he roons away. Aw'm noan fleyed ov him,
but aw met not be able to keep mo howd ov him. Oh, mo Mattie! mo
Mattie! to leave thi owd faither for sich a mak ov a mon as yon! But
yere cooms somebory moor. (_Goes behind the Psyche_.)
_Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD.
_Mrs. C._ No one here? She can never be in his room with him! (_Opens
the door_.) Oh! Mr. Waterfield! You're here--are you?
_Wat_. (_coming to the door_). Mrs. Clifford! This is indeed an
unexpected pleasure!
_Mrs. C._ Have you got Constance with you there?
_Wat_. I've no such good fortune.
_Mrs. C._ Where is she, then?
_Wat_. At home, I presume.
_Mrs. C._ Indeed she is not. I must speak to Arthur.
_Wat_. He's not here.
_Mrs. C._ Where's my--his man, then?
_Wat_. Taken himself off to the public-house, I suppose. There's
nobody about. Odd--ain't it?
_Mrs. C._ I'll go and see. _Exit into the house_.
_Wat_. What can be the row! there is some row. _Exit into the room_.
_Enter_ GER., _supported by_ COL. G.
_Col. G._ Thank God! Thank God!
_Ger._ But where is she? I shall go mad if you've told me a lie.
_Col. G._ I saw her, and sent a messenger after her. We shall have
news of her presently. Do have a little patience, sir.
_Get._ How can I have patience? I'm a brute--a mean, selfish devil! If
that fellow Waterfield was to horse-whip me--I should let him.
_Tho._ (_coming forward_). Theer wur that yung chap yere a while agoo,
and he said aw wur to say to Maister William--what wur it aw're to
say?--Yigh--it wur--"Bill's been. O'reet."
_Col. G._ There, sir! I told you so. Do sit down. I'll go after her.
_Ger._ I will. I will. Only make haste. (_Stands staring at the
Psyche_.)
_Tho._ Th' boy said he'd be yere direckly.
_Col. G._ You sit down. I'll be with you presently.
_Tho._ (_retiring behind the Psyche_). Aw're noan likely to goo,
maister.
_Enter_ MRS. C. _Crosses to room door. Enter_ WATERFIELD. _They
talk_.
_Ger._ William! I don't want them. (_Retreats towards the Psyche_.)
_Col. G._ Sit here one moment, sir. (_Leads him to the dais. Advances
to_ MRS. C.)
_Mrs. C._ (_trying to pass him_). Arthur, what can--?
_Col. G._ (_intercepting her_). Let him rest a bit, ma'am, if you
please. He's been out for the first time.
_Mrs. C._ At night! and in a fog! A pretty nurse you are! Poor boy!
_Col. G._ Mr. Waterfield, sir, would you mind stepping into the room
again for a moment? (_Exit_ WAT.) Mrs. Clifford, ma'am, would you
please get a glass of wine for master? _Exit_ MRS. C. _into the
house_.
_Ger._ William! William!
_Col. G._ Yes, sir.
_Ger._ Send him away. Don't let him stop there. I have nothing to say
to him.
_Col. G._ He shan't trouble you, sir. I'll take care of that. (_Goes
behind the Psyche to_ THOMAS, _but keeps watching the door of the
room_.)--Did you see the man that went in there just now?
_Tho._ (_with anxiety_). He winnot joomp eawt ov th' window, dosto
thenk, lad?
_Re-enter_ MRS. C. _with wine_. GER. _drinks_.
_Col. G._ Why should he do that? Do you know anything about him?
_Tho._ Aw do.
_Col. G._ Has he seen you here?
_Tho._ No. Aw're afeard he'd roon away, and aw keepet snoog.
_Col. G._ I needn't ask who it is, then?
_Tho._ Yo needn't, lad.
_Enter_ WATERFIELD.
_Tho._ Mo conscience! he'll pike eawt afoor aw geet howd on him!
(_Rushes out and seizes_ WAT.)
_Enter_ MATTIE _and_ BILL.
_Tho._ Thae'rt a domned villain! Wheer's mo Mattie?
WATERFIELD _knocks_ THOMAS _down_.
_Bill._ O Lord! the swell's murdered old daddy!
_All but_ GER. _rush together_. COLONEL GERVAISE _seizes_
WATERFIELD. MATTIE _throws herself on her knees beside_ THOMAS
_and lifts his head_.
_Mat_. Father! father! Look at me! It's Mattie!--your own wicked
Mattie! Look at her once, father dear! (_Lays down his head in
despair, and rises_.) Who struck the good old man?
_Bill._ He did--the swell as give me the gold sov.
_Mat_. Mr. Watkins!--
_Wat_. I haven't the honour of the gentleman's acquaintance. I'm not
Mr. Watkins. Am I now? (_to_ COL. G.). Ha! ha!--Let go, I say. I'm not
the man. It's all a mistake, you see.
_Col. G._ In good time. I might make a worse. Watkins mayn't be your
name, but Watkins is your nature.
_Wat_. Damn your insolence! Let me go, I tell you! (_Struggles
threatening_.)
_Col. G._ Gently, gently, young man!--If I give your neckcloth a twist
now--!
_Mat_. Yes, there _is_ a mistake--and a sad one for me! A wretch that
would strike an old man! Indeed you are not what I took you for.
_Wat_. You hear the young woman! She says it's all a mistake.--My good
girl, I'm sorry for the old gentleman; but he oughtn't to behave like
a ruffian. Really, now, you know, a fellow can't stand that sort of
thing! A downright assault! I'm sorry I struck him, though--devilish
sorry! I'll pay the damage with pleasure. (_Puts his hand in his
pocket_.)
_Mat_. (_turning away_) And not a gentleman! (_Kneels by_ THOMAS _and
weeps_.)
_Tho._ (_feebly_.) Dunnot greight, Mattie, mo chylt. Aw'm o' reet. Let
th' mon goo. What's _he_ to tho or mo?--By th' mass! aw'm strung
enough to lick him yet (_trying to rise, but falling back_). Eigh!
eigh! mo owd boans 'ud rayther not. It's noan blame sure to an owd mon
to fo' tired o' feightin!
_Mat_. (_taking' his head on her lap_). Father! father! forgive me!
I'm all yours.--I'll go home with you, and work for you till I drop. O
father! how could I leave you for him? I don't care one bit for him
now--I don't indeed. You'll forgive me--won't you, father? (_Sobs_.)
_Tho._ Aw wull, aw do, mo Mattie. Coom whoam--coom whoam.
_Mat_. Will mother forgive me, father?
_Tho._ Thi mother, chylt? Hoo's forgiven tho lung afoor--ivver so lung
agoo, chylt! Thi mother may talk leawd, but her heart is as soft as
parritch.--Thae knows it, Mattie.
_Wat_. All this is very interesting,--only you see it's the wrong man,
and I can't say he enjoys it. Take your hand off my collar--will you?
I'm not the man, I tell you!
_Bill._ All I says is--it's the same swell as guv me the skid to find
her. I'll kiss the book on that!
_Ger._ (_coming forward_). Mr. Waterfield, on your honour, do you know
this girl?
_Wat_. Come! you ain't goin' to put me to my catechism!
_Ger._ You must allow appearances are against you.
_Wat_. Damn your appearances! What do I care?
_Ger._ If you will not answer my question, I must beg you to leave the
place.
_Wat_. My own desire! Will you oblige me by ordering this bull-dog of
yours to take his paws off me? What the devil is he keeping me here
for?
_Col. G._ I've a great mind to give you in charge.
_Wat_. The old codger assaulted me first.
_Col. G._ True; but the whole affair would come to light. That's what
I would have. Miss Pearson, what am I to do with this man?
_Enter_ SUSAN _at the back door. Behind her,_ CONSTANCE _peeps in_.
_Mat_. Let him go.--Father! Father! _(Kisses him_.)
_Sus_. That can never be Mattie's gentleman, sure-ly! Hm! I don't
think much of _him_. I knew he had ugly eyes! I told you so, Mattie!
I wouldn't break my heart for _him_--no, nor for twenty of him--I
wouldn't! He looks like a drowned cat.
_Wat_. What the devil have _you_ got to do with it?
_Sus. Nothing_. You shut up.
_Wat_. Well, I'm damned if I know whether I'm on my head or my heels.
_Sus_. 'Tain't no count which.
_Bill_ (_aside to_ COL. G.). She's at the back door, Mr. William.
_Col. G._ Who is, Bill? Miss Lacordère?
_Bill._ Right you air!
COL. G. _hastens to the door_. CON. _peeps in and draws back_.
COL. G. _follows her._ WATERFIELD _approaches_ MATTIE.
_Wat_. Miss Pearson, if that's--
_Mat_. I don't know you--don't even know your name.
_Wat_. (_looking round_). You hear her say it! She don't know me!
_Mat_. Could you try and rise, father? I want to get out of this.
There's a lady here says I'm a thief!
_Tho._ Nea, that she connot say, Mattie! Thae cooms ov honest folk.
Aw'll geet oop direckly. (_Attempts to rise_.) Eigh! eigh! aw connot!
aw connot!
_Mrs. C._ If I have been unjust to you, Miss Pearson, I shall not fail
to make amends.
_Sus_. It's time you did then, ma'am. You've murdered her, and all but
murdered me. That's how your little bill stands.
_Ger._ (_to_ WAT.) Leave the place, Mr. Waterfield.
_Wat_. You shall answer for this, Gervaise.
_Ger._ Leave the study at once.
_Wat_. Tut! tut! I'll make it up to them. A bank note's a good
plaster.
_Bill_. Pleasir, shall I run and fetch a bobby? I likes to see a swell
wanted.
_Ger._ You hold your tongue. (_Retires to the dais and sits down._
MRS. C. _follows him_.)
_Wat_. (_taking out his pocket-book, and approaching_ MATTIE). I
didn't think you'd have served me so, Mattie! Indeed I didn't! It's
not kind after what's been between you and me. (MATTIE _rises and
stands staring at him_.) You've ruined my prospects--you have! But I
don't want to bear malice: take that.--Old times, you know!--Take it.
You're welcome. (_Forces the note on her. She steps back. It drops_.)
_Mat_. This is a humiliation! Will nobody take him away?
_Sus_. (_rushing at him_). You be off! An' them goggle eyes o' yours,
or _I_'ll goggle 'em! I can't bear the sight on 'em. _I_ should never
ha' taken you for a gentleman. You don't look it. You slope, I say!
(_Hustles him_.)
WATERFIELD _picks up the note, and exit_.
_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) Father! father! don't hate me; don't
despise me.
THOMAS _tries to get up, but falls back_.
_Bill_. Don't be in no hurry, Daddy. There's none but friends here
now--'cep' the old lady;--she do look glum.
_Sus_. I'll soon settle her hash!
_Mat_. Susie! Susie! Don't--there's a dear!
_Sus_. What business has she here then! She's not a doin' of nothink.
_Mat_. Don't you see she's looking after the poor gentleman there?
_Ger._ William!--William!--Gone again! What a fellow he is! The best
servant in the world, but always vanishing! Call your James--will you,
aunt? We must have the old man put to bed. But the poor girl looks the
worse of the two! She can have the spare room, and William can sleep
on the sofa in mine.
_Mrs. C._ I'll see to it.
_Exit_. GER. _goes towards_ THOMAS.
_Tho._ Coom whoam--coom whoam, Mattie! Thi mother, hoo's cryin' her
eighes eawt to whoam.
_Mat_. I'll run for a doctor first, father.
_Tho._ No, no, chylt! Aw're only a bit stonned, like. Aw'll be o' reet
in a smo' bit. Aw dunnot want no doctor. Aw'm a coomin' reawnd.
_Ger._ Neither of you shall stir to-night. Your rooms will be ready in
a few minutes.
_Mat_. Thank you, sir! I don't know what I should have done with
him.--Susan, you wouldn't mind going home without me? You know Miss
Lacordère--
_Ger._ Miss Lacordère! What do you know of her?
_Mat_. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I oughtn't to have mentioned her. But my
poor head!--
_Ger._ What of Miss Lacordère? For God's sake, tell me.
_Enter_ MRS. C. _with_ JAMES.
_Sus_. Oh, nothing, sir! nothing at all! Only Miss Lacordère has been
good to us--which it's more than can be said for everybody! (_Scowls
at_ MRS. C. JAMES _proceeds to lift_ THOMAS. _She flies at him_.) Put
the old gentleman down, you sneakin' reptile! How many doors have you
been a hearkenin' at since mornin'--eh, putty-lump? You touch the old
man again, and I'll mark you! Here, Bill! I'll take his head--you take
his feet. We'll carry him between us like a feather.
_Mat_. O Susan! do hold your tongue.
_Sus_. It's my only weapon, my dear. If I was a man--see if I'd talk
then.
_James_. It's a providence you ain't a man, young woman!
_Sus_. Right you are! Them's my werry motives. I ain't a makin' of no
complaint on that score, young Plush! I wouldn't be a man for--no, not
for--not even for sich a pair o' calves as yourn!
SUS. _and_ BILL _carry_ THO. _out_. MAT. _follows_. GER. _is going
after them_.
_Mrs. C._ Don't you go, Arthur. They can manage quite well. I will go
if you like.
_Ger._ They know something about Constance.
_Mrs. C._ Pray give yourself no anxiety about her.
_Ger._ What do you mean, aunt?
_Mrs. C._ I will be responsible for her.
_Ger._ Where is she then? (_Exit_ MRS. C.) William!--If he doesn't
come in one minute more, I'll go after her myself. Those girls know
where she is. I am as strong as a giant.--O God! All but married to
that infamous fellow!--That he should ever have touched the tip of one
of her fingers! What a sunrise of hope! Psyche may yet fold her wings
to my prayer! William! William!--Where _can_ the fellow be?
_Enter_ COL. G. _in uniform and star, leading_ CONSTANCE.
_Ger._ (_hurrying to meet them_). Constance! Constance! forgive me. Oh
my God! You will when you know all.
_Col. G._ She knows enough for that already, my boy, or she wouldn't
be here. Take her--and me for her sake.
_Ger._ What! who--? Constance!--What does it all mean?--It must
be--can it be--my father?--William--It _is_ William!--William my
father!--O father! father! (_throwing his arms about him_) it _was_
you all the time then!
_Col. G._ My boy! my boy! There!--take Constance, and let me go. I did
want to do something for you--but--There! I'm too much ashamed to look
at you in my own person.
_Ger._ (_kneeling_). Father! father! don't talk like that! O father!
_my_ father!
_Col. G._ (_raising him_). My boy! my boy! I wanted to do something
for you--tried hard--and was foiled.--I doubly deserved it. I doubted
as well as neglected you. But God is good. He has shamed me, and saved
you.
_Ger._ By your hand, father.
_Col. G._ No--by his own. It would all have come right without me. I
was unworthy of the honour, my boy. But I was allowed to try; and for
that I am grateful.--Arthur, I come to you empty-handed--a beggar for
your love.
_Ger._ How dare you say that, father?--Empty-handed--bringing me her
and your-self--all I ever longed for!--my father and my Psyche!
Father, _thank_ you. The poor word must do its best. I thank you with
my very soul.--How _shall_ I bear my happiness!--Constance, it was my
father all the time! Did you know it? Serving me like a
slave!--humouring all my whims!--watching me night and day!--and then
bringing me--
_Con._ Your own little girl, Arthur. But why did you not tell me?
_Ger._ Tell you what, darling?
_Con._ That--that--that you--Oh! you know what, Arthur!
_Ger._ How could I, my child, with that--!--Shall I tell you now?
_Con._ No, no! I am too happy to listen--even to you, Arthur! But
_he_ should never have--I did find him out at last. If I had but known
you did not like him! (_hiding her face_.)
_Ger._ (_embracing his father_) Father! father! I cannot hold my
happiness! And it is _all_ your doing!
_Col. G. No_, I tell you, my boy! I was but a straw on the tide of
things. I will serve you yet though. I will be your father yet.
_Bill_ (_aside_). Fathers ain't _all_ bad coves! Here's two on
'em--good sort of old Jacobs--both on 'em. Shouldn't mind much if I
had a father o' my own arter all!
GERVAISE _turns to_ CONSTANCE--_then glances at the Psyche_. COL.
GERVAISE _removes the sheet_. GERVAISE _leads_ CONSTANCE _to the
chair on the dais--turns from her to the Psyche, and begins to work
on the clay, glancing from the one to the other--the next moment
leaves the Psyche, and seats himself on the dais at_ CONSTANCE'S
_feet, looking up in her face._ COL. GERVAISE _stands regarding
them fixedly. Slow distant music._ BILL _is stealing away_.
_Curtain falls._
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Stephen Archer and Other Tales, by George MacDonald