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This book was published by the British publisher Chatto &
Windus as the second volume of Gilbert's plays. Project
Gutenberg has an American publication with the same plays
as the first volume of the Chatto & Windus series. It can
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Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
ORIGIINAL PLAYS
* * * * * *
UNIFORM WITH THE PRESENT VOLUME.
_Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each._
ORIGINAL PLAYS
BY
W. S. GILBERT.
FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.
The FIRST SERIES contains: The Wicked World--Pygmalion and
Galatea--Charity--The Princess--The Palace of Truth--Trial by Jury.
The SECOND SERIES contains: Broken
Hearts--Engaged--Sweethearts--Gretchen--Dan’l Druce--Tom Cobb--
H.M.S. ‘Pinafore’--The Sorcerer--The Pirates of Penzance.
_Royal 16mo, Japanese leather, 2s. 6d._
THE GILBERT AND SULLIVAN BIRTHDAY BOOK:
QUOTATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR
Selected from Plays by W. S. GILBERT, set to Music by SIR A. SULLIVAN.
COMPILED BY ALEX. WATSON.
LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 ST. MARTIN’S LANE, W.C.
* * * * * *
ORIGINAL PLAYS
by
W. S. GILBERT
SECOND SERIES
Containing
Broken Hearts, Engaged, Sweethearts,
Dan’L Druce, Gretchen, Tom Cobb,
The Sorcerer, H.M.S. Pinafore,
The Pirates of Penzance
London
Chatto & Windus
1899
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CONTENTS.
BROKEN HEARTS. 1
ENGAGED. 39
SWEETHEARTS. 87
DAN’L DRUCE, BLACKSMITH. 109
GRETCHEN. 151
TOM COBB; OR, FORTUNE’S TOY. 203
THE SORCERER. 239
H.M.S. PINAFORE; OR, THE LASS THAT LOVED A SAILOR. 271
THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE; OR, THE SLAVE OF DUTY. 303
CHATTO & WINDUS CATALOGUE 1
BROKEN HEARTS.
_AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL FAIRY PLAY_, IN THREE ACTS.
_First produced at the Royal Court Theatre, under the management of_
MR. HARE, _Thursday, 9th December, 1875_.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
PRINCE FLORIAN MR. W. H. KENDAL.
MOUSTA (_a deformed Dwarf_) MR. ANSON.
THE LADY HILDA MISS M. ROBERTSON.
(MRS. KENDAL.)
THE LADY VAVIR (_her Sister_) MISS HOLLINGSHEAD.
THE LADY MELUSINE MISS PLOWDEN.
THE LADY AMANTHIS MISS RORKE.
SCENE: THE ISLAND OF BROKEN HEARTS.
_The action of the piece takes place within twenty four hours._
Costumes--1300-1350.
BROKEN HEARTS.
ACT I.
SCENE: _A tropical landscape. In the distance, a calm sea. A
natural fountain--a mere thread of water--falls over a rock
into a natural basin. An old sun-dial formed of the upper part
of a broken pillar, round the shaft of which some creeping
flowers are trained, stands on a small mound. The time is
within half an hour of sunset._
_MOUSTA, a deformed, ill-favoured dwarf hump-backed and one-eyed,
is discovered seated, reading a small black-letter volume._
_Mous._ (_reads_). “_To move a mountain._” That will serve me not,
Unless, indeed, ’twill teach me how to lift
This cursed mountain from my crippled back!
“_To make old young._” Humph! I’m but forty-two--
But still, I’ll mark that page--the day will come
When I shall find it useful. Ha! what’s this?
“_To make the crooked straight; to heal the halt;
And clothe unsightly forms with comeliness._”
At last! At last!
_Enter VAVIR, who listens in amazement._
(_Reads_) “_Take scammony and rue,
With henbane gathered in a fat churchyard--
Pound in a mortar with three drops of blood,
Drawn from a serpent’s tail at dead of night._”
Yes, yes, that’s plain enough! (_reads_) “_Take pigeon’s egg
Wrapped in the skin of a beheaded toad,
And then_--” (_sees VAVIR_) Who’s there?
_Vav._ (_astonished_). Why, Mousta?
_Mous._ Pardon me,
I’m at my book. I did not hear thy step.
_Vav._ Thy book hath lines both strange and terrible:
Why Mousta, this is arrant sorcery!
How camest thou with such a fearful thing?
_Mous._ (_whispering_). An unseen spirit brought it to me--Ay,
Brought it to _me_. An hour or so ago
I saw a distant boat make for our shores,
The wind was on her bow--she tacked as though
Handled by one well-skilled in such small craft.
Well--on she came--and I awaited her,
Armed with a boat-hook. When within fair hail,
“Sheer off!” I cried; “No stranger touches here!”
But, heedless of my hail, she kept her course,
And, when within a bow-shot of the beach,
Down came her sail, and in she ran to shore!
_Vav._ (_alarmed_). Whom did she carry, Mousta?
_Mous._ Not a soul!
The boat was tenantless! Some unseen power
Had guided her! I overhauled the craft
To find some sign of human agency,
And found--this book.
_Vav._ (_shrinking from it_). It is unholy lore!
Oh, burn it, Mousta!
_Mous._ Burn it? No, not I!
See what I am--dwarfed, twisted, and deformed!
I have a fancy to be tall and straight--
_This volume teaches me to have my will._
My only eyeball flashes from its pit
Like a red snake trapped in a sunken snare--
I do not like my eye. As I’ve but one,
I’d have it large and bright. _This teaches me
To make it so._ My mouth is coarsely cut--
I like a tempting mouth--a mouth that smiles--
A mouth that’s smiled upon. _This teaches me
To make it so._ I will not burn this book!
_The LADY HILDA has entered during the last line._
_Hil._ And what would’st _thou_ with beauty?
_Mous._ What would I?
Why, lady, look around; the isle is fair:
Its feathery palms that tower towards the sky,
Its prattling brooks that trickle to the sea,
Its hills and dales, its sea and sky--are fair:
The beasts that dwell upon it, and the birds
That fly above it--even they are fair:
And, beyond all, the ladies who have made
This isle their chosen home are very fair!
And what am I? Why, lady, look at me!
I am the one foul blot upon its face:
I am the one misshapen twisted thing
In this assemblage of rare loveliness:
I am the one accursed discord in
This choir of universal harmony!
Is this, think you, a proud pre-eminence?
Or, rather, is it not a red-hot brand
That stamps its damning impress on one’s heart,
And changes man to devil before his time!
(_Sadly._) Ah! you are mocking me!
_Hil._ (_kindly_). I mock thee not.
We maidens all (save one) have dearly loved,
And those we loved have died. We, broken hearts,
Knit by the sympathy of kindred woe,
Have sought this isle far from the ken of man;
And having loved, and having lost our loves,
Stand pledged to love no living thing again.
Thou art our trusted servant and our friend;
The only man of all the world of men
Whom we admit upon our virgin shores.
We know thee, and we trust thee, Mousta--Come,
This thought might soften harder hearts than thine!
_Mous._ (_angrily_). And why choose me alone of all mankind
To serve you in your island loneliness?
Because my limbs, though crooked, are strongly framed?
Bah, there are tall straight men as strong as I.
Because my heart goes with my fealty?
Why half _my_ wage would buy the heart and soul
Of twenty well-proportioned servitors.
Because by reason of my face and form
I do not count as man? Yes! I’m an ape!
A crippled, crumpled, devil-faced baboon,
Who claims a place amid this loveliness
By title of his sheer deformity!
Now, monkey though I be, I am a man
In all but face and form--I’ve a man’s heart,
A man’s desire to love--and to be loved--(_HILDA seems amused._)
Ay, you may laugh--but those who seek to laugh
May find, methinks, more fitting merriment
In such mad love as deals with sun-dials,
Trees, rocks, and fountains, and such baby game.
My love at least is human in its aim.
It’s well you should know this--be on your guard! [_Exit MOUSTA._
_Hil._ In truth, the love that Mousta laughs at tells
How strangely ordered is a woman’s heart!
Dost thou remember how, when first we came
To this fair isle, I said, in thoughtless jest,
“As woman’s heart must love, and we are women,
So let us choose our loves”--then, looking round,
“This running fountain shall be mine,” I cried,
And, kneeling by the brink, then sealed the vow
As all such vows are sealed ’twixt men and women--
And thou, poor child, pleased with the jest, replied,
“I take this dial to be my love for life!”
Vavir, we little thought that in those words
We pledged ourselves to an abiding love
That rivals in its pure intensity
The love that we had banished from our hearts!
Yet so it is. We have so dwelt upon
This idle fancy--keeping it alive
With songs and sighs and vows of constancy,
That we have tricked ourselves into a love
Akin to that which we had all forsworn.
I love this little fountain as my life!
_Vav._ To me my dial is more, far more, than life;
It is the chronicle of the World’s life,
Written by Heaven’s own hand. As, rapt in thought,
I watch its silent solemn shadow creep
From hour to hour, and so from day to day,
True as the Sun itself--an awful record
Of Heaven’s most perfect and most glorious order--
My love is lost in reverential awe.
Oh I have chosen well in choosing this!
It is a holy thing, that bears a warrant,
Sent from the Source of Life, to tell the Earth
That even Time is hastening to its end!
What is mere world-love to such love as this?
_Hil._ And yet _thou_ hast no cause to shun world-love.
When my great sorrow came and I withdrew
To this lone isle with other broken hearts,
Thou, heart-whole and untouched by love of Man,
Yet gavest up the world and all it holds
To bide with me.
_Vav._ I do not love the world.
My darling sister found her sorrow there--
The world is naught to me. This tiny isle,
But half a league in girth holds all _I_ love.
_My_ world is where thou art--there let me stay
For the few months that yet remain to me!
I think my time on earth will be but brief.
_Hil._ Hush, hush, Vavir. I will not hear these things.
_Vav._ My life has been a very happy life,
So free from pain and sorrow of its own
That, but that I have shared my sister’s grief,
I had not known what pain and sorrow are--
Yet even this calm rest--this changeless peace,
Saps my poor fragile fabric day by day,
And the first shaft that sorrow aims at it,
May shake its puny structure to the ground!
_Hil._ Why, what sad silly fancy’s this, Vavir?
Thou hast no pain, my child?
_Vav._ No pain, indeed;
But a calm happiness so strangely still,
It comes not of this world. I am to die
Ere very long. Pray Heaven I be prepared!
_Hil._ It’s well for me and well for both of us
I do not share these foolish fantasies!
Why, silly child, believest thou that Time
Will see the fruit that ripens on those cheeks,
And note the dainty banquet of those lips,
And not preserve such rich and radiant fare,
For his own feasting in his own good time?
Trust the old Epicure! [_Exeunt HILDA and VAVIR together._
_Enter FLORIAN. He comes down, looking around him in admiration._
_Flor._ All men who say I’m five-and-twenty, lie.
I was born but to-day! An hour ago!
Yes--this must be the World. The distant land
In which I’ve passed so many years, and which
I, in my puppy-blindness, called “The World,”
Is but its antechamber.
_Enter MOUSTA (with book)._
Born to-day,
And by a process which is new to me,
My faculties are scarcely wide awake,
But if my memory serves me faithfully,
This twisted thing and I have met before.
_Mous._ The ladies are at supper. Now’s my time
To master, undisturbed by curious eyes,
The ghostly secrets of my spirit book!
Where was I? Oh! (_reads_) “_Take scammony and rue,
With henbane gathered_--”
_Flor._ (_coming behind and taking book from him_).
Pardon me--that’s mine.
_Mous._ Oh, Heaven and Earth--a Man! Thou hardy fool,
What dost thou on this isle? (_Draws knife._) Come, answer me.
_Flor._ Give me that knife. (_Twists it out of his hand._)
That’s well! Now, what’s your will?
_Mous._ Go--get thee hence at once.
_Flor._ No, not just yet.
This Paradise--if Rumour tells the truth--
Is ruled by six fair ladies. I prefer
To take my sailing orders from _their_ lips.
_Mous._ Their lips are mine!
_Flor._ Then you’re a lucky dog!
_Mous._ I am their mouthpiece. By their solemn rules
No man may set his foot upon these shores.
Those rules thy hardihood hath set at naught.
How camest thou, and when?
_Flor._ I am a Prince,
Prince Florian of Spain. I landed here
From yonder boat--about an hour ago.
_Mous._ Liar! The boat was empty!
_Flor._ No, not quite.
I was on board.
_Mous._ (_puzzled_). But I was on the beach--
_Flor._ I know you were--with boat-hook in your hand
To thrust her off. You hailed me angrily:
I had no time to stop and parley then,
So, in the hope that Fate would furnish me
With some more fitting opportunity
To offer you my best apologies,
I kept her head to land, and jumped ashore.
Those best apologies I offer now.
_Mous._ (_alarmed_). If you’ll believe me, sir, I saw you not!
_Flor._ I quite believe you, for I have the power
To make myself invisible at will,
And, having such a power, you’ll see at once
That force will serve you nothing.
_Mous._ (_amazed_). Say you true?
_Flor._ Undoubtedly. I’ve but to wind this veil (_producing a grey
gauze veil with gold tassels_)
About my head, and I’m invisible,
And so remain till I remove it.
_Mous._ Why,
This is a priceless Talisman, indeed!
Invisible! I’d give one half my life
To be invisible for half-a-day!
_Flor._ Indeed? And why?
_Mous._ There is no living thing
But seeks a mate--What birds and beasts may do
Mousta may seek to do--_I_ want to mate!
And whom d’ye think I want? Some kitchen-wench?
One-eyed, hump-backed, and twisted like myself?
I want the purest, fairest form on earth!
_Flor._ Upon my word, you aim full high!
_Mous._ I do!
Why not? Suppose I loved a kitchen-wench,
And told her so?
_Flor._ A decent kitchen-wench
Would soundly box your ears!
_Mous._ You’re right--She would;
My Lady can’t do more. As I _must_ fail
At least I’ll fail for game worth failing for!
As yet I’ve breathed no word--were I unseen
I could take heart of grace and tell my love!
_Flor._ (_laughing_). What would you say?
_Mous._ Ay, ay, you laugh at me;
But I’ve a wily tongue, and I can woo
Like an Adonis--when I’m in the dark!
A blind girl loved me once--a fair young girl
With gentle face and gentle heart--but blind!
_Flor._ I’ll swear she was!
_Mous._ (_gently_). Ah, mock her not--she died!
_Flor._ Well, peace be with her--Find me some safe spot,
Where I can pass the night--I’ll pay you well.
_Mous._ Ha! ha!
_Flor._ Why do you laugh?
_Mous._ Had I your power
To make myself invisible at will,
I should take up my quarters in the castle
Where all the ladies dwell!
_Flor._ I’m sure you would,
Unfortunately I’m a gentleman,
And so that course is closed to me--
_Mous._ Of course!
I did but jest--I beg your pardon, sir.
(_Aside._) If I could get that veil for one short hour--
Eh, but I’ve drugs to lull a man to sleep!
If I can tempt this squeamish popinjay
To trust himself to me, the thing is done!
(_Aloud_). I’ve a poor cottage--it is close at hand,
Though humble, it is clean and weather-tight:
It will afford you shelter. Then for food
I’ve some dried fish and eggs and oaten bread
Quite at your service.
_Flor._ Good.
_Mous._ (_quickly_). But hide yourself,
Some one approaches!
[_FLORIAN covers his head with veil as VAVIR enters with flowers._
_Flor._ (_aside to MOUSTA_). Who is this fair maid?
_Mous._ (_aside_). Lady Vavir. She always comes at eve
To bid “good night” to this old sun-dial!
Keep your ears open, and I’ll warrant you
Yours eyes will open too! (_Aloud._) Lady Vavir,
I bid you fair good night.
_Vav._ Good night to you. [_Exit MOUS._
_Flor._ In truth a fair young girl!
_Vav._ Dear sun-dial,
Dost know what day this is?
_Flor._ (_aside_). He ought to know,
It comes within the radius of his calling!
_Vav._ A year to-day, and we two were betrothed--
One happy, happy year!
_Flor._ (_aside_). Betrothed, i’ faith!
They’re lovers, then!
_Vav._ I must devise some gift
To mark this happy day. What shall it be?
I’ll weave a bower of rose and eglantine
To place above thy head at eventide,
When the full moon’s abroad. No foolish moon
Shall cast false shadows on thy sleeping face,
Or make thee mutter incoherent tales
Of hours long since gone by or yet to come.
No madcap moon shall mar thy nightly rest,
Or in the mischief of half-witted glee
Awake thy sleeping hours before their time.
_Flor._ (_aside_). He doesn’t answer--the insensate dolt!--
And yet such words are warm enough to rouse
A tombstone into life!
_Vav._ I’ve brought thee flowers
To deck thy stem. They live their little life,
And then they die; but others follow them--
And thou shalt have thy garland day by day
While I am here to weave it for thee?
_Flor._ (_aside_). Well,
This is the oddest wooing! On my word,
A thousand pities that the lady’s love
Should be lopsided! Come, arouse thee, dial--
Be eloquent with thanks! I’ve half a mind
To thank her for thee, in the interests
Of all true horologes!
_Vav._ I’m content
To sit and deck thee, silent though thou art.
And yet I would thou hadst the gift of speech
For one brief second--time enough to say,
“Vavir, I love thee with my whole, whole heart!”
_Flor._ (_aloud_). “Vavir, I love thee with my whole, whole heart!”
_Vav._ (_recoiling, horrified_). Who spake?
_Flor._ ’Twas I--thy dial!
_Vav._ Oh, terrible!
What shall I do?
_Flor._ Fair lady--have no fear.
_Vav._ “_Fair_ lady”--It’s a man! My sisters, help!
I am betrayed!
_Flor._ Have patience for a while--
_Vav._ Who and what art thou?--speak!
_Flor._ (_aside_). What shall I say?
(_Aloud._) I am a poor, long-suffering, mortal man,
Whom in the stony substance of thy dial,
A cruel magician holds incarcerate!
_Vav._ Oh, marvellous!
_Flor._ And very pitiful!
_Vav._ Aye, pitiful indeed, poor prisoned soul! (_advancing_.)
_Flor._ “There shalt thou lie,” said he, “till some pure maid
Shall have been constant to thine unseen self
A twelvemonth and a day.” That maid art thou!
_Vav._ Alas! poor man, I fain would set thee free.
Yet I have loved not thee, but this thy tomb!
_Flor._ Thou canst not separate me from my tomb
Except by loving me. In loving it
Thou lovest me who am bound up with it;
And in so loving me--provided that
Thy love, a twelvemonth old, lasts one day more--
Thou givest me my freedom and my life!
If thou hast loved thy dial thou hast loved me.
_Vav._ Yes, I have loved my dial!
_Flor._ But earnestly--
With a surpassing love?
_Vav._ I cannot say--
I am ill-versed in the degrees of love.
Judge for thyself--When I am weak and ill
My sisters place my couch beside my dial
That I may lay my poor thin hand on it:
It gives me life and strength--I know not why.
Judge for thyself--
When the black winter comes my sisters weep
To see me weep my darling’s brief day-life;
And when the bright, long summer days return
They join my joy--because with Light comes Hope,
And Hope is Life--and they would have me live!
Judge for thyself--
At dawn of day I seek my dial alone,
To watch its daily waking into life;
At set of sun I come to it again,
To kiss “good night” upon its fading shade:
Then, with a prayer that I may lay to heart
The lesson of its silent eloquence,
I seek my bed. So speeds my little life.
If this be love, then have I loved indeed!
Judge for thyself. (_Rises._)
_Enter MELUSINE (a small hand-mirror hangs from her waist)._
_Mel._ Vavir, the evening dews are falling fast;
The night air teems with damp. So, come, dear love,
Return at once with me.
_Vav._ Oh, Melusine,
I have a secret. (_Aside to dial._) May I tell it?
_Flor._ (_whispering_). Yes.
_Mel._ A secret?
_Vav._ Ay, a wondrous secret, too!
My sun-dial hath ears to hear withal--
And eyes to see withal--and a sweet voice,
A gentle, tender voice to woo withal!
_Mel._ Oh, marvellous! Oh, fortunate Vavir!
To woo--and to be woo’d--and, being woo’d,
To keep her vow intact! I’d give the world
If my loved mirror were endowed with speech!
_Flor._ Have then thy wish, fair lady!
_Mel._ Why, who spake?
_Vav._ Thy mirror spake!
_Mel._ Oh, day of wonderment!
Who gave thee speech? Art thou enchanted too?
_Flor._ Ay, that in truth I am, as all must be
On whom those eyes are turned so lovingly!
_Mel._ A very polished mirror!
_Flor._ As for that,
We mirrors are as other gallants are--
Teeming with compliment to fair young maids--
But apt to be extremely curt and rude
With old and wrinkled faces. On the whole
We are good gallants as good gallants go!
_Mel._ And dost thou love me?
_Flor._ Love thee, gentle maid?
Have I not laughed with thee, and wept with thee,
And ever framed my face in sympathy
With all the changes of thy varying moods?
Hast thou e’er cast thine eyes upon my face
And found me light of heart when thou wast sad?
Or sad when thou wast light of heart?
_Mel._ No! no!
Most wonderful!
_Flor._ And yet not wonderful!
I am but one of many. This fair isle
Teems with poor prisoned souls! There’s not a tree--
There’s not a rock, a brook, a shrub, a stone,
But holds some captive spirit who awaits
The unsought love that is to set him free!
_Mel._ (_to VAVIR_). We’ll keep this secret safely to ourselves.
If it should get abroad, this little isle
Will barely hold the maidens who will come,
Prepared to pass the spring-time of their lives
In setting free these captives! Come, Vavir,
And we will warn our sisters.
_Vav._ Fare thee well,
Beloved dial: I go to dream of thee,
Dream thou of me! God send thee Sun. Good night!
[_Exeunt VAVIR and MELUSINE._
_Flor._ Two maids, at once bewitching--and bewitched!
One loves a mirror--well, that’s not so strange,
Though she’ll grow angry with it ten years hence!
The other loves a dial--a cold stern fact
That surely marks the deadly flight of time!
Wonders will never cease! let none despair--
Old Chronos, enemy of womankind,
Has found a pretty sweetheart, after all!
_Enter LADY HILDA, singing and playing on mandolin._
Far from sin--far from sorrow
Let me stay--let me stay!
From the fear of to-morrow
Far away--far away!
I am weary and shaken,
Let me stay--let me stay,
Till in death I awaken
Far away--far away!
[_Towards the close of the song, she sinks on her knees as
a ray of moonlight falls on her. FLORIAN has watched her
eagerly during the song, with every symptom of the profoundest
admiration._
_Flor._ Oh, Heaven enlighten me--is this fair thing
A soul of Earth--a being, born of woman,
Conscious of sin and destined to decay?
Oh, Good and Ill, how share ye such a spoil!
Can this pure form, instinct with Heaven’s own light,
Clothed in the majesty of innocence,
Have aught in common with the vapid toy
We break and cast aside? Oh, sordid Earth,
Praise Heaven that leaves this angel yet unclaimed.
Oh, heart of mine--oh, wilful, wayward heart,
Bow down in homage--thou art caught and caged!
[_During these lines HILDA, seated by the fountain, has been
playing with its water, and kissing her wet hands._
_Hil._ The sun has set--the fierce hot thirsty sun
Who, like a greedy vampire as he is,
Drinks my love’s life-blood till it pines away,
And dwindles to a thread. The moon’s abroad--
_She_ is not jealous of my fountain love;
She sheds her gentle light upon our tryst
And decks my love with diamonds of her own!
_Flor._ (_aside_). Poor, senseless fount! To have thy home in Heaven
And not to know it!
_Hil._ Shall I tell thee how
I came to give my poor bruised heart to thee?
Or art thou of those churlish lovers who
Can brook no love that is not born of them?
Why, then, I am unworthy in thine eyes,
For I have loved, as women love but once!
He was a prince--a brave, God-fearing knight--
The very pink and bloom of Chivalry,
Proud as a war-horse--fair as the dawn of day--
Staunch as a Woman--tender as a Man!
He knew not that I loved him. Who was I
That he should mark the flushing of _my_ face,
Amid a thousand maids whose stricken hearts
Danced to their lips, as he, my prince, rode by?
One sullen winter day--dark as his doom,
He left his home to seek a distant land.
A weary while I wept--months passed away,
And yet no tidings came. Then tales were told
Of ships o’erwhelmed by boisterous wintry seas;
And rough men prayed, and maidens wept aloud,
For he was loved of all! Then came the news;
At first in shuddering whispers, one by one--
Then babbled by ten thousand clamorous tongues--
The cold fierce sea had robbed me of my love!
My star--my light--my life--my Florian!
_Flor._ (_aside_). Oh, senseless dullard--to have turned away
From Heaven’s own threshold at thine own free will!
_Hil._ I wept no more.
Tears are the balm of sorrow--not of woe.
I fled my home--
A gentle sister whose poor little life
Lives on the love I bear it, fled with me;
So, hand in hand, we wandered through the world
Till, in this haven of pure peace and rest,
We found safe sanctuary from our woe.
_Flor._ (_aloud_). Who would not die to be so mourned by thee?
[_HILDA expresses alarm and intense surprise._
Fear nothing. I who speak am but a voice--
The murmur of the waters, shaped to words
By the all-potent alchemy of Love!
_Hil._ Oh, foolish maid--this is some madcap dream!
_Flor._ No dream indeed--or if it be, dream on!
_Hil._ Canst thou then hear the words I speak to thee?
_Flor._ Ay, that I can--and every word I hear
Adds fuel to my love!
_Hil._ Oh, wonderful!
Hast thou the power to love?
_Flor._ Indeed I have!
_Hil._ And is thy love akin to mine?
_Flor._ It is
So near akin that, as it comes of thine,
And lives on thine, so, without thine, it dies!
_Hil._ If my poor love
Hath called thine into life--so is my love
In duty bound to thine--its kith and kin!
_Flor._ But if the rumours of thy Florian’s death
Should prove, as rumours often prove, untrue?
If he should be alive--loving thee well--
Eager to tell his love to thee--what then?
_Hil._ (_sadly_). Thou jealous fount, what untold miracle
Would bear the tidings to this lonely isle?
_Flor._ Say that in wandering through the unknown world
Chance led Prince Florian to these shores, and he,
Flushed with the radiance of thy loveliness,
Stood manifest before thine eyes--what then?
_Hil._ Oh, Heaven, what then! Joy kills as sorrow kills.
I dare not think what then! Let it suffice
That I have given thee all--that I am thine
For ever and for aye!
_Enter MOUSTA unperceived; he places himself so that the dial
conceals him from Florian and Hilda._
_Flor._ “Ever and aye”
Are fragile flowers that fade before the breath
Of an old love long lost!
_Hil._ Oh, gentle voice,
Born of the falling water--have no fear--
In Heaven’s sight I pledge myself to thee--
What love is in me, that I give to thee--
What love thou hast to give, I take from thee--
Kiss thou my hands--(_holding her hands for the water to
fall on_)--henceforth we twain are one!
ACT II.
SCENE, _same as Act I. Time, Sunrise._
_Enter MOUSTA, cautiously._
_Mous._ I left him sleeping soundly in my hut,
He did not drink the wine--but still he sleeps.
(_Producing veil._) I stole it from his pillow! Here’s a prize!
Poor devil that I am--whose only hope
Of meeting other men on equal terms,
Lies in his chance of keeping out of sight!
Ha! someone comes. I’ll hide thee carefully.
[_Places it under a stone of dial._
Some day, maybe, thou’lt do as much for me!
_Enter FLORIAN, angrily._
_Flor._ So here you are: I’ve sought you everywhere--
_Mous._ Ay, I am here. You’re early from your bed--
Well, it’s no bed for such fine folk as you;
I’m very sorry, but ’twas all I had.
_Flor._ The bed was well enough. I have been robbed.
_Mous._ Ay, ay? And how was that?
_Flor._ There is a thief
Upon this isle.
_Mous._ It’s very possible.
When people come and go invisibly,
It’s hard to say who is or is not here.
What has the villain robbed? a woman’s heart?
Two women’s hearts? How many women’s hearts?
If there’s a thief here, it is you or I,
It comes to that. Now, what is it you’ve lost?
_Flor._ My Talisman.
_Mous._ Your Talisman? Oh ho!
_Flor._ I see no cause for jest.
_Mous._ You don’t? Observe--
A prince, or someone who so styles himself,
With power to make himself invisible,
Employs that power to gain admission to
An isle where certain maidens dwell--when there
His Talisman is stolen and he stands
Revealed before their eyes--the helpless butt
Of all their ridicule, with naught to say
But “Ladies, pray forgive me--I had thought
To enter unobserved--to wander here
And watch your movements--also unobserved;
And when grown weary of this novel sport
To take my leave of you--still unobserved,
But as I’ve failed, so pray you pardon me.”
And off he goes, his tail between his legs,
Like a well-beaten hound!
_Flor._ (_seizing him_). Misshapen imp,
Have you so little care for such dog-life
As warms your twisted carcase, that you dare
To bandy jests with me?
_Mous._ Release me, sir!
Had I your Talisman, do you suppose
I should be here before your eyes? No, no--
Whoever has the veil is using it.
There are but six of us, besides myself.
If one of those is missing, why, be sure
That one hath taken it. I’ll go and see. [_Exit MOUSTA._
_Flor._ The imp is right, and yet the Talisman
Was safe with me last night. But, who comes here!
Confusion! ’tis Vavir. I shall be seen!
Where can I hide myself?
_Enter VAVIR; she starts in intense alarm on seeing FLORIAN._
_Vav._ Kind Heaven protect me!
Who art thou, and what dost thou on this isle?
_Flor._ Fair maiden, have no fear. I am a knight,
Sworn on the sacred code of Chivalry,
To hold all womankind in reverence.
Listen, and I will tell thee all--
_Vav._ (_who has recognized his voice, kneels as in adoration_.)
No need!
Thy voice hath told me all! I know thee now!
Oh, foolish heart, be still, for all is well--
_He_ will not harm thee; this is he whose words,
Through the still watches of the long, long night,
Rang like a mighty clarion in mine ears,
“Vavir, I love thee with my whole, whole heart!”
Thou art the messenger of hope and life,
For Heaven hath not bestowed this joy on me
To take me from it. Yes, I am to live!
_Flor._ (_raising her_). Why, Heaven forgive me, maiden--can it be
That thou hast loved this dial of thine with love
Akin to that which women bear to men?
_Vav._ Ay, that I have, as I’ve a soul to save!
Why, I have sat for hours and clung to it,
Until I half believed I felt a heart
Beating within its frame--and as I clung
Methought I drew both warmth and life from it!
I wondered then that such a thing could be--
Oh, my dear love, I do not wonder now! (_Embracing him._)
_Flor._ (_aside_). God help thee, gentle maid! I little thought
My heedless words, conceived in arrant jest,
Chimed in so aptly with thy fantasies!
(_Aloud._) Be not deceived;
I am a mortal like thyself, in all
Except thine innocence!--A sinning man,
Unworthy of thy love. Be not deceived.
_Vav._ I know thee, and I love thee as thou art--
Not as the Spirit of my nightly dreams,
But as thou art--a man of Life and Death.
_Flor._ Hast thou then seen a Spirit in thy dreams?
_Vav._ I have--the Spirit of the Sun-dial--
A godlike form of fearful excellence,
Clad, like the Sun, in golden panoply--
His head surmounted with a diadem
That shed eternal rays--and, in his hand,
A mighty javelin of gold and fire.
So pictured I the Sun’s Ambassador--
A god to worship--not a man to love! (_Leaning on his breast._)
I had not guessed at half my happiness!
_Flor._ (_aside_). Now, by my knighthood, I would give ten years--
To find some way to break the truth to her!
_Vav._ Time was when I was very glad to die;
I did not fear what others seem to fear.
I have heard say that brave, stout-hearted men,
Whose reckless valour has withstood the test
Of many a battle-plain, will quail and blanch
Brought face to face with unexpected death.
I am a poor weak girl, whose fluttering heart
Quakes at the rustle of a leaf, and yet
_I_ did not fear to die--I prayed to die!
But now thou hast so bound me to the earth,
Thou, oh my first, my last, my only love,
I dare not think of death! Oh, let me live,
My life is in thine hands--Oh, let me live!
_Flor._ Yes, thou shalt live, Vavir, so have no fear.
_Vav._ Thou wilt not leave me?
_Flor._ Only for a while;
I will return to thee.
_Vav._ So, hand in hand
We shall grow old, and die, still hand in hand?
_Flor._ Yes, ever hand in hand.
_Vav._ Oh, gentle Heaven,
I have more happiness than I can bear! [_Exit VAVIR._
_Flor._ Poor soul, what shall I say? To tell her now
Would be to kill her! [_Pauses irresolute, then exit._
_Enter MOUSTA, watching them._
_Mous._ Oh, ho! young knight! I’m sorry for Vavir!
Well, it concerns me not: the girl is fair;
And traps are set for her because she’s fair,
And she’ll fall into them because she’s fair.
Good looks
Should pay some penalty--that’s only fair.
Better be such as I am, after all;
No one sets traps for me. Ha! who comes here?
The Lady Hilda, parting from Vavir--
Come forth, my Talisman, the time has come
To test thy power.
[_Takes veil from behind stone as HILDA enters hurriedly. He
winds it about his head._
_Hil._ Oh, Spirit of the Well,
I’ve wondrous news! The poor enchanted soul,
Till now entombed within the sun-dial,
Hath taken human form!
Oh, gentle spirit, grant my trembling prayer,
If thou hast power to quit thy silver stream
And stand in human form before mine eyes,
Then by my long and faithful love, I pray
That thou wilt suffer me to see thy face!
[_MOUSTA hobbles across behind the fountain, and replies as
FLORIAN._
_Mous._ Yes, I _can_ take such form, but press me not----
_Hil._ And wherefore not?
_Mous._ I dare not show myself
Lest all thy love should fade?
_Hil._ Ah, have no fear,
My love runs with my life.
_Mous._ So women say,
Who live but once, yet love a dozen times!
_Hil._ I am not such as they!
_Mous._ I know it well--
_Hil._ Then let me see thy face--but once--but once--
Then thou shalt hie thee to thy well again
For ever if thou wilt!
_Mous._ That may not be--
Once seen in human form I must remain
A man--with more than man’s infirmities.
I am no shapely spirit framed to catch
A woman’s fancy--I am roughly hewn--
Somewhat uncouth--misshapen, some might say--
Dost thou not fear to look on me?
_Hil._ No, no.
Take thou thy form, whate’er that form may be!
_Mous._ But stay--
Thou hast a serving man--a crumpled wretch--
One-eyed and lame--but passing honest--say
That I am such a twisted thing as _he_?
What then?
_Hil._ (_tenderly_). Oh, Spirit of the Well, fear not,
My love is not a thing of yesterday;
Nor does it spring from thought of face and form.
I love thee for thy boundless charity,
That seeks no recompense--doing good works
In modest silence from the very love
Of doing good--bestowing life and strength
On high and low, on rich and poor alike;
Embracing in thy vast philosophy,
All creeds, all nations, and all ranks of men!
Holding thyself to be no higher than
The meanest wretch who claims thy charity,
Yet holding none to be of such account
As to deserve thine homage. Just to all,
Lovely in all thy modest deeds of good,
Excelling type of godliest charity,
Show thyself in whatever form thou wilt,
Oh, Spirit of the Well,
And I perforce must love thee!
_Mous._ Be it so!
Thou _shalt_ behold me as I am. But first,
Ere I do that which cannot be undone,
Give me a solemn token that shall serve
As evidence of troth twixt thee and me.
_Hil._ Dost thou still doubt me then?
_Mous._ I doubt myself--
I doubt my rugged form, my rough-hewn face,
My crumpled limbs!--See, lady, I exchange
My immortality for Life and Death,
My demi-godhead for the state of Man--
Man, undersized and crippled, and accurst!
All this I do for thee--Let me be sure
That when I’ve done all this, thou wilt not cry,
“Away, distorted thing,
My love is not for such a one as thou!”
_Hil._ Oh, doubting Spirit, take this sacred ring.
It is a holy relic--and a vow
Spoken thereon binds her who utters it
Through life to death. Upon this sacred stone,
I do repeat my vow of yesternight!
I am thy bride! (_Throws ring into the fountain._)
_Mous._ (_taking the ring out of the fountain_).
Then, lady, have thy will!
But, bear in mind that modest virtue oft
Will clothe herself in most unlikely garb--
Mistrust all prejudice--well-favoured hearts
May underlie ill-favoured heads. We spurn
The dirt beneath our feet--but never less
We grovel in such dirt for diamonds,
And sometimes find them there! A comely face
Is but the food of Time--a kindly heart
Time touches but to soften--think of this,
And in thy breast some pity may be found,
For the poor wretch to whom thy troth is given!
[_MOUSTA reveals himself. Hilda, whose fears have been gradually
aroused during this speech, recoils in horror and amazement at
seeing him._
_Hil._ Mousta! Oh, Heaven, what have I said and done!
Was _thine_ the voice that spake?
_Mous._ (_abashed_). My lady, yes!
_Hil._ Oh, cruel, cruel!
_Mous._ Lady, pardon me.
I knew not what I did!
_Hil._ Oh, wretched man!
I pardon thee--thou dost not, canst not know
How deep a wound thine idle words have riven!
Oh, heart! my broken heart! (_Sinks on to ground by dial._)
My Mousta, shame upon thee for this jest--
This heartless jest--this scurril mockery!
When thou wast sick to death I tended thee,
Through weary days, and weary, weary nights,
And bathed thy fevered brow, and prayed with thee,
And soothed thy pain with such poor minstrelsy
As I am mistress of--I sang to thee,
And brought thee pleasant books to help thee speed
The lagging hours of thy recovery.
Has my heart seemed to thee so stony hard
That it could bear this deadly blow unbruised?
Oh, Mousta, shame upon thee for this jest!
_Mous._ Jest, Lady Hilda? Nay, I did not jest!
Why, look at me!
_Hil._ (_gazing at him_). Oh, Mousta! Can it be
That thou hast dared--No, no, impossible,----
It is too terrible!
_Mous._ Ay, I _have_ dared!
I studied necromancy--and I learnt
To weave a mighty engine for myself--
A web that gives invisibility. (_Producing veil._)
Shrouded in this, I woo’d thee yesternight!
Oh, I _can_ woo--At least, I’ve shown thee that!
A voice rang music in thine ears--’twas mine!
Words thrilled thee to the core--_I_ spake those words!
Love filled thy very soul--’twas _I_ that woo’d!
My very self, stripped of the hideous mask
In which my soul stands shrouded from the world.
I’ll woo like that all day! But shut thine eyes,
Or turn thine head away, and I shall make
As fair a husband as the best of them!
_Hil._ Oh, horrible! Go--get thee hence, away--
Take money--what thou wilt--but get thee hence!
Oh, madman! madman!
_Mous._ Why, what could I do?
Should I have reasoned with myself, and said,
“Mousta, when thou wast sick and like to die,
The Lady Hilda came to thy bedside,
And sat, and nursed thee day by day--’twas nothing!
When writhing at thy very worst, her tears
Fell on thy face like rain,--a woman’s trick!
When baffled Death was tugging at thy throat,
Her gentle prayers rose to the gate of Heaven,
Mingled with the insensate blasphemies
Of thy delirium--account it naught!
Go to thy labour--get thy spade and dig,
And when a foolish sob of gratitude
Rises unbidden to thy choking throat”
(They sometimes will--one can’t be sure of them),
“Swear a big oath and whistle it away,
Lest it take root and blossom into love!”
Was _this_ my duty, think ye? No, no, no,
My body’s twisted, lady, not my heart.
_Hil._ (_with forced calmness_).
But say that, bound in duty to the troth
That thou hast wrung from me, I taught myself
I will not say to love--to bear with thee--
How could I hope to live at peace with one
Armed with so terrible a Talisman?
A Talisman that vests in him the power,
To come to me and go from me, unseen,
And play the truant at his own free will?
Thou askest more than womankind can grant.
_Mous._ (_trembling with excitement_).
Oh, lady, lady, give me but thy love,
And in that gift will lie the surest proof
That I will not misuse my Talisman!
_Hil._ It may be so--but Time’s an alchymist,
Who changes gold to dross. Some day, may be,
This love of thine will sicken, wane, and die.
How could I bear this widowhood of soul,
Knowing that thou hast power to come and go,
Unseen?
_Mous._ (_overjoyed_). Be sure I’ll neither come nor go:
My place is at thy side. Such love as thine
Would surely chain the proudest prince on earth,
And how much more so poor a wretch as I!
_Hil._ I’ll trust thee not.
Doubt would lie heavy at my heart, not less
Because I had no reason for that doubt.
Give me thy Talisman.
_Mous._ Nay, bear with me.
_Hil._ Give me thy Talisman.
_Mous._ Well, well, ’tis thine.
But bear in mind, the troth that thou hast pledged
Upon this ring can never be recalled.
_Hil._ I know it well.
I’ll keep my troth. Give me thy Talisman.
_Mous._ Lady, ’tis thine. See how I trust in thee.
Do with it as thou wilt--rend it apart,
And cast it to the winds--its work is done! (_giving it to her_)
Behold me now unarmed.
_Hil._ (_changing her manner_). Unarmed be thou
As all should be who use a deadly power
To such foul traitorous ends! I am thy bride--
I am thy bride! Make thou the very most
Of such poor comfort as those words may hold.
Proclaim thy victory--say to thyself,
“She is my bride--I wrung an oath from her,
With miserable lies--she is my bride!
She saved my wretched life, and in return
I poison hers--but still she is my bride.
She shudders at my all-polluting touch--
She loathes my mean and miserable soul:
What matters it, so that she be my bride?”
Oh, purblind fool--thy plot so subtly laid
Is laid too subtly--and the cunning snare
That trapped thy bird is laid too cunningly;
For as it made me thy poor prisoner,
So shall it hold me from thy deadly grasp
For ever and for ever! Raise thine head,
And look upon thy bride for once and all,
For by the Heaven above, the eye of man
Shall never rest upon my face again!
[_She covers her face with veil, and exit._
_Mous._ (_furiously_).
Fiends tear your throat to rags!--No, no, I rave----
Hilda--come back to me--I’ll be thy slave,
Thy willing slave once more! I did but jest:
My jest is dead and gone--come back to me!
I will release thee from thy plighted troth:
I love thee--love thee--love thee! Oh, come back,
And save my soul and body! ’Twas a jest--
An idle jest. I am thy drudging slave,
No more than that! I never thought of love--
’Twas but a jest--’twas idly done, but well--
Oh, Lady Hilda--oh, come back to me!
_Enter FLORIAN._
_Flor._ What is this outcry?
_Mous._ It concerns you not.
_Flor._ Where is the Lady Hilda?
_Mous._ Who shall say?
_Flor._ Why, thou shalt say. As there’s a heaven above
I’ll wring a civil answer from thy lips.
_Mous._ Take any answer that may fit your mood,
And leave me to myself. I’m not in cue
For more cross-questioning.
_Flor._ Thine impish tongue
Is set awry to-day.
_Mous._ (_savagely_). It _is_ awry.
Take care! But stay; when you were seeking for
Your Talisman, you bade me ascertain,
If any one were missing. Very well,
The Lady Hilda’s missing.
_Flor._ Foolish ape,
Dost thou infer--
_Mous._ I draw no inference.
I state the figures--add them for thyself.
_Enter HILDA, still veiled; she gazes in amazement at FLORIAN._
_Hil._ (_aside_). Merciful Heaven, restore me if I rave--
_His_ form, _his_ face, _his_ voice!
_Flor._ (_to MOUSTA_). Base liar, know
That we are plighted lovers, she and I--
She gave her heart to me but yesternight;
Why should she hide herself from me to-day?
_Mous._ Perhaps excess of joy hath driven her mad!
_Flor._ I’ll not believe thy tale. The maid is here,
And can and shall be found!
_Mous._ Well, go and search.
And if thou findest her, why, I’m a liar--
Reward me as thou wilt!
_Flor._ A fit reward
Will be a yard of steel between thy ribs,
And thou shalt have it!
_Mous._ Thank you kindly, sir!
[_Exit MOUSTA; FLORIAN sits dejectedly by fountain._
_Hil._ ’Twas he that spake to me! How can I doubt?
Are there two such as he? Oh, Heaven, is this
The senseless herald of a mind unstrung?
Let me be sure.
He spake of me, who long had mourned him dead--
He told how, shrouded from my gaze last night,
He gave his love to me. Oh, gentle Heaven,
Give me more strength to bear this weight of joy!
[_She advances to reveal herself, when VAVIR enters, and sits
lovingly at FLORIAN’S feet. HILDA, horrified, veils herself
again._
_Vav._ At last I’ve found thee, Florian--far and near
I’ve sought thee, for I’m very strong to-day.
Why, what a wise physician is this Love!
For see--my eyes are bright--my face is flushed--
Flushed with the glow of health. This new-born love
Gives me a new-born strength. Oh, Florian,
Place thine arms round me--let me rest on thee;
I draw my life from thee--my heart--my heart!
_Flor._ (_aside._) Alas, poor maiden--I must tell thee all,
May Heaven help me break the truth to thee!
(_Aloud._) Dear little lady, yield not up thine heart
Too readily. The world is set with traps
And hidden pitfalls. Keep thy gentle heart
For one who, by his pure and godly life,
Hath given thee proof of his right worthiness.
_Vav._ (_surprised_). Why speakest thou in parable? Behold,
Have I not loved thee for a long, long year?
_Flor._ What proof hast thou that I indeed am he
Whom thou hast loved so long?
_Vav._ I have thy word,
And had I not thy word, I have my heart
To tell me whom to seek and whom to shun.
_Flor._ Mistrust that little heart. It is not framed
To guide thee of itself. Like virgin gold
Untainted by alloy, it is too pure
For this rough-ready world of work-a-day!
I have a tale to tell. There was a knight
Who, as he journeyed, met a gentle maid,
With whom he, light of heart and light of tongue,
Conversed in playful strain. The maid was fair,
And he, in jest, spake loving words to her,
Believing that she knew them to be feigned. (_At this point it
begins to dawn upon VAVIR that FLORIAN is referring to her._)
She, pure as Faith--having no thought of guile
Tender and trustful in her innocence--
Believed the madcap knight’s unworthy words,
And nursed them in her heart. He, smit with shame,
For he was plighted to her sister (_VAVIR, finding her fears
confirmed, rises, shrinking from FLORIAN, expressing extreme
pain. He rises after her_) whom
He loved with an exceeding love, essayed,
With clumsy hint and far-fetched parable,
To break the truth to her. At length--at length,
By very slow degrees--light came to her!
Shall I go on?
_Vav._ (_faintly_). No need--I know the rest!
The maiden died--she pardoned him, and died! (_VAVIR during the
ensuing lines shows symptoms of fainting._)
_Flor._ (_passionately_). No, no--Vavir--she lived--the maiden lived!
He was not worth a tear--she loved him well,
But still she lived, Vavir--but still she lived!
If only for the gentle sister whom
She loved so tenderly, and for whose sake
She, in the blushing day-break of her life,
Had yielded up the world. Oh, say she lived!
[_VAVIR falls senseless in FLORIAN’S arms. HILDA, who has been
listening eagerly to the latter part of FLORIAN’S tale, kneels,
praying, as the act drop falls._
ACT III.
SCENE, _same as Act I. About half an hour before Sunset._
_VAVIR discovered sleeping at foot of Sun-dial. MELUSINE is
kneeling. AMANTHIS is standing, leaning on dial. VAVIR’S head
rests on pillows, and a cloak envelopes her._
_Am._ How peacefully she sleeps! Oh, Melusine,
Can it be that this solemn death-like calm
Is but the silent herald of the end?
_Mel._ As she has lived, so will our darling die--
Gently and peacefully. This tranquil sleep
May change to tranquil death, and give no sign.
So will she pass away!
_Am._ But see--she wakes:
Would Heaven that we had fairer news for thee,
My poor Vavir!
_Vav._ (_awaking, and very feebly_). Thy face is very sad--
Are there no tidings of my sister?
_Mel._ None!
_Vav._ Dear Melusine, keep not the truth from me!
Some fearful evil has befallen her--
Tell me the truth. See, I am stronger now.
_Mel._ Nay, calm thyself, Vavir--save only that
She has been sought, and has not yet been found,
We have no truth to tell.
_Vav._ How speeds the day?
_Am._ Thy dial points to eight.
_Vav._ One little hour,
And then my Sun will set. Farewell, oh Sun!
How gloriously he dies!
_Mel._ The sun will sink,
To rest throughout the night, as we shall rest,
But not to die.
_Vav._ To die as we should die:
The night is given to the world that she
May mourn her widowhood. _He_ knows no night,
But journeys calmly on his heavenly path
Wrapt in eternal light--in all, a type
Of the excelling life we try to live--
Of the all-glorious death we hope to die!
_Mel._ See, Vavir, see upon the Beacon-hill,
Mousta, returning from his weary search--
_Vav._ Is he alone?
_Mel._ Alas, my darling, yes!
But still perchance he brings some news to us:
I’ll go and meet him. Stay thou here, Vavir,
And I will bring thee tidings.
_Vav._ Be it so--
Be quick, be quick, dear Melusine--and then (_to both_)
Go, seek Prince Florian--and say to him
That I would fain have speech with him alone,
If he will deign to grant me audience.
[_Exeunt MELUSINE and AMANTHIS._
Another hour--and then, my Sun will set!
Oh, Hilda--oh, my sister--come to me!
_HILDA enters, veiled._
The loving day is drawing to a close:
I dare not face the cold, black night alone!
I want thine arms around me, and thy face
Pressed once again on mine, before I die.
Oh, Hilda--oh, my sister--come to me!
_Hil._ (_unveiling, and kneeling_). Vavir! Fear nothing.
I am here, my child.
_Vav._ (_embracing her_). Hilda! My sister! Heaven is merciful!
And thou art safe and well?
_Hil._ Yes, safe and well.
_Vav._ Where hast thou been? Throughout the long, long day
My weeping sisters have been seeking thee.
_Hil._ No matter now, Vavir. When thou art strong
I’ll tell thee all.
_Vav._ But I have news for thee,
Rare news, dear sister! Dry those gentle eyes;
The mighty sorrow that hath bowed thy heart
Is at an end! Thy prince--thy Florian,
Whom thou hast loved so tenderly--he lives!
Hilda, my sister, he is seeking thee!
Here, on this island, he is seeking thee!
Hilda, he loves thee; for he told me so!
_Hil._ I know he loves me.
_Vav._ Thou hast seen him then?
_Hil._ I know he loves me; ay, even more,
Vavir, I know the secret of thy heart--
Poor broken heart!
_Vav._ Oh! sister, pardon me.
I did not seek his love--nor knew I then
That he had loved thee--Sister, pardon me,
For I have suffered very bitterly!
_Hil._ Vavir, I have a prayer to make to thee.
Vavir, thou lovest him: thy little life,
More precious to us all than all the world,
Lies in his hands--he is thy life to thee,
And pitying Heaven hath led him to our shores
To save thee for us. Take no thought for me,
For I have wrestled with this love of mine
And vanquished it--it lies beneath my feet! (_With assumed gaiety._)
Remember, thou and I have but one heart,
And so that it is happy--what care we
Whose bosom it may beat in--thine or mine?
(Nay, but thou shalt not speak!) I’ll keep away.
His eyes shall never rest on me again;
He will forget me, then, and wondrous soon!
Men’s hearts are in their eyes--this love of theirs
Must have its daily food or it will die:
I’ll keep away--so take him to thine heart,
And tell him--tell him--that I spake in jest,
That I had plucked his image from my heart
And cast it from me twelve long months ago.
Say that my heart is cold and dead to him.
Say that-say that-- (_HILDA breaks down, and sobs in VAVIR’S lap._)
_Vav._ Oh, sister, weep no more!
Thy prince hath chosen, and hath chosen well.
Of what account is such a life as mine?
Why, it is ebbing fast! Grieve not for me.
And yet I fain would live a little while,
To see thy face once more alight with joy,
As in the old, old days!
_Hil._ So shalt thou live
To see my joy at thine own happiness.
Vavir, he will be sorry for a while.
Be kind to him--he will forget me then.
Remember, all my love for him is dead.
Kiss me, my child. Kiss me again. Farewell!
[_HILDA pauses, looking at VAVIR for a moment, then covers her
face with the veil, and exit._
_Vav._ Oh, loving heart--sweet, gentle sister-heart--
To bid me blight the outset of thy life
That I may count the time that’s left to me
By days instead of hours! Come back to me--
I have no time to love--the end is near!
_Enter MELUSINE, followed by FLORIAN._
_Flor._ Obedient to thy summons I am here.
Yet I am very loth to look upon
The misery my heedlessness hath caused.
_Vav._ (_leaning on MELUSINE, with an effort to appear cheerful_).
Sir Florian, my pain is at an end.
The blow was heavy: for I am not strong,
And jests are new to me. Forgive me, sir.
My brain is filled with foolish fantasies
That carry me beyond my reasoning self.
I pray your pardon. Think no more of me,
Save as the subject of a merry tale--
How a mad maiden loved a sun-dial,
And very dearly, too! I have some news
To give you comfort. Hilda has been here.
She is alive and well.
_Flor._ Then Heaven be thanked!
_Vav._ But stay--you met her as you came?
_Mel._ No, no,
We saw no sign of her.
_Vav._ It’s very strange.
She left me but a minute since, and took
The path by which you came. Go, seek her, sir;
Be very sure she waits you close at hand.
Come, Melusine. Farewell, Sir Florian;
Deal gently with me when you tell the tale!
[_Exit VAVIR, supported by MELUSINE. She shows by her change of
expression that the effort to appear cheerful has caused her
great suffering._
_Flor._ She took that path--and yet I saw her not!
There’s but one clue to this strange mystery:
She has the Talisman! By what strange means
It found its way into her spotless hands
I’ve yet to learn!
_MOUSTA has entered during this speech._
_Mous._ Let me assist you, sir,
I stole it from your pillow as you slept,
And used it for my ends. I took your place
Beside the fountain, and I woo’d her there.
And there she pledged herself to be my wife--
And, as a token, gave this ring to me! (_Showing ring._)
_Flor._ Why, miserable ape, hast thou then lost
The mere life-seeking instinct that inspires
The very meanest of thy fellow-beasts,
That thou hast come to say these things to _me_?
_Mous._ I have! I say these things to you, because
I want to die! I tried to kill myself--
But I’m no hero, and my courage failed.
(_Furiously._) She’s gone from you for ever--and I come
To mock the bitter blighting of your life--
To chuckle at the aching misery
That eats your heart away! I come to spit
My hate upon you--If my toad’s mouth held
The venom of a toad, I would spit that!
Come--have I said enough? Then draw thy sword
And make an end of me--I am prepared!
_Flor._ (_drawing sword_). I needed no assurance, yea or nay,
That some foul planning of thy leper-heart
Had worked this devilry! Thou lovest her?
_Thou_ lovest her? Is there no blasphemy
That devils shrink from? Hast thou seen thyself? (_Seizing MOUSTA
and holding his head over the pool._)
Look in the fountain--bend thy cursed head!
Look at it--dog-face! (_MOUSTA struggles._)
Shrink not back appalled--
It will not harm thee, coward--look at it!
What do we do with such a thing as _that_
When it dares claim a common right with Man?
We crush it underfoot--we stamp it down,
Lest other reptiles take their cue from it,
And say, “If he is human, so are we!” (_Flinging him on ground._)
_Mous._ (_crouching on ground_).
Spare me your tongue! I well know what I am,
And what I’ve done. My life is forfeited.
Strike at the heart! Be quick--I am prepared!
_Flor._ Hast thou no prayer to utter?
_Mous._ No, not I.
Curse you, be quick, I say! Yet stay--one word.
Before you pass your sword between my ribs,
Look at yourself, sir knight, then look at me!
You, comely, straight-limbed, fair of face and form--
(I say not this to court your favour, sir--
The Devil take your favour!)--I, a dwarf,
Crooked, humpbacked, and one-eyed--so foul a thing
That I am fain to quote my love for women
To prove that I have kinship with mankind.
Well, we are deadly rivals, you and I.
Do we start fair, d’ye think? Are you and I
So nicely matched in all that wins a woman
That I should hold myself in honour bound
By laws of courtesy? But one word more,
And I have done. Had I those shapely limbs,
That fair, smooth face, those two great, god-like eyes
(May lightning blast them, as it blasted mine!),
Believe me, sir, I’d use no Talismans!
Now kill me--I’m prepared. I only ask
One boon of you--strike surely, and be quick!
_Flor._ (_Pauses for a moment--then sheathes his sword._)
Go, take thy life, I’ll none of it! With one
Whom Heaven hath so defaced, let Heaven deal.
_I_ will not sit in judgment on thy sin!
My wrath has faded--when I look upon
The seal that Heaven hath set upon thy brow,
Why, I could find it in my heart to ask
Thy pardon for the fury of my words!
Go, take thy life, make fairer use of it.
_Mous._ (_much moved_). I thank you, sir--not for my blighted life,
But for the pitying words in which you grant it. (_With emotion._)
You’ve moved me very deeply. (_Places the ring that HILDA gave him
on FLORIAN’S finger--then kisses his hand._) Curse the tears.
I am not used to weep, my lord,--but then
I am not used to gentleness from men. [_Exit MOUSTA._
_Flor._ Unhappy creature, go thy ways in peace.
Thou hast atoned. Oh, Hilda, come to me!
If thou art here--if thou canst hear my words,
Then by the love that thou hast borne to me,
By all the tears that thou hast shed for me,
By all the hope thou hast held out to me,
I do implore thee to reveal thyself!
_Enter HILDA, veiled._
Fear nothing, for I have the holy ring
On which thine oath was given. By cunning fraud
That oath was wrung from thee. Fear nothing now.
_Hil._ (_unveiling_). Sir Florian, I am here!
_Flor._ (_passionately_). Oh, Hilda, mine
My only love! Safe in my arms at last!
Why didst thou hide thyself away from me?
_Hil._ (_hurriedly_). I hid myself to save my sister’s life;
To save her life I now reveal myself.
_Flor._ How fares Vavir?
_Hil._ Alas! her little life is ebbing fast
From heart-wounds of thy making! Florian,
I have no time to lose on empty forms--
I have no words to waste on idle speech--
My poor sick sister loves thee! Much misled
By thy light words, she placed full faith in thee:
And she is dying for her faith. Oh, sir,
There is but one physician in the world
Who, under Heaven, can save my darling’s life.
Go to her now. If thou hast loved me, sir,
Be merciful, and save this life for me!
_Flor._ Hilda, be just. How can I do this thing?
Can I command my heart, or deal with it
As I can deal with life or limb? By Heaven,
I would lay down my life to save Vavir,
But not my love!
_Hil._ I do not ask thy life!
_I_ have a life to yield, if such a price
Could save my sister. Oh, forgive me, sir;
My weight of grief hath maddened me; and yet
I ask for no one-sided sacrifice.
What is thy loss to mine? For three long years
This love of thee tinged my devoted life
With such blank woe--such utter misery--
That I was fain--hope being dead to me--
To sit apart, and wait the far-off end.
Then, when the end seemed yet too far away,
The bright, blue Heaven shone through the lowering clouds,
For he whom I had mourned as dead, came back,
To claim my love and crown it with his own!
At last, at last, I hold thee by the hand! (_Taking FLORIAN by both
hands._)
At last I have thy love, oh, love of mine!
Thou art my very own--at last--at last!
Well, then, Sir Florian, I yield thee up! (_Releasing him._)
To save her life I tear this new-born joy
Out of my very heart: for her I crush
My only hope on earth! If I can yield
The love of three long years to save her life,
Canst thou not yield thy love of yesterday?
_Flor._ The task is very bitter. Yesternight
I learnt that thou whom I so blindly love
Had blindly loved me years ago--to-day
Thou bidd’st me take this love of mine elsewhere!
_Hil._ Art thou so sure that I _have_ loved thee long?
I loved one Florian--a stainless knight,
Brave as the very Truth--and, being brave,
Tender and merciful as brave men are;
Whose champion heart was sworn in chivalry
To save all women, sorrowing and oppressed;
Nor did he hold that woman to be banned
Whose sorrow came of her great love for him!
Tell me--art thou the Florian that I loved?
_Flor._ If not that stainless Florian--yet one
Who would be such as he. (_Taking her by both hands._)
I have thy love--
I who have lived a loveless life till now.
Well, then, I yield thee up! (_Releasing her._) If words of mine
Can save thy sister, I will speak those words!
_Hil._ I knew it! Florian, I was sure of thee!
God bless thee, Florian; thou hast saved her life! (_Kissing his
forehead._)
(_Passionately._) Oh, how I love thee! (_With hurried emphasis._)
Go to her at once--
Go to her quickly, ere it be too late!
_Flor._ Thy sister comes this way. (_Aside._) Alas! Vavir,
There is more Heaven than Earth in that pale face!
_Enter VAVIR, very pale and weak, supported by MELUSINE and
AMANTHIS. FLORIAN receives her in his arms and they lay her
gently on the ground. HILDA rushes to her, as they place her on
the ground, near the sun-dial. FLORIAN kneels by her, and takes
her hand._
_Hil._ Vavir, my love--my gentle sister. See,
He loves thee--Florian loves thee! He is here
To tell thee this--to call thee back to life.
Come at his call! The earth is bright for thee.
See how he loves thee. Oh, Vavir, come back!
_Vav._ (_very faintly_). It is too late--too late! I feel the hand
Of Death upon my heart. So let it be.
My day is spent--my tale is nearly told!
_Hil._ Vavir--Vavir!
Have pity on us! Gentle little soul,
Fly not to thine appointed Heaven--not yet--
Not yet--not yet! Eternity is thine;
Spare but a few brief years to us on Earth,
And still Eternity remains to thee!
He loves thee--Florian loves thee well! Oh, Death,
Are there no hoary men and aged women
Weeping for thee to come and comfort them?
Oh, Death--oh, Death--leave me this little flower!
Take thou the fruit, but pass the blossom by!
_Vav._ (_very feebly_). Weep not: the bitterness of death is past.
Kiss me, my sister. Florian, think of me--
I loved thee very much! Be good to her.
Dear sister, place my hand upon my dial.
Weep not for me; I have no pain indeed.
Kiss me again; my sun has set. Good night!
Good night!
[_VAVIR dies; HILDA falling senseless on her body._
CURTAIN.
ENGAGED.
_AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL FARCICAL COMEDY_, IN THREE ACTS.
_First produced at the Haymarket Theatre, under the management of_ MR.
J. S. CLARKE, _Wednesday, 3rd October, 1877_.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
CHEVIOT HILL, _a young man of property_ MR. GEORGE HONEY.
BELVAWNEY, _his friend_ MR. HAROLD KYRLE.
MR. SYMPERSON MR. HOWE.
ANGUS MACALISTER, _a Lowland peasant lad_ MR. DEWAR.
MAJOR MCGILLICUDDY MR. WEATHERSBY.
BELINDA TREHERNE MISS MARION TERRY.
MINNIE, _Symperson’s daughter_ MISS LUCY BUCKSTONE.
MRS. MACFARLANE, _a Lowland widow_ MISS EMILY THORNE.
MAGGIE, _her daughter, a Lowland lassie_ MISS JULIA STEWART.
PARKER, _Minnie’s maid_ MISS JULIA ROSELLE.
ACT I.
GARDEN OF A COTTAGE, NEAR GRETNA.
(_On the border, between England and Scotland._)
ACTS II. AND III.
DRAWING-ROOM IN SYMPERSON’S HOUSE IN LONDON.
_Three months’ interval is supposed to elapse between Acts I. and II._
_Three days’ interval is supposed to elapse between Acts II. and III._
ENGAGED.
ACT I.
SCENE.--_Garden of a humble but picturesque cottage, near Gretna,
on the border between England and Scotland. The whole scene is
suggestive of rustic prosperity and content. MAGGIE MACFARLANE, a
pretty country girl, is discovered spinning at a wheel, and singing
as she spins. ANGUS MACALISTER, a good-looking peasant lad, appears
on at back, and creeps softly down to MAGGIE as she sings and
spins, and places his hands over her eyes._
_Ang._ Wha is it?
_Mag._ Oh, Angus, ye frightened me sae! (_He releases her._) And see
there--the flax is a’ knotted and scribbled--and I’ll do naething wi’
it!
_Ang._ Meg! My Meg! My ain bonnie Meg!
_Mag._ Angus, why, lad, what’s wrang wi’ e’e? Thou hast tear-drops in
thy bonnie blue een.
_Ang._ Dinna heed them, Meg. It comes fra glowerin’ at thy bright
beauty. Glowerin’ at thee is like glowerin’ at the noonday sun!
_Mag._ Angus, thou’rt talking fulishly. I’m but a puir brown hill-side
lassie. I dinna like to hear sic things from a straight honest lad like
thee. It’s the way the dandy toun-folk speak to me, and it does na come
rightly from the lips of a simple man.
_Ang._ Forgive me, Meg, for I speak honestly to ye. Angus Macalister
is not the man to deal in squeaming compliments. Meg, I love thee
dearly, as thou well knowest. I’m but a puir lad, and I’ve little but
twa braw arms and a straight hairt to live by, but I’ve saved a wee bit
siller--I’ve a braw housie and a scrappie of gude garden-land--and it’s
a’ for thee, lassie, if thou’ll gie me thy true and tender little hairt!
_Mag._ Angus, I’ll be fair and straight wi’ ee. Thou askest me for
my hairt. Why, Angus, thou’rt tall, and fair, and brave. Thou’st a
gude, honest face, and a gude, honest hairt, which is mair precious
than a’ the gold on earth! No man has a word to say against Angus
Macalister--no, nor any woman neither. Thou hast strong arms to work
wi’, and a strong hairt to help thee work. And wha am I that I should
say that a’ these blessings are not enough for me? If thou, gude,
brave, honest man, will be troubled wi’ sic a puir little, humble
mousie as Maggie Macfarlane, why, she’ll just be the proudest and
happiest lassie in a’ Dumfries!
_Ang._ My ain darling! (_They embrace._)
_Enter MRS. MACFARLANE from cottage._
_Mrs. Mac._ Why, Angus--Maggie, what’s a’ this!
_Ang._ Mistress Macfarlane, dinna be fasht wi’ me; dinna think worse o’
me than I deserve. I’ve loved your lass honestly these fifteen years,
but I never plucked up the hairt to tell her so until noo; and when she
answered fairly, it wasna in human nature to do aught else but hold her
to my hairt and place one kiss on her bonnie cheek.
_Mrs. Mac._ Angus, say nae mair. My hairt is sair at losing my only
bairn; but I’m nae fasht wi’ ee. Thou’rt a gude lad, and it’s been the
hope of my widowed auld heart to see you twain one. Thou’lt treat her
kindly--I ken that weel. Thou’rt a prosperous, kirk-going man, and my
Mag should be a happy lass indeed. Bless thee, Angus; bless thee!
_Ang._ (_wiping his eyes_). Dinna heed the water in my ee--it will come
when I’m ower glad. Yes, I’m a fairly prosperous man. What wi’ farmin’
a bit land, and gillieing odd times, and a bit o’ poachin’ now and
again; and what wi’ my illicit whusky still--and throwin’ trains off
the line, that the poor distracted passengers may come to my cot, I’ve
mair ways than one of making an honest living--and I’ll work them a’
nicht and day for my bonnie Meg!
_Mrs. Mac._ D’ye ken, Angus, I sometimes think that thou’rt losing some
o’ thine auld skill at upsetting railway trains. Thou hast not done sic
a thing these sax weeks, and the cottage stands sairly in need of sic
chance custom as the poor delayed passengers may bring.
_Mag._ Nay, mither, thou wrangest him. Even noo, this very day, has he
not placed twa bonnie braw sleepers across the up-line, ready for the
express from Glaisgie, which is due in twa minutes or so?
_Mrs. Mac._ Gude lad! Gude thoughtfu’ lad! But I hope the unfortunate
passengers will na’ be much hurt, puir unconscious bodies!
_Ang._ Fear nought, mither. Lang experience has taught me to do my work
deftly. The train will run off the line, and the traffic will just be
blocked for half a day, but I’ll warrant ye that, wi’ a’ this, nae mon,
woman, or child amang them will get sae much as a bruised head or a
broken nose.
_Mag._ My ain tender-hearted Angus! He wadna hurt sae much as a
blatherin’ buzzin’ bluebottle flee!
_Ang._ Nae, Meg, not if takin’ care and thought could help the poor
dumb thing! (_Wiping his eyes._) There, see, lass (_looking off_), the
train’s at a standstill, and there’s nae harm done. I’ll just go and
tell the puir distraught passengers that they may rest them here, in
thy cot, gin they will, till the line is cleared again. Mither, get thy
rooms ready, and put brose i’ the pot, for mebbe they’ll be hungry,
puir souls. Farewell, Meg; I’ll be back ere lang, and if I don’t bring
’ee a full half-dozen o’ well-paying passengers, thou may’st just wed
the red-headed exciseman! [_Exit ANGUS._
_Mag._ Oh, mither, mither, I’m ower happy! I’ve nae deserved sic a good
fortune as to be the wife o’ yon brave and honest lad!
_Mrs. Mac._ Meg, thine auld mither’s hairt is sair at the thought o’
losin’ ye, for hitherto she’s just been a’ the world to ’ee; but now
thou’lt cleave to thine Angus, and thou’lt learn to love him better
than thy puir auld mither! But it mun be--it mun be!
_Mag._ Nay, mither, say not that. A gude girl loves her husband wi’ one
love and her mither wi’ anither. They are not alike, but neither is
greater nor less than the ither, and they dwell together in peace and
unity. That is how a gude girl loves.
_Mrs. Mac._ And thou art a gude girl, Meg?
_Mag._ I am a varra gude girl indeed, mither--a varra, varra gude girl!
_Mrs. Mac._ I’m richt sure o’ that. Well, the puir belated passengers
will be here directly, and it is our duty to provide for them sic puir
hospitality as our humble roof will afford. It shall never be said o’
Janie Macfarlane that she ever turned the weary traveller fainting from
her door.
_Mac._ My ain gentle-hearted mither! [_Exeunt together into cottage._
_Enter ANGUS with BELVAWNEY and MISS TREHERNE. She is in travelling
costume, and both are much agitated and alarmed._
_Ang._ Step in, sir--step in, and sit ye doun for a wee. I’ll just send
Mistress Macfarlane to ye. She’s a gude auld bodie, and will see to
your comforts as if she was your ain mither.
_Bel._ Thank you, my worthy lad, for your kindness at this trying
moment. I assure you we shall not forget it.
_Ang._ Ah, sir, wadna any mon do as muckle? A dry shelter, a bannock
and a pan o’ parritch is a’ we can offer ye, but sic as it is ye’re
hairtily welcome.
_Bel._ It is well--we thank you.
_Ang._ For wha wadna help the unfortunate?
_Bel._ (_occupied with MISS TREHERNE_). Exactly--every one would.
_Ang._ Or feed the hungry?
_Bel._ No doubt.
_Ang._ It just brings the tear drop to my ee’ to think----
_Bel._ (_leading him off_). My friend, we would be alone, this maiden
and I. Farewell! (_Exit ANGUS, into cottage._) Belinda--my own--my
life! Compose yourself. It was in truth a weird and gruesome accident.
The line is blocked--your parasol is broken, and your butterscotch
trampled in the dust, but no serious harm is done. Come, be cheerful.
We are safe--quite safe.
_Miss T._ Safe! Ah, Belvawney, my own own Belvawney--there is, I fear,
no safety for us so long as we are liable to be overtaken by that
fearful Major to whom I was to have been married this morning!
_Bel._ Major McGillicuddy? I confess I do not feel comfortable when I
think of Major McGillicuddy.
_Miss T._ You know his barbaric nature, and how madly jealous he is. If
he should find that I have eloped with you he will most surely shoot us
both!
_Bel._ It is an uneasy prospect. (_Suddenly._) Belinda, do you love me?
_Miss T._ With an impetuous passion that I shall carry with me to the
tomb!
_Bel._ Then be mine to-morrow! We are not far from Gretna, and the
thing can be done without delay. Once married, the arm of the law will
protect us from this fearful man, and we can defy him to do his worst.
_Miss T._ Belvawney, all this is quite true. I love you madly,
passionately; I care to live but in your heart, I breathe but for your
love; yet, before I actually consent to take the irrevocable step that
will place me on the pinnacle of my fondest hopes, you must give me
some definite idea of your pecuniary position. I am not mercenary,
Heaven knows; but business is business, and I confess I should like a
little definite information about the settlements.
_Bel._ I often think that it is deeply to be deplored that these
grovelling questions of money should alloy the tenderest and most
hallowed sentiments that inspire our imperfect natures.
_Miss T._ It is unfortunate, no doubt, but at the same time it is
absolutely necessary.
_Bel._ Belinda, I will be frank with you. My income is £1000 a year,
which I hold on certain conditions. You know my friend Cheviot Hill,
who is travelling to London in the same train with us, but in the third
class?
_Miss T._ I believe I know the man you mean.
_Bel._ Cheviot, who is a young man of large property, but extremely
close-fisted, is cursed with a strangely amatory disposition, as you
will admit when I tell you that he has contracted a habit of proposing
marriage, as a matter of course, to every woman he meets. His haughty
father (who comes of a very old family--the Cheviot Hills had settled
in this part of the world centuries before the Conquest) is compelled
by his health to reside in Madeira. Knowing that I exercise an all but
supernatural influence over his son, and fearing that his affectionate
disposition would lead him to contract an undesirable marriage, the old
gentleman allows me £1000 a year so long as Cheviot shall live single,
but at his death or marriage the money goes over to Cheviot’s uncle
Symperson, who is now travelling to town with him.
_Miss T._ Then so long as your influence over him lasts, so long only
will you retain your income?
_Bel._ That is, I am sorry to say, the state of the case.
_Miss T._ (_after a pause_). Belvawney, I love you with an imperishable
ardour which mocks the power of words. If I were to begin to tell you
now of the force of my indomitable passion for you, the tomb would
close over me before I could exhaust the entrancing subject. But,
as I said before, business is business, and unless I can see some
distinct probability that your income will be permanent, I shall have
no alternative but to weep my heart out in all the anguish of maiden
solitude--uncared for, unloved, and alone!
[_Exit MISS TREHERNE into cottage._
_Bel._ There goes a noble-hearted girl, indeed! Oh, for the gift of
Cheviot’s airy badinage--oh, for his skill in weaving a net about the
hearts of women! If I could but induce her to marry me at once before
the dreadful Major learns our flight! Why not? We are in Scotland.
Methinks I’ve heard two loving hearts can wed, in this strange country,
by merely making declaration to that effect. I will think out some
cunning scheme to lure her into marriage unawares.
_Enter MAGGIE, from cottage._
_Mag._ Will ye walk in and rest a wee, Maister Belvawney? There’s a
room ready for ye, kind sir, and ye’re heartily welcome to it.
_Bel._ It is well. Stop! Come hither, maiden.
_Mag._ Oh, sir! you do not mean any harm towards a puir, innocent,
unprotected cottage lassie?
_Bel._ Harm! No: of course, I don’t. What do you mean?
_Mag._ I’m but a puir, humble mountain girl; but let me tell you, sir,
that my character’s just as dear to me as the richest and proudest
lady’s in the land. Before I consent to approach ye, swear to me that
you mean me no harm.
_Bel._ Harm? Of course, I don’t. Don’t be a little fool! Come here.
_Mag._ There is something in his manner that reassures me. It is not
that of the airy trifler with innocent hairts. (_Aloud._) What wad ye
wi’ puir, harmless Maggie Macfarlane, gude sir?
_Bel._ Can you tell me what constitutes a Scotch marriage?
_Mag._ Oh, sir, it’s nae use asking me that; for my hairt is not my ain
to give. I’m betrothed to the best and noblest lad in a’ the bonnie
Borderland. Oh, sir, I canna be your bride!
_Bel._ My girl, you mistake. I do not want you for my bride. Can’t you
answer a simple question? What constitutes a Scotch marriage?
_Mag._ Ye’ve just to say before twa witnesses, “Maggie Macfarlane is
my wife;” and I’ve just to say, “Maister Belvawney is my husband,” and
nae mon can set us asunder. But, sir, I canna be your bride; for I am
betrothed to the best and noblest----
_Bel._ I congratulate you. You can go.
_Mag._ Yes, sir. [_Exit MAGGIE into cottage._
_Bel._ It is a simple process; simple, but yet how beautiful! One
thing is certain--Cheviot may marry any day, despite my precautions,
and then I shall be penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be
penniless. Belinda has £500 a year; it is not much, but it would, at
least, save me from starvation. [_Exit BELVAWNEY._
_Enter SYMPERSON and CHEVIOT HILL over bridge. They both show signs
of damage--their hats are beaten in and their clothes disordered
through the accident._
_Sym._ Well, here we are at last----
_Ch._ Yes; here we are at last, and a pretty state I’m in, to be sure.
_Sym._ My dear nephew, you would travel third class, and this is the
consequence. After all, there’s not much harm done.
_Ch._ Not much harm? What d’ye call that? (_Showing his hat._) Ten
and ninepence at one operation! My gloves split--one and four! My
coat ruined--eighteen and six! It’s a coarse and brutal nature that
recognizes no harm that don’t involve loss of blood. I’m reduced by
this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human being, to a
moral pulp--a mash--a poultice. Damme, sir, that’s what I am! I’m a
poultice!
_Sym._ Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the accident you were
speaking to me on a very interesting subject.
_Ch._ Was I? I forget what it was. The accident has knocked it clean
out of my head.
_Sym._ You were saying that you were a man of good position and
fortune; that you derived £2000 a year from your bank; that you thought
it was time you settled. You then reminded me that I should come into
Belvawney’s £1000 a year on your marriage, and I’m not sure, but I
rather think you mentioned, casually, that my daughter Minnie is an
Angel of Light.
_Ch._ True, and just then we went off the line. To resume--Uncle
Symperson, your daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light, a perfect being,
as innocent as a new-laid egg.
_Sym._ Minnie is, indeed, all that you have described her.
_Ch._ Uncle, I’m a man of few words. I feel and I speak. I love that
girl, madly, passionately, irresistibly. She is my whole life, my whole
soul and body, my Past, my Present, and my To Come. I have thought
for none but her; she fills my mind, sleeping and waking; she is the
essence of every hope--the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is
growing--my own To Come!
_Sym._ (_who has sunk overpowered on to stool during this speech_).
Cheviot, my dear boy, excuse a father’s tears. I won’t beat about the
bush. You have anticipated my devoutest wish. Cheviot, my dear boy,
take her, she is yours!
_Ch._ I have often heard of rapture, but I never knew what it was till
now. Uncle Symperson, bearing in mind the fact that your income will
date from the day of the wedding, when may this be?
_Sym._ My boy, the sooner the better! Delicacy would prompt me to give
Belvawney a reasonable notice of the impending loss of his income, but
should I, for such a mere selfish reason as that, rob my child of one
hour of the happiness that you are about to confer upon her? No! Duty
to my child is paramount!
_Ch._ On one condition, however, I must insist. This must be kept from
Belvawney’s knowledge. You know the strange, mysterious influence that
his dreadful eyes exercise over me.
_Sym._ I have remarked it with astonishment.
_Ch._ They are much inflamed just now, and he has to wear green
spectacles. While this lasts I am a free agent, but under treatment
they may recover. In that case, if he knew that I contemplated
matrimony, he would use them to prevent my doing so--and I cannot
resist them--I cannot resist them! Therefore, I say, until I am safely
and securely tied up, Belvawney must know nothing about it.
_Sym._ Trust me, Cheviot, he shall know nothing about it from _me_.
(_Aside._) A thousand a year! I have endeavoured, but in vain, to woo
Fortune for fifty-six years, but she smiles upon me at last!--she
smiles upon me at last! [_Exit SYMPERSON into cottage._
_Ch._ At length my hopes are to be crowned! Oh, my own--my own--the
hope of my heart--my love--my life!
_Enter BELVAWNEY, who has overheard these words._
_Bel._ Cheviot! Whom are you apostrophizing in those terms? You’ve been
at it again, I see!
_Ch._ Belvawney, that apostrophe was private; I decline to admit you to
my confidence.
_Bel._ Cheviot, what is the reason of this strange tone of defiance? A
week ago I had but to express a wish, to have it obeyed as a matter of
course.
_Ch._ Belvawney, it may not be denied that there was a time when, owing
to the remarkable influence exercised over me by your extraordinary
eyes, you could do with me as you would. It would be affectation to
deny it; your eyes withered my will; they paralyzed my volition. They
were strange and lurid eyes, and I bowed to them. Those eyes were my
Fate--my Destiny--my unerring Must--my inevitable Shall. That time has
gone--for ever!
_Bel._ Alas for the days that are past and the good that came and went
with them!
_Ch._ Weep for them if you will. I cannot weep with you, for I loved
them not. But, as you say, they are past. The light that lit up those
eyes is extinct--their fire has died out--their soul has fled. They are
no longer eyes, they are poached eggs. I have not yet sunk so low as to
be the slave of two poached eggs.
_Bel._ Have mercy. If any girl has succeeded in enslaving you--and I
know how easily you are enslaved--dismiss her from your thoughts; have
no more to say to her; and I will--yes, I will bless you with my latest
breath!
_Ch._ Whether a blessing conferred with one’s latest breath is a
superior article to one conferred in robust health we need not stop to
inquire. I decline, as I said before, to admit you to my confidence
on any terms whatever. Begone! (_Exit BELVAWNEY._) Dismiss from my
thoughts the only woman I ever loved! Have no more to say to the tree
upon which the fruit of my heart is growing! No, Belvawney, I cannot
cut off my tree as if it were gas or water. I do not treat women like
that. Some men do, but I don’t. I am not that sort of man. I respect
women; I love women. They are good; they are pure; they are beautiful;
at least, many of them are.
_Enter MAGGIE from cottage: he is much fascinated._
This one, for example, is very beautiful indeed!
_Mag._ If ye’ll just walk in, sir, ye’ll find a bannock and a pan o’
parritch waitin’ for ye on the table.
_Ch._ This is one of the loveliest women I ever met in the whole course
of my life!
_Mag._ (_aside_). What’s he glowerin’ at? (_Aloud._) Oh, sir, ye mean
no harm to the poor Lowland lassie?
_Ch._ Pardon me; it’s very foolish. I can’t account for it--but I am
arrested, fascinated.
_Mag._ Oh, gude sir, what’s fascinated ye?
_Ch._ I don’t know; there is something about you that exercises a most
remarkable influence over me; it seems to weave a kind of enchantment
around me. I can’t think what it is. You are a good girl, I am sure.
None but a good girl could so powerfully affect me. You _are_ a good
girl, are you not?
_Mag._ I am a varra gude girl indeed, sir.
_Ch._ I was quite sure of it. (_Gets his arm round her waist._)
_Mag._ I am a much better girl than nineteen out of twenty in these
pairts. And they are all gude girls too.
_Ch._ My darling! (_Kisses her._)
_Mag._ Oh, kind sir, what’s that for?
_Ch._ It is your reward for being a good girl.
_Mag._ Oh, sir, I did na look for sic a recompense; you are varra varra
kind to puir little Maggie Macfarlane.
_Ch._ I cannot think what it is about you that fascinates me so
remarkably.
_Mag._ Maybe it’s my beauty.
_Ch._ Maybe it is. It is quite possible that it may be, as you say,
your beauty.
_Mag._ I am remarkably pretty, and I’ve a varra neat figure.
_Ch._ There is a natural modesty in this guileless appreciation of
your own perfection that is, to me, infinitely more charming than the
affected ignorance of an artificial town-bred beauty.
_Mag._ Oh, sir, can I close my een to the picture that my looking-glass
holds up to me twenty times a day? We see the rose on the tree, and
we say that it is fair; we see the silver moon sailing in the braw
blue heavens, and we say that she is bright; we see the brawling
stream purling over the smooth stanes i’ the burn, and we say that it
is beautiful; and shall we close our een to the fairest of nature’s
works--a pure and beautiful woman? Why, sir, it wad just be base
ingratitude! No, it’s best to tell the truth about a’ things: I am a
varra, varra, beautiful girl!
_Ch._ Maggie Macfarlane, I’m a plain, blunt, straightforward man, and I
come quickly to the point. I see more to love in you than I ever saw in
any woman in all my life before. I have a large income, which I do not
spend recklessly. I love you passionately; you are the essence of every
hope; you are the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing--my
Past, my Present, my Future--you are my own To Come. Tell me, will you
be mine--will you join your life with mine?
_Enter ANGUS, who listens._
_Mag._ Ah, kind sir, I’m sairly grieved to wound sae true and tender a
love as yours, but ye’re ower late, my love is nae my ain to give ye,
it’s given ower to the best and bravest lad in a’ the bonnie Borderland!
_Ch._ Give me his address that I may go and curse him!
_Mag._ (_kneels to HILL_). Ah, ye must not curse him. Oh, spare him,
spare him, for he is good and brave, and he loves me, oh, sae dearly,
and I love him, oh, sae dearly too. Oh, sir, kind sir, have mercy on
him, and do not--do not curse him, or I shall die! (_Throwing herself
at his feet._)
_Ch._ Will you, or will you not, oblige me by telling me where he is,
that I may at once go and curse him?
_Ang._ (_coming forward_). He is here, sir, but dinna waste your curses
on me. Maggie, my bairn (_raising her_), I heard the answer ye gave
to this man, my true and gentle lassie! Ye spake well and bravely,
Meg--well and bravely! Dinna heed the water in my e’e--it’s a tear of
joy and gratitude, Meg--a tear of joy and gratitude!
_Ch._ (_touched_). Poor fellow! I will _not_ curse him! (_Aloud._)
Young man, I respect your honest emotion. I don’t want to distress
you, but I cannot help loving this most charming girl. Come, is it
reasonable to quarrel with a man because he’s of the same way of
thinking as yourself?
_Ang._ Nay, sir, I’m nae fasht, but it just seems to drive a’ the bluid
back into my hairt when I think that my Meg is loved by anither! Oh,
sir, she’s a fair and winsome lassie, and I micht as justly be angry
wi’ ye for loving the blue heavens! She’s just as far above us as they
are! (_Wiping his eyes and kissing her._)
_Ch._ (_with decision_). Pardon me, I cannot allow that.
_Ang._ Eh?
_Ch._ I love that girl madly--passionately--and I cannot possibly allow
you to do that--not before my eyes, I beg. You simply torture me.
_Mag._ (_to ANG._). Leave, off, dear, till the puir gentleman’s gone,
and then ye can begin again.
_Ch._ Angus, listen to me. You love this girl?
_Ang._ I love her, sir, a’most as weel as I love mysel’!
_Ch._ Then reflect how you are standing in the way of her prosperity. I
am a rich man. I have money, position, and education. I am a much more
intellectual and generally agreeable companion for her than you can
ever hope to be. I am full of anecdote, and all my anecdotes are in the
best possible taste. I will tell you some of them some of these days,
and you can judge for yourself. Maggie, if she married me, would live
in a nice house in a good square. She would have wine--occasionally.
She would be kept beautifully clean. Now, if you really love this girl
almost as well as you love yourself, are you doing wisely or kindly
in standing in the way of her getting all these good things? As to
compensation--why, I’ve had heavy expenses of late--but if--yes, if
thirty shillings----
_Ang._ (_hotly_). Sir, I’m puir in pocket, but I’ve a rich hairt. It is
rich in a pure and overflowing love, and he that hath love hath all.
You canna ken what true love is, or you wadna dare to insult a puir but
honest lad by offering to buy his treasure for money. (_CHEVIOT retires
up._)
_Mag._ My ain true darling! (_They embrace._)
_Ch._ Now, I’ll not have it! Understand me, I’ll not have it. It’s
simple agony to me. Angus, I respect your indignation, but you are too
hasty. I do not offer to buy your treasure for money. You love her;
it will naturally cause you pain to part with her, and I prescribe
thirty shillings, not as a cure, but as a temporary solace. If thirty
shillings is not enough, why, I don’t mind making it two pounds.
_Ang._ Nae, sir, it’s useless, and we ken it weel, do we not, my brave
lassie? Our hearts are one as our bodies will be some day; and the man
is na born, and the gold is na coined, that can set us twain asunder!
_Mag._ Angus, dear, I’m varra proud o’ sae staunch and true a love;
it’s like your ain true self, an’ I can say nae more for it than
that. But dinna act wi’out prudence and forethought, dear. In these
hard times twa pound is twa pound, and I’m nae sure that ye’re acting
richtly in refusing sae large a sum. I love you varra dearly--ye ken
that right weel--an’ if ye’ll be troubled wi’ sic a poor little mousie
I’ll mak’ ye a true an’ loving wife, but I doubt whether, wi’ a’ my
love, I’ll ever be worth as much to ye as twa pound. Dinna act in
haste, dear; tak’ time to think before ye refuse this kind gentleman’s
offer.
_Ang._ Oh, sir, is not this rare modesty? Could ye match it amang
your toun-bred fine ladies? I think not! Meg, it shall be as you
say. I’ll tak’ the siller, but it’ll be wi’ a sair and broken
hairt! (_CHEVIOT gives ANGUS money._) Fare thee weel, my love--my
childhood’s--boyhood’s--manhood’s love! Ye’re ganging fra my hairt to
anither, who’ll gie thee mair o’ the gude things o’ this world than I
could ever gie ’ee, except love, an’ o’ that my hairt is full indeed!
But it’s a’ for the best; ye’ll be happier wi’ him--and twa pound is
twa pound. Meg, mak’ him a gude wife, be true to him, and love him as
ye loved me. Oh, Meg, my poor bruised hairt is well nigh like to break!
[_Exit into cottage, in great agony._
_Mag._ (_looking wistfully after him_). Puir laddie, puir laddie! Oh, I
did na ken till noo how weel he loved me!
_Ch._ Maggie, I’m almost sorry I--poor lad, poor fellow! He has a
generous heart. I am glad I did not curse him. (_Aside._) This is
weakness! (_Aloud._) Maggie my own--ever and for always my own, we will
be very happy, will we not?
_Mag._ Oh, sir, I dinna ken, but in truth I hope so. Oh, sir, my
happiness is in your hands noo; be kind to the puir cottage lassie who
loves ye sae weel; my hairt is a’ your ain, and if ye forsake me my lot
will be a sair one indeed! [_Exit, weeping, into cottage._
_Ch._ Poor little Lowland lassie! That’s my idea of a wife. No
ridiculous extravagance; no expensive tastes. Knows how to dress
like a lady on £5 a year; ah, and does it too! No pretence there of
being blind to her own beauties; she knows that she is beautiful, and
scorns to lie about it. In that respect she resembles Symperson’s dear
daughter, Minnie. My darling Minnie. (_Looks at miniature._) My own
darling Minnie. Minnie is fair, Maggie is dark. Maggie loves me! That
excellent and perfect country creature loves me! She is to be the light
of my life, my own to come! In some respects she is even prettier than
Minnie--my darling Minnie, Symperson’s dear daughter, the tree upon
which the fruit of my heart is growing; my Past, my Present, and my
Future, my own To Come! But this tendency to reverie is growing on me;
I must shake it off.
_Enter MISS TREHERNE._
Heaven and earth, what a singularly lovely girl!
_Miss T._ A stranger! Pardon me, I will withdraw!--
_Ch._ A stranger indeed, in one sense, inasmuch as he never had the
happiness of meeting you before--but, in that he has a heart that can
sympathize with another’s misfortune, he trusts he may claim to be
regarded almost as a friend.
_Miss T._ May I ask, sir, to what misfortunes you allude?
_Ch._ I--a--do not know their precise nature, but that perception would
indeed be dull, and that heart would be indeed flinty, that did not at
once perceive that you are very very unhappy. Accept, madam, my deepest
and most respectful sympathy.
_Miss T._ You have guessed rightly, sir! I am indeed a most unhappy
woman.
_Ch._ I am delighted to hear it--a--I mean I feel a pleasure, a
melancholy and chastened pleasure, in reflecting that, if your distress
is not of a pecuniary nature, it may perchance lay in my power to
alleviate your sorrow.
_Miss T._ Impossible, sir, though I thank you for your respectful
sympathy.
_Ch._ How many women would forego twenty years of their lives to be as
beautiful as yourself, little dreaming that extraordinary loveliness
can co-exist with the most poignant anguish of mind! But so, too often,
we find it, do we not, dear lady?
_Miss T._ Sir! this tone of address, from a complete stranger!
_Ch._ Nay, be not unreasonably severe upon an impassionable and
impulsive man, whose tongue is but the too faithful herald of his
heart. We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair, we
see the bonnie brooks purling over the smooth stanes--I should say
stones--in the burn, and we say that it is beautiful, and shall we
close our eyes to the fairest of nature’s works, a pure and beautiful
woman? Why, it would be base ingratitude, indeed!
_Miss T._ I cannot deny that there is much truth in the sentiments
you so beautifully express, but I am, unhappily, too well aware that,
whatever advantages I may possess, personal beauty is not among their
number.
_Ch._ How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensibility to your own
singular loveliness! How infinitely more winning than the bold-faced
self-appreciation of under-bred country girls!
_Miss T._ I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with my modesty. It has
often been admired.
_Ch._ Pleased! I am more than pleased--that’s a very weak word. I am
enchanted. Madam, I am a man of quick impulse and energetic action. I
feel and I speak--I cannot help it. Madam, be not surprised when I tell
you that I cannot resist the conviction that you are the light of my
future life, the essence of every hope, the tree upon which the fruit
of my heart is growing--my Past, my Present, my Future, my own To Come!
Do not extinguish that light, do not disperse that essence, do not
blight that tree! I am well off; I’m a bachelor; I’m thirty-two; and I
love you, madam, humbly, truly, trustfully, patiently. Paralyzed with
admiration, I wait anxiously, and yet hopefully, for your reply.
_Miss T._ Sir, that heart would indeed be cold that did not feel
grateful for so much earnest, single-hearted devotion. I am deeply
grieved to have to say one word to cause pain to one who expresses
himself in such well-chosen terms of respectful esteem; but, alas! I
have already yielded up my heart to one who, if I mistake not, is a
dear personal friend of your own.
_Ch._ Am I to understand that you are the young lady of property whom
Belvawney hopes to marry?
_Miss T._ I am! indeed, that unhappy woman!
_Ch._ And is it possible that you love him?
_Miss T._ With a rapture that thrills every fibre of my heart--with a
devotion that enthralls my very soul! But there’s some difficulty about
his settlements.
_Ch._ A difficulty! I should think there was. Why, on my marrying, his
entire income goes over to Symperson! I could reduce him to penury
to-morrow. As it happens, I _am_ engaged, I recollect, to Symperson’s
daughter; and if Belvawney dares to interpose between you and me, by
George, I’ll do it!
_Miss T._ Oh, spare him, sir! You say that you love me? Then, for my
sake, remain single for ever--it is all I ask, it is not much. Promise
me that you will never, never marry, and we will both bless you with
our latest breath!
_Ch._ There seems to be a special importance attached to a blessing
conferred with one’s latest breath that I entirely fail to grasp. It
seems to me to convey no definite advantage of any kind whatever.
_Miss T._ Cruel, cruel man!
_Enter BELVAWNEY, in great alarm._
_Bel._ We are lost!--we are lost!
_Miss T._ What do you mean?
_Ch._ Who has lost you?
_Bel._ Major McGillicuddy discovered your flight, and followed in the
next train. The line is blocked through our accident, and his train has
pulled up within a few yards of our own. He is now making his way to
this very cottage! What do you say to that?
_Miss T._ I agree with you, we are lost!
_Ch._ I disagree with you; I should say you are found.
_Bel._ This man is a reckless fire-eater; he is jealous of me. He
will assuredly shoot us both if he sees us here together. I am no
coward--but--I confess I am uneasy.
_Miss T._ (_to CHEVIOT_). Oh, sir, you have a ready wit; help us out of
this difficulty, and we will both bless you----
_Bel._ With our latest breath!
_Ch._ That decides me. Madam, remain here with me. Belvawney, withdraw.
(_BELVAWNEY retires._) I will deal with this maniac alone. All I
ask is, that if I find it necessary to make a statement that is not
consistent with strict truth, you, madam, will unhesitatingly endorse
it?
_Miss T._ I will stake my very existence on its veracity, whatever it
may be.
_Ch._ Good. He is at hand. Belvawney, go. [_Exit BELVAWNEY._
Now, madam, repose upon my shoulders, place your arms around me so--is
that comfortable?
_Miss T._ It is luxurious.
_Ch._ Good.
_Miss T._ You are sure it does not inconvenience you?
_Ch._ Not at all. Go back, I like it. Now we are ready for him.
_Enter MCGILLICUDDY with two friends dressed as for a wedding, with
white favours. MCGILLICUDDY has pistols. All greatly excited._
_McG._ Where is the villain? I’ll swear he is concealed somewhere.
Search every tree, every bush, every geranium. Ha! they are here.
Perjured woman! I’ve found you at last.
_Miss T._ (_to CHEVIOT_). Save me!
[_BELVAWNEY appears at back, listening._
_McG._ Who is the unsightly scoundrel with whom you have flown--the
unpleasant-looking scamp whom you have dared to prefer to me? Uncurl
yourself from around the plain villain at once, unless you would share
his fate.
[_MAGGIE and ANGUS appear from cottage._
_Miss T._ Major, spare him!
_Ch._ Now, sir, perhaps you will be so good as to explain who the deuce
you are, and what you want with this lady?
_McG._ I don’t know who you may be, but I’m McGillicuddy. I am
betrothed to this lady; we were to have been married this morning. I
waited for her at the church from ten till four, then I began to get
impatient.
_Ch._ I really think you must be labouring under some delusion.
_McG._ Delusion? Ha! ha! (_Two friends produce large wedding cake._)
Here’s the cake!
_Ch._ Still I think there’s a mistake somewhere. This lady is my wife.
_McG._ What! Belinda! oh, Belinda! Tell me that this unattractive man
lies; tell me that you are mine and only mine, now and for ever!
_Miss T._ I cannot say that. This gentleman is my husband!
[_MCGILLICUDDY falls sobbing on seat; BELVAWNEY tears his hair in
despair; MAGGIE sobs on ANGUS’S shoulder._
ACT II.
SCENE.--_Double Drawing-room in Symperson’s House. Indications that
a wedding is about to take place. A plate of tarts and a bottle of
wine on table._
_Enter MINNIE SYMPERSON, in wedding dress, followed by PARKER, her
maid, holding her train._
_Min._ Take care, Parker--that’s right. There! How do I look?
_Par._ Beautiful, miss; quite beautiful.
_Min._ (_earnestly_). Oh, Parker, am I really beautiful? Really,
_really_ beautiful, you know?
_Par._ Oh, miss, there’s no question about it. Oh, I do so hope you and
Mr. Cheviot Hill will be happy.
_Min._ Oh, I’m sure we shall, Parker. He has often told me that I
am the tree upon which the fruit of his heart is growing; and one
couldn’t wish to be more than _that_. And he tells me that his greatest
happiness is to see me happy. So it will be my duty--my _duty_,
Parker--to devote my life, my whole life, to making myself as happy as
I possibly can.
_Enter SYMPERSON, dressed for wedding._
_Sym._ So, my little lamb is ready for the sacrifice. You can go,
Parker. And I am to lose my pet at last; my little dickey-bird is to
be married to-day! Well, well, it’s for her good. I must try and bear
it--I must try and bear it.
_Min._ And as my dear old papa comes into £1000 a year by it, I hope he
won’t allow it to distress him too much. He must try and bear up. He
mustn’t fret.
_Sym._ My child, I will not deny that £1000 a year is a consolation.
It’s quite a fortune. I hardly know what I shall do with it.
_Min._ I think, dear papa, you will spend a good deal of it on brandy,
and a good deal more on billiards, and a good deal more on betting.
_Sym._ It may be so: I don’t say it won’t. We shall see, Minnie, we
shall see. These simple pleasures would certainly tend to soothe your
poor old father’s declining years. And my darling has not done badly
either, has she?
_Min._ No, dear papa; only fancy! Cheviot has £2000 a year from shares
in the Royal Indestructible Bank.
_Sym._ And don’t spend £200. By-the-bye, I’m sorry that my little bird
has not contrived to induce him to settle anything on her; that, I
think, was remiss in my tom-tit.
_Min._ Dear papa, Cheviot is the very soul of honour; he’s a fine,
noble, manly, spirited fellow, but if he _has_ a fault, it is that he
is very, oh very, _very_ stingy. He would rather lose his heart’s blood
than part with a shilling unnecessarily. He’s a noble fellow, but he’s
like that.
_Sym._ Still I can’t help feeling that if my robin had worked him
judiciously----
_Min._ Papa, dear, Cheviot is an all but perfect character, the very
type of knightly chivalry; but he _has_ faults, and among other things
he’s one of the worst tempered men I ever met in all my little life.
Poor, simple, little Minnie, thought the matter over very carefully in
her silly childish way, and she came to the conclusion, in her foolish
little noddle, that, on the whole, perhaps she could work it better
after marriage, than before.
_Sym._ Well, well, perhaps my wren is right. (_Rises._)
_Min._ Don’t laugh at my silly little thoughts, dear papa, when I say
I’m sure she is.
_Sym._ Minnie, my dear daughter, take a father’s advice, the last
he will ever be entitled to give you. If you would be truly happy
in the married state, be sure you have your own way in everything.
Brook no contradictions. Never yield to outside pressure. Give in to
no argument. Admit no appeal. However wrong you may be, maintain a
firm, resolute, and determined front. These were your angel mother’s
principles through life, and she was a happy woman indeed. I neglected
those principles, and while she lived I was a miserable wretch.
_Min._ Papa dear, I have thought over the matter very carefully in my
little baby-noddle, and I have come to the conclusion--don’t laugh at
me, dear papa--that it is my duty--my _duty_--to fall in with Cheviot’s
views in everything _before_ marriage, and Cheviot’s duty to fall into
my views in everything _after_ marriage. I think that is only fair,
don’t you?
_Sym._ Yes, I dare say it will come to that.
_Min._ Don’t think me a very silly little goose when I say I’m sure it
will. Quite, quite sure, dear papa. Quite. [_Exit MINNIE._
_Sym._ Dear child--dear child! I sometimes fancy I can see traces of
her angel mother’s disposition in her. Yes, I think--I _think_ she will
be happy. But, poor Cheviot! Oh, lor, poor Cheviot! Dear me, it won’t
bear thinking of!
_Enter MISS TREHERNE, unobserved. She is dressed in stately and
funereal black._
_Miss T._ Come here, man-servant. Approach. I’m not going to bite you.
Can I see the fair young thing they call Minnie Symperson?
_Sym._ Well really, I can hardly say. There’s nothing wrong, I hope?
_Miss T._ Nothing wrong? Oh, thoughtless, frivolous, light-hearted
creature! Oh, reckless old butterfly! Nothing wrong! You’ve eyes in
your head, a nose on your face, ears on each side of it, a brain of
some sort in your skull, haven’t you, butler?
_Sym._ Undoubtedly, but I beg to observe I’m not the----
_Miss T._ Have you or have you not the gift of simple apprehension? Can
you or can you not draw conclusions? Go to, go to, you offend me.
_Sym._ (_aside_). There _is_ something wrong, and it’s _here_
(_touching his forehead_). I’ll tell her you’re here. Whom shall I say?
_Miss T._ Say that one on whose devoted head the black sorrows of a
long lifetime have fallen, even as a funeral pall, craves a minute’s
interview with a dear old friend. Do you think you can recollect that
message, butler?
_Sym._ I’ll try, but I beg, I _beg_ to observe, I’m not the butler.
(_Aside._) This is a most surprising young person! [_Exit._
_Miss T._ At last I’m in my darling’s home, the home of the bright
blythe carolling thing that lit, as with a ray of heaven’s sunlight,
the murky gloom of my miserable school-days. But what do I see? Tarts?
Ginger wine? There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas, I am out of
place here. What have I in common with tarts? Oh, I am ill-attuned to
scenes of revelry! (_Takes a tart and eats it._)
_Enter MINNIE._
_Min._ Belinda! (_They rush to each other’s arms._)
_Miss T._ Minnie! My own long-lost lamb! This is the first gleam of joy
that has lighted my darksome course this many and many a day! And in
spite of the change that time and misery have brought upon me, you knew
me at once! (_Eating the tart all this time._)
_Min._ Oh, I felt sure it was you, from the message.
_Miss T._ How wondrously fair you have grown! And this dress! Why, it
is surely a bridal dress! Those tarts--that wine! Surely this is not
your wedding-day?
_Min._ Yes, dear, I shall be married in half an hour.
_Miss T._ Oh, strange chance! Oh, unheard-of coincidence! Married! And
to whom?
_Min._ Oh, to the dearest love--My cousin, Mr. Cheviot Hill. Perhaps
you know the name?
_Miss T._ I have heard of the Cheviot Hills, somewhere.
Happy--strangely happy girl! You, at least, know your husband’s name.
_Min._ Oh yes, it’s on all his pocket-handkerchiefs.
_Miss T._ It is much to know. I do not know mine.
_Min._ Have you forgotten it?
_Miss T._ No; I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. It may not be
unfathomed. It is buried in the fathomless gulf of the Eternal Past.
There let it lie.
_Min._ Oh, tell me all about it, dear.
_Miss T._ It is a lurid tale. Three months since I fled from a hated
one, who was to have married me. He pursued me. I confided my distress
to a young and wealthy stranger. Acting on his advice, I declared
myself to be his wife; he declared himself to be my husband. We were
parted immediately afterwards, and we have never met since. But this
took place in Scotland; and by the law of that remarkable country we
are man and wife, though I didn’t know it at the time.
_Min._ What fun!
_Miss T._ Fun! Say, rather, horror--distraction--chaos! I am rent with
conflicting doubts! Perhaps he was already married; in that case, I am
a bigamist. Maybe he is dead; in that case, I am a widow. Maybe he is
alive; in that case, I am a wife. What am I? Am I single? Am I married?
Am I a widow? Can I marry? Have I married? May I marry? Who am I? Where
am I? What am I?--What is my name? What is my condition in life? If I
am married, to whom am I married? If I am a widow, how came I to be
a widow, and whose widow came I to be? Why am I his widow? What did
he die of? Did he leave me anything? if anything, how much, and is it
saddled with conditions?--Can I marry again without forfeiting it? Have
I a mother-in-law? Have I a family of step-children, and if so, how
many, and what are their ages, sexes, sizes, names and dispositions?
These are questions that rack me night and day, and until they are
settled, peace and I are not on terms!
_Min._ Poor dear thing!
_Miss T._ But enough of my selfish sorrows. (_Goes up to table and
takes a tart. MINNIE is annoyed at this._) Tell me about the noble boy
who is about to make you his. Has he any dross?
_Min._ I don’t know. (_Secretly removes tarts to another table close to
door._) I never thought of asking--I’m such a goose But papa knows.
_Miss T._ Have those base and servile things called settlements been
satisfactorily adjusted? (_Eating._)
_Min._ I don’t know. It never occurred to me to inquire. But papa can
tell you.
_Miss T._ The same artless little soul!
_Min._ (_standing so as to conceal tarts from BELINDA_). Yes, I am
quite artless--quite, quite artless. But now that you _are_ here you
will stay and see me married.
_Miss T._ I would willingly be a witness to my darling’s joy, but this
attire is, perhaps, scarcely in harmony with a scene of revelry.
_Min._ Well, dear, you’re not a cheerful object, and that’s the truth.
_Miss T._ And yet these charnel-house rags may serve to remind the
thoughtless banquetters that they are but mortal.
_Min._ I don’t think it will be necessary to do that, dear. Papa’s
sherry will make _that_ quite clear to them.
_Miss T._ Then I will hie me home, and array me in garments of less
sombre hue.
_Min._ I think it would be better, dear. Those are the very things for
a funeral, but this is a wedding.
_Miss T._ I see very little difference between them. But it shall be
as you wish, though I have worn nothing but black since my miserable
marriage. There is breakfast, I suppose?
_Min._ Yes, at dear Cheviot’s house.
_Miss T._ That is well. I shall return in time for it. Thank heaven
I can still eat! (_Takes a tart from table, and exit, followed by
MINNIE._)
_Enter CHEVIOT HILL. He is dressed as for a wedding._
_Ch._ Here I am at last--quite flurried and hot after the usual row
with the cabman, just when I wanted to be particularly calm and
self-contained. I got the best of it though. Dear me, this is a great
day for me--a great day. Where’s Minnie, I wonder? Arraying herself
for the sacrifice, no doubt. Pouf! This is a very nervous occasion. I
wonder if I’m taking a prudent step. Marriage is a very risky thing;
it’s like Chancery, once in it you can’t get out of it, and the costs
are enormous. There you are--fixed. Fifty years hence, if we’re both
alive, there we shall both be--fixed. That’s the devil of it. It’s an
unreasonably long time to be responsible for another person’s expenses.
I don’t see the use of making it for as long as that. It seems greedy
to take up half a century of another person’s attention. Besides--one
never knows--one might come across somebody else one liked better--that
uncommonly nice girl I met in Scotland, for instance. No, no, I shall
be true to my Minnie--quite true. I am quite determined that nothing
shall shake my constancy to Minnie.
_Enter PARKER._
What a devilish pretty girl!
_Par._ (_aside_). He’s a mean young man, but he ought to be good for
half-a-crown to-day.
_Ch._ Come here, my dear; a--How do I look?
_Par._ Very nice indeed, sir.
_Ch._ What, really?
_Par._ Really.
_Ch._ What, tempting, eh?
_Par._ Very tempting indeed.
_Ch._ Hah! The married state is an enviable state, Parker.
_Par._ _Is_ it, sir? I hope it may be. It depends.
_Ch._ What do you mean by “it depends?” You’re a member of the Church
of England, I trust? Then don’t you know that in saying “it depends”
you are flying in the face of the marriage service? Don’t go and throw
cold water on the married state, Parker. I know what you’re going to
say--it’s expensive. So it is, at first, very expensive, but with
economy you soon retrench that. By a beautiful provision of Nature,
what’s enough for one is enough for two. This phenomenon points
directly to the married state as our natural state.
_Par._ Oh, for that matter, sir, a tigress would get on with
you. You’re so liberal, so gentle, so--there’s only one word for
it--dove-like.
_Ch._ What, you’ve remarked that, eh? Ha! ha! But dove-like as I am,
Parker, in some respects, yet (_getting his arm round her_) in other
respects--(_aside_), deuced pretty girl!--in other respects I am a
man, Parker, of a strangely impetuous and headstrong nature. I don’t
beat about the bush; I come quickly to the point. Shall I tell you a
secret? There’s something about you, I don’t know what it is, that--in
other words, you are the tree upon which--no, no, damn it, Cheviot--not
to-day, not to-day.
_Par._ What a way you have with you, sir!
_Ch._ What, you’ve noticed that, have you? Ha! ha! yes, I have a way,
no doubt; it’s been remarked before. Whenever I see a pretty girl (and
you are a very pretty girl) I can’t help putting my arm like that
(_putting it round her waist._) Now, pleasant as this sort of thing is,
and you find it pleasant, don’t you? (_PARKER nods._) Yes, you find it
pleasant--pleasant as it is, it is decidedly wrong.
_Par._ It is decidedly wrong in a married man.
_Ch._ It is decidedly wrong in a married man. In a married man it’s
abominable, and I shall be a married man in half an hour. So, Parker,
it will become necessary to conquer this tendency, to struggle with it,
and subdue it--in half an hour (_getting more affectionate_). Not that
there’s any real harm in putting your arm round a girl’s waist. Highly
respectable people do it, when they waltz.
_Par._ Yes, sir, but then a band’s playing.
_Ch._ True, and when a band’s playing it don’t matter, but when a
band is _not_ playing, why it’s dangerous, you see. You begin with
this, and you go on from one thing to another, getting more and more
affectionate, until you reach _this_ stage (_kissing her_). Not that
there’s any real harm in kissing, either; for you see fathers and
mothers, who ought to set a good example, kissing their children every
day.
_Par._ Lor, sir, kissing’s nothing; everybody does that.
_Ch._ That is your experience, is it? It tallies with my own. Take it
that I am your father, you are my daughter--or take it even that I am
merely your husband, and you my wife, and it would be expected of me.
(_Kissing her._)
_Par._ But I’m not your wife, sir.
_Ch._ No, not yet, that’s very true, and, of course, makes a
difference. That’s why I say I must subdue this tendency; I must
struggle with it; I must conquer it--in half-an-hour.
_Min._ (_without_). Parker, where’s Mr. Cheviot?
_Ch._ There is your mistress, my dear--she’s coming. Will you excuse
me? (_Releasing her._) Thank you. Good day, Parker.
_Par._ (_disgusted_). Not so much as a shilling; and that man’s worth
thousands! [_Exit PARKER._
_Enter MINNIE._
_Ch._ My darling Minnie--my own, own To Come! (_Kissing her._)
_Min._ Oh, you mustn’t crush me, Cheviot, you’ll spoil my dress. How do
you like it?
_Ch._ It’s lovely. It’s a beautiful material.
_Min._ Yes; dear papa’s been going it.
_Ch._ Oh, but you’re indebted to me for that beautiful dress.
_Min._ To you! Oh, thank you--thank you!
_Ch._ Yes. I said to your papa, “Now do for once let the girl have a
nice dress; be liberal; buy the very best that money will procure,
you’ll never miss it.” So, thanks to me, he bought you a beauty.
Seventeen and six a yard if it’s a penny. Dear me! To think that in
half-an-hour this magnificent dress will be _my_ property!
_Min._ Yes. Dear papa said that as you had offered to give the
breakfast at your house, he would give me the best dress that money
could procure.
_Ch._ Yes, I _did_ offer to provide the breakfast in a reckless moment;
that’s so like me. It was a rash offer, but I’ve made it, and I’ve
stuck to it. Oh, then, there’s the cake.
_Min._ Oh, tell me all about the cake.
_Ch._ It’s a very pretty cake. Very little cake is eaten at a
wedding breakfast, so I’ve ordered what’s known in the trade as the
three-quarter article.
_Min._ I see; three-quarters cake, and the rest wood.
_Ch._ No; three-quarters wood, the rest cake. Be sure, my dear, you
don’t cut into the wood, for it has to be returned to the pastrycook to
be filled up with cake for another occasion. _I_ thought at first of
ordering a seven-eighths article; but one isn’t married every day--it’s
only once a year--I mean it’s only now and then. So I said, “Hang the
expense; let’s do the thing well.” And so it’s a three-quarters.
_Min._ How good you are to me! We shall be very happy, shall we not?
_Ch._ I--I hope so--yes. I _hope_ so. Playfully happy, like two little
kittens.
_Min._ That will be delightful.
_Ch._ Economically happy, like two sensible people.
_Min._ Oh, we must be very economical.
_Ch._ No vulgar display; no pandering to a jaded appetite. A refined
and economical elegance; that is what we must aim at. A simple mutton
chop, nicely broiled, for you; and _two_ simple mutton chops, _very_
nicely broiled, for me--
_Min._ And some flowery potatoes--
_Ch._ A loaf of nice household bread--
_Min._ A stick of celery--
_Ch._ And a bit of cheese, and you’ve a dinner fit for a monarch.
_Min._ Then how shall we spend our evenings?
_Ch._ We’ll have pleasant little fireside games. Are you fond of
fireside games?
_Min._ Oh, they’re great fun.
_Ch._ Then we’ll play at tailoring.
_Min._ Tailoring? I don’t think I know that game.
_Ch._ It’s a very good game. You shall be the clever little jobbing
tailor, and I’ll be the particular customer who brings his own
materials to be made up. You shall take my measure, cut out the cloth
(real cloth, you know), stitch it together, and try it on; and then
I’ll find fault like a real customer, and you shall alter it until it
fits, and when it fits beautifully that counts one to you.
_Min._ Delightful!
_Ch._ Then there’s another little fireside game which is great fun.
We each take a bit of paper and a pencil and try who can jot down the
nicest dinner for ninepence, and the next day we have it.
_Min._ Oh, Cheviot, what a paradise you hold open to me!
_Ch._ Yes. How’s papa?
_Min._ He’s very well and very happy. He’s going to increase his
establishment on the strength of the £1000 a year, and keep a
manservant.
_Ch._ I know. I’ve been looking after some servants for him; they’ll be
here in the course of the morning. A cook, a housemaid, and a footman.
I found them through an advertisement. They’re country people, and will
come very cheap.
_Min._ How kind and thoughtful you are! Oh, Cheviot, I’m a very lucky
girl! [_Exit MINNIE._
_Ch._ Yes, I think so too, if I can only repress my tendency to think
of that tall girl I met in Scotland! Cheviot, my boy, you must make an
effort; you are going to be married, and the tall girl is nothing to
you!
_Enter PARKER._
_Par._ Please, sir, here’s a gentleman to see you.
_Ch._ Oh, my solicitor, no doubt. Show him up.
_Par._ And please, some persons have called to see you about an
advertisement.
_Ch._ Oh, Symperson’s servants. To be sure. Show up the gentleman, and
tell the others to wait. [_Exit PARKER._
_Enter BELVAWNEY. He looks very miserable._
_Ch._ Belvawney! This is unexpected. (_Much confused._)
_Bel._ Yes, Cheviot. At last we meet. Don’t, oh don’t, frown upon a
heartbroken wretch.
_Ch._ Belvawney, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I will not
disguise from you that, not having seen you for three months, I was in
hopes that I had got rid of you for ever.
_Bel._ Oh, Cheviot, don’t say that, I am so unhappy. And you have it in
your power to make me comfortable. Do this, and I will bless you with
my latest breath!
_Ch._ It is a tempting offer; I am not proof against it. We all have
our price, and that is mine. Proceed.
_Bel._ Miss Treherne--Belinda--whom I love so dearly, won’t have
anything to say to me.
_Ch._ It does her credit. She’s a very superior girl.
_Bel._ It’s all through you, Cheviot. She declares that the mutual
declaration you made to protect her from McGillicuddy amounts to a
Scotch marriage.
_Ch._ What!!!
_Bel._ She declares she is your wife. She professes to love me as
fondly as ever; but a stern sense of duty to you forbids her to hold
any communication with me.
_Ch._ Oh, but this is absurd, you know!
_Bel._ Of course it is; but what’s to be done? You left with Symperson
immediately after making the declaration. As soon as she found you were
gone she implored me to tell her your name and address. Of course I
refused, and she quitted me, telling me that she would devote her life
to finding you out.
_Ch._ But this is simple madness. I can’t have it! This day, too,
of all others! If she’d claimed me last week, or even yesterday, I
wouldn’t have minded, for she’s a devilish fine woman; but if she were
to turn up now--! (_Aloud._) Belvawney, my dear friend, tell me what to
do--I’ll do anything.
_Bel._ It seems that there’s some doubt whether this cottage, which is
just on the border, is in England or Scotland. If it is in England, she
has no case; if it is in Scotland, I’m afraid she has. I’ve written to
the owner of the property to ascertain, and if, in the mean time, she
claims you, you must absolutely decline to recognize this marriage for
a moment.
_Ch._ Not for one moment!
_Bel._ It was a mere artifice to enable her to escape from McGillicuddy.
_Ch._ Nothing more!
_Bel._ It’s monstrous--perfectly monstrous--that that should constitute
a marriage. It’s disgraceful--it’s abominable. Damme, Cheviot, it’s
immoral.
_Ch._ So it is--it’s immoral. That settles it in _my_ mind. It’s
immoral.
_Bel._ You’re quite sure you’ll be resolute, Cheviot?
_Ch._ Resolute? I should think so! Why, hang it all, man, I’m going to
be married in twenty minutes to Minnie Symperson!
_Bel._ What!
_Ch._ (_confused at having let this out_). Didn’t I tell you? I believe
you’re right; I did _not_ tell you. It escaped me. Oh, yes, this is my
wedding-day.
_Bel._ Cheviot, you’re joking--you don’t mean this! Why, I shall lose
£1000 a year by it, every penny I have in the world! Oh, it can’t
be--it’s nonsense!
_Ch._ What do you mean by nonsense? The married state is an honourable
estate, I believe? A man is not looked upon as utterly lost to all
sense of decency because he’s got married, I’m given to understand!
People have been married before this, and have not been irretrievably
tabooed in consequence, unless I’m grossly misinformed? Then what the
dickens do you mean by saying “nonsense” when I tell you that I’m going
to be married?
_Bel._ Cheviot, be careful how you take this step. Beware how you
involve an innocent and helpless girl in social destruction.
_Ch._ What do you mean, sir?
_Bel._ You cannot marry; you are a married man.
_Ch._ Come, come, Belvawney, this is trifling.
_Bel._ You are married to Miss Treherne. I was present, and can depose
to the fact.
_Ch._ Oh, you’re not serious.
_Bel._ Never more serious in my life.
_Ch._ But, as you very properly said just now, it was a mere
artifice--we didn’t mean anything. It would be monstrous to regard that
as a marriage. Damme, Belvawney, it would be immoral!
_Bel._ I may deplore the state of the law, but I cannot stand tamely by
and see it deliberately violated before my eyes.
_Ch._ (_wildly_). But, Belvawney, my dear friend, reflect; everything
is prepared for my marriage, at a great expense. I love Minnie deeply,
devotedly. She is the actual tree upon which the fruit of my heart is
growing. There’s no mistake about it. She is my own To Come. I love
her madly--rapturously. (_Going on his knees to BELVAWNEY._) I have
prepared a wedding breakfast at a great expense to do her honour.
I have ordered four flys for the wedding party. I have taken two
second-class Cook’s tourists’ tickets for Ilfracombe, Devon, Exeter,
Cornwall, Westward Ho! and Bideford Bay. The whole thing has cost me
some twenty or twenty-five pounds, and all this will be wasted--utterly
wasted--if you interfere. Oh, Belvawney, dear Belvawney, let the
recollection of our long and dear friendship operate to prevent your
shipwrecking my future life. (_Sobbing hysterically._)
_Bel._ I have a duty to do. I must do it.
_Ch._ But reflect, dear Belvawney; if I am married to Miss Treherne,
you lose your income as much as if I married Minnie Symperson.
_Bel._ No doubt, if you could prove your marriage to Miss Treherne. But
you can’t---- (_With melodramatic intensity._)
_Ch._ Those eyes!
_Bel._ You don’t know where she is---- (_With fiendish exultation._)
_Ch._ Oh, those eyes!
_Bel._ The cottage has been pulled down, and the cottagers have
emigrated to Patagonia----
_Ch._ Oh, those eyes!
_Bel._ I’m the only witness left. _I_ can prove your marriage, if I
like; but you can’t. Ha! ha! ha! ha! (_with Satanic laugh._) It’s a
most painful and unfortunate situation for you; and, believe me, dear
Cheviot, you have my deepest and most respectful sympathy.
[_Exit BELVAWNEY._
_Ch._ This is appalling; simply appalling! The cup of happiness dashed
from my lips just as I was about to drink a life-long draught. The
ladder kicked from under my feet just as I was about to pick the fruit
of my heart from the tree upon which it has been growing so long. I’m a
married man! More than that, my honeymoon’s past, and I never knew it!
Stop a moment, though. The bride can’t be found; the cottage is pulled
down, and the cottagers have emigrated; what proof is there that such a
marriage ever took place? There’s only Belvawney, and Belvawney isn’t
a proof. Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be worth
something; uncorroborated, it is worthless. I’ll risk it. He can do
nothing; the bride is nowhere; the cottagers are in Patagonia, and----
[_At this moment MRS. MACFARLANE, MAGGIE, and ANGUS appear at the
back. They stand bobbing and curtsying in rustic fashion to CHEVIOT
(whom they do not recognize). He stares aghast at them for a
moment, then staggers back to sofa._
_Ch._ The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that’s infernal!
_Mrs. Mac._ Gude day, sir. We’ve just ca’d to see ye about the
advertisement. (_Producing paper._)
_Ch._ I don’t know you--I don’t know you. Go away.
[_CHEVIOT buries his head in a newspaper, and pretends to read on
sofa._
_Mag._ Ah, sir, ye said that we were to ca’ on ye this day at eleven
o’clock, and sae we’ve coom a’ the way fra Dumfries to see ye.
_Ch._ I tell you I don’t know you. Go away. I’m not at all well. I’m
very ill, and it’s infectious.
_Ang._ We fear no illness, sir. This is Mistress Macfarlane, the gude
auld mither, who’ll cook the brose and boil the parritch, and sit wi’
ye, and nurse ye through your illness till the sad day ye dee! (_Wiping
his eye._)
[_CHEVIOT pokes a hole with his finger through newspaper, and
reconnoitres unobserved._
_Mrs. Mac._ And this is Meg, my ain lass Meg!
_Ch._ (_aside_). Attractive girl, very. I remember her perfectly.
_Mrs. Mac._ And this is Angus Macalister, who’s going to marry her, and
who’ll be mair than a son to me!
_Ang._ Oh, mither, mither, dinna say it, for ye bring the tear drop to
my ee; an’ it’s no canny for a strong man to be blithering and soughing
like a poor weak lassie! (_Wiping his eye._)
[_ANGUS and MRS. MACFARLANE sit. MAGGIE advances to hole in newspaper
and peeps through._
_Mag._ Oh, mither, mither! (_Staggers back into Angus’s arms._)
_Mrs. Mac._ What is it, Meg?
_Ang._ Meg, my weel lo’ed Meg, my wee wifie that is to be, tell me
what’s wrang wi’ ’ee?
_Mag._ Oh, mither, it’s him; the noble gentleman I plighted my troth
to three weary months agone! The gallant Englishman who gave Angus twa
golden pound to give me up!
_Ang._ It’s the coward Sassenach who well nigh broke our Meg’s heart!
_Mrs. Mac._ My lass, my lass, dinna greet, maybe he’ll marry ye yet.
_Ch._ (_desperately_). Here’s another! Does anybody else want to
marry me? Don’t be shy. You, ma’am (_to MRS. MAC._) _you’re_ a fine
woman--perhaps _you_ would like to try your luck?
_Mag._ Ah, sir! I dinna ken your name, but your bonnie face has lived
in my twa een, sleeping and waking, three weary, weary months! Oh, sir,
ye should na’ ha’ deceived a trusting, simple Lowland lassie. ’Twas na’
weel done--’twas na’ weel done! (_Weeping on his shoulder; he puts his
arm round her waist._)
_Ch._ (_softening_). My good girl, what do you wish me to do? I
remember you now perfectly. I _did_ admire you very much--in fact, I do
still; you’re a very charming girl. Let us talk this over, calmly and
quietly. (_MAG. moves away._) No, you needn’t go; you can stop there if
you like. There, there, my dear! don’t fret. (_Aside._) She _is_ a very
charming girl. I almost wish I--I really begin to think I--no, no! damn
it, Cheviot! not to-day.
_Mag._ Oh! mither, he told me he loved me!
_Ch._ So I did. The fact is, when I fell in love with you--don’t go my
pretty bird--I quite forgot that I was engaged. There, there! I thought
at the time that you were the tree upon which the fruit of my heart was
growing; but I was mistaken. Don’t go; you needn’t go on that account.
It was another tree--
_Mag._ Oh, mither, it was anither tree! (_Weeping on CHEVIOT’S
shoulder._)
_Mrs. Mac._ Angus, it was anither tree! (_Weeping on ANGUS’S shoulder._)
_Ang._ Dinna, mither, dinna; I canna bear it! (_Weeps._)
_Ch._ Yes, it was another tree--you can remain there for the
present--in point of fact, it was growing on both trees. I don’t know
how it is, but it seems to grow on a great many trees--a perfect
orchard--and you are one of them, my dear. Come, come, don’t fret, you
are one of them!
_Enter MINNIE and SYMPERSON._
_Min._ Cheviot!
_Sym._ What is all this?
_Ch._ (_rapidly referring to piece of paper given to him by Mrs.
Macfarlane, as if going over a washerwoman’s bill._) “Twenty-four
pairs socks, two shirts, thirty-seven collars, one sheet, forty-four
nightshirts, twenty-two flannel waistcoats, one white tie.”
Ridiculous--quite ridiculous--I won’t pay it.
_Min._ Cheviot, who is this person who was found hanging on your neck?
Say she is somebody--for instance, your sister or your aunt. Oh,
Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I implore you! (_The three cottagers
curtsy and bow to MINNIE._)
_Sym._ Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I command you.
_Ch._ Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t see you. These ladies are--are
my washerwomen. Allow me to introduce them. They have come--they
have come for their small account. (_MAGGIE, who has been sobbing
through this, throws herself hysterically on to CHEVIOT’S bosom._)
There’s a discrepancy in the items--twenty-two flannel waistcoats are
ridiculous, and, in short, some washerwomen are like this when they’re
contradicted--they can’t help it--it’s something in the suds: it
undermines their constitution.
_Sym._ (_sternly_). Cheviot, I should like to believe you, but it seems
scarcely credible.
_Mag._ Oh, sir, he’s na telling ye truly. I’m the puir Lowland lassie
that he stole the hairt out of, three months ago, and promised to
marry; and I love him sae weel--sae weel, and now he’s married to
anither!
_Ch._ Nothing of the kind. I--
_Sym._ You are mistaken, and so is your mith--mother. He is not yet
married to anith--nother.
_Mag._ Why, sir, it took place before my very ain eyes, before us a’,
to a beautiful lady, three months since.
_Min._ Cheviot, say that this is not true. Say that the beautiful lady
was somebody--for instance, your aunt. Oh, say she was your aunt, I
implore you!
_Sym._ (_sternly_). Cheviot, say she was your aunt, I command you!
_Ch._ Minnie, Symperson, don’t believe them--it was no marriage. I
don’t even know the lady’s name--I never saw her before--I’ve never
seen her since. It’s ridiculous--I couldn’t have married her without
knowing it--it’s out of the question!
_Sym._ Cheviot, let’s know exactly where we are. I don’t much care whom
you marry, so that you marry someone--that’s enough for me. But please
be explicit, for this is business, and mustn’t be trifled with. Tell me
all about it.
_Ch._ (_in despair_). I cannot!
_Enter BELVAWNEY._
_Bel._ I can.
_Sym._ Belvawney!
_Bel._ I was present when Cheviot and a certain lady declared
themselves to be man and wife. This took place in a cottage on the
Border--in the presence of these worthy people.
_Sym._ That’s enough for me. It’s a Scotch marriage! Minnie, my child,
we must find you someone else. Cheviot’s married. Belvawney, I am sorry
to say, I deprive you of your income.
_Bel._ I beg your pardon, not yet.
_Sym._ Why not?
_Bel._ In the first place, it’s not certain whether the cottage was in
England or in Scotland; in the second place, the bride can’t be found.
_Sym._ But she _shall_ be found. What is her name?
_Bel._ That I decline to state.
_Sym._ But you shall be made to state. I insist upon knowing the young
lady’s name.
_Enter MISS TREHERNE, in a light and cheerful dress._
_Bel._ (_amazed_). Belinda Treherne!
_Miss T._ (_rushing to MINNIE_). Minnie, my own old friend!
_Ch._ ’Tis she!
_Miss T._ (_turns and recognizes CHEVIOT_). My husband!
_Ch._ My wife!
[_MISS T. throws herself at CHEVIOT’S feet, kissing his hands
rapturously. BELVAWNEY staggers back. MINNIE faints in her father’s
arms. MAGGIE sobs on ANGUS’S breast._
ACT III.
SCENE, _same as Act II_.
_BELVAWNEY discovered with MISS TREHERNE and MINNIE. He is singing
to them. MISS TREHERNE is leaning romantically on piano. MINNIE is
seated on a stool._
BEL. (_sings_).
“Says the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah,
I am drier, Obadiah, I am drier.”
CHORUS. “I am drier.”
BEL.
“Says the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah,
I’m on fire, Obadiah, I’m on fire.”
CHORUS. “I’m on fire.”
_Min._ Oh, thank you, Mr. Belvawney. How sweetly pretty that is. Where
can I get it?
_Miss T._ How marvellous is the power of melody over the soul that
is fretted and harassed by anxiety and doubt. I can understand how
valuable must have been the troubadours of old, in the troublous times
of anarchy. Your song has soothed me, sir.
_Bel._ I am indeed glad to think that I have comforted you a little,
dear ladies.
_Min._ Dear Mr. Belvawney, I don’t know what we should have done
without you. What with your sweet songs, your amusing riddles, and your
clever conjuring tricks, the weary days of waiting have passed like a
delightful dream.
_Miss T._ It is impossible to be dull in the society of one who can
charm the soul with plaintive ballads one moment, and the next roll a
rabbit and a guinea-pig into one.
_Bel._ You make me indeed happy, dear ladies. But my joy will be of
brief duration, for Cheviot may return at any moment with the news that
the fatal cottage was in Scotland, and then--Oh, Belinda, what is to
become of me?
_Miss T._ How many issues depend on that momentous question? Has
Belvawney a thousand a year, or is he ruined? Has your father that
convenient addition to his income, or has he not? May Maggie marry
Angus, or will her claim on Cheviot be satisfied? Are you to be his
cherished bride, or are you destined to a life of solitary maidenhood?
Am I Cheviot’s honoured wife, or am I but a broken-hearted and desolate
spinster? Who can tell! Who can tell! [_Crosses to MINNIE._
_Bel._ (_goes to window in second drawing-room_). Here is a cab with
luggage--it is Cheviot! He has returned with the news! Ladies--one
word before I go. One of you will be claimed by Cheviot, that is very
clear. To that one (whichever it may be) I do not address myself--but
to the other (whichever it may be), I say, I love you (whichever you
are) with a fervour which I cannot describe in words. If you (whichever
you are) will consent to cast your lot with mine, I will devote my life
to proving that I love you and you only (whichever it may be) with a
single-hearted and devoted passion, which precludes the possibility of
my ever entertaining the slightest regard for any other woman in the
whole world. I thought I would just mention it. Good morning!
[_Exit BELVAWNEY._
_Miss T._ How beautifully he expresses himself. He is indeed a rare and
radiant being.
_Min._ (_nervously_). Oh, Belinda, the terrible moment is at hand.
_Miss T._ Minnie, if dear Cheviot should prove to be my husband, swear
to me that that will not prevent your coming to stop with us--with dear
Cheviot and me--whenever you can.
_Min._ Indeed I will. And if it should turn out that dear Cheviot is at
liberty to marry me, promise me that that will not prevent you looking
on our house--on dear Cheviot’s and mine--as your home.
_Miss T._ I swear it. We will be like dear, dear sisters.
_Enter CHEVIOT, as from journey, with bag and rug._
_Miss T._ Cheviot, tell me at once--are you my own--husband?
_Min._ Cheviot, speak--is poor, little, simple Minnie to be your bride?
_Ch._ Minnie, the hope of my heart, my pet fruit tree! Belinda, my
Past, my Present, and my To Come! I have sorry news, sorry news.
_Miss T._ (_aside_). Sorry news! Then I am _not_ his wife.
_Min._ (_aside_). Sorry news! Then she _is_ his wife.
_Ch._ My dear girls--my very dear girls, my journey has been
fruitless--I have no information.
_Miss T._ and _Min._ No information!
_Ch._ None. The McQuibbigaskie has gone abroad! (_Both ladies fall
weeping._)
_Miss T._ More weary waiting! more weary waiting!
_Min._ Oh, my breaking heart; oh, my poor bruised and breaking heart!
_Ch._ We must be patient, dear Belinda. Minnie, my own, we must be
patient. After all, is the situation so very terrible? Each of you has
an even chance of becoming my wife, and in the mean time I look upon
myself as engaged to both of you. I shall make no distinction. I shall
love you both, fondly, and you shall both love me. My affection shall
be divided equally between you, and we will be as happy as three little
birds.
_Miss T._ (_wiping her eyes_). You are very kind and thoughtful, dear
Cheviot.
_Min._ I believe, in my simple little way, that you are the very best
man in the whole world!
_Ch._ (_deprecatingly_). No, no.
_Min._ Ah, but do let me think so: it makes me so happy to think so!
_Ch._ Does it? Well, well, be it so. Perhaps I am! And now tell me, how
has the time passed since I left? Have my darlings been dull?
_Miss T._ We should have been dull indeed but for the airy Belvawney.
The sprightly creature has done his best to make the lagging hours fly.
He is an entertaining rattlesnake--I should say, rattletrap.
_Ch._ (_jealous_). Oh, _is_ he so? Belvawney has been making the hours
fly, has he? I’ll make _him_ fly, when I catch him!
_Min._ His conjuring tricks are wonderful!
_Ch._ Confound his conjuring tricks!
_Min._ Have you seen him bring a live hen, two hair brushes, and a
pound and a half of fresh butter out of his pocket-handkerchief!
_Ch._ No, I have not had that advantage!
_Miss T._ It is a thrilling sight.
_Ch._ So I should be disposed to imagine! Pretty goings on in my
absence! you seem to forget that you two girls are engaged to be
married to _me_!
_Miss T._ Ah, Cheviot! do not judge us harshly. We love you with a
reckless fervour that thrills us to the very marrow--don’t we, darling?
But the hours crept heavily without you, and when, to lighten the gloom
in which we were plunged, the kindly creature swallowed a live rabbit
and brought it out, smothered in onions, from his left boot, we could
not choose but smile. The good soul has promised to teach _me_ the
trick.
_Ch._ Has he? That’s his confounded impudence. Now, once for all, I’ll
have nothing of this kind. One of you will be my wife, and until I know
which, I will permit no Belvawneying of any kind whatever, or anything
approaching thereto. When that is settled, the other may Belvawney
until she is black in the face.
_Miss T._ And how long have we to wait before we shall know which of us
may begin Belvawneying?
_Ch._ I can’t say. It may be some time. The McQuibbigaskie has gone to
Central Africa. No post can reach him, and he will not return for six
years.
_Miss T._ Six years! Oh, I cannot wait six years! Why in six years I
shall be eight-and-twenty!
_Min._ Six years! Why, in six years the Statute of Limitations will
come in, and he can renounce us both.
_Miss T._ True; you are quite right. (_To Cheviot._) Cheviot, I have
loved you madly, desperately, as other woman never loved other man.
This poor inexperienced child, who clings to me as the ivy clings to
the oak, also loves you as woman never loved before. Even that poor
cottage maiden, whose rustic heart you so recklessly enslaved, worships
you with a devotion that has no parallel in the annals of the heart. In
return for all this unalloyed affection, all we ask of you is that you
will recommend us to a respectable solicitor.
_Ch._ But, my dear children, reflect--I can’t marry all three. I am
most willing to consider myself engaged to all three, and that’s as
much as the law will allow. You see I do all I can. I’d marry all three
of you with pleasure, if I might; but, as our laws stand at present,
I’m sorry to say--I’m very sorry to say--it’s out of the question.
[_Exit CHEVIOT._
_Miss T._ Poor fellow. He has my tenderest sympathy; but we have no
alternative but to place ourselves under the protecting ægis of a jury
of our countrymen!
_Enter SYMPERSON, with two letters._
_Sym._ Minnie--Miss Treherne--the post has just brought me two letters;
one of them bears a Marseilles post-mark, and is, I doubt not, from the
McQuibbigaskie! He must have written just before starting for Central
Africa!
_Min._ From the McQuibbigaskie? Oh, read, read!
_Miss T._ Oh, sir! how can you torture us by this delay? Have you no
curiosity?
_Sym._ Well, my dear, very little on this point; you see it don’t much
matter to me whom Cheviot marries. So that he marries some one, that’s
enough for me. But, however, _your_ anxiety is natural, and I will
gratify it. (_Opens letter and reads._) “Sir,--In reply to your letter,
I have to inform you that Evan Cottage is certainly in England. The
deeds relating to the property place this beyond all question.”
_Min._ In England!
_Miss T._ (_sinking into a chair_). This blow is indeed a crusher
Against such a blow I cannot stand up! (_Faints._)
_Min._ (_on her knees_). My poor Belinda--my darling sister--love--oh
forgive me--oh forgive me! Don’t look like that! Speak to me,
dearest--oh speak to me--speak to me.
_Miss T._ (_suddenly springing up_). Speak to you? Yes, I’ll speak to
you! All is _not_ yet lost! True, he is not married to me, but why
should he not be? I am as young as you! I am as beautiful as you! I
have more money than you! I will try--oh how hard will I try!
_Min._ Do, darling; and I wish--oh how I wish you may get him!
_Miss T._ Minnie, if you were not the dearest little friend I have in
the world I could pinch you! [_Exit BELINDA._
_Sym._ (_who has been reading the other letter_). Dear me--how terrible!
_Min._ What is terrible, dear papa?
_Sym._ Belvawney writes to tell me the Indestructible Bank stopped
payment yesterday, and Cheviot’s shares are waste paper.
_Min._ Well, upon my word. There’s an end of _him_!
_Sym._ An end of him. What do you mean? You are not going to throw him
over?
_Min._ Dear papa, I am sorry to disappoint you, but unless your tom-tit
is very much mistaken, the Indestructible was not registered under
the Joint-Stock Companies Act of Sixty-two, and in that case the
shareholders are jointly and severally liable to the whole extent of
their available capital. Poor little Minnie don’t pretend to have a
business head; but she’s not _quite_ such a little donkey as _that_,
dear papa.
_Sym._ You decline to marry him? Do I hear rightly?
_Min._ I don’t know, papa, whether your hearing is as good as it was,
but from your excited manner, I should say you heard me perfectly.
[_Exit MINNIE._
_Sym._ This is a pretty business! Done out of a thousand a year; and by
my own daughter! What a terrible thing is this incessant craving after
money! Upon my word, some people seem to think that they’re sent into
the world for no other purpose but to acquire wealth; and, by Jove,
they’ll sacrifice their nearest and dearest relations to get it. It’s
most humiliating--most humiliating!
_Enter CHEVIOT, in low spirits._
_Ch._ (_throwing himself into a chair; sobs aloud_). Oh Uncle
Symperson, have you heard the news?
_Sym._ (_angrily_). Yes, I _have_ heard the news; and a pretty man
of business _you_ are to invest all your property in an unregistered
company!
_Ch._ Uncle, don’t _you_ turn against me! Belinda is not my wife! I’m
a ruined man; and my darlings--my three darlings, whom I love with a
fidelity, which, in these easy-going days, is simply Quixotic--will
have nothing to say to me. Minnie, your daughter, declines to accompany
me to the altar. Belinda, I feel sure will revert to Belvawney, and
Maggie is at this present moment hanging round that Scotch idiot’s
neck, although she knows that in doing so she simply tortures me.
Symperson, I never loved three girls as I loved those three--never!
never! and now they’ll all three slip through my fingers--I’m sure they
will!
_Sym._ Pooh, pooh, sir. Do you think nobody loses but you? Why, I’m
done out of a thousand a year by it.
_Ch._ (_moodily_). For that matter, Symperson, I’ve a very vivid idea
that you won’t have to wait long for the money.
_Sym._ What d’you mean? Oh--of course--I understand.
_Ch._ Eh?
_Sym._ Mrs. Macfarlane! I have thought of her myself. A very fine woman
for her years; a majestic ruin, beautiful in decay. My dear boy, my
very dear boy, I congratulate you.
_Ch._ Don’t be absurd. I’m not going to marry anybody.
_Sym._ Eh? Why, then how--? I don’t think I quite follow you.
_Ch._ There is another contingency on which you come into the money. My
death.
_Sym._ To be sure! I never thought of that! And, as you say, a man can
die but once.
_Ch._ I beg your pardon. I didn’t say anything of the kind--you said
it; but it’s true, for all that.
_Sym._ I’m very sorry; but, of course, if you have made up your mind to
it----
_Ch._ Why, when a man’s lost everything, what has he to live for?
_Sym._ True, true. Nothing whatever. Still----
_Ch._ His money gone, his credit gone, the three girls he’s engaged to
gone.
_Sym._ I cannot deny it. It is a hopeless situation. Hopeless, quite
hopeless.
_Ch._ His happiness wrecked, his hopes blighted; the three trees upon
which the fruit of his heart was growing--all cut down. What is left
but suicide?
_Sym._ True, true! You’re quite right. Farewell. (_Going._)
_Ch._ Symperson, you seem to think I _want_ to kill myself. I don’t
want to do anything of the kind. I’d much rather live--upon my soul
I would--if I could think of any reason for living. Symperson, can’t
you think of _something_ to check the heroic impulse which is at this
moment urging me to a tremendous act of self-destruction?
_Sym._ Something! Of course I can! Say that you throw yourself into
the Serpentine--which is handy. Well, it’s an easy way of going out of
the world, I’m told--rather pleasant than otherwise, I believe--quite
an agreeable sensation, I’m given to understand. But you--you get wet
through; and your--your clothes are absolutely ruined!
_Ch._ (_mournfully_). For that matter, I could take off my clothes
before I went in.
_Sym._ True, so you could. I never thought of that. You could take them
off before you go in--there’s no reason why you shouldn’t, if you do
it in the dark--and _that_ objection falls to the ground. Cheviot, my
lion-hearted boy, it’s impossible to resist your arguments, they are
absolutely convincing. (_Shakes his hand._) [_Exit._
_Ch._ Good fellow, Symperson--I like a man who’s open to conviction!
But it’s no use--all my attractions are gone--and I can _not_ live
unless I feel I’m fascinating. Still, there’s one chance left--Belinda!
I haven’t tried her. Perhaps, after all, she loved me for myself alone!
It isn’t likely--but it’s barely possible.
_Enter BELVAWNEY, who has overheard these words._
_Bel._ Out of the question; you are too late! I represented to her that
you are never likely to induce any one to marry you now that you are
penniless. She felt that my income was secure, and she gave me her hand
and her heart.
_Ch._ Then all is lost; my last chance is gone, and the irrevocable die
is cast! Be happy with her, Belvawney; be happy with her!
_Bel._ Happy! You shall dine with us after our honeymoon and judge for
yourself.
_Ch._ No, I shall not do that; long before you return I shall be beyond
the reach of dinners.
_Bel._ I understand--you are going abroad. Well, I don’t think you
could do better than try another country.
_Ch._ (_tragically_). Belvawney, I’m going to try another world!
(_Drawing a pistol from his pocket._)
_Bel._ (_alarmed_). What do you mean?
_Ch._ In two minutes I die!
_Bel._ You’re joking, of course?
_Ch._ Do I look like a man who jokes? Is my frame of mind one in which
a man indulges in trivialities?
_Bel._ (_in great terror_). But my dear Cheviot, reflect--
_Ch._ Why should it concern you? You will be happy with Belinda. You
will not be well off, but Symperson will, and I dare say he will give
you a meal now and then. It will not be a nice meal, but still it will
be a meal.
_Bel._ Cheviot, you mustn’t do this; pray reflect; there are interests
of magnitude depending on your existence.
_Ch._ My mind is made up. (_Cocking the pistol._)
_Bel._ (_wildly_). But I shall be ruined!
_Ch._ There is Belinda’s fortune.
_Bel._ She won’t have me if I’m ruined! Dear Cheviot, don’t do it--it’s
culpable--it’s wrong!
_Ch._ Life is valueless to me without Belinda. (_Pointing the pistol to
his head._)
_Bel._ (_desperately_). You shall have Belinda; she is much--very
much to me, but she is not everything. Your life is very dear to me;
and when I think of our old friendship----! Cheviot, you shall have
anything you like, if you’ll only consent to live!
_Ch._ If I thought you were in earnest; but no--no. (_Putting pistol to
head._)
_Bel._ In earnest? of course I’m in earnest! Why what’s the use of
Belinda to me if I’m ruined? Why she wouldn’t look at me.
_Ch._ But perhaps if I’m ruined, she wouldn’t look at _me_.
_Bel._ Cheviot, I’ll confess all, if you’ll only live. You--you are
_not_ ruined!
_Ch._ Not ruined?
_Bel._ Not ruined. I--I invented the statement.
_Ch._ (_in great delight_). You invented the statement? My dear friend!
My very dear friend! I’m very much obliged to you! Oh, thank you, thank
you a thousand times! Oh, Belvawney, you have made me very, very happy!
(_Sobbing on his shoulder, then suddenly springing up._) But what the
devil did you mean by circulating such a report about me? How dare you
do it, sir? Answer me that, sir.
_Bel._ I did it to gain Belinda’s love. I knew that the unselfish
creature loved you for your wealth alone.
_Ch._ It was a liberty, sir; it was a liberty. To put it mildly, it was
a liberty.
_Bel._ It was. You’re quite right--that’s the word for it--it was a
liberty. But I’ll go and undeceive her at once. [_Exit BELVAWNEY._
_Ch._ Well, as I’ve recovered my fortune, and with it my tree, I’m
about the happiest fellow in the world. My money, my mistress, and my
mistress’s money, all my own. I believe I could go mad with joy!
_Enter SYMPERSON, in deep black; he walks pensively, with a white
handkerchief to his mouth._
_Ch._ What’s the matter?
_Sym._ Hallo! You’re still alive?
_Ch._ Alive? Yes; why (_noticing his dress_), is anything wrong?
_Sym._ No, no, my dear young friend, these clothes are symbolical; they
represent my state of mind. After your terrible threat, which I cannot
doubt you intend to put at once into execution----
_Ch._ My dear uncle, this is very touching; this unmans me. But, cheer
up, dear old friend, I have good news for you.
_Sym._ (_alarmed_). Good news? What do you mean?
_Ch._ I am about to remove the weight of sorrow which hangs so heavily
at your heart. Resume your fancy check trousers--I have consented to
live.
_Sym._ Consented to live? Why, sir, this is confounded trifling. I
don’t understand this line of conduct at all; you threaten to commit
suicide; your friends are dreadfully shocked at first, but eventually
their minds become reconciled to the prospect of losing you, they
become resigned, even cheerful; and when they have brought themselves
to this Christian state of mind, you coolly inform them that you have
changed your mind and mean to live. It’s not business, sir--it’s not
business.
_Ch._ But, my dear uncle, I’ve nothing to commit suicide for; I’m a
rich man, and Belinda will, no doubt, accept me with joy and gratitude.
_Sym._ Belinda will do nothing of the kind. She has just left the house
with Belvawney, in a cab, and under the most affectionate circumstances.
_Ch._ (_alarmed_). Left with Belvawney? Where have they gone?
_Sym._ I don’t know. Very likely to get married.
_Ch._ Married?
_Sym._ Yes, before the registrar.
_Ch._ I’ve been sold! I see that now! Belvawney has done me! But I’m
not the kind of man who stands such treatment quietly. Belvawney has
found his match. Symperson, they may get married, but, they shall not
be happy; I’ll be revenged on them both before they’re twenty-four
hours older. She marries him because she thinks his income is secure.
I’ll show her she’s wrong; I won’t blow out my brains; I’ll do worse.
_Sym._ What?
_Ch._ I’ll marry.
_Sym._ Marry?
_Ch._ Anybody. I don’t care who it is.
_Sym._ Will Minnie do?
_Ch._ Minnie will do; send her here.
_Sym._ In one moment, my dear boy--in one moment!
[_Exit SYMPERSON, hurriedly._
_Ch._ Belinda alone in a cab with Belvawney! It’s maddening to think of
it! He’s got his arm round her waist at this moment, if I know anything
of human nature! I can’t stand it--I cannot and I will not stand it!
I’ll write at once to the registrar and tell him she’s married (_sits
at writing table and prepares to write_). Oh, why am I constant by
disposition? Why is it that when I love a girl I can think of no
other girl but that girl, whereas, when a girl loves me she seems to
entertain the same degree of affection for mankind at large? I’ll never
be constant again; henceforth I fascinate but to deceive!
_Enter MINNIE._
_Min._ Mr. Cheviot Hill, papa tells me that you wish to speak to me.
_Ch._ (_hurriedly--writing at table_). I do. Miss Symperson, I have
no time to beat about the bush; I must come to the point at once. You
rejected me a short time since--I will not pretend that I am pleased
with you for rejecting me--on the contrary, I think it was in the worst
taste. However, let bygones be bygones. Unforeseen circumstances render
it necessary that I should marry at once, and you’ll do. An early
answer will be esteemed, as this is business. (_Resumes his writing._)
_Min._ Mr. Hill, dear papa assures me that the report about the loss
of your money is incorrect. I hope this may be the case, but I cannot
forget that the information comes from dear papa. Now dear papa is
the best and dearest papa in the whole world, but he has a lively
imagination, and when he wants to accomplish his purpose, he does not
hesitate to invent--I am not quite sure of the word, but I think it is
“bouncers.”
_Ch._ (_writing_). You are quite right, the word is bouncers. Bouncers
or bangers--either will do.
_Min._ Then forgive my little silly fancies, Mr. Hill; but, before I
listen to your suggestion, I must have the very clearest proof that
your position is, in every way, fully assured.
_Ch._ Mercenary little donkey! I will not condescend to proof. I
renounce her altogether. (_Rings bell._)
_Enter MAGGIE with ANGUS and MRS. MACFARLANE. ANGUS has his arm round
her waist._
_Ch._ (_suddenly seeing her_). Maggie, come here. Angus, do take your
arm from round that girl’s waist. Stand back, and don’t you listen.
Maggie, three months ago I told you that I loved you passionately;
to-day I tell you that I love you as passionately as ever; I may add
that I am still a rich man. Can you oblige me with a postage-stamp?
(_MAGGIE gives him a stamp from her pocket--he sticks it on to his
letter._) What do you say? I must trouble you for an immediate answer,
as this is not pleasure--it’s business.
_Mag._ Oh, sir, ye’re ower late. Oh, Maister Cheviot, if I’d only ken’d
it before! Oh, sir, I love ye right weel; the bluid o’ my hairt is nae
sae dear to me as thou. (_Sobbing on his shoulder._) Oh, Cheviot, my
ain auld love! my ain auld love!
_Ang._ (_aside_). Puir lassie, it just dra’s the water from my ee to
hear her. Oh, mither, mither! my hairt is just breaking. (_Sobs on Mrs.
MACFARLANE’S shoulder._)
_Ch._ But why is it too late? You say that you love me. I offer to
marry you. My station in life is at least equal to your own. What is to
prevent our union?
_Mag._ (_wiping her eyes_). Oh, sir, ye’re unco guid to puir little
Maggie, but ye’re too late; for she’s placed the matter in her
solicitor’s hands, and he tells her that an action for breach will just
bring damages to the tune of a thousand pound. There’s a laddie waiting
outside noo, to serve the bonnie writ on ye! (_Turns affectionately to
ANGUS_.)
_Ch._ (_falling sobbing on to sofa_). No one will marry me. There is a
curse upon me--a curse upon me. No one will marry me--no, not one!
_Mrs. Mac._ Dinna say that, sir. There’s mony a woman--nae young, soft,
foolish lassie, neither; but grown women o’ sober age, who’d be mair
a mither than a wife to ye; and that’s what ye want, puir laddie, for
ye’re no equal to takin’ care o’ yersel’.
_Ch._ Mrs. Macfarlane, you are right. I am a man of quick impulse.
I see, I feel, I speak. I--you are the tree upon which--that is to
say--no, no, d----n it, I can’t; I can’t! One must draw the line
somewhere. (_Turning from her with disgust._)
_Enter MISS TREHERNE and BELVAWNEY. They are followed by SYMPERSON
and MINNIE._
_Ch._ Belinda! Can I believe my eyes? You have returned to me, you have
not gone off with Belvawney after all? Thank heaven, thank heaven!
_Miss T._ I thought that, as I came in, I heard you say something about
a tree.
_Ch._ You are right. As you entered I was remarking that I am a man of
quick impulse. I see, I feel, I speak. I have two thousand a year, and
I love you passionately. I lay my hand, my heart, and my income, all
together, in one lot, at your feet!
_Miss T._ Cheviot, I love you with an irresistible fervour, that seems
to parch my very existence. I love you as I never loved man before,
and as I can never hope to love man again. But, in the belief that you
were ruined, I went with my own adored Belvawney before the registrar,
and that registrar has just made us one! (_Turns affectionately to
BELVAWNEY._)
_Bel._ (_embraces BELINDA_). Bless him for it--bless him for it!
_Ch._ (_deadly calm_). One word. I have not yet seen the letter that
blights my earthly hopes. For form’s sake, I trust I may be permitted
to cast my eye over that document? As a matter of business--that’s all.
_Bel._ Certainly. Here it is. You will find the situation of the
cottage described in unmistakable terms. (_Hands the letter to
CHEVIOT._)
_Ch._ (_reads_). “In reply to your letter I have to inform you that
Evan Cottage is certainly in England. The deeds relating to the
property place this beyond all question.” Thank you; I am satisfied.
(_Takes out pistol._)
_Bel._ Now, sir, perhaps you will kindly release that young lady.
She is my wife! (_CHEVIOT’S arm has crept mechanically round MISS
TREHERNE’S waist._)
_Miss T._ Oh, Cheviot! kindly release me--I am his wife!
_Ch._ Crushed! Crushed! Crushed!
_Sym._ (_looking over his shoulder at letter, reads_). “Turn over.”
_Ch._ (_despairingly_). Why should I? What good would it do? Oh! I see.
I beg your pardon! (_Turns over the page._) Halloa! (_Rises._)
_All._ What?
_Ch._ (_reads_). “P.S.--I may add that the border line runs through the
property. The cottage is undoubtedly in England, though the garden is
in Scotland.”
_Miss T._ And we were married in the garden!
_Ch._ Belinda, we were married in the garden!
[_BELINDA leaves BELVAWNEY, and turns affectionately to CHEVIOT, who
embraces her._]
_Bel._ Belinda, stop a bit! don’t leave me like this!
_Miss T._ (_crosses to BELVAWNEY_). Belvawney, I love you with an
intensity of devotion that I firmly believe will last while I live. But
dear Cheviot is my husband now; he has a claim upon me which it would
be impossible--nay, criminal--to resist. Farewell, Belvawney; Minnie
may yet be yours! (_BELVAWNEY turns sobbing to MINNIE, who comforts
him; MISS T. crosses back to CHEVIOT._) Cheviot--my husband--my own
old love--if the devotion of a lifetime can atone for the misery of
the last few days, it is yours, with every wifely sentiment of pride,
gratitude, admiration, and love.
_Ch._ (_embracing her_). My own! my own! Tender blossom of my budding
hopes! Star of my life! Essence of happiness! Tree upon which the fruit
of my heart is growing! My Past, my Present, my To Come!
[PICTURE.--_CHEVIOT embracing MISS TREHERNE. BELVAWNEY is being
comforted by MINNIE. ANGUS is solacing MAGGIE, and MRS. MACFARLANE
is reposing on MR. SYMPERSON’S bosom._
SWEETHEARTS.
_AN ORIGINAL DRAMATIC CONTRAST_, IN TWO ACTS.
_First produced at the Prince of Wales Theatre, under the management of
MISS MARIE WILTON, Saturday, November 7th, 1874._
CHARACTERS.
MR. HARRY SPREADBROW { Age 21 in Act I. } MR. COGHLAN.
{ Age 51 in Act II. }
WILCOX, _a Gardener_ MR. GLOVER.
MISS JENNY NORTHCOTT { Age 18 in Act I. } MISS M. WILTON.
{ Age 48 in Act II. } (MRS. BANCROFT.)
RUTH, _a Maidservant_ MISS PLOWDEN.
SWEETHEARTS.
ACT I.
DATE--1844.
SCENE.--_The Garden of a pretty Country Villa, The house is new, and
the garden shows signs of having been recently laid out; the shrubs
are small, and the few trees about are moderate in size; small
creepers are trained against the house; an open country in the
distance; a little bridge over a stream forms the entrance to the
garden._
_WILCOX is discovered seated on edge of garden wheelbarrow, preparing
his “bass” for tying up plants; he rises and comes down with
sycamore sapling in his hand; it is carefully done up in matting,
and has a direction label attached to it._
_Wil._ (_reading the label_). “For Miss Northcott, with Mr.
Spreadbrow’s kindest regards.” “_Acer Pseudo Platanus._” Ay, Ay!
sycamore, I suppose, though it ain’t genteel to say so. Humph!
sycamores are common enough in these parts; there ain’t no call, as I
can see, to send a hundred and twenty mile for one. Ah, Mr. Spreadbrow,
no go--no go; it ain’t to be done with “_Acer Pseudo Platanuses_.” Miss
Jenny’s sent better men nor you about their business afore this, and as
you’re agoin’ about your’n of your own free will to-night, and a good
long way too, why I says, no go, no go! If I know Miss Jenny, she’s a
good long job, and you’ve set down looking at your work too long; and
now that it’s come to going, you’ll need to hurry it; and Miss Jenny
ain’t a job to be hurried over, bless her. Take another three months,
and I don’t say there mightn’t be a chance for you; but it’ll take all
that--ah, thank goodness, it’ll take all that!
_Enter JENNY from behind the house, prepared for gardening._
_Jen._ Well, Wilcox, what have you got there? (_He touches his forehead
and gives her the sycamore._) Not my sycamore?
_Wil._ Yes, miss; Mr. Spreadbrow left it last night as the mail passed.
_Jen._ Then he’s returned already? Why, he was not expected for a week,
at least.
_Wil._ He returned quite sudden last night, and left this here plant,
with a message that he would call at twelve o’clock to-day, miss.
_Jen._ I shall be very glad to see him. So this is really a shoot of
the dear old tree!
_Wil._ Come all the way from Lunnon, too. There’s lots of ’em
hereabouts, miss; I could ha’ got you a armful for the asking.
_Jen._ Yes, I dare say; but this comes from the dear old house at
Hampstead.
_Wil._ Do it, now?
_Jen._ You remember the old sycamore on the lawn where Mr. Spreadbrow
and I used to sit and learn our lessons years ago?--well, this is a
piece of it. And as Mr. Spreadbrow was going to London, I asked him to
be so kind as to call, and tell the new people, with his compliments,
that he wanted to cut a shoot from it for a young lady who had a very
pleasant recollection of many very happy hours spent under it. It was
an awkward thing for a nervous young gentleman to do, and it’s very
kind of him to have done it. (_Gives back the plant, which he places
against upper porch of house._) So he’s coming this morning?
_Wil._ Yes, miss, to say good-bye.
_Jen._ (_busies herself at stand of flowers_). Good-bye! “How d’ye do?”
you mean.
_Wil._ No, miss, good-bye. I hear Mr. Spreadbrow’s off to Ingy.
_Jen._ Yes; I believe he is going soon.
_Wil._ Soon? Ah, soon enough! He joins his ship at Southampton
to-night--so he left word yesterday.
_Jen._ To-night? No; not for some weeks yet? (_Alarmed._)
_Wil._ To-night, miss. I had it from his own lips, and he’s coming
to-day to say good-bye.
_Jen._ (_aside_). To-night!
_Wil._ And a good job too, say I, though he’s a nice young gentleman
too.
_Jen._ I don’t see that it’s a good job.
_Wil._ I don’t want no young gentleman hanging about here, miss. I know
what they comes arter;--they comes arter the flowers.
_Jen._ The flowers? What nonsense!
_Wil._ No, it ain’t nonsense. The world’s a haphazard garden where
common vegetables like me, and hardy annuals like my boys, and sour
crabs like my old ’ooman, and pretty delicate flowers like you and your
sisters grow side by side. It’s the flowers they come arter.
_Jen._ Really, Wilcox, if papa don’t object I don’t see what you have
to do with it.
_Wil._ No, your pa don’t object; but I can’t make your pa out, miss.
Walk off with one of his tuppenny toolips and he’s your enemy for life.
Walk off with one of his darters and he settles three hundred a year on
you. Tell ’ee what, miss; if I’d a family of grown gals like you, I’d
stick a conservatory label on each of them--“Please not to touch the
specimens!”--and I’d take jolly good care they didn’t.
_Jen._ At all events, if Mr. Spreadbrow is going away to-night, you
need not be alarmed on my account. I am a flower that is not picked in
a minute.
_Wil._ Well said, miss! And as he _is_ going, and as you won’t see him
no more, I don’t mind saying that a better-spoken young gentleman I
don’t know. A good, honest, straightfor’ard young chap he is--looks you
full in the face with eyes that seem to say, “I’m a open book--turn me
over--look me through and through--read every page of me, and if you
find a line to be ashamed on, tell me of it, and I’ll score it through.”
_Jen._ (_demurely_), I dare say Mr. Spreadbrow is much as other young
men are.
_Wil._ As other young men? No, no--Lord forbid, miss! Come--say a good
word for him, miss, poor young gentleman. He’s said many a good word of
you, I’ll go bail.
_Jen._ Of me?
_Wil._ (_takes ladder which is leaning against the house and places it
against upper porch of house, and, going a little way up it, speaks
this speech from it, JENNY remains seated._) Ay. Why, only Toosday,
when I was at work again the high road, he rides up on his little bay
’oss, and he stands talking to me over the hedge and straining his neck
to catch a sight of you at a window; that was Toosday. “Well, Wilcox,”
says he, “it’s a fine day!”--it rained hard Toosday, but it’s always a
fine day with him. “How’s Miss Northcott?” says he. “Pretty well, sir,”
says I. “Pretty she always is; and well she ought to be if the best of
hearts and the sweetest of natures will do it!” Well, I knew _that_, so
off I goes to another subject, and tries to interest him in drainage,
and subsoils, and junction pipes; but no, nothin’ would do for him, but
he must bring the talk back to _you_. So at last I gets sick of it, and
I up and says: “Look ye here, Mr. Spreadbrow,” says I, “I’m only the
gardener. This is Toosday, and Miss Northcott’s pa’s in the study, and
I dessay _he’ll_ be happy to hear what you’ve got to say about _her_.”
Lord, it’d ha’ done your heart good to see how he flushed up as he
stuck his spurs into the bay and rode off fifteen miles to the hour.
(_Laughing._) That was Toosday.
_Jen._ (_very angrily_). He had no right to talk about me to a servant.
_Wil._ (_coming down from ladder_). But, bless you, don’t be hard on
him, he couldn’t help it, miss. But don’t you be alarmed, he’s going
away to-night, for many and many a long year, and you won’t never be
troubled with _him_ again. He’s going with a heavy heart, take my
word for it, and I see his eyes all wet, when he spoke about saying
good-bye to you; he’d the sorrow in his throat, but he’s a brave lad,
and he gulped it down, though it was as big as an apple. (_Ring._)
There he is. Soothe him kindly, miss--don’t you be afraid, you’re safe
enough--he’s a good lad, and he can’t do no harm now. [_Exit WILCOX._
_Jen._ What does he want to go to-day for? he wasn’t going for three
months. He could remain if he liked; India has gone on very well
without him for five thousand years: it could have waited three
months longer; but men are always in such a hurry. He might have told
me before--he _would_ have done so if he really, really liked me! I
wouldn’t have left _him_--yes I would--but then that’s different. Well,
if some people can go, some people can remain behind, and some other
people will be only too glad to find _some people_ out of their way!
_Enter SPREADBROW, followed by WILCOX._
_Jen._ (_suddenly changes her manner, rises and crosses_). Oh, Mr.
Spreadbrow, how-d’ye-do? Quite well? I’m so glad! Sisters quite well?
That’s right--how kind of you to think of my tree! So you are really
and truly going to India to-night? That _is_ sudden!
_Spread._ Yes, very sudden--terribly sudden. I only heard of my
appointment two days ago, in London, and I’m to join my ship to-night.
It’s very sudden indeed--and--and I’ve come to say good-bye.
_Jen._ Good-bye. (_Offering her hand._)
_Spread._ Oh, but not like that, Jenny! Are you in a hurry?
_Jen._ Oh dear no, I thought you were; won’t you sit down? (_They
sit._) And so your sisters are quite well?
_Spread._ Not very; they are rather depressed at my going so soon. It
may seem strange to you, but they will miss me.
_Jen._ I’m sure they will. I should be terribly distressed at your
going--if I were your sister. And you’re going for so long!
_Spread._ I’m not likely to return for a great many years.
_Jen._ (_with a little suppressed emotion_). I’m so sorry we shall not
see you again. Papa will be very sorry.
_Spread._ More sorry than you will be?
_Jen._ Well, no, I shall be very sorry, too--very, _very_ sorry--there!
_Spread._ How very kind of you to say so.
_Jen._ We have known each other so long--so many years, and we’ve
always been good friends, and it’s always sad to say good-bye for the
last time (_he is delighted_) to anybody! (_he relapses_). It’s so very
sad when one knows for certain that it _must_ be the last time.
_Spread._ I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you say it’s so sad.
But (_hopefully_) my prospects are not altogether hopeless, there’s one
chance for me yet. I’m happy to say I’m extremely delicate, and there’s
no knowing, the climate may not agree with me, and I may be invalided
home! (_very cheerfully_).
_Jen._ Oh! but that would be very dreadful.
_Spread._ Oh, yes, of course it would be dreadful in one sense; but
it--it would have its advantages. (_Looking uneasily at WILCOX, who is
hard at work._) Wilcox is hard at work, I see.
_Jen._ Oh, yes, Wilcox is hard at work. He is very industrious.
_Spread._ Confoundedly industrious! He is working in the sun without
his hat. (_Significantly._)
_Jen._ Poor fellow.
_Spread._ Isn’t it injudicious, at his age?
_Jen._ Oh, I don’t think it will hurt him.
_Spread._ I really think it will. (_He motions to her to send him
away._)
_Jen._ Do you? Wilcox, Mr. Spreadbrow is terribly distressed because
you are working in the sun.
_Wil._ That’s mortal good of him. (_Aside, winking._) They want me to
go. All right; he can’t do much harm now. (_Aloud._) Well, sir, the sun
is hot, and I’ll go and look after the cucumbers away yonder, right at
the other end of the garden. (_WILCOX going--SPREADBROW is delighted._)
_Jen._ No, no, no!--don’t go away! Stop here, only put on your hat.
That’s what Mr. Spreadbrow meant. (_WILCOX puts on his hat._) There,
_now_ are you happy?
_Spread._ I suppose it will soon be his dinner-time?
_Jen._ Oh, he _has_ dined. You _have_ dined, haven’t you, Wilcox?
_Wil._ Oh, yes, miss, _I’ve_ dined, thank ye kindly.
_Jen._ Yes; he has dined! Oh! I quite forgot!
_Spread._ What?
_Jen._ I must interrupt you for a moment, Wilcox; I quite forgot that I
promised to send some flowers to Captain Dampier this afternoon. Will
you cut them for me?
_Wil._ Yes, miss, (_knowingly_). Out of the conservatory, I suppose,
miss? (_WILCOX going, SPREADBROW again delighted._)
_Jen._ No, these will do. (_Pointing to open-air flower
beds--SPREADBROW again disappointed._) Stop, on second thoughts perhaps
you _had_ better take them out of the conservatory, and cut them
carefully--there’s no hurry.
_Wil._ (_aside._) _I_ understand! Well, poor young chap, let him be,
let him be; he’s going to be turned off to-night, and his last meal may
as well be a hearty one. [_Exit WILCOX._
_Spread._ (_rises in great delight_). How good of you--how very kind of
you!
_Jen._ To send Captain Dampier some flowers?
_Spread._ (_much disappointed_). Do you really want to send that fellow
some flowers?
_Jen._ To be sure I do. Why should I have asked Wilcox to cut them?
_Spread._ I thought--I was a great fool to think so--but I thought it
might have been because we could talk more pleasantly alone.
_Jen._ I really wanted some flowers; but, as you say, we certainly can
talk more pleasantly alone. (_She busies herself with preparing the
sycamore._)
_Spread._ I’ve often thought that nothing is such a check on--pleasant
conversation--as the presence of--of--a gardener--who is not interested
in the subject of conversation.
_Jen._ (_gets the tree, and cuts off the matting with which it is bound
with garden scissors which she has brought with her from the table_).
Oh, but Wilcox is very interested in everything that concerns you. Do
let me call him back.
_Spread._ No, no; not on my account!
_Jen._ He and I were having quite a discussion about you when you
arrived. (_Digging a hole for tree._)
_Spread._ About me?
_Jen._ Yes; indeed we almost quarrelled about you.
_Spread._ What, was he abusing me then?
_Jen._ Oh, no; he was speaking of you in the highest terms.
_Spread._ (_much taken aback_). Then--_you_ were abusing me!
_Jen._ N--no, not exactly _that_; I--I didn’t agree with all he
said--(_he is much depressed, she notices this_) at least, not openly.
_Spread._ (_hopefully_). Then you did secretly?
_Jen._ I shan’t tell you.
_Spread._ Why?
_Jen._ Because it will make you dreadfully vain. There!
_Spread._ (_delighted_). Very--very dreadfully vain? (_he takes her
hand_).
_Jen._ Very dreadfully vain indeed. Don’t! (_Withdraws her hand. During
this she is digging the hole, kneeling on the edge of the flower bed;
he advances to her and kneels on edge of bed near her._)
_Spread._ Do you know it’s most delightful to hear you say that? It’s
without exception the most astonishingly pleasant thing I’ve ever heard
in the whole course of my life! (_Sees the sycamore._) Is that the tree
I brought you? (_Rises from his knees._)
_Jen._ Yes. I’m going to plant it just in front of the drawing-room
window, so that I can see it whenever I look out. Will you help me?
(_He prepares to do so; she puts it into the hole._) Is that quite
straight? Hold it up, please, while I fill in the earth. (_He holds it
while she fills in the earth; gradually his hand slips down till it
touches hers._) It’s no use, Mr. Spreadbrow, our both holding it in the
same place! (_He runs his hand up the stem quickly._)
_Spread._ I beg your pardon--very foolish of me.
_Jen._ Very.
_Spread._ I’m very glad there will be something here to make you think
of me when I’m many many thousand miles away, Jenny. For I shall be
always thinking of _you_.
_Jen._ Really, now that’s very nice! It will be so delightful, and so
odd to know that there’s somebody thinking about me right on the other
side of the world!
_Spread._ (_sighing_). Yes. It _will_ be on the other side of the world!
_Jen._ But that’s the delightful part of it--right on the other side of
the world! It will be such fun!
_Spread._ Fun!
_Jen._ Of course, the farther you are away the funnier it will seem.
(_He is approaching her again._) Now keep on the other side of the
world. It’s just the distance that gives the point to it. There are
dozens and dozens of people thinking of me close at hand. (_She rises._)
_Spread._ (_taking her hand_). But not as I think of you, Jenny--dear,
dear Jenny--not as I’ve thought of you for years and years, though I
never dared tell you so till now. I can’t bear to think that anybody
else is thinking of you kindly, earnestly, seriously, as I think of you.
_Jen._ (_earnestly_). You may be quite sure, Harry, quite, quite sure
that you will be the only one who is thinking of me kindly, seriously,
and earnestly (_he is delighted_) in India. (_He relapses--she
withdraws her hand._)
_Spread._ And when this tree, that we have planted together, is a big
tree, you must promise me that you will sit under it every day, and
give a thought now and then to the old playfellow who gave it to you.
_Jen._ A big tree! Oh, but this little plant will never live to be a
big tree, surely?
_Spread._ Yes, if you leave it alone, it grows very rapidly.
_Jen._ Oh, but I’m not going to have a big tree right in front of the
drawing-room window! It will spoil the view, it will be an eyesore. We
had better plant it somewhere else.
_Spread._ (_bitterly_). No, let it be, you can cut it down when it
becomes an eyesore. It grows very rapidly, but it will, no doubt, have
lost all interest in your eyes long before it becomes an eyesore.
_Jen._ But Captain Dampier says that a big tree in front of a window
checks the current of fresh air.
_Spread._ Oh, if Captain Dampier says so, remove it.
_Jen._ Now don’t be ridiculous about Captain Dampier; I’ve a very great
respect for his opinion on such matters.
_Spread._ I’m sure you have. You see a great deal of Captain Dampier,
don’t you?
_Jen._ Yes, and we shall see a great deal more of him; he’s going to
take the Grange next door.
_Spread._ (_bitterly_). That will be very convenient.
_Jen._ (_demurely_). Very.
_Spread._ (_jealously_). You seem to admire Captain Dampier very much.
_Jen._ I think he is very good-looking. Don’t you?
_Spread._ He’s well enough--for a small man.
_Jen._ Perhaps he’ll grow.
_Spread._ Is Captain Dampier going to live here always?
_Jen._ Yes, until he marries.
_Spread._ (_eagerly_). Is--is he likely to marry?
_Jen._ I don’t know. (_Demurely._) Perhaps he may.
_Spread._ But whom--whom?
_Jen._ (_bashfully_). Haven’t you heard? I thought you knew!
_Spread._ (_excitedly_). No, no, I don’t know; I’ve heard nothing.
Jenny--dear Jenny--tell me the truth, don’t keep anything from me,
don’t leave me to find it out; it will be terrible to hear of it out
there; and, if you have ever liked me--and I’m sure you have--tell me
the whole truth at once!
_Jen._ (_bashfully_). Perhaps, as an old friend, I ought to have told
you before; but indeed, indeed I thought you knew. Captain Dampier is
engaged to be married to--to--my cousin Emmie.
_Spread._ (_intensely relieved_). To your cousin Emmie. Oh, thank you,
thank you, thank you! Oh, my dear, dear Jenny, do--do let me take your
hand. (_Takes her hand and shakes it enthusiastically._)
_Jen._ Are you going?
_Spread._ No. (_Releasing it--much cast down._) I was going to ask
you to do me a great favour, and I thought I could ask it better if I
had hold of your hand. I was going to ask you if you would give me a
flower--any flower, I don’t care what it is.
_Jen._ (_affecting surprise_). A flower? Why, of course I will. But why?
_Spread._ (_earnestly_). That I may have a token of you and of our
parting wherever I go; that I may possess an emblem of you that I shall
never--never part with, that I can carry about with me night and day
wherever I go, throughout my whole life.
_Jen._ (_apparently much affected, crosses slowly, stoops and takes up
large geranium in pot_). Will this be too big?
_Spread._ (_disconcerted_). But I mean a flower--only a flower.
_Jen._ Oh, but do have a bunch! Wilcox shall pick you a beauty.
_Spread._ No, no; I want you to pick it for me. I don’t care what it
is--a daisy will do--if _you_ pick it for me!
_Jen._ What an odd notion! (_Crossing to flower-stand, and picking a
piece of mignonette--he puts down flower-pot by bed._) There! (_picking
a flower and giving it to him_) will that do?
_Spread._ I can’t tell you how inestimably I shall prize this flower.
I will keep it while I live, and whatever good fortune may be in store
for me, nothing can ever be so precious in my eyes.
_Jen._ I had no idea you were so fond of flowers. Oh, do have some more!
_Spread._ No, no--but--you must let me give you this in return; I
brought it for you, Jenny dear--dear Jenny! Will you take it from me?
(_Takes a rose from his button-hole, and offers it._)
_Jen._ (_amused and surprised_). Oh yes! (_Takes it and puts it down on
the table carelessly--he notices this with much emotion._)
_Spread._ Well, I’ve got to say good-bye; there’s no reason why it
shouldn’t be said at once. (_Holding out his hand._) Good-bye, Jenny!
_Jen._ (_cheerfully_). Good-bye! (_He stands for a moment with her hand
in his--she crosses to porch._)
_Spread._ Haven’t--haven’t you anything to say to me?
_Jen._ (_after thinking it over_). No, I don’t think there’s anything
else. No--nothing. (_She leans against the porch--he stands over her._)
_Spread._ Jenny, I’m going away to-day, for years and years, or I
wouldn’t say what I’m going to say--at least not yet. I’m little
more than a boy, Jenny; but if I were eighty, I couldn’t be more in
earnest--indeed I couldn’t! Parting for so many years is like death to
me; and if I don’t say what I’m going to say before I go, I shall never
have the pluck to say it after. We were boy and girl together, and--and
I loved you then--and every year I’ve loved you more and more; and now
that I’m a man, and you are nearly a woman, I--I--Jenny dear--I’ve
nothing more to say!
_Jen._ How you astonish me!
_Spread._ Astonish you? Why, you know that I loved you.
_Jen._ Yes, yes; as a boy loves a girl--but now that I am a woman it’s
impossible that you can care for me.
_Spread._ Impossible--because you are a woman!
_Jen._ You see it’s so unexpected.
_Spread._ Unexpected?
_Jen._ Yes. As children it didn’t matter, but it seems so shocking for
grown people to talk about such things. And then, not gradually, but
all at once--in a few minutes. It’s awful!
_Spread._ Oh, Jenny, think. I’ve no time to delay--my having to go has
made me desperate. One kind word from you will make me go away happy:
without that word, I shall go in unspeakable sorrow. Jenny, Jenny, say
one kind word!
_Jen._ (_earnestly_). Tell me what to say?
_Spread._ It must come from you, my darling; say whatever is on your
lips--whether for good or ill--I can bear it now.
_Jen._ Well, then: I wish you a very very pleasant voyage--and I hope
you will be happy and prosperous--and you must take great care of
yourself--and you can’t think how glad I shall be to know that you
think of me, now and then, in India. There!
_Spread._ Is that all?
_Jen._ Yes, I think that’s all. (_Reflectively._) Yes--that’s all.
_Spread._ Then--(_with great emotion which he struggles to suppress_)
there’s nothing left but to say good-bye--(_Music in orchestra till end
of Act, “Good-bye, Sweetheart”_)--and I hope you will always be happy,
and that, when you marry, you will marry a good fellow who will--who
will--who will---- Good-bye! [_Exit, rapidly._
[_JENNY watches him out--sits down, leaving the gate open--hums
an air gaily--looks round to see if he is coming back--goes
on humming--takes up the flower he has given her--plays with
it--gradually falters, and at last bursts into tears, laying her
head on the table over the flower he has given her, and sobbing
violently._
ACT II.
SCENE.--_The same as in Act I., with such additions and changes as
may be supposed to have taken place in thirty years. The house,
which was bare in Act I., is now entirely covered with Virginia
and other creepers; the garden is much more fully planted than in
Act I., and trees that were small in Act I. are tall and bushy
now; the general arrangement of the garden is the same, except
that the sycamore planted in Act I. has developed into a large
tree, the boughs of which roof in the stage; the landscape has also
undergone a metamorphosis, inasmuch as that which was open country
in Act I. is now covered with picturesque semi-detached villas, and
there are indications of a large town in the distance. The month
is September, and the leaves of the Virginia creepers wear their
autumn tint._
_JENNY discovered seated on a bench at the foot of the tree, and RUTH
is standing by her side, holding a skein of cotton, which JENNY is
winding. JENNY is now a pleasant-looking middle-aged lady._
_Jen._ Have you any fault to find with poor Tom?
_Ruth._ No, miss, I’ve no fault to find with Tom. But a girl can’t
marry every young man she don’t find fault with, can she now, miss?
_Jen._ Certainly not, Ruth. But Tom seems to think you have given him
some cause to believe that you are fond of him.
_Ruth_ (_bridling up_). It’s like his impudence, miss, to say so! Fond
of _him_ indeed!
_Jen._ He hasn’t said so, Ruth, but I’m quite sure he thinks so. I
have noticed of late that you have taken a foolish pleasure in playing
fast and loose with poor Tom, and this has made him very unhappy--very
unhappy indeed; so much so that I think it is very likely that he will
make up his mind to leave my service altogether.
_Ruth_ (_piqued_). Oh, miss, if Tom can make up his mind to go, I’m
sure _I_ wouldn’t stand in his way for worlds.
_Jen._ But I think you would be sorry if he did.
_Ruth._ Oh yes, miss, I should be sorry to part with Tom!
_Jen._ Then I think it’s only right to tell you that the foolish fellow
talks about enlisting for a soldier, and if he does it at all, he will
do it to-night.
_Ruth_ (_with some emotion_). Oh, miss, for that, I do like Tom very
much indeed; but if he wants to ’list, of course he’s his own master,
and if he’s really fond of me, what does he want to go and ’list for?
(_Going to cry._) One would think he would like to be where he could
talk to me, and look at me--odd times! I’m sure I don’t want Tom to go
and ’list!
_Jen._ Then take the advice of an old lady, who knows something of
these matters, and tell him so before it’s too late--you foolish,
foolish girl! Ah, Ruth, I’ve no right to be hard on you! I’ve been a
young and foolish girl like yourself in my time, and I’ve done many
thoughtless things that I’ve learnt to be very sorry for. I’m not
reproaching you--but I’m speaking to you out of the fulness of my
experience, and take my word for it, if you treat poor Tom lightly, you
may live to be very sorry for it too! (_Taking her hand._) There, I’m
not angry with you, my dear, but if I’d taken the advice I’m giving
you, I shouldn’t be a lonely old lady at a time of life when a good
husband has his greatest value. (_Ring._) Go and see who’s at the gate!
[_Exit JENNY. RUTH goes to the gate, wiping her eyes on her
apron--she opens it._
_Enter SPREADBROW (now SIR HENRY)._
_Spread._ My dear, is this Mr. Braybrook’s?
_Ruth._ Yes, sir.
_Spread._ Is he at home?
_Ruth._ No, sir, he is not; but mistress is.
_Spread._ Will you give your mistress my card? (_Feeling for his
card-case._) Dear me, I’ve left my cards at home! Never mind--will you
tell your mistress that a gentleman will be greatly indebted to her, if
she will kindly spare him a few minutes of her time? Do you think you
can charge yourself with that message?
_Ruth._ Mistress is in the garden, sir; I’ll run and tell her, if
you’ll take a seat. [_Exit RUTH._
_Spread._ That’s a good girl! (_He sits on seat._) I couldn’t make up
my mind to pass the old house without framing an excuse to take a peep
at it. (_Looks round._) Very nice--very pretty--but, dear me, on a very
much smaller scale than I fancied. Remarkable changes in thirty years!
(_Rises and walks round trees, looking about._) Why, the place is a
town, and a railway runs right through it. And this is really the old
garden in which I spent so many pleasant hours? Poor little Jenny!--I
wonder what’s become of her? Pretty little girl, but with a tendency
to stoutness; if she’s alive, I’ll be bound she’s fat. So this is Mr.
Braybrook’s, is it? I wonder who Braybrook is--I don’t remember any
family of that name hereabouts. (_Looking off._) This, I suppose, is
Mrs. Braybrook. Now, how in the world am I to account for my visit?
_Enter JENNY--she curtsies formally, he bows._
I beg your pardon, I hardly know how to explain this intrusion.
Perhaps I had better state my facts, they will plead my apology:--I
am an old Indian civilian, who, having returned to England after many
years’ absence, is whiling away a day in his native place, and amusing
himself with polishing old memories--bright enough once, but sadly
tarnished--sadly tarnished!
_Jen._ Indeed? May I hope that you have succeeded?
_Spread._ Indifferently well--indifferently well. The fact is, I hardly
know where I am, for all my old landmarks are swept away; I assure you
I am within the mark, when I say that this house is positively the only
place I can identify.
_Jen._ The town has increased very rapidly of late.
_Spread._ Rapidly! When I left, there were not twenty houses in
the place, but (_politely_) that was long before your time. I left
a village, I find a town--I left a beadle, I find a mayor and
corporation--I left a pump, I find a statue to a borough member. The
inn is a “Palace Hotel Company--” the alms-house a county jail--the
pound is a police station, and the common a colony of semi-detached
bungalows! Everything changed, including myself--everything new, except
myself--ha, ha!
_Jen._ I shall be glad to offer you any assistance in my power, I
should be a good guide, for I have lived here thirty-two years!
_Spread._ Thirty-two years! is it possible? Then surely I ought to know
you? (_He feels for his glasses._) My name is Spreadbrow--Sir Henry
Spreadbrow!
_Jen._ Spreadbrow! (_Putting on spectacles._) Is it possible? Why, my
very dear old friend (_offering both her hands_), don’t you recollect
me?
_Spread._ (_he puts on his double eye-glass, takes both her hands_).
God bless me!--is it possible?--and this is really you!--you don’t say
so! Dear me, dear me! Well, well, well! I assure you I am delighted,
most unaffectedly delighted, to renew our friendship! (_Shaking hands
again, they sit under tree and look at each other curiously._)
_Spread._ Not changed a bit! My dear Jane, you really must allow me.
(_They shake hands again._) And now tell me, how is Mr. Braybrook?
_Jen._ (_rather surprised_). Oh, Mr. Braybrook is very well; I expect
him home presently; he will be very glad to see you, for he has often
heard me speak of you.
_Spread._ Has he indeed? It will give me the greatest--the very
greatest possible pleasure, believe me (_very emphatically_), to make
his acquaintance.
_Jen._ (_still surprised at his emphatic manner_). I’m sure he will be
delighted.
_Spread._ Now tell me all about yourself. Any family?
_Jen._ (_puzzled_). I beg your pardon?
_Spread._ Any family?
_Jen._ Mr. Braybrook?
_Spread._ Well--yes.
_Jen._ Mr. Braybrook is a bachelor.
_Spread._ A bachelor? Then let me understand--am I not speaking to Mrs.
Braybrook?
_Jen._ No, indeed you are not! Ha, ha! (_much amused_). Mr. Braybrook
is my nephew; the place belongs to him now.
_Spread._ Oh! then, my dear Jane, may I ask who you are?
_Jen._ I am not married.
_Spread._ Not married!
_Jen._ No; I keep house for my nephew.
_Spread._ Why, you don’t mean to sit there and look me in the face and
tell me, after thirty years, that you are still Jane Northbrook?
_Jen._ (_rather hurt at the mistake_). Northcott.
_Spread._ Northcott, of course. I beg your pardon--I should have said
Northcott. And you are not Mrs. Braybrook? You are not even married!
Why, what were they about--what were they about? Not married! Well,
now, do you know, I am very sorry to hear that. I am really more sorry
and disappointed than I can tell you. (_She looks surprised and rather
hurt._) You’d have made an admirable wife, Jane, and an admirable
mother. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to find that you are still Jane
Northbrook--I should say, Northcott.
_Jen._ The same in name--much changed in everything else. (_Sighing._)
_Spread._ Changed? Not a bit--I won’t hear of it. I knew you the
moment I saw you! We are neither of us changed. Mellowed perhaps--a
little mellowed, but what of that? Who shall say that the blossom is
pleasanter to look upon than the fruit? Not I for one, Jane--not I for
one.
_Jen._ Time has dealt very kindly with us, but we’re old folks now,
Henry Spreadbrow. (_Rises._)
_Spread._ I won’t allow it, Jane--I won’t hear it. (_Rises._) What
constitutes youth? A head of hair? Not at all; I was as bald as an egg
at five and twenty--babies are always bald. Eyesight? Some people are
born blind. Years? Years are an arbitrary impertinence. Am I an old man
or you an old woman, because the earth contrives to hurry round the sun
in three hundred and sixty-five days? Why, Saturn can’t do it in thirty
years. If I had been born on Saturn I should be two years old, ma’am--a
public nuisance in petticoats. Let us be thankful that I was not born
on Saturn. No--no, as long as I can ride to cover twice a week, walk my
five and twenty miles without turning a hair, go to bed at twelve, get
up at six, turn into a cold tub and like it, I’m a boy, Jane--a boy--a
boy!
_Jen._ And you are still unmarried?
_Spread._ I? Oh dear, yes--very much so. No time to think of marriage.
Plenty of opportunity, mind, but no leisure to avail myself of it. I’ve
had a bustling time of it, I assure you, Jane, working hard at the Bar
and on the Bench, with some success--with some success; (_sits again_)
and now that I’ve done my work, I throw myself back in my easy-chair,
fold my hands, cross my legs, and prepare to enjoy myself. Life is
before me, and I’m going to begin it. Ha, ha! And so we are really Jane
Northcott still?
_Jen._ Still Jane Northcott.
_Spread._ I’m indignant to hear it--I assure you that I am positively
indignant to hear it. You would have made some fellow so infernally
happy; (_rises_) I’m sorry for that fellow’s sake--I don’t know him,
but still I am sorry. Ah, I wish I had remained in England. I do wish,
for the very first time since I left it, that I had remained in England.
_Jen._ Indeed! And why?
_Spread._ Why? Because I should have done my best to remove that
reproach from society. I should indeed, Jane! Ha, ha! After all, it
don’t much matter, for you wouldn’t have had me. Oh yes! you had no
idea of it; but, do you know, I’ve a great mind to tell you--I _will_
tell you. Do you know, I was in love with you at one time. Boy and
girl, you know--boy and girl. Ha, ha! _you’d_ no idea of it, but I was!
_Jen._ (_in wonder_). Oh yes; I knew it very well.
_Spread._ (_much astonished_). You knew it? You knew that I was
attached to you!
_Jen._ Why, of course I did!
_Spread._ Did you, indeed! Bless me, you don’t say so! Now that’s
amazingly curious. Leave a woman alone to find _that_ out! It’s
instinctive, positively instinctive. Now, my dear Jane, I’m a very
close student of human nature, and in pursuit of that study I should
like above all things to know by what signs you detected my secret
admiration for you. (_Takes her hand._)
_Jen._ Why, bless the man! There was no mystery in the matter! You told
me all about it!
_Spread._ I told you all about it?
_Jen._ Certainly you did--here, in this garden.
_Spread._ That I admired you--loved you?
_Jen._ Most assuredly! Surely you’ve not forgotten it. (_He drops her
hand._) _I_ haven’t.
_Spread._ I remember that I had the impertinence to be very fond of
you. I forgot that I had the impertinence to tell you so. I remember it
now. I made a fool of myself. I remember it by that. I told you that I
adored you, didn’t I?--that you were as essential to me as the air I
breathed--that it was impossible to support existence without you--that
your name should be the most hallowed of earthly words, and so forth.
Ha, ha! my dear Jane, before I’d been a week on board I was saying the
same thing to a middle-aged governess whose name has entirely escaped
me. (_She has exhibited signs of pleasure during the earlier part of
this speech, and disappointment at the last two lines._) What fools we
make of ourselves!
_Jen._ And of others!
_Spread._ Oh, I meant it, Jane; I meant every word I said to you.
_Jen._ And the governess?
_Spread._ And the governess! I would have married you, Jane.
_Jen._ And the governess?
_Spread._ And the governess! I’d have married _her_, if she had
accepted me--but she didn’t. Perhaps it was as well--she was a widow
with five children--I cursed my destiny at the time, but I’ve forgiven
it since. I talked of blowing out my brains. I’m glad I didn’t do it,
as I’ve found them useful in my profession. Ha! ha! (_Looking round;
JENNY stands watching him._) The place has changed a good deal since my
time--improved--improved--we’ve all three improved. I don’t quite like
this tree, though--it’s in the way. What is it? A kind of beech, isn’t
it?
_Jen._ No, it’s a sycamore.
_Spread._ Ha! I don’t understand English trees--but it’s a curious
place for a big tree like this, just outside the drawing-room window.
Isn’t it in the way?
_Jen._ It _is_ rather in the way.
_Spread._ I don’t like a tree before a window, it checks the current of
fresh air--don’t you find that?
_Jen._ It _does_ check the current of fresh air.
_Spread._ Then the leaves blow into the house in autumn, and that’s a
nuisance--and besides, it impedes the view.
_Jen._ It is certainly open to these objections.
_Spread._ Then cut it down, my dear Jane. Why don’t you cut it down?
_Jen._ Cut it down! I wouldn’t cut it down for worlds. That tree is
identified in my mind with many happy recollections.
_Spread._ Remarkable the influence exercised by associations over a
woman’s mind. Observe--you take a house, mainly because it commands a
beautiful view. You apportion the rooms principally with reference to
that view. You lay out your garden at great expense to harmonize with
that view, and, having brought that view into the very best of all
possible conditions for the full enjoyment of it, you allow a gigantic
and wholly irrelevant tree to block it all out for the sake of the
sentimental ghost of some dead and gone sentimental reality! Take my
advice and have it down. If I had had anything to do with it, you would
never have planted it. I shouldn’t have allowed it!
_Jen._ You had so much to do with it that it was planted there at your
suggestion.
_Spread._ At mine? Never saw it before in my life.
_Jen._ We planted it together thirty years ago--the day you sailed for
India.
_Spread._ It appears to me that that was a very eventful day in my
career. We planted it together! I have no recollection of having ever
planted a gigantic sycamore anywhere. And we did it together! Why, it
would take a dozen men to move it.
_Jen._ It was a sapling then--you cut it for me.
_Spread._ (_suddenly and with energy_). From the old sycamore in the
old garden at Hampstead! Why, I remember; I went to London expressly
to get it for you. (_Laughing--sitting on her left._) And the next day
I called to say good-bye, and I found you planting it, and I helped;
and as I was helping I found an opportunity to seize your hand. (_Does
so._) I grasped it--pressed it to my lips--(_does so_), and said, “My
dear, dear Jenny” (_he drops her hand suddenly_), and so forth. Never
mind _what_ I said--but I meant it--I meant it! (_Laughs heartily--she
joins him, but her laughter is evidently forced--eventually she shows
signs of tears, which he doesn’t notice._) It all comes back with a
distinctness which is absolutely photographic. I begged you to give me
a flower--you gave me one--a sprig of geranium.
_Jen._ Mignonette.
_Spread._ _Was_ it mignonette? I think you’re right--it was mignonette.
I seized it--pressed it to my trembling lips--placed it next my
fluttering heart, and swore that come what might I would never, never
part with it!--I wonder what I did with that flower!--And then I took
one from my button hole--begged you to take it--you took it, and--ha,
ha, ha!--you threw it down carelessly on the table, and thought no more
about it, you heartless creature--ha, ha, ha! Oh, I was very angry! I
remember it perfectly; it was a camellia.
_Jen._ (_half crying aside_). Not a camellia, I think.
_Spread._ Yes, a camellia, a large white camellia.
_Jen._ I don’t think it was a camellia; I rather think it was a rose.
_Spread._ Nonsense, Jane--come, come, you hardly looked at it,
miserable little flirt that you were; and you pretend, after thirty
years, to stake your recollection of the circumstance against mine? No,
no, Jane, take my word for it, it was a camellia.
_Jen._ I’m sure it was a rose!
_Spread._ No, I’m sure it was a camellia.
_Jen._ (_in tears_). Indeed--indeed, it was a rose. (_Produces a
withered rose from a pocket-book--he is very much impressed--looks at
it and at her, and seems much affected._)
_Spread._ Why, Jane, my dear Jane, you don’t mean to say that this is
the very flower?
_Jen._ That is the very flower! (_Rising._)
_Spread._ Strange! You seemed to attach no value to it when I gave it
to you, you threw it away as something utterly insignificant; and when
I leave, you pick it up, and keep it for thirty years! (_Rising._) My
dear Jane, how like a woman!
_Jen._ And you seized the flower I gave you--pressed it to your lips,
and swore that wherever your good or ill fortune might carry you, you
would never part with it; and--and you quite forgot what became of it!
My dear Harry, how like a man!
_Spread._ I was deceived, my dear Jane--deceived! I had no idea that
you attached so much value to my flower.
_Jen._ We were both deceived, Henry Spreadbrow.
_Spread._ Then is it possible that in treating me as you did, Jane, you
were acting a part?
_Jen._ We were both acting parts--but the play is over, and there’s an
end of it. (_With assumed cheerfulness._) Let us talk of something else.
_Spread._ No, no, Jane, the play is _not_ over--we will talk of
nothing else--the play is not nearly over. (_Music in orchestra, “John
Anderson my Jo.”_) My dear Jane--(_rising and taking her hand_), my
very dear Jane--believe me, for I speak from my hardened old heart,
so far from the play being over, the serious interest is only just
beginning. (_He kisses her hand--they walk towards the house._)
DAN’L DRUCE, BLACKSMITH.
_A NEW AND ORIGINAL DRAMA_, IN THREE ACTS.
_First performed at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, on Monday September
11th, 1876._
An incident in the First Act was suggested by George Eliot’s Novel
“Silas Marner.”
CHARACTERS.
SIR JASPER COMBE, _a Royalist Colonel_ MR. HOWE.
DAN’L DRUCE MR. HERMANN VEZIN.
REUBEN HAINES, _a Royalist Sergeant_ MR. ODELL.
GEOFFREY WYNYARD, _a Merchant Sailor_ MR. FORBES ROBERTSON.
MARPLE MR. BRAID.
JOE RIPLEY, _a Fisherman_ MR. WEATHERSBY.
SERGEANT } _Of the Parliamentary_ { MR. C. ALLBROOK.
SOLDIER } _Army_ { MR. FIELDER.
DOROTHY MISS MARION TERRY.
_The First Act is supposed to take place shortly after the Battle of
Worcester._
An interval of fourteen years between the First and Second Acts.
ACT I.
A RUINED HUT ON THE NORFOLK COAST.
ACT II.
DAN’L DRUCE’S FORGE.
ACT III.
INTERIOR OF DRUCE’S COTTAGE.
DAN’L DRUCE, BLACKSMITH.
ACT I.
SCENE.--_Interior of DAN’L DRUCE’S hut, a tumble-down old shanty, of
the rudest description; with very small wood fire. The whole place
is as squalid and miserable as possible. Wind and snow without.
Rain and wind heard each time door is opened. Night._
_Rip._ (_without_). Hullo! Dan’l, art within? (_Knocks._) Dan’l, I
say, open, will you? (_He kicks the door open._) Why, the hut’s empty.
Where’s the old devil gone, I wonder? Come in, master, out of the storm.
_Enter MARPLE._
Don’t be afeard (_MARPLE shuts door_); he’ll be a bit rusty, to be
sure, at our coming in without leave, but that’ll blow off sooner than
the gale outside.
_Mar._ Is the man away?
_Rip._ Nay, he’s never a hundred yards from this; he’s hauling up his
boat on the beach, maybe, or taking in his nets, and making all snug
and taut for the night; and well he may, for the devil’s let loose, and
there’ll be mischief afore morning. The devil likes these here Norfolk
coasts, burn him!
_Mar._ And so Jonas lives here.
_Rip._ Jonas? No, Dan’l--Dan’l Druce.
_Mar._ Well, Dan’l Druce, if that’s what he calls himself. It’s a
strange hole for such a man as he!
_Rip._ It’s a fit hole for such a dog as he! A surly, scowling,
drunken, miserly, half-starved cur! Never was a sulky hound so far
athwart the world’s ways as Dan’l Druce. Why, he’s as rich as a Jew,
and never gave bit nor sup to a soul in the town. Oh, take my word for
it, it’s a fit hole for such as he. There’s only one fitter, and I wish
he was in it!
_Mar._ Stop that cursed red rag of yours, will you?
_Rip._ Come, come, civil words, master, civil words!
_Mar._ Set the example. I am this man’s brother.
_Rip._ (_aside_). Well, you’ve got the family tongue in your head,
anyhow. If you’re his brother, maybe you know how he came to live here
all alone?
_Mar._ Maybe I do.
_Rip._ They say that before he came here--a matter o’ three or four
years since--he was a decent sort o’ body enough, a blacksmith, I _do_
hear, but he got struck half silly like through some bad luck, and he’s
been a changed man ever since.
_Mar._ Oh, they say that, do they?
_Rip._ Ay. Well, I don’t know what he _was_, but I know what he
_is_; that’s enough for me. The scowlingest, black-browedest,
three-corneredest chap _I_ ever see, ’cept as regards children, and
he’s as fond o’ children as a young girl, and the littler they are the
more he likes ’em, and they likes him. Now, I’m as tender-hearted as a
kitten, but I _hates_ children, and they can’t abide me. That’s odd,
ain’t it?
_Mar._ Ay.
_Rip._ Yes, that’s Dan’l Druce’s story as far as we knows it down in
these parts. Maybe you know more?
_Mar._ Maybe I do.
_Rip._ Now, I dare swear there was a woman at the bottom of it all. I
never got _my_ chain cable kinked but a woman had a hand in it.
_Mar._ (_coming forward_). Hark ye, my lad, you’re hard on women. From
the look of you, I’ve a notion no woman ever had much to do with any
trouble of yours, saving your mother when she bore you. No, no, your
tongue’s done all the mischief that ever come to _you_. You let women
alone; I’m sure they never interfere with _you_.
_Enter DAN’L DRUCE. He has a bundle of nets over his shoulder, and
he is half tipsy. His appearance is that of a man of fifty, but
haggard with want. His hair is long and matted, and he has a beard
of some days’ growth on his chin._
_Dan._ Hullo! Who’s that? Joe Ripley, eh? Why, Joe Ripley, what dost
thou do skulking in other men’s huts when they’re away? Nothing to lay
hands on _here_, Joe Ripley. And thou’st brought a friend, eh? Didst
thee think there was too much plunder for a man to carry that thou’st
brought an ass to help thee? There’s nowt for thee here. Take thine
ugly face into the storm; maybe thou’lt get it battered straight. Come,
out wi’ ’ee!
_Rip._ Hold thy peace, man. I want nowt of thine. I’ve brought thee
money for thy two nets.
_Dan._ Where is it?
_Rip._ And here’s a man as says he’s thy brother--and I wish him joy
o’ his brotherhood! I found him in the village asking for thee, so I
brought him to thee. (_MARPLE holds out his hand._)
_Dan._ (_not heeding him_). Gi’ me the money.
_Mar._ Dost thou not know me, Jonas Marple?
_Dan._ Dead. Dead three years ago.
_Mar._ Ay, thou gavest thyself out as dead, that _he_ might make an
honest woman of her.
_Dan._ Thou liest, she _was_ an honest woman, for all she left me.
’Twas him that stole her, God bless her! Jonas Marple died the day she
left him. I’m Dan’l Druce.
_Rip._ I knew there was a woman in it.
_Mar._ And if Jonas _be_ dead, hast thou no word of welcome to Jonas’s
brother?
_Dan._ None! (_To RIPLEY._) Gi’ me the money.
_Rip._ There! Ay, count it; we’re all thieves and liars. (_To MARPLE._)
That’s his craze. Is it right?
_Dan._ I dunno, I can’t count to-night. Let it be, I’ll count it
to-morrow. (_To MARPLE._) How didst thou find me?
_Mar._ I found thee through this fellow. I was in the town on law
business, and I heard men talk of such a one as thou, and I asked and
asked, and found out that thou wast the brother who used to work wi’
me. I’ve come to ask thee to come back to us, and be the man thou wast
wont to be. Come, man, be thine old self, thou canst not be better;
throw off thy present self, thou canst not be worse!
_Dan._ Not worse? Why, man, I’m a king, alone here! Here I live, free
from liars and thieves, alone! alone! What, back to the world, the
hollow, lying world? Not I! Back to the rock on which my ship was
wrecked? Not I! Back to the den of thieves that stripped me? Not I! No,
no; I don’t find fish come back to my nets when once they’ve slipped
through the meshes, and I’m no more a fool than my fish. See here--I’ve
lived here nigh upon four years, and ’cepting some such gaping fool as
him (_indicating RIPLEY_), I’ve seen no soul, and no soul’s seen me.
I’ve done harm to none, and none’s done harm to me. I’ve told no lies,
and no lies ain’t been told me. I’ve robbed no one, and no one’s robbed
me. Can any one who walks the world say as much? I’ve lived on the fish
I’ve caught, the garden I’ve dug, and I’ve saved money by the nets
I’ve made, not much--a trifle to such as thou, and I’ve sent it far
from here--I never keep it here, no, no. I’ve no hopes, no cares, no
fears. And thou askest me to go back to the foul old world, the world
that poor dead and gone Jonas Marple was robbed in; the bitter black
world that blighted his poor harmless life. No! I’m going to bide here.
_Mar._ Well, as thou wilt, Jonas.
_Dan._ Dan’l--that’s my name, Dan’l Druce. Jonas Marple died the day
his wife left him. His wife’s a widow, and, mayhap, married again. God
bless her!
_Rip._ Thou’lt do no good wi’ him, there’s a devil’s flare in his eyes;
best let him bide.
_Dan._ Ay, best let him bide. I’m a poor thing of skin and bone; and
this here arm, which made light of a forty-pound hammer four years
since, is but a soft-roed thing now; but when muscle went out, devil
come in; steer clear o’ me, and let me bide.
_Mar._ Thou’rt sadly changed: it’s fearsome to see a good, honest,
hearty soul changed into the white-faced ghost of what he was. Time was
when every beggar had the pulling of thy poor purse-strings, and none
were turned empty away from the door. To think that Jonas Marple should
have earned the name of miser!
_Dan._ Does it seem so strange to thee? Hast thou e’er known what it is
to set thy heart night and day on one object, to dream of it, sleepin’
and wakin’, to find the hope of it flavouring thy meat and drink, and
weavin’ itself so into thy life that every thought o’ thy brain is born
of it, and every deed o’ thy hand has some bearin’ on it? And havin’
done all this, and so fashioned, and twisted, and turned, and trimmed
the chances at thy hand that the one hope of thy soul shall be helped
on by it, hast thou known what it is to find, at one bitter, black
blow, thy hope made hopeless, thy love loveless, thy life lifeless? So
did I hope and pray to be blessed with a little child--so was my hope
withered when I thought it sure of fulfilment. I had a store of love
in my battered heart to _set on some one thing of my creating_; it was
there for that end, and for none other. When _she_ left me (curse him!)
I knew, for certain, that one thing would never be of flesh and blood,
and it never will, for the love of my heart is given over to the next
best thing--gold and silver, gold and silver. Ay, brother, I love my
gold as other men love their bairns; it’s of my making, and I love it,
I love it! A mean and sordid love, maybe, but hard, and bad, and base
as thou thinkest me, I’ve prayed a thousand times that my gold might
take a living form, that the one harmless old hope of my wrecked life
might come true.
_Mar._ The age of miracles is past, Jonas. Well, I’ve said my say and
done my do. Stay where thou art, and Heaven forgive thee, Jonas Marple.
_Dan._ (_sternly_). He’s dead!
_Mar._ (_warmly_). He is; dead to the call of reason, dead to the
voice of human love, dead to everything that marks a reasoning man off
from the beasts that perish. Thou hast well said, Jonas Marple _is_
dead--rest his soul!
_Dan._ Amen! Now go.
[_MARPLE, after a pause, shrugs his shoulders, and exit with RIPLEY._
_Dan._ Ay, he’s dead, dead, dead! He died then, that the blackest devil
that ever cursed this earth might put her right with the world. Heaven
send he has done so! And the bairn! It was promised to me,--promised,
but the promise was a lie, a damned black lie--not hers, no, no! not
hers, but the double-dyed devil who stole her from me. (_Opens a hole
in the floor in front of stool, and takes out a bag of money._) This
is my bairn now (_handling the money_); see, here’s another day to thy
life, another inch to thy height; grow as thou growest, child, and
thou’lt be a golden beauty ere long. Gold, the best thing in the world;
“as good as gold,”--why, it’s a saying; the best thing on earth to
make a bairn of! Here’s a child that’ll never grow up to bring sorrow
on its dad’s head, that costs nowt to keep, and never grows so big but
you wish it bigger--my bairn! I’ve worked for thee and starved for thee
that I might see thee grow, and thou hast growed, growed right royally!
Lie here, my beauty, lie there in peace; I’ll never wake thee but to
add to thy life, my bairn, my beautiful golden bairn!
[_The door is suddenly burst open, and SIR JASPER COMBE enters
hurriedly, followed by REUBEN as if pursued. They are both very
ragged and dirty, dressed in torn and faded Royalist uniforms; SIR
JASPER, an officer, REUBEN, a sergeant. REUBEN carries a child of
three or four years of age, wrapped in a cloak, so as not to be
seen by DAN’L. They close the door hurriedly, and listen for their
pursuers. REUBEN places child on locker._
_Jas._ At last! safe at last from the yelping bloodhounds! By the Lord
Harry, but of many bouts with death this is the bout that had like to
have gone hardest with us, Reuben!
_Dan._ Who and what are ye, jail-birds?
_Reu._ Hark, sir! I think I hear them again! (_Listening eagerly._)
_Dan._ (_very loudly_). Who and what are ye? (_Going up to them._)
_Jas._ (_listening_). Hold thy fool’s tongue, or I’ll slit it!
_Dan._ But----
_Reu._ (_placing his hand over DAN’L’S mouth_). Nay, it is necessary
that some one hold thy tongue, and if thou wilt not do it, I must!
_Jas._ Listen to me, my friend! (_REUBEN removes his hand from DAN’L’S
mouth. He again attempts to speak, REUBEN again gags him._) Nay,
cover him up. He will hear the better for that he cannot give tongue
the while. Now, keep thine ears open, for this concerns thee: We are
proscribed Royalists, and you, miserable man, have harboured us,
Heaven help you and, if we are taken here, I, and he, and thou will
surely hang--I and he for our sins against the Parliament, thou--for
thy virtue in aiding, abetting, and comforting us. Dost thou clearly
understand me?
_Reu._ (_with his hand still over DAN’L’S mouth_). Dost thou clearly
understand the Colonel? (_DAN’L cannot answer. REUBEN repeats his
question loudly and angrily._) Dost thou clearly understand the Colonel?
_Jas._ (_to REUBEN_). When thou desirest him to be silent it is well to
gag him; when thou wouldst have him speak it is judicious to remove the
gag!
_Reu._ As you will, sir. Now then (_removing his hand_), dost thou
clearly understand?
_Dan._ (_loudly_). I clearly understand that ye are two marauding
devils, who----
_Reu._ (_hastily clapping his hand over DAN’L’S mouth_). He does not
understand.
_Jas._ (_listening_). They’ve wheeled about, and their hoofs are dying
away in the distance. Reuben, let the old beggar go; he may give tongue
now till he split his lungs, if he will. We are safe, at least for the
present, Reuben; and see to thy pistol--we may have to stand a siege
yet, and this door must be barricaded; but with what?
_Dan._ (_taking up an iron bar from the fireplace and holding it in a
threatening attitude_). Go your ways, both of ye; or as I am a man I’ll
brain ye with this bar!
_Jas._ The very thing! (_Wrenches it easily out of his hand and
barricades the door with it, while REUBEN shows DAN’L a pistol._)
There! why, it’s made for it! A thousand thanks, old gentleman. (_DAN’L
recovers himself’ flies at JASPER, who pushes him away; he falls on
to a stool._) Now, master, listen to me, and if you have any respect
for yourself, keep your ears open, for I’m speaking words of life and
death. We are desperate men in a desperate strait, and little disposed
to stand on ceremony, as you may perhaps have remarked. We are flying
for our lives, and we desire to cross to France, where my lady is,
and where we shall be safe. To carry out this design we have worked
our way to the coast, sleeping under hedges and ricks for six bleak
days, and tramping in the wind’s eye for six stormy nights, till the
fire of life seems to have died out of our bodies, and our legs to
have withered from their trunks. You have a stout boat on the beach;
when this accursed gale shall have blown itself out you shall have
the distinction of working us across to the opposite coast. In the
mean time we appoint you our host, and we shall be prepared to look
favourably on whatever meat or drink you can set before us.
_Dan._ Do I look like a man who keeps open house?
_Jas._ No, hang me if you do.
_Dan._ If I had my way, I’d hang you, anyhow.
_Jas._ Ay, and there’s many more of your way of thinking.
_Dan._ I’ll be sworn there are. Well, get out o’ my hut (_rises_); this
is not _your_ way; this is not the road to the gallows.
_Reu._ My good fellow, that’s why we took it!
_Dan._ Who, in the devil’s name, are ye?
_Jas._ I’m a cavalier colonel, a trifle out of repair, and a thought
begrimed, maybe, but that’ll wash off. Royalist to the backbone, as
I proved some time since at Worcester, where my backbone had to bear
the brunt of the flight! This is my regiment, the King’s Dragoons
(_indicating REUBEN_). Come, doff thy hat, King’s Dragoons, and salute
the gentleman; the credit of the corps is in thy keeping, Reuben, for
thou’rt all that’s left of it! (_To DAN’L._) A worthy fellow, this
regiment of mine, but somewhat shy and constrained in good company, but
he will improve when he sees that flask of Schiedam that thou art about
to surprise us with. Now, tell me, art thou for the Parliament?
_Dan._ No.
_Jas._ Then thou art for the king?
_Dan._ It’s a lie! I’m for myself.
_Jas._ And for us.
_Dan._ Nay, I’ll be damned if I am!
_Jas._ Nay, I’ll swear thou’rt for us if thou be not traitor to
thyself; for if we hang at all we all hang together. _I’ll_ see to
that. Now, what food have you got?
_Dan._ None (_sulkily_).
_Jas._ What can you get?
_Dan._ Nothing.
_Jas._ Where are we then?
_Dan._ Nowhere.
_Jas._ Harkee, sir, I’m just in that mood that I don’t care the flash
of a flint whose life is swept out of my way when it comes betwixt me
and my wants. I want food--get it.
_Dan._ I’ve no food--I’m a beggar.
_Jas._ Here’s a coin--our last--go and get bread, meat, and drink.
Now be off, or Reuben here shall whip you with his sword-flat till he
drops. (_REUBEN draws._) And, mark me, if by deed, word, or sign you
do aught to give a clue to our hiding-place, I’ll burn the hut to the
ground, and everything in it.
_Dan._ But---- (_REUBEN pushes him._)
_Jas._ Not a word. Be off, and do your errand--and mind, no treachery,
or---- (_JASPER takes a burning log from the fire, and holds it
immediately over the hole where DAN’L’S money is concealed. DAN’L
snatches it from him._)
_Dan._ Put that down, put that down, for the love of Heaven--put it
down, I say, you’ll have the hut afire--and I’ll see what I can do,
I’ll see what I can do. [_DAN’L throws log on fire and exit._
_Jas._ Whew! I’ve brought the old devil to his senses. What a life this
is! Was ever poor dog so hounded about from pillar to post as Jasper
Combe? and for no better reason than that he is a gentleman, and loves
his king!
_Reu._ Pardon, sir, but I never was accounted a gentleman, and for my
king I care not one jot, yet am I hounded much as you are.
_Jas._ Thou art hounded much as I am because thou thyself art as I am,
though in a lower degree. King Charles is my king (_raises hat_)--God
bless him!--and I serve him, and am hunted for so doing. Jasper Combe
is _thy_ king (_REUBEN raises hat_)--God bless him likewise!--and thou
servest him, and thou art hunted for so doing. The analogy is complete.
Be thou as faithful to thy king as I am to mine, and thy king will
reward thee--when my king rewards me! Is the child safe?
_Reu._ (_uncovering the child, and bringing it down_). Ay, sir, thanks
to my cloak; though I’m but a sorry dry-nurse, having taken to it late
in life; but it’s never too late to learn, and I’ve learnt this, that
babes won’t eat ship’s biscuits, and strong waters choke them. Their
poor little heads can’t stand strong waters. I’ll marry some day on
that piece of knowledge.
_Jas._ Add this to it, to my dower--that when thou art flying for thy
life it’s best to leave thy babes behind. A dozen times we might have
got away but for being hampered with this squalling abomination. Was
ever officer of cavalry accursed with such a ridiculous element of
peril?
_Reu._ Was ever sergeant of horse armed with such a mischief-dealing
implement?
_Jas._ Well, there’s no help for it. My lady would have gone mad had I
returned to her without it. She is devotedly attached to the child.
_Reu._ Strange that attachment of some mothers for their children. My
mother always disliked me and kept me at a convenient distance; but
_she_ was a Scotchwoman and not liable to be imposed on.
_Jas._ Well, we must make the best of a bad job. Whew! How cold it
is. I’m chilled to the marrow of my bones. That fellow is taking his
leisure over his errand; see, Reuben, if thou canst find aught in the
hut.
_Reu._ Here’s a locker, your honour, but close fastened.
_Jas._ A proof that there’s something in it. Start it with thy sword.
Stay, I’ll do it (_takes up hatchet_); so, gently (_opens locker_).
Good, a crust of bread and some dried fish.
_Reu._ And a bottle of right good Schiedam, that never paid duty, I’ll
be sworn.
_Jas._ (_taking it_). And on that account fairly forfeit to the Crown,
which, on this occasion, I represent. So, bring an armful of those
logs and make a merry blaze, for I ache as though I were trussed in a
suit of thumbscrews. (_REUBEN brings wood._) That’s well; ha! ha! Now
let us enjoy ourselves. Who would have thought the dingy old pig-stye
had so much life in it! It’s the first good blaze I’ve seen since
the long-nosed devils fired the old mill we lived in. Come, we’ll be
jolly. (_REUBEN takes a piece of bread, JASPER snatches it from him._)
Nay, of food there’s but enough for one (_JASPER eats; REUBEN takes
up bottle and holds it to the light, JASPER snatches it from him_),
and of Schiedam there’s not nearly enough for one. Why, thou gross and
sensuous varlet, canst thou not be jolly without meat and drink? ’Tis
always so with the baseborn; of intellectual recreation they have no
notion whatever.
_Reu._ I’ve eaten nothing for two days, and I’m hungry.
_Jas._ Thou’lt have to wait till the old scoundrel returns.
_Reu._ (_at door_). There’s no signs of him yet.
_Jas._ Then give reins to thy voice and hail him. He took the road
to the left. (_Exit REUBEN shouting--his voice dies away in the
distance._) Here’s a plight for the Lord of Combe-Raven! Stripped of
an ancestral mansion and two thousand old acres; hunted to his death
by broad-brimmed bloodhounds--separated from his pretty wife by some
two hundred miles of barren land and stormy water, and saddled with a
confounded brat that hampers his flight, let him turn whithersoever
he will! And say that I cross this accursed Channel--how am I to get
to Paris--penniless as I am? When I think of what I have before me,
I’m minded to make short work with this world, and try another! By the
Lord Harry!--(_stamps impatiently; his foot starts a board over DAN’L’S
hoard._) Ha! Why, what’s this? Not gold? (_Takes out some._) Gold--and
in profusion! Here’s a way out of our difficulties, if Combe-Raven
were but the man to take it. The old miser! (_Handling the money._)
Bah--in another week’s time we may, perhaps, come down to this sort of
thing--who knows? But not yet--no, not yet. (_Throws it into hole._)
Lie there--I’ll not meddle with thee, though (_closing hole_) thou’lt
be spent on a worse errand than helping JASPER Combe to his wife and
his king, I’ll be sworn.
_Enter REUBEN in breathless haste. JASPER quickly covers the hole._
_Reu._ Yes, sir--we must fly--and that at once.
_Jas._ What d’ye mean?
_Reu._ I mean treachery--the old man has played us false!--I hear the
horses’ hoofs in the distance----
_Jas._ A thousand devils wring his damnable neck! Run to the boat--get
her ready for the sea. I’ll join thee at once and we’ll launch her
together.
_Reu._ But----
_Jas._ Well?
_Reu._ If there’s such a thing as a crust of bread, or the tail of a
dried mackerel----
_Jas._ But there’s not--be off. (_He watches him out, then quickly
turns to the hole in which the money is concealed._) So--this changes
the aspect of affairs. Old fool, thou hast betrayed us, and this
is fair plunder. (_Takes it out of the hole._) With fair luck we
may beat across to France to-night, and once there we are safe. But
the child--again a clog on our movements! She would surely perish
in an open boat on such a night as this. It’s a matter of life and
death--_her_ life as well as mine. It would be murder to take her to
sea with us, and it would be murder to remain and fight these fellows
with her in our arms. There is no help for it--I must leave her
here--this locket will serve to identify her (_putting a locket and
chain on her neck_)--and I’ll reclaim her when I get across. They’ll
never harm a child!
_Enter REUBEN hurriedly._
_Reu._ Sir, sir, the troops are upon us--they’re not two hundred yards
off----
_Jas._ I’m coming. (_Exit REUBEN. JASPER writes on a piece of paper,
and pins it on the child’s dress._) So--lie thou there, and God help
thee, little one. I’m loth to leave thee, but it’s for life and
death--for life and death!
[_JASPER leaps through the window as DAN’L and a _Sergeant_, with
four _Soldiers_, in Parliamentary uniform, enter at the door._
_Dan._ (_sees blaze of log fire_). Fire! fire! He has fired the hut--he
has fired the hut!
_Ser._ Nay, fool, ’tis but thy blazing hearth; thy hut’s safe enough.
Where are thy prisoners?
_Dan._ Oh, the reckless prodigal! see how he hath wasted my substance!
_Ser._ There are no men hidden here. The sons of Belial have escaped.
Why, thou hast betrayed us; and if so, thou shalt hang for it. (_2nd_
Soldier _mounts ladder to get into loft_.)
_Dan._ They were here, but the noise of thy horses’ hoofs has alarmed
them, and they are gone. I warned thee to tether thy beasts afar, and
proceed silently.
_1st Sol._ See, they are putting off from the beach. (_2nd_ Soldier
_descends ladder and makes ready to fire_.)
_Dan._ My boat, oh, my boat!
_Ser._ Bring down the Philistines, Nahum; a steady shot under the fifth
rib, and may the Lord have mercy on them!
_1st Sol._ I will even smite them hip and thigh. (_He fires through the
window._) Missed! (_Others fire outside._) Nay, they’re beyond range.
May Heaven mercifully overwhelm them in the great waters!
_Dan._ (_sees hole in floor_). Gone, gone! Sergeant, see; they are
gone--they were hidden in here--and they’re gone!
_Ser._ In there? Nay, there’s never room for two stout men in that
cranny.
_Dan._ Men? Curse the men! It’s my gold--my gold! they’ve stolen it;
they’ve robbed me! Sixty golden pounds! all I had--all I had! and it’s
gone! My child! my child! they’ve stolen my child! (_Weeps passionately
on his knees._)
_Ser._ Nay, man, see, thy child’s safe enough, and a bonny lass she be.
(_Taking up child from behind table._)
_Dan._ (_raising his head stupidly_). Eh? Why, what’s that?
_Ser._ Thy child! Come, man, be thyself; the child’s safe enough.
(_Places child on ground._)
_Sol._ He’s crazed!
_Dan._ (_stupefied_). That’s not mine. My gold is my child! The gold
that the infernal villains have taken!
_Ser._ Here’s a paper, and some words writ on it.
_Dan._ Read--read--I cannot read.
_Ser._ (_reads_). “Be kind to the child, and it shall profit thee.
Grieve not for thy gold--it hath taken this form.” [_Music._
_Dan._ (_on his knees taking the child_). A miracle, a miracle! Down
on your knees, down, I say, for Heaven has worked a miracle to save
me. This money, for which I toiled night and day, and which I loved
and worshipped, was to me as a child--a dear dear child. I prayed that
this might be, but scoffers mocked me when I prayed, and said that
the days of miracles were passed. But they lied, for my prayer has
been hearkened to. See, it has _her_ eyes, _her_ eyes, my darling, my
darling! My Heaven-sent bairn, thou hast brought me back to reason,
to manhood, to life! (_The_ Soldiers _crowd round him. 1st_ Soldier
_offers to touch the child_.) Hands off, hands off! (_All fall back._)
Touch not the Lord’s gift! touch not the Lord’s gift!
[TABLEAU. _DAN’L--the child on the ground before him_--soldiers
_grouped around._
ACT II.
SCENE.--_The interior of a picturesque old forge. The forge is open
at the back, and DRUCE’S cottage is seen through opening. There is
a path off. DAN’L DRUCE, a hearty-looking old man of sixty-four,
is discovered hammering lustily at a piece of red-hot iron on his
anvil._
_Dan._ (_laying down his hammer_). Whew! That job’s done! Eh, but I’m
that breathed, surelie. Why, Dan’l Druce, if thou’rt worked out like
this at twelve o’ noon, it’s time ye thought of getting a partner into
the old forge. But somehow the forge fire seems to strike hotter than
o’ yore; and the iron of to-day takes more hammerin’ than the iron o’
thirty year ago. Mebbe I’m growin’ old. Well, a body can’t hope to live
sixty-four year, and leave off a young un arter all. ’Twouldn’t be fair
on the boys--no, nor the gals neither--eh, Dorothy?
_Enter DOROTHY running._
_Dor._ Oh, father, thou shouldst see the Green, by Raby’s End. The
village is brave with banners and garlands. I have helped to deck it,
father. And Master Maynard, the constable, is mounted on an ale cask
to receive Sir Jasper Combe, who should pass on his way to Combe-Raven
in half an hour; and the band of music hath arrived from Norwich, and
_they’re_ all on ale casks too; and they are to play stirring music
while the constable readeth an address to his worship!
_Dan._ It is a merciful provision, Dorothy, lest the address be heard.
So Sir Jasper will be here in half an hour, eh?
_Dor._ Yes, and I long to see him. I have heard that he is a grave
gentleman of goodly presence, and beyond measure kindly. He is a
righteous landlord, too, so folk say, and giveth largely to the poor.
_Dan._ He is needed in these parts, for the poor were sorely used by
the late squire. I shall be right glad to welcome him, but (_wearily_)
I’ll not go to Raby’s End to do it. (_Sits on stool._)
_Dor._ Art thou wearied, father?
_Dan._ Growin’ old, lass, growin’ old. It’s one o’ those blessings
that allers comes to him that waits long enough. But I don’t grumble,
Dorothy. If old age will leave me strength enough to pull at a pipe and
empty a tankard--two things thou canst not do for me, Dorothy--why,
that’s all I ask. My lass can do the rest.
_Dor._ As I have been to thee so will I be to the end.
_Dan._ There’s no saying, Dorothy. Thou’rt comely, lass, and mebbe, ere
long, some smart young lad will whip thee from my arms, and carry thee
away to t’other side o’ the sunrise. There’s mor’n one within a mile o’
this who’d give his right arm to do it now.
_Dor._ Nay, thou art unkind. Did I not tend thee when thou wast hale
and strong, and shall I desert thee now that thou hast most need of me?
_Dan._ (_with emotion_). My lass, Heaven knows I never needed thee more
than when thou wast left at my hut fourteen year since. But I’ve news
to gladden thee--thine old playmate, Geoffrey Wynyard, is returned from
sea, and is now on his road from Norwich to see thee.
_Dor._ Geoffrey returned? Oh, I am right glad! Oh, indeed, father, I am
right glad! Truly thou has brought me fair news. And is he well--and
hath he prospered?
_Dan._ Ay, and growed out o’ knowledge. He was but a long-legged lad
when he left, but he’s a man now, and a goodly one, I warrant thee. See
to him when he cometh, for he’ll bide here wi’ us. (_After a pause._)
My darlin’--thou’lt never leave me?
_Dor._ Never, while I live!
_Dan._ God bless thee, my child! [_Kisses her and exit._
_Dor._ Geoffrey returned! and Geoffrey a stalwart mariner, and grown to
man’s estate! I can scarce believe it! Of a truth I could weep for very
joy! I was but a child when he left, and now--I am seventeen! Geoffrey
loved children,--it may be that he will be displeased with me now that
I am a woman. I am rejoiced that I am decked in my new gown--it is more
seemly than the russet, in which, methinks, I did look pale. Geoffrey
a man!--my old playmate a man! Pity that I have not my new shoes, for
they are comely; but they do compress my feet, and so pain me sorely.
Nevertheless, I will put them on, for it behoveth a maiden to be neatly
apparelled at all seasons.
_Enter GEOFFREY._
_Geof._ Mistress Dorothy!
_Dor._ (_turning--she starts_). Geoffrey! Oh, Geoffrey! (_She rushes
towards him._)
_Geof._ Mistress Dorothy, I am right glad to hold thy little hand once
more. I have had this moment in view for many, many months!
_Dor._ And I too, Master Geoffrey;--and oh, I am indeed rejoiced!
_Geof._ How thou art grown! A woman! By my right hand, a very woman!
_Dor._ Yes, Master Geoffrey, I am a woman now!
_Geof._ And a fair one, Mistress Dorothy! (_She turns._) Nay, ’tis but
truth; and truth is made to be told. May I not say that thou art fair?
_Dor._ Yes, Master Geoffrey, if thou thinkest so in good sooth.
_Geof._ In good sooth I do! It is strange to be back in the old village
again, after three years of blue water. And yet it seems but yesterday
that we tossed hay together in the five-acre field.
_Dor._ I think the time must speed more swiftly with those who seek
their fortunes in distant lands, for though I have been happy and full
of content, yet it seemeth more than three years since thy departure.
_Geof._ Yet barely three years have gone.
_Dor._ (_sighing_). It seemeth more.
_Geof._ The time hath sped with me despite the long night watches and
the never-ending days of a calm tropical sea; for no hour is so long
but that I can fill it with thoughts of thee, Mistress Dorothy.
_Dor._ I am rejoiced to know this, for my mind has often dwelt on thy
fortunes. Many a time, when the old forge rocked in the wintry gale, my
heart has been sad for thee, and I have lain awake weeping and praying
for--for----
_Geof._ For me?
_Dor._ For all who go down to the sea in ships.
_Geof._ In truth, if the sea had no other charm I would be a sailor,
that I might have thy prayers, Mistress Dorothy.
_Dor._ Nay, but if it consisted with thy duty to abandon thy perilous
calling, and bide here with us for ever, my poor prayers would still
be thine, Master Geoffrey. But thou lovest the sea. (_Sighing._)
_Geof._ All sailors love the sea.
_Dor._ It is strange, for the sea is cold and cruel and fierce, and
many brave men are yearly swallowed up of it.
_Geof._ Dorothy, I love the sea dearly. There is but one love that is
stronger in my heart--one love for which I would yield it up for ever
and ever. Dear Dorothy, I have loved thee, boy and man, for ten years
past; and I shall love thee, come what may, through my life. I came
here to-day to tell thee this. I thought how to say it, but all that
I thought of is gone--it’s my heart that’s speaking now and not my
tongue. Bear with me, Dorothy, for every hope of my life--every waking
and sleeping dream of ten years past--is in the words I’m speaking now.
_Dor._ Oh, Geoffrey--Geoffrey! I know not what to say!
_Geof._ Fear not for thy father, for I will quit the sea. Sir Jasper
has offered to make me his secretary, and that is why I have come. But
say nay, and I must needs go to sea again.
_Dor._ Oh, Geoffrey--let me think--let me think! Do I love thee? I
cannot say. It may be that I do--and yet--thou must not go to sea! Oh,
I have given no thought to it. Truly thou art dear to me, for I am
rejoiced when thou comest, and I am sorely grieved when thou goest. Is
that love?
_Geof._ Dorothy, let us inquire into this.
_Dor._ Right willingly, for if I love thee I would fain know it, that I
might gladden thine heart by telling thee so.
_Geof._ Then attend to me, sweetheart, while I paint a picture for
thee. We will suppose that I have given up the sea--that I have bought
a little farm near at hand, and that I have come to live here, close
to thee and thy father, for the rest of my life. Canst thou see the
picture I am painting?
_Dor._ Ay. It is a pleasant picture.
_Geof._ Living here, close to thee, I naturally see thee very often.
_Dor._ (_pleased_). Every day?
_Geof._ Twice--maybe thrice--a day--for my horses need much shoeing,
and I always bring them to the forge myself. Is that pleasant?
_Dor._ Very pleasant. And on Sabbath thou takest me to church?
_Geof._ Ay, save only when some other village gallant is beforehand
with me and offers to escort thee thither, and in such case I am fain
to take Farmer Such-a-one’s daughter instead.
_Dor._ Nay, that were needless, for I would have no other escort than
thou.
_Geof._ Yet it behoves one to be neighbourly, and if Farmer Such-a-one
says to me, “Come and see Susan, for she’s lonely and wants
cheering”----
_Dor._ Susan?
_Geof._ That’s the farmer’s daughter.
_Dor._ Is she fair?
_Geof._ Very fair. What then?
_Dor._ Why, then, thou wouldst not go.
_Geof._ (_slyly_). And wherefore not?
_Dor._ Wherefore not? Oh, well, wherefore not indeed! Go to Susan if
thou wilt, Geoffrey. It is not for me to hinder thee!
_Geof._ Well, then, I would _not_ go. And so we live on--happy--very,
very happy, for, say a year. But a change is at hand. My crops fail, my
cattle die, and one evil night my homestead is burnt to the ground, and
I am penniless!
_Dor._ Oh!
_Geof._ So there is nothing for it but to go to sea again, for three
long years!
_Dor._ No, no, Geoffrey--oh no!
_Geof._ The time of parting draws near--a few weeks--a few days--a few
hours. These few hours we have passed in silence, sitting hand in hand,
thou and I. There are tears in my eyes, though I strive to check them,
and there are sad thoughts in thine heart, also. Well, at last the
horse is at the door, and it is time to go. I am at thy porch--one foot
in stirrup--one hurried “God-speed”--and--I am gone!
_Dor._ Oh no, no, Geoffrey. I cannot bear it.
_Geof._ Months pass by and no news of me. The village seems blank
at first without me, the walks to church seem long and lonely, and
the evenings sad and cheerless. At last come tidings of a wrecked
ship--thine heart beats quickly, for the name of the ship is the name
of mine. Of all the crew but one man is saved, and that man’s name--is
not Geoffrey Wynyard--for Geoffrey has gone down to his death in the
dark waters.
_Dor._ (_rising--throwing her arms round him_). No, no, Geoffrey, be
silent. I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it; have
mercy, for I cannot bear it!
_Geof._ And dost thou love me?
_Dor._ (_bashfully, hiding her head in his bosom_). Oh, Geoffrey!
(_Pause._)
_Geof._ Art thou happy there, Dorothy?
_Dor._ Passing happy! And thou?
_Geof._ Passing happy. (_He places a ring on her finger._)
_Dor._ Oh, Geoffrey, what is this?
_Geof._ A ring that I have brought thee from Venice, where there are
cunning workers in such matters. Let it stay there in earnest of
another ring of plainer workmanship that is not beyond the craft of our
English goldsmiths to fashion.
_Dor._ But I know not if I may wear it. It is a vanity--but it is very
beautiful. See how it shineth! Oh, pity that I may not wear it, for in
truth it is very beautiful.
_Geof._ Thou hast a silver chain with thy mother’s locket on thy neck.
Wear it on thy chain. Will it be a vanity if it is Concealed beneath
thy kerchief?
_Dor._ Nay; for none will know of it. (_Withdraws a silver locket from
her bosom_). See, the clasp will not hold them both. Stay! the locket
shall be thine, and thy ring shall take its place. (_Detaches locket
and gives it to him. He kisses her._)
_Enter DAN’L DRUCE. They stand confused._
_Dan._ (_after a pause, sighs deeply_). Tell me all about it, my pretty.
_Geof._ Master Dan’l--I----
_Dan._ No, lad--no--not from thee. I’d liefer hear it from my pretty.
_Dor._ (_going to him and putting her arms round his neck_) Dear
father, Geoffrey hath told me that he loveth me, and would fain take me
to be his wife----
_Dan._ Ay, ay, lass--go on----
_Dor._ He loveth me very dearly, father, and will quit the sea to bide
with us here.
_Dan._ Go on----
_Dor._ He loveth me so dearly that it would sadden his life if I were
to wed with another.
_Dan._ Well?
_Dor._ So, dear father, as I would not cause him sorrow I will not wed
with another. (_Hiding her face on his shoulder._)
_Dan._ So soon! so soon! Nay, hang there a bit longer, my lass; for
thou’rt all I have, and thou’rt going from me ower soon, and of thine
own free will. Dorothy, oh, Dorothy, the hope and stay of my poor old
life! my saving angel! my saving angel! It’s hard to part with thee,
Dorothy. He will not love thee as I love thee. (_With an effort._)
I’m but a thankless man. It was to be, and ’twould better fit me to
rejoice that thou hast found a brave and honest man to tend thee when I
am gone. Get thee within, and dry thine eyes. I’ll do thy weeping for
thee, Dorothy! (_Exit DOROTHY into the cottage._) It’s come sudden,
my lad, it’s come sudden, and I doan’t rightly know how to shift
wi’out her. She’s been more than life to me, Dolly has. I was a hard
and bitter man when she was left with me fourteen year since,--for
I’d been cruelly warped--cruelly warped. But when things are at their
worst, like as not they’ll mend; and from the time my darling was sent
to me (by a miracle as I then thought, for I’d been brought up ’mong
folk as see a miracle in ’most everything) a change crep’ over me, and
bit by bit my cruel old heart growed soft again. I was a foul-tongued
fellow then, but I couldna swear afore an angel come straight from
heaven. I was cruel and hard, but I couldna sit glowerin’ at mankind
wi’ her little arms round my neck, and her soft cheek agin’ my wicked
old face. Then it come about that Dolly must be taught her Bible; but
I’d no Bible--so, wi’ a shamefaced lie on my tongue, I borrowed a
good book, and we spelt it out together. And many’s the time as the
old half-forgotten words come back to me, bit by bit, and I called to
mind when I’d first learnt ’em as a child. I laid my head down on the
book, and wept like a woman. And as it was for me (God help me!) to
teach her right from wrong, I learnt as I taught, and the Light come
to us together--the old man and the little child--and as she growed in
knowledge, my right self growed in strength--and such as I am--hale,
hearty, and happy--livin’ by the sweat o’ my brow--owin’ no man,
fearin’ none, and lovin’ all, why she has made me, God bless her!
_Geof._ And thou hast never seen her father since?
_Dan._ No; though for years I never passed a strange face but I peered
into it--for I knowed every line o’ his, though I never heerd his name.
Knowed it! Why, it burnt in my eyeballs, so that I see it in the dark!
I seed it everywhere--I seed it in the forge, and be sure I raked it
out!--I seed it red-hot on my anvil, and be sure I hammered with a
will! After a while (but it was a weary while!) the thought come that
mayhap he had perished in the gale, so I thought less about it; and
Dolly seemed more like my own. Yet the old fear comes back, odd times,
and, oh, Geoffrey, it’s like enough she’ll be taken from me yet.
_Enter DOROTHY from cottage._
_Dor._ Oh, father, a gentleman, whose horse hath cast a shoe, hath need
of thy services in the yard.
_Dan._ A gentleman, eh?
_Dor._ It is Master Reuben Haines, Sir Jasper’s bailiff. He passed this
way twice before to prepare for Sir Jasper’s arrival; but that was when
thou wast away at Norwich.
_Dan._ And what manner of man is he?
_Dor._ A strange man, full of unmeaning jests, who maketh faces at me
which doth fright me much, and he rolleth his eyes in a manner fearful
to behold.
_Dan._ A town fashion, Dolly, who knows? Ha! ha! Take no heed of his
faces. Make him welcome, for there’s no foreseein’; it may serve us,
one day, to stand well with the bailiff! Come, Geoffrey, and lend me a
hand. I’ll see to his horse.
[_GEOFFREY kisses DOROTHY and exit with DAN’L._
_Enter REUBEN in riding dress, from cottage._
_Reu._ Good morrow, pretty Mistress Dorothy! We have not forgotten
one another, I see! And how has time sped with thee since I saw thee
last? Has it crept, crawled, drawled, dragged, and dawdled for lack
of a certain merry old man who whiled away a certain half-hour with
thee two months since with curious quip, quaint retort, and surprising
conundrum? Dost thou remember that half-hour, Dorothy? _I_ do. In
the course of it I said many rare things to thee, complimentary and
insinuating things of amatory significance and connubial import, neatly
disguised, or, as one may say, embalmed, in an outer husk of delicate
epigram. And thou didst listen! Ye gods! how thou didst listen! I love
a good listener.
_Dor._ Sir, I do indeed remember your coming; but as for your sayings,
I was silent, for I understood them not. Is--is Sir Jasper at hand?
_Enter DAN’L DRUCE, unobserved, at back._
_Reu._ He will be here anon. Some village clowns are plaguing him with
an address--a scurvy long one, and writ in very false jingle. I heard
the first lines thereof; it began:
“Sir Jasper Combe, to welcome you
We do as much as we can do:
Here live and die--to House and Tomb
We welcome you, Sir Jasper Combe!”
It did so move me to laughter that Sir Jasper, who hath no sense of the
ridiculous, did order me to ride on. But I doubt not that even he is
laughing heartily thereat, by this time!
_Dan._ (_who has heard the last few lines_). Nay, sir, but if Sir
Jasper deserve all that men say of him, he will scarcely hold in scorn
that which poor humble folks have writ in his praise.
_Reu._ (_to DOROTHY_). Who is this old gentleman?
_Dan._ I am Dan’l Druce,--no gentleman, but a hard-working blacksmith,
very much at your honour’s service. (_Looking at him._) I was away when
you last come to the village, yet I think I’ve seen your honour’s face.
_Reu._ It is very like. It is a striking face. I don’t like it myself,
but others do, so I yield to the majority. It is a good face.
_Dan._ I cannot recall where I have seen it.
_Reu._ It signifieth not--thou wilt have plenty of time to study
it,--for thou wilt see it every quarter-day whilst thou livest. Despite
its inherent goodliness, it will come to be a face of evil significance
to thee, speaking, as it will, of raised rents, rapid distraint, and
uncompromising ejection!
_Dan._ I’m a punctual tenant, sir, and I fear no man. Dorothy, draw
this gentleman some ale while I look to his horse. [_Exit._
_Reu._ And take thy time, for we are very well thus, eh, Dorothy?
(_DOROTHY going._) Nay, do not go. Never heed the ale. I’d rather take
a long look at thy pretty face than a long pull at thy village brew.
The one is sweet, I know--the other is sour, I’ll swear. Come hither,
Dorothy.
_Dor._ Nay, sir, I----
_Reu._ I have news to tell thee, Dorothy--thou art a kind of wife
of mine, for I have, in a manner, married thee--intellectually and
reflectively; or, as one may say, in a mental or moral sense have I
married thee. I have, as it were, invented thee as my wife, and the
invention is none the less mine because a scurvy mechanic (to wit, the
parson) hath not yet hammered in the rivets. (_Aside._) A quip!
_Dor._ Sir, I do not rightly understand thy talk, but it seemeth to me
that thou makest jest of solemn things.
_Reu._ Nay, this time I am in earnest. If thou wilt be my wife I will
so coll thee, coax thee, cosset thee, court thee, cajole thee, with
deftly turned compliment, pleasant whimsy, delicate jest and tuneful
madrigal--I will so pleasantly perplex thee with quaint paradox,
entertaining aphorism, false conclusion and contradiction in terms--I
will so edify thee with joyous anecdote, tales of court and camp,
tales of love, hate, and intrigue, tales of murder, rapine, and
theft, merry tales, sad tales, long tales, short tales, quip, crank,
retort, repartee, and rejoinder, that thy wedded life shall seem one
never-ending honeymoon, and thou shalt find but one fault with me--that
I clog thee with sweets! (_Takes her round waist._)
_Dor._ Nay, sir, I pray you, remove your hand! Sir, you are unmannerly!
I pray you, desist!
_Enter SIR JASPER; DOROTHY runs to him._
Oh, sir, defend me from this wicked man.
_Jas._ Why, Reuben Haines, thou art at thine old tricks again!
_Reu._ At _our_ old tricks, your honour!
_Jas._ Harkee, sirrah. Let bygones go by. Times are changed with me,
as thou knowest well, and if thou valuest thy stewardship, adapt thy
morals to those of thy master. If thou sayest or doest aught to anger
this gentle maiden, I’ll lay my whip across thy shoulders, as I have
done ofttimes ere this.
_Reu._ (_aside_). We are virtuous now, but time was when we would have
angered her in company.
_Dor._ Nay, sir, I pray you, bear with him.
_Reu._ (_aside_). She pleadeth for me! Bless her pretty face, she
pleadeth for me!
_Jas._ Has the rascal, then, found favour in thine eyes?
_Dor._ (_aside to SIR JASPER_). Oh no; but whenever he cometh to the
forge he sayeth such strange things, and looketh at me with such
strange looks, that I fear he is sorely afflicted, and not to be held
accountable for his deeds.
_Jas._ (_laughing heartily_). Why, in truth, I sometimes think so too.
(_To REUBEN._) Get thee to the inn, sir; we shall lie there to-night:
as for the whipping, why the maiden’s intercession hath saved thee this
once.
_Reu._ She pleadeth for me! Bless their hearts, they’re all alike! They
all plead for me! [_Exit REUBEN._
_Jas._ And now, pretty maiden, tell me, who art thou?
_Dor._ So please your worship, I am Dorothy Druce, only daughter of
Dan’l Druce, the blacksmith, and your worship’s tenant.
_Jas._ (_looking kindly at her_). He’s a kind father to thee, I’ll be
sworn.
_Dor._ He is kind to me and to all. In very truth I think he must be
the best man in the whole world.
_Jas._ And thou tendest him very carefully?
_Dor._ Yes, indeed. I am with him from the rising of the sun to the
going down thereof; and we love each other with a love that passeth all
telling.
_Jas._ (_after a pause_). Dorothy, I once had a little child who
promised to grow up to be just such a pretty lass as thou. But we--we
were separated many years ago, and I have never seen her since!
_Dor._ Oh, poor gentleman!
_Jas._ Poor, indeed--for I declare to thee, Dorothy, that I would give
all my substance, were it ten times what it is, to have her with me in
my old age. But though I have sought her high and low for many a weary
year, I have found no tidings of her; and so I must needs go on to the
end--a solitary old man, uncared for and alone! There’s a doleful tale,
little Dorothy!
_Dor._ Indeed, it is passing sad, and my heart bleeds for your worship.
I am even more grieved for thy daughter, who hath lost the fostering
care and guidance of so worthy a gentleman. I am sure she would have
loved your worship very dearly.
_Jas._ (_moved_). I know not. It may be so, and yet--I showed myself
but a careless and unloving father to her when we were parted. But her
mother died of grief--and--and I would fain make amends, I would fain
make amends! Yes, Dorothy, it would have gone hard with me but I would
have made her love me!
_Enter DAN’L._
Who is this good fellow?
_Dor._ It is my father, of whom I spoke unto your worship. Father, this
is Sir Jasper Combe.
_Dan._ (_heartily_). At your worship’s service, Sir Jasper. I’ve
naught to say, sir, but what’s been said by better men--“Welcome to
Combe-Raven.” I’ll go bail my Dorothy’s said it already.
_Jas._ Indeed, she has given me a very kindly greeting, Master Druce. I
was telling thy daughter how I came to be wifeless and childless; and
how, desolate as I am, I envy thee thy good fortune in having so fair a
little nurse to cosset thee in thine old age. Take heed, though, that
she be not taken from thee, and at brief notice too, one of these days!
(_During this speech DAN’L has gradually recognized SIR JASPER. He is
stupefied with terror, and staggers back on anvil._) I say, take care
that she be not taken from thee one of these days.
_Dan_ (_still stupefied_). By whom? Taken from me by whom?
_Jas._ (_laughing_). Oh, never fear me, Dan’l--by some far younger man
than I!
_Dan._ Ay, ay--to be married. Ah, mebbe, mebbe!
_Dor._ Father, is aught amiss?
_Dan._ (_faintly_). No, lass, no; take no heed o’ me.
_Dor._ (_leading him to stool_). My father hath been working in the
heat of the day, and he is faint.
_Dan._ Yes, I’ve--I’ve been working hard. Take no heed o’ me. I’m
better now. I’m an old man, and weaker than o’ yore. Take no heed.
_Jas._ I’ll send thee strong wines that shall put the courage and
strength of youth into thine old heart, Dan’l Druce. There, there, bear
up, man. And Dorothy must come to the Hall, Dan’l. Old Bridget shall
take good care of her; and I own I should like to see how the old place
would shine in the sunlight shed by so fair a little lady. There, be of
good cheer, man; I did but jest when I spake of thy daughter leaving
thee.
_Dan._ Ay, ay--thou didst but jest, eh?
_Jas._ Why, to be sure. (_Aside._) To think that those few light
words should have so shaken him. (_Looking at DOROTHY._) Well, I can
understand it. (_To DAN’L, after a pause._) Master Druce, I’m an old
man now, and a very grave and sober old man too. I had a fair young
wife once; she had eyes like thy daughter’s eyes. There’s a strange
whim in my head, but I’m an old man, and--and--and--may I kiss thy
little daughter?
_Dan._ (_much moved_). Ay, ay, thou--thou mayst kiss her if thou wilt!
[_DOROTHY goes up to SIR JASPER, who kisses her on the forehead._
_Jas._ God bless thee, maiden. Dan’l Druce, I thank thee!
[_Exit SIR JASPER._
_Dor._ Oh, father, didst thou hear? I am to go to the Hall! I have
heard that it is a goodly place, as big as a village, and bravely
decked with velvets and rich silks and pictures and vast mirrors! Oh,
I long to see the mirrors! Then the gardens are beyond everything fair
to view, and there are deer in the park, and a spacious lake, and
carriages and horses too! Oh, it must be brave to live in so fair a
place!
_Dan._ (_in a broken voice_). Why, Dorothy--these things are but
vanities. Oh, Dorothy, my darling, be content with thy lot!
_Dor._ Nay, father--but indeed I envy not Sir Jasper. I grieve to
think how solitary the poor gentleman must be, all alone in so vast a
house, with neither wife nor child to solace him in his old age!
_Dan._ (_anxiously_). Did he tell thee of his child?
_Dor._ Ay, speaking gravely, yet kindly, as of a sorrow still unhealed.
And when he told me how he lost the maiden many years ago, and how he
has vainly sought her ever since, my heart yearned to him, for the
tears glistened in his eyes. Methinks a daughter must needs love such a
father, for he is a noble gentleman.
_Dan._ Nay, thou knowest him not. He did not deal rightly by the girl.
He left her to perish--to perish, Dolly--that he might save his own
life. He is rightly served. The sins of his youth are visited upon him
in his old age. It is just, it is just. _I_ would not have quitted
_thee_, my child, my child!
_Dor._ In truth, I am very sure of that. I cannot think that there is
in this world peril or necessity so dire as to part us twain!
_Dan._ Thou’lt never leave me, Dolly?
_Dor._ Never!
_Dan._ Come what may?
_Dor._ Come what may! (_He kisses her._) [_Exit DOROTHY._
_Dan._ (_looking after her_). Oh, it’s hard, arter so long; for the
heart o’ my body is not so dear to me as yon poor little girl! Oh,
Dolly, it canna be right,--it canna be right. Thou’st taken to me as
to a father. If thou wast my own flesh and blood thou couldst not be
dearer to me, nor I to thee. And now--arter so long.--It canna be right.
_Enter GEOFFREY._
_Geof._ Why, Master Druce, thou hast tears in thine eyes!
_Dan._ Ay, lad, and cause for ’em in my heart! Geoffrey, there’s a
heavy blow come on me. I--I told thee of the cruel thankless father who
left my girl wi’ me--my Dorothy--_thy_ Dorothy----
_Geof._ Yes!
_Dan._ I--I have seen him, Geoffrey! Here--here, I have seen him! Him
as thou’rt here to meet,--that’s Dolly’s father!
_Geof._ Sir Jasper! Impossible!
_Dan._ Yes, I tell thee, ’twas him. He didn’t know me--_but I knowed
him!_ Geoffrey--my only hope lies wi’ thee. Thou must wed Dorothy--ay,
at once too. He cannot take her from _thee_,--and we will all go hence
to a place of safety--to-morrow--to-morrow!
_Geof._ (_after a pause_). Master Druce, thou art a tenderhearted,
right-doing man,--and it’s not for a boy like me to shape thy course.
_Dan._ Why, what dost thou mean?
_Geof._ If this man, Sir Jasper Combe, is indeed her father----
_Dan._ Her father? He cast her from him! He left her to perish! Her
father? Heaven had given him the richest treasure that Heaven can give,
and he flung it into my lap as he’d fling a coin to a beggar! The trust
that he forsook I took up. The child that he plucked from his bosom I
took to mine. There let it bide, Geoffrey Wynyard, there let it bide!
_Geof._ Yet bethink thee--the poor lone gentleman hath paid a bitter
price for his wickedness; and though he did a cruel and reckless thing
in abandoning her, yet grief and penitence have wrought a great change
in him, and the laws of Heaven and of man give him a right over her
that none may gainsay.
_Dan._ And have I earned no right in these fourteen years? Why, think
what she is to me! what we are to each other! She has vouchsafed me her
love, and for it I kneel down and worship her! She has turned my heart
to man, and for it I kneel down and worship her. She has shown me the
Truth, and for it I kneel down and worship her. We are life and death,
body and soul, all in all to each other. And now thou wouldst have me
say to this unworthy man, “Here is the daughter thou didst abandon in
thy peril. For fourteen years I have reared her as mine own; but as
thou didst beget her, so take her; I did but hold her in trust for thee
that thou mightest reclaim her when it seemed good to thee to do so.”
It may be that this is my duty, Geoffrey Wynyard; but I canna do it--I
canna do it.
_Geof._ Thy case is a hard one--it is not for me to judge.
_Dan._ Thou hast rightly said it is not for thee to judge. Moreover,
bethink thee, thou lovest her. If this man, her father, reclaims her,
he will take her from thee, and raise her to a station as far above
thine as thine is above hers.
_Geof._ Art thou so sure that Sir Jasper is indeed her father?
_Dan._ That’s true! that’s very true! I know not that he is her father!
I cannot tell that. We judge men by their deeds, Geoffrey, not their
words; and he may have lied. Come, that’s well thought of, Geoffrey!
But we’ll go hence, Dolly and I--no one shall know--thou shalt join
us later; and when thou and she are married, and he cannot take her
from thee, why then, maybe, we’ll--oh, Geoffrey--thou wilt not betray
me--thou wilt not betray _her_! Promise me that!
_Geof._ (_sighing_). I promise!
_Dan._ (_turns_). Remember, Geoffrey, thou’st promised. [_Exit._
_Geof._ In truth I am in a sore strait; for Sir Jasper is a man of
proud blood, who would laugh to scorn such humble love as mine. And oh,
Dorothy, if thou art taken from me, why, my life may go too! And if I
cannot yield thee up, how can I ask _him_ to do so! Oh, Dan’l Druce,
Dan’l Druce, my heart is with thine in this thing, and I’ll keep thy
secret, never fear!
_Enter REUBEN._
_Reu._ Why, whom have we here in Dorothy’s house? A whelp--a very
whelp, cur, or puppy, to be beckoned to, whistled to, frowned at,
scowled at, whipped with whips, beaten with sticks, and slapped with
the flat of hand!
_Geof._ Your servant, sir. Who are you?
_Reu._ Why, sir, I am an old horse-soldier, and yet not so very old
neither but that I can wield quarter-staff or give the Cornish fling
as well as another. No mere trooper neither, but a sergeant of horse,
if you please; and one that hath cut his way through war’s intestine,
as a hot knife cuts butter. One who has so snicked, chipped, chopped,
slashed, cut, drilled, and carbonaded, with sword, with pistolet, with
mace, with arquebus, with petronel, and with what-not, that he’d make
no more of passing a rapier through that boy’s body of thine than of
spitting a penny herring. And now, sir, who are _you_?
_Geof._ Why, sir, I am a sailor, and I hate brag.
_Reu._ Come, come, civil words, young master, lest we quarrel; and when
_I_ quarrel, sextons lay in tolling grease and grave-diggers strip to
their work. Dost thou know this Dan’l Druce?
_Geof._ I do.
_Reu._ A comfortable old man, they tell me, and one who can portion his
pretty Dorothy. Pretty Dorothy and I are very good friends. She listens
when I talk, which many won’t. (_GEOFFREY makes an angry gesture._) And
talking of pretty Dorothy, we have here a bauble or locket, or, as one
may say, a trinket that belongeth to her, I’ll go bail. (_Picking up
locket which GEOFFREY dropped._)
_Geof._ Sir, that locket is mine.
_Reu._ It is very like--it is very like, yet for that I have but thy
word. I care for no man’s word--no, not even for mine own, for though
it is as good as another’s, yet it is worth nothing. If the trinket be
thine, describe it with circumstance, and I will give it up to thee.
_Enter DAN’L, unperceived. He listens in great agitation._
_Geof._ It is fashioned like a heart, and bears an inscription “To the
best loved of all,” and it is dated seventeen years since. It is a
love-token, sir, and I desire you to yield it up without further parley.
_Reu._ (_who has recognized it_). Why, surely, I should know this
locket well. From whom did you receive it?
_Geof._ (_taking it from him_). That is a question that I have no will
to answer. It is a token of betrothal--let that suffice.
_Reu._ But it don’t suffice. Do you know who I am? I am bailiff to Sir
Jasper Combe----
_Geof._ Sir Jasper Combe!
_Reu._ Ay; and I recognize that locket as one that he placed about the
neck of his missing daughter the very day he abandoned her. Come, sir,
from whom did you receive it? It is a love-token--a token of betrothal.
To whom are you betrothed?
_Geof._ (_much agitated_). I decline to say.
_Enter DOROTHY at back. DAN’L stops her, and motions her to be
silent. They both listen together._
_Reu._ Shall I hazard a conjecture or guess? Thou art here, making free
in the blacksmith’s forge. The blacksmith hath a daughter--her name is
Dorothy. Shall we say that it is to Dorothy that thou art betrothed?
_Geof._ (_with an effort to speak unconcernedly_). What, Dorothy Druce?
No, no, Master Bailiff, not Dorothy Druce! [_DOROTHY expresses surprise
and pain._
_Reu._ And yet I noticed that when I spake lightly of her thou didst
start in anger, and flush up in a fashion ridiculous to behold. I have
the eye of a hawk.
_Geof._ (_confused_). Oh--for that--it is true that I have laughed and
jested with Dorothy, but you know we sailors have a special license
for such love frolics. We mean nothing by them. It is said of us that
we have a wife in every port--well, that’s a slander, but at least
I’ll plead guilty to a sweetheart in every village. [_DOROTHY weeps on
DAN’L’S bosom._
_Reu._ Ha! Thou art a shameless young reprobate by thine own showing.
It will go hard but Sir Jasper will elicit the truth. We shall meet
again! [_Exit REUBEN._
_DAN’L and DOROTHY come forward, DAN’L trembling with rage, DOROTHY
weeping._
_Dan._ So, Geoffrey Wynward! The blow that is to bring me to my grave
has been dealt by thine hand! The secret which was thine and mine has
been revealed by thee! Oh, thief of more than hard-earned gold! Oh,
slayer of more than human life, are there no laws to fit such crime as
thine!
_Dor._ Father! father! hurt him not!
_Geof._ Master Druce--indeed, I knew not----
_Dan._ Thou knewest not! Will there be more mercy in this man’s heart
because thou knewest not? Will the last years of my poor old lonely
life be less desolate because thou knewest not?
_Dor._ Oh, father, father, what sayest thou?
_Dan._ Nay, girl, stop me not! (_Taking up a hammer._) Geoffrey
Wynyard, there are injuries that laws can measure, and laws are made
for ’em. There are injuries that no laws can measure, and wi’ them
we deal ourselves, and wreak our vengeance wi’ our own right hands.
(_To DOROTHY, who interposes._) Stand aside, girl; I’m a weak old man,
but there’s devil enough in me to deal wi’ such as him. [_DOROTHY,
kneeling, holds his arm._
_Dor._ No, no, father, yield not to thy wrath--he hath denied me--he
hath dealt lightly with my love--and there’s an end. Oh, harm him not,
oh, harm him not! Pardon him, even as I pardon him; and let him depart
in peace.
_Dan._ (_with a violent effort to be calm_). Ay, ay, thou recallest me
to myself. He hath dealt lightly wi’ thy love--and there’s an end. Heed
not the words I spake; they were empty words, and had no meaning--heed
them not. Geoffrey Wynyard, thou hast spoken lightly of my child, thou
hast denied her who gave thee her heart. It was ill done. Quit my roof
and let me see thee no more. I--I pardon thee. Go.
_Geof._ Master Druce, have pity, for my tongue is tied--I--I may not
speak!
_Dan._ Go!
_Geof._ Dorothy, one word. Hear what I have to say.
_Dor._ (_with an effort_). Geoffrey, thou hast denied me. I love
thee--but--thou must go! [_GEOFFREY goes out sadly. When he has gone,
DOROTHY falls sobbing at DAN’L’S feet._
_Dan._ My child! My child! [_Music._
ACT III.
SCENE.--_Interior of DRUCE’S cottage. Time, evening. DOROTHY is
discovered pale and weak, sitting by the fire, reading an old and
tattered letter, her head resting in her hand. DAN’L discovered at
back--he has a bundle and stick in his hand as if prepared for a
journey. He is pale and anxious._
_Dan._ Eventide, and he’s not yet come to claim her. It’s weary waitin’
for a blow that is to fall, and we’ll wait no longer. It’s hard to have
to creep away from the old forge, like a thief in the night, and begin
the weary struggle anew, God knows where! But that it should ha’ come
through him whom I loved like a son, and whom I’d ha’ taken to my heart
as a son--it’s doubly hard it should ha’ come through him! (_Looking at
DOROTHY._) Poor maiden! She thinks him false to her. Well, it’s better
so. I’ll keep that thought alive; ’twill account for much that I may
not explain. One word would lift that sorrow from her gentle heart;
but it must not be spoke--not yet--not yet! (_Aloud._) What art thou
readin’, lass?
_Dor._ It is the letter he wrote to me from Morocco, two years since.
I am bidding farewell to it ere I destroy it--for he is betrothed to
another, and I may not keep it now. He spake to me in jest! Oh, father,
it’s hard to bear.
_Dan._ Ay, ay--hard to bear, Dolly--hard to bear.
_Dor._ And to vaunt his unfaithfulness in the ears of a very stranger!
It was a cruel boast--for I loved him with all my heart!
_Dan._ Better learn the truth now than later--as I did--as I did. Early
fall, light fall, Dolly. When my sorrow come it had like to ha’ crushed
the life out o’ me--but thou’rt young, my child, and time will heal thy
wound.
_Dor._ If he had but known how I loved him,--but in truth I knew it not
myself. It is hard to bear, for he had truth in his face, and I doubted
nothing!
_Dan._ Trust no faces, Dolly--they lie--they lie.
_Dor._ Nay, but it is not like thee to say these bitter things.
_Dan._ More like me than thou wottest of, Dolly. I have told thee what
I was afore thou camest to me--the past fourteen year are gone like a
dream, and I’m wakin’ from it, Dolly, I’m wakin’ from it. (_Takes up
his bundle._)
_Dor._ Why, father, art thou going away?
_Dan._ Ay, lass,--we’re both goin’ away.
_Dor._ (_surprised_). To-night?
_Dan._ To-night. Make thy bundle, for time presses.
_Dor._ But whither are we going?
_Dan._ Whither? What odds whither, so that we leave this place! Out
into the cold world--it matters little where. Thou’lt fret here--it’s
better to take thee hence--for a time--only for a time. Get thy bundle
quickly--take all thou hast. I’ll tell thee more anon--we’ve no time to
lose.
_Dor._ (_going_). As thou wilt, father. (_Aside._) To-night! Oh,
Geoffrey, Geoffrey, this is indeed the end! [_Exit._
_Dan._ Poor child, poor child! My heart smites me for deceivin’
her--for harmful as he’s been to me, he never had thought for aught but
her. I’m a’most sorry I was so rough wi’ him--he did not know--but the
harm’s done, and there’s no undoin’ it! So, old forge, the time has
come when thou and I must part for ever! May he who comes arter me have
as good cause to love thee as I have, for I have been ower happy here!
(_Weeping._)
_REUBEN has entered and overheard the last few lines._
_Reu._ What, Dan’l Druce on the eve of a journey? Nay, thou’lt take no
journey to-night, I promise thee. Unstrap thy pack and burn thy staff;
for thou’lt eat here, drink here, sleep here, make money here, lose
money here, laugh with joy, frown with anger, groan with pain--mope
here, sicken here, dwindle here, and die here; take an old warrior’s
word for it!
_Dan._ Reuben Haines, art thou here to take her from me?
_Reu._ No, Master Dan’l, I am _not_ here to take her from thee--and
yet, in a sense, _yes_, Master Dan’l, I _am_ here to take her from
thee. Weigh these words well, and store them away in the museum of thy
mind, for they are rare words--containing, as they do, truth commingled
with wisdom, which is an observable union, as these qualities consort
but rarely together--for he hath no wisdom who tells the plain truth,
and he hath no need to tell the plain truth who hath wisdom enough to
do without it. It is a paradox.
_Dan._ (_impatiently_). To the devil wi’ thy chop-logic, I canna wait
for it. Speak out, and let me know the best and the worst. Does--does
thy master know?
_Reu._ He does _not_ know, as yet. And why does he not know? Because
the mighty should be merciful--and I have refrained.
_Dan._ If thou art not mocking at my sorrow, speak plainly.
_Reu._ Then observe. I am a Potent Magician, or, if thou preferrest it,
a Benevolent Fairy, who hath certain gifts to dispose of. On the one
hand, I have Family Union, Domestic Happiness, and Snug Old Age--on
the other, Blank Misery, Abject Despair, and Desolation, utter and
complete. Which shall I give to Sir Jasper, and which to thee? Now, I
am a pleasant old gentleman--well to do--not so very old neither, yet
old enough to marry. Dorothy and I are good friends; she listens to me
when I talk, which many won’t; it is a good sign and augurs well, for I
love a good listener. How say you? Come, give me _thy_ daughter, and I
will give thee Sir Jasper’s daughter. (_Aside._) Ha! ha! It is neatly
put. It is a quip.
_Dan._ Give thee my Dorothy! (_With an effort to be calm._) No, no--it
canna be--she is promised. True, I drove him forth; but still she loves
him. No, no--I canna do that--I canna do that!
_Reu._ Reflect. Sir Jasper will take her from thee for ever--thou wilt
never behold her again. He will drive thee from thy forge, and thou
wilt be a desolate old vagabond, while she is learning day by day to
forget thee, and to give her love to another. Thou refusest? It is well
done. Brave old man! Thou shrinkest not from the troubles that environ
thee, though they threaten to crush thee utterly; and so I say, brave
old man! (_Going._)
_Dan._ Nay--stay--one moment--give me time to think. How am I to do
this thing? And yet--I will consent--that is, if Dorothy will. I will
ask her--nay, I will persuade her. God forgive me!
_Enter DOROTHY._
Dorothy, my child, come hither. I have somewhat to say to thee. I--I am
not long for this world, and when I am gone---- Oh, Dorothy, bear with
what I have to say! This man--this Reuben Haines--he loveth thee, and
would make thee his wife.
_Dor._ Oh, father----
_Dan._ Ay, I know what thou wouldst say--thou lovest Geoffrey, but bear
in mind, he loves thee not--he spake slightingly of thee--he did deny
thee--he loveth other women; thou didst hear him say as much. See,
this man will love thee better than Geoffrey. He--he is not a young
man--he is of sober age, and a man of good substance. Oh, Dorothy, my
child, have pity on me!
_Dor._ I cannot answer--I am lost in wonder.
_Dan._ Dorothy, my little girl--for a reason which I canna tell thee,
it concerns my life--ay, my life--that thou shouldst take this man.
I--I have been a kind father to thee, have I not? I have asked naught
of thee till now. Oh, my child, it is for thine happiness as well as
for mine. If thou didst but know! If thou didst but know!
_Reu._ Behold, maiden, I am worth consideration. I am not as other old
men are. In all but years I am a boy--a very boy.
_Dor._ My father, I know naught of the sorrow that hangs over thee, but
it must needs be heavy if thou canst suffer this man to say this thing
to me!
_Dan._ Dorothy--have patience; if to yield up my life would serve thee,
I would yield it, ten times told--the time may soon come when I shall
prove thee this--for I canna live alone!
_Dor._ Father, I know naught of this man but what is ill--nevertheless,
as thou hast been to me as my father, and I to thee as thy child, bound
in all lawful things to obey thee, so will I obey thee even in this.
Sir, I cannot love you, for my heart is given, but if my father bids
me, I must needs do his bidding. (_Kneels._) Oh, my father, if the
breaking of my heart can save thee, it is thine to break!
_Reu._ It is dutifully spoken. It is a bargain. Give me thine hand on
it, Dan’l Druce. Set thine heart at rest--it is settled.
_Dan._ (_furiously_). Ay, it is settled. Get thee hence, now and for
ever, and do thy worst. Dorothy, forgive me--’twas but for a moment I
wavered--I am strong again now. (_To REUBEN._) Thou hast a master--thou
owest him a duty. Go, do it--I’ll do mine. We will wait here, she and
I, and when the blow comes, we’ll bear it together.
_Reu._ Dan’l Druce, I warn thee----
_Dan._ And I warn thee, Reuben Haines! Quit my roof, and that quickly,
if thou settest value on thy blood, for it’s ill trifling wi’ me now!
As yet, I’m master here--’twon’t be fur long, but while I am, I’ll be
obeyed. Get thee hence--take thy damned face out, I tell ’ee, lest I do
that which none can undo. Go! Do thy worst!
_Reu._ Brave old man! Thou defiest me to my very face, and I honour
thee for it. There is sore tribulation in store for thee, likewise much
bitter wailing and anguish without end. Yet thou shrinkest not. It
is well done, and damme, I honour thee for it. Brave old man!
[_Exit REUBEN._
_Dor._ Father, thou wast wont to tell me thy sorrow--hide not from me
the source of this bitter grief. Am I not in all things thy daughter,
and who should comfort thee if I may not?
_Dan._ My child, I’ve naught to hide from thee now. The reed on which I
leant is broken--and---- (_Knock. DAN’L starts in terror._) Who’s there?
_Geof._ (_without_). Master Druce!
_Dor._ It is Geoffrey.
_Dan._ He had best not see thee. Get thee hence, I’ll open to him.
_Dor._ Father, deal gently with him for the love I bear him.
[_Exit DOROTHY. DAN’L opens the door._
_Enter GEOFFREY._
_Geof._ Master Dan’l, I’m going to sea. I have written to refuse the
post that Sir Jasper would have given me, and I am going to-night. I
come to pray your pardon for the sorrow I have brought upon your home.
Give me that before I go.
_Dan._ Ay, I pardon thee, my lad. Thou didst not know. Heaven prosper
thee. Is that all?
_Geof._ I have something to ask about--about Mistress Dorothy.
_Dan._ Too late! She is not mine to give. Her father--he’s coming fur
to take her from me. Oh, Geoffrey, he’s comin’ to take her from me, and
I’m waiting here for the blow to fall! I’m waiting here for my death!
_Geof._ I did not come to seek her love--I know that that has gone from
me for ever. Master Dan’l, she heard me deny her, and she believes that
I spake in earnest. I’m going from her now--for ever; there’s no chance
that she’ll ever see me again. I think I should go with a lighter heart
if I knew that when I’m gone and there’s many a mile of stormy water
betwixt us, some one would tell her that I’m not so bad and cruel and
heartless as she thinks me--if some one would tell her that it was
for _her_ sake that I denied her--for her sake and for thine. I think
I could go with a lighter heart if I knew she would be sure to think
rightly of me in the end. That’s all I’ve got to say.
_Dan._ My lad, I’ve dealt hardly with thee, but I was sorely put about
and not rightly master o’ myself. If it lay wi’ me, I’d give my girl
to thee wi’ a light heart; but, my poor lad, it doan’t lay wi’ me now.
He’s coming fur to take her from me! (_Knock._) At last! at last! Sir
Jasper is here. Get thee within there. (_Pointing to inner room._) I
have business wi’ this man.
[_Exit GEOFFREY into room as Dan’l opens door and admits SIR JASPER
and REUBEN._
_Jas._ So, Dan’l Druce, thou art the man who for fourteen long years
has hidden my daughter away from me!
_Dan._ Sir, I am indeed he.
_Jas._ Oh, shame upon thee--shame upon thee!
_Dan._ I crave your mercy, for I knew not her father’s name till to-day.
_Jas._ Yet it would seem that, having learnt it, thou wouldst
nevertheless have fled with her, had not this good fellow arrested thy
flight.
_Dan._ I have naught to say that your honour’s kind heart will not more
fitly say for me. We love one another dearly. Truly in the bitterness
of my grief I had thought to flee with her, but my better self
prevailed, and I stayed.
_Reu._ Credit him not, sir, for he lieth. He was in the very nick of
departure when I interposed, and with stern upbraiding, withering
invective, and threat of instant death, did bid him await your honour’s
commands. The palsied coward trembled and obeyed.
_Dan._ Nay, sir, this man--this traitorous man--offered to keep the
matter from you for ever if I would consent to give him the child to
wife. She will herself bear witness to this.
_Jas._ (_to REUBEN_). Art thou indeed guilty of this treachery?
_Reu._ Why, sir, there is a measure of truth even in this fellow’s
speech, inasmuch as I did indeed say it; but (herein lurks the humour
of the thing) I did it but to try him. It was, as it were, a subtle
essay or delicate test, prepared and carried out to the life with much
ingenuity, in pursuit of the grandest of all studies--the conduct of a
man under the influence of extraordinary temptation. I am a philosopher!
_Jas._ Thy philosophy shall be severely tried. Deliver thy books and
papers to Master Geoffrey Wynyard, whom I appoint steward in thy place.
Thy stewardship is at an end. Begone!
_Reu._ But, sir--consider----
_Jas._ Begone, I say, and let me see thee no more!
_Reu._ (_at door_). I am a philosopher!
_Jas._ Begone! (_Exit REUBEN, dolefully._) Now, Dan’l Druce, if thou
hast aught to say in defence of thy conduct, I am prepared to hear it.
_Dan._ Aught to say? No, sir, I’ve naught to say worth saying. Thou’st
seen the maiden--thou’st seen how fair she is--how good she is--how
pure, and gentle, and tender, and true she is. That says more for me
than I could say for myself. She softened my stubborn heart--she made
me a man. I’ve learnt to look on her as my daughter--she on me as her
father. We’ve bin all in all to each other; and at the thought o’
losin’ of her my poor old heart’s ’most broken in twain. I dunno as
I’ve any more for to say. No, sir, that’s all. (_Sighing._)
_Jas._ I am sorry for you--but you have brought this grief upon
yourself; you have been guilty of gross injustice both to myself and to
the girl.
_Dan._ (_furious_). What!
_Jas._ Knowing as you did that enquiries would certainly be made for
the child, you nevertheless stole away from the town, and left no clue
whatever as to your destination.
_Dan._ Knowin’ as I did! How did I know--what was there for to tell
me? Was it the love that her father showed for her when he left her to
perish on that stormy Norfolk coast? Did that reckless profligate set
such value on his treasure as to make it so sure he would ever come
for it agen? Why, he set _his_ life afore hers! That he might live he
left her to die! Why, she was well quit of such a father! Take her from
me, Jasper Combe, if thou’st the heart to do it--but do it wi’ a shut
mouth; for God knows, with all my sins--and they’re many--I done my
duty by her!
_Jas._ Dan’l, I spake harshly--I am sorry for it. You are right. That
she was not my own child, but a step-child, matters nothing. I loved
her mother dearly. It was my duty to protect the child, and I basely
forsook my trust. But for this misdeed I have suffered bitterly. It
killed her poor mother, who loved her beyond measure, and on her
deathbed I swore to search out the child that I might make amends--and
now that after many years of weary searching I have found her, shall I
yield her up, even to you? Come, Dan’l, be just, and ask yourself this.
_Dan._ I have nowt to say agin it, sir. It’s right--but it’s ower
hard--it’s ower hard! (_Calls._) Dorothy, my child, come hither.
_Enter DOROTHY._
(_To SIR JASPER._) I ask your pardon, sir, if I call her my child
still, for she’s bin more than that to me! (_To DOROTHY._) Dolly, my
lass, there’s a change in store for thee--a grand change; thou’rt
a lady, ay, a great lady, too. I allers knowed thou wast a lady.
(_To SIR JASPER._) She doan’t talk like us common folk, sir! This
gentleman, Sir Jasper Combe--he’s come to claim thee--he’s thy father,
Dolly--think o’ that! And he’s--he’s goin’ to take thee from me--only
to Combe-Raven, Dolly, where I’ll come and see thee often. (_To SIR
JASPER._) Thou’lt let me come and see her odd times? (_To DOROTHY._)
And thou’lt come and see me, and there’ll be grand doins then, eh,
Dolly? There, there, go to thy father--he’ll be a kind father to thee,
and he’ll love thee well, never doubt it--and--and I shall love thee
too, and thou’lt have two fathers ’stead o’ one, Dolly, that’s all!
(_She is about to speak._) Doan’t speak! doan’t speak; for God’s sake,
doan’t speak! (_He rushes out. DOROTHY stands dumb with surprise._)
_Jas._ Dorothy, my child, I am indeed he who should stand to thee in
the place of a father. I know that I seem to thee to be doing a hard
thing--for thou hast learnt to love him, and he hath earned thy love.
But, Dorothy, I am childless and alone, wealthy, honoured, and of good
repute, yet alone in my old age. Dorothy, come to me--come to me!
_Dor._ (_who has been sobbing through this speech_). Oh, sir, forgive
me if I seem to speak thoughtlessly, for I am but a poor untaught girl,
and I know not how to reply. He has been so good to me, and I love him
with all the love of my heart. Oh, sir, it cannot be that after these
long years of tender love I am to be taken from him now. Oh, it will
kill him! Have pity on him, sir, for it will kill him! I cannot leave
him now. I am the very light of his eyes--the very heart of his life
(_sobbing_)--I cannot leave him now! Oh, sir, if thou hast no care for
him, yet for the love of my mother have pity upon me!
_Jas._ (_after a pause_). I had thought my atonement was at an end, but
my bitterest punishment is yet to come, and I am to suffer it at thy
hands. So be it--it is just! Dorothy, my child, whom I have sought so
long, I will not break another heart. Thou art free to go to him who
has been more to thee than many fathers.
_Dor._ Heaven bless thee for those good words; they have sown seed in
my heart that will bear thee truer love than could have come in many
years passed away from him! Sir, thou hast spared his life. When his
wife left him it drove him to the very verge of madness, and this last
blow would have ended his life!
_Jas._ Did his wife leave him?
_Dor._ Alas! yes, many years since--before I was sent to him.
_Jas._ And he loved her very dearly too?
_Dor._ So dearly that he would have taken her to his heart if she had
returned to him--so dearly that he called me Dorothy because he read
her name in mine eyes.
_Jas._ Dorothy! was that her name?
_Dor._ Ay, Dorothy Marple, for that is rightly my father’s name. But to
save her good fame he gave out that he was dead, and he took the name
he now bears.
_Jas._ (_aside_). My sin has borne bitter fruit! Oh, Dan’l Druce, give
me thy pardon! Dorothy, for the sake of the Dorothy who is dead, give
me thy pardon!
_Enter DAN’L DRUCE._
Master Druce, Heaven has interposed to save me from unwittingly working
on thee a deep and bitter injury. Take the child that is thine own in
the eye of God and of man. As she has been thy daughter hitherto, so
shall she be thy daughter to the end!
_Dan._ (_amazed_). Why, sir--Dorothy, my child--is he not goin’ to take
thee from me?
_Jas._ I have no right with her. She is thine, to bless thine old age,
and to bring thee comfort to the very last.
_Dan._ Dorothy--my child--my child! (_Takes DOROTHY in his arms._) Oh,
sir, I know not how to bless thee for this blessing!
_Jas._ Give me no blessing. I have done thee a wrong that is beyond
the power of man to repair. Think of the deepest injury that man’s
wickedness has ever wrought on thee, and place it to my account.
(_DAN’L thunderstruck._) If it lies within thee to extend the hand of
pardon to him who laid waste thine home and made thy life desolate,
read in my blighted life the punishment that the sin of my youth has
brought upon me in my old age. As I have sinned, so before Heaven I
have atoned! [_Exit SIR JASPER._
_Dan._ (_as SIR JASPER’S meaning breaks upon him_). Stay! come back--if
this be not a devil-born dream, come back and hear me out. Oh, source
of all the sorrow I have known! Oh, black and bitter curse of two poor
lives! Thy life for hers--thy cursed life for hers!
_Dor._ Father, spare him--be merciful--be just. He is an old man
now--thou art an old man--is it in the winter of your lives that the
heart-burnings of hot youth are to be avenged? He has wronged thee,
but he has suffered and will yet suffer. As I have prevailed to turn
thee to mankind, so let me, thy daughter--thy daughter indeed--thine
own flesh--_her_ own flesh--prevail against this one surviving sorrow.
Spare him and pardon him--for her sake and for mine! (_Kneels._)
_Enter GEOFFREY._
_Dan._ Oh, Dorothy, dead and in heaven, when God took thee He left
an angel behind to plead for thee and for this man! It is Heaven’s
voice--my anger has gone out of me!
_Geof._ Dorothy, wilt thou believe now that it was for thy sake and for
thy father’s that I did deceive thee? (_DOROTHY rises; DAN’L sits._)
Wilt thou believe, now, that I love thee truly and beyond all on earth?
_Dor._ Oh, Geoffrey! forgive me--forgive me! I acted in haste! I knew
not what I did! (_Embracing him._)
_Geof._ My darling! (_Kisses her._)
_Dor._ Art thou happy, Geoffrey?
_Geof._ Passing happy! And thou?
_Dor._ Passing happy!
GRETCHEN.
_A PLAY_, IN FOUR ACTS.
_First produced at the Olympic Theatre, on March 24th, 1879._
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
DOMINIC.
ANSELM.
FAUSTUS.
GOTTFRIED.
MEPHISTO.
AGATHA.
BESSIE.
BARBARA.
LISA.
GRETCHEN.
MARTHA.
FRIEDRICH.
NOTE.--The leading idea of this play was suggested by Goethe’s “Faust.”
The author is indebted to that work for the scene between Mephisto and
Martha in Act II. In every other respect the dialogue is original.
GRETCHEN.
ACT I.
SCENE.--_Under the cloisters of a monastery. In the centre of the
stage a graveyard; in the graveyard, conspicuous among other
tombs, is a tall monument. Procession of _Monks_ crosses the
stage at back. Moonlight._
_DOMINIC discovered seated, reading. To him enters ANSELM._
_Dom._ _Pax vobiscum_, father!
_Ans._ _Benedicite!_
I am rejoiced that, after many perils
By sea and land, I am once more among you.
How fares our poor sick Faustus?
_Dom._ By Heaven’s grace,
He is, in body, well--yet much I fear
There lies some hidden canker at his soul.
When he was prostrate on a fevered bed,
The utterings of his delirium
Were rather those of some base man of sin,
Than of a holy father, vowed to heaven.
_Ans._ Thy news is grave indeed; but knowest thou this
Of thine own knowledge?
_Dom._ Ay, in truth I do.
I took my turn with others at his bed,
And all who watched him made the same report.
When the delirium was at its worst
His fevered brain was filled with worldly dreams,
And seemed to revel in the guilty joys
That he for once and all had long forsworn.
Now at a gaming table, flushed with wine,
And swearing roundly that the dice were loaded;
Now at a drunken revel, trolling forth
Ungodly songs that set mine ears ablaze;
Now at the chase; now breathing words of love
Into the ears of some fair wanton; then
Invoking curses on her wantonness!
_Ans._ But spake he never of the holy life
That he is sworn to lead?
_Dom._ Nay, never once,
Unless it were to curse the evil haste
That led him to it.
_Ans._ It affects me much
To hear these tidings of our well-loved Faustus.
I knew that, ere he took his holy vows,
He led a life of sin, and for that cause
I more rejoiced his heart had turned to grace.
But, see, he comes. Leave me alone with him.
I’ll speak to him as father speaks to son.
_Dom._ May Heaven speed thy work. [_Exit DOMINIC._
_Enter FAUSTUS._
_Ans._ Come hither, son.
The kindly brothers who attended thee
In thy delirium have no light cause
To think that, though thy priestly ministries
Are to the letter faithfully performed,
Thy heart is bent on worldly matters still.
_Faus._ Of what do they complain? Can any say
That I have failed in my observances?
That I have spoken ill of any man?
That I live not a chaste and sober life?
That I am loth to pray with dead and dying?
Are not my priestly duties well discharged?
_Ans._ Would that all priests within these sacred walls
Took thee for an ensample in these matters.
But who can read the inmost heart of man?
The lips may move in prayer, and but the lips.
Speak to me frankly--tell me by what means
Thou wast induced to quit the world without,
Its fleeting pleasures and its lasting pains,
For the pure calm of these monastic shades?
_Faus._ Oh, father, holy father, bear with me,
My heart is very sore!
_Ans._ Come--tell me all,
Fear nothing; speak to me as to thyself.
_Faus._ How shall I speak to such a one as thou
Of an intense and all-believing love,
Betrayed, abandoned, trampled underfoot?
Of pure and simple faith in one fair woman--
Unswerving faith--faith, absolute and whole--
And of the deadly agony that came
Of finding that well-trusted woman false?
All the more false for the divine truth-promise
That played upon her fair and placid brow;
All the more false for the hot passion-vows
That leaped, in hurried whispers, from her lips!
I gave her all the wealth of my rich heart--
I lived upon her love--I fed my life
With the sweet poison of her lying lips
In utter trust. God help me!--one dark day,
In the high noon of all my happiness,
My heart upraised to heaven, in gratitude
For the fair promise of our coming life,
She left me, for a man whose proffered love
Had formed the theme of many an idle jest.
But he was rich--and so--she went to him!
At once the open volume of her life
Lay plain before me, and I read therein,
That she was--womankind!
Mad with the frenzy of a shipwrecked heart,
And with the old fond test-words of our love
Ringing a mocking echo through my brain,
I cursed the world and all the women in it,
And here sought sanctuary.
_Ans._ Ah, my son,
This haven from the tempests of the world
Should not be sought in bitterness of soul.
Only the pious heart, turned heavenwards
From very love of heaven, will here find rest,
Till Heaven, in its good time, shall garner it.
But take good heart. I’ll talk with thee to-night,
And, with the help of Heaven, give thee good counsel.
Be comforted--the world without is hollow,
As thou, in thine hot wrath, didst reckon it.
Thy wrath had reason in’t. Be comforted! [_Exit ANSELM._
_Faus._ “Only the pious heart, turned heavenwards
From very love of heaven!” Fit formula
To typify the fierce, embittered cynic,
Who, in heart-misery, sought refuge here,
As a poor, worried, over-hunted fox,
Cursing his persecutors, runs to earth
To lick his bleeding flanks in sulky peace,
And brood, in solitude, on men and dogs!
No hope! no hope! no hope! For life entombed--
For life cut off from life--a breathing man,
Wrapped in a winding-sheet of his own weaving!
A living heart, inurned and sepulchred!
_Enter GOTTFRIED, disguised as a monk._
_Gott._ Good brother, _pax vobiscum_.
_Faus._ _Benedicite!_
_Gott._ Art thou the monk who, in the world without,
Was known as Faustus?
_Faus._ Ay, the very same.
_Gott._ I am a travelling Dominican
Sent to thee by the Prior of our Order;
Who, having heard much scandalous report
Of thy most heinous immoralities,
Instructs me, with all friendly privacy,
To urge thee to amend thy naughty life.
Or, if thou findest this impossible
(As there is reason to believe thou mayst),
So to conceal and cloke thy wanton ways,
That thou, at least, mayst seem to be a saint,
And so afford no handle to the grasp
Of the all-watchful enemies of our Church.
_Faus._ Strange mission, strangely worded, holy brother!
What doth your Prior allege? And by what right
Dares he to counsel such hypocrisy?
Whence comes his information?
_Gott._ From Sir Gottfried,
A very blameless, pure, and godly knight;
Who, once a boon companion of thy follies,
Hath since repented, and indicted thee
For that, despite thy vows of continence,
Thou livest the old life.
_Faus._ Now, by the Truth,
Never lied Gottfried thus!
_Gott._ Nay, by the Truth,
I speak his very words--and here’s the proof!
[_Throws off his robe, and appears as a young soldier._
_Faus._ Gottfried! Is this indeed my dear old friend?
_Gott._ The same indeed. Bound for the wars again!
My troop of horse is passing through the town,
And hearing that thou wast within these walls,
I asked for thee. A bearded brother came,
And with scant courtesy, he bade me wait
Thy leisure in the great refectory.
There, much perplexed to know with what address
I might most ceremoniously greet
So eminent a theologian,
I saw this rag-bag hanging on a peg--
Thou knowest the rest.
_Faus._ I am rejoiced to see thee,
Despite thy ill-timed jest.
_Gott._ And this Faustus!
The old dare-devil Faustus! Marvellous!
When last I saw thee, thou wast bravely clad
In coat of cramoisie, and by thy side
There swung the readiest rapier in the town!
_Faus._ Hush, hush, these vanities are past and gone,
And many others with them!
_Gott._ By-the-by,
There was a black-eyed wench--a plump brown rogue,
With full red lips, and twinkling ankles, too--
Dost recollect her ankles? No? _I_ do!
Let’s see--her name. What was the wench’s name?
Has she gone with the other vanities?
_Faus._ I prithee stop thy tongue. I loved the girl
And she was false to me. My heart died out.
I sickened of the world and woman’s love,
And here sought refuge.
_Gott._ Oh, for shame! for shame!
To hold the world to be a hollow world
Because one heart has proved a hollow heart!
Now hear a parable. But ten days since,
A swindling huckster gave me a bad ducat;
Now, by my head, I thought that ducat good:
It seemed so fair and bright--and as it lay
Upon my open palm, I read thereon
A pious legend, drawn from Holy Writ!
Believing that a ducat, wreathed about
With such a goodly warrant, could not lie,
I loved that ducat, and I trusted it!
Well, well, the ducat proved to be but base.
With a deep sigh--for gold is scarce with me--
I cast that ducat from me. But did I,
On that account, forswear _all_ ducats? No!
My love for ducats--and my need of them--
Are just as keen as ever!
_Faus._ Peace, old friend.
I am a priest, who once forswore the world
Because he thought all women false. Think you
That being priest, and sitting day by day
In yon confessional,
I have seen cause to hold my judgment cheap?
_Gott._ Plague on thy judgments! Judgments ready-made
Are counterparts of garments ready-made,
That fit some well, some ill, some not at all.
I know a maiden, scarce eighteen years old,
Fair as the apple-green of early dawn,
Pure as the summer sun of southern heaven;
A psalm incarnate--an embodied prayer,
Not of the earth, yet dwelling thereupon;
Nor yet of heaven--although her mission be
To teach mankind that heaven is worth the winning.
I have seen sturdy brawlers sheath their blades
To humbly doff their hats at her approach;
And when she’s fairly out of hearing, then
Draw a long breath and go their ways in peace,
As though the air were charged with loving-kindness.
Rude gallants, in whose eyes all womankind
Are but the subjects of licentious jest,
Stand back abashed as Gretchen passes by,
And hush their converse into decency.
Young wanton girls weep tears of honest shame,
And old men think of angels and the heaven
That is to crown their closing pilgrimage!
_Faus._ (_interested_). Who is this maiden?
_Gott._ My dead uncle’s child,
An orphan, dwelling twenty leagues away.
_Faus._ Thou lovest her?
_Gott._ Ay, as I love the truth--
As I love purity and innocence--
As I love heaven and the good life to come!
_Faus._ Well, well--go on--she is thy kinswoman.
Thou hast a goodly presence--and I know
Thy heart is honest. Thou hast told thy love?
_Gott._ I, dare to speak of love to Gretchen? No!
I’m a rough soldier--barrack-born and bred.
My life’s a tavern life--- my closest friends
Are all rough soldiers; and the air I breathe
Reeks with unholy jests and fumes of wine!
I, dare to speak of love to Gretchen? Why,
My tongue would shrivel at the blasphemy!
_Faus._ Why, what’s all this?
Thou’rt going from her, and thou dost not dare
To tell her of thy love? She is the pearl
Of maidenhood, and yet thy heart is faint
_Because_ she is the pearl of maidenhood?
Up, man! Take heart of grace! Thy love is honest,
Thy face is fair--thine heart is true and sound--
Thou art a soldier, marked for fair reward.
Up, man! Take heart of grace! No fretting vows
Stand betwixt _thee_ and such an earthly heaven!
To think that this most miserable man
Has all this boundless treasure in his reach,
And hesitates to grasp it! Up, faint heart!
Come, boot and saddle, and away with thee,
Ere some more daring and less worthy suitor
Step in to take her from thee!
_Gott._ (_astonished_). By my hand,
’Twas Faustus spake then--not the holy friar!
_Faus._ I spake as man to man--as friend to friend.
I love thee; and if such a woman live
As thou hast pictured, take her to thine heart
While yet thou mayst. Had I loved such a one
I should not now be wearing out my life
In these sad solitudes!
_Gott._ (_sadly_). There spake the heart,
And not the lips.
_Faus._ (_recollecting himself_). May Heaven pardon me!
I knew not what I said!
_Gott._ My dear old friend!
Come, I must say farewell, my troop awaits me.
We ride through Lutzen. I shall see her there. (_Trumpet heard
without._)
“To horse!” Dost know the sound?
_Faus._ (_sighing_). I know it well!
_Gott._ I’ll warrant me thy trusty soldier-heart
Bounds as of old, despite thy monkish frock,
At the old trumpet call!
_Faus._ These things are past!
May God protect thee in thine enterprise,
And give thee safe and speedy conduct home.
_Gott._ Amen to that. So, Faustus, fare thee well!
[_Exit GOTTFRIED._
_Faus._ He’s gone! gone forth to the fair, fruitful world:
The world of life and love, the world of hope,
Of open hearts and unchecked sympathies!
Oh, foolish priest, misleading and misled,
Poor trickster, ever duping, ever duped--
Cheating thyself into a mad surrender
Of all that youth holds dearest: cheating others
Into blind trust of thy sincerity!
Thou art a man--the world was made for men!
Thou hast a heart--thy heart is idle here!
A curse on all this maddening mummery,
This life-long lie, this living catacomb!
Earth, heaven, hell, whichever hears me now,
Come to my call, and bring me back to life!
[_Thunder, lightning; MEPHISTO appears._
_Faus._ Merciful Heaven, defend me! Who art thou?
What dost thou here, and what wouldst thou with me?
_Meph._ You called me, and I came in hurried haste,
Lest the two other powers whom you invoked
Should be before me in the race.
_Faus._ Who art thou?
_Meph._ A travelling clock-cobbler, who repairs
The moral timepiece when it’s out of order.
_Faus._ A truce to riddles.
_Meph._ Then I’ll speak more plainly
Some clocks are well made, some are roughly fashioned,
And need much tinkering; springs weaken, snap,
Wheels loosen, dust gets in, and time is lost;
Men lose all faith, and put the liar by
As something worse than useless. I, clock-cobbler,
Wind up the moral timepiece, make new faces,
Repair this wheel, that spring, mend here, mend there;
In short, I do my very best to make
A timepiece that has lost its character
Pass for a trusty herald of the hour.
_Faus._ Get thee behind me, for I know thee now,
Despite thy fair disguise!
_Meph._ Oh, pardon me,
I’ve no disguise. This is my own fair form.
I’m not the horrible embodiment
You doctors of the Church have painted me--
A very Satyr, with a dragon’s tail--
A nursemaid’s devil! Oh, shortsighted priests,
My policy is to allure mankind,
Not to repel them!
_Faus._ What wouldst thou with me?
_Meph._ A proper question! Why, you summoned me!
It is a leading principle with me
That no one ever needs to call me twice.
_Faus._ I spake in haste. I did not weigh my words.
_Meph._ That may be, or it may not be. I have
A character for promptness to maintain,
And can’t afford to risk my reputation
On the mere hazard that your words were idle.
_Faus._ You’ve saved your character, and so depart--
Prime cause of sin--accursed of God and man!
_Meph._ Unjust--illogical! But you’re a Churchman.
Prime cause of sin! Why, evil comes from good,
As oft as good from evil. Motives? Pooh!
Why, half the ills that vex mankind arise
From motives that are unimpeachable.
_Faus._ If goodly seed, well sown, bear evil fruit,
The fault is scarcely with the husbandman.
_Meph._ But why sow any goodly seed at all,
If evil may result from doing so?
_Faus._ Why try to stop my sowing goodly seed,
If it produce the crops that please you best?
_Meph._ He’s hit the blot! This clear-cut brain of his
Is wasted in this world of half an acre!
Cast off thy frock--come forth with me. The man
Who can detect my sophisms at a glance
Is safe enough, without the galling chains
That fetter him to prayer and solitude.
Come forth with me;
There’s a fair field without these gloomy walls
For such a brain as thine--a merry world,
Teeming with song and dance--a grateful world,
Where gallant deed and brilliant enterprise
Meet with their due reward--a loving world,
Where kindred hearts may chime in unison.
Come forth with me!
_Faus._ Peace--get thee hence away.
My vows are taken!
_Meph._ Ay, and so they are!
Vows not to dream of the gay world without--
Vows not to sigh for temporal vanities--
Vows so to chasten, quell, and mortify
Your natural craving for a woman’s love,
That it shall sicken, wither, starve and die
From lack of sustenance!
Rare vows, and rarely kept, I make no doubt!
Why, man, you break them every day you live;
You break them when you weep upon the grave
Of broken hopes and blighted sympathies--
Of wrecked ambitions, and the hundred tombs
That crowd this solitary sepulchre!
You break them when you let your memory loose
To revel in the rich, ripe luxury
Of luscious lips, soft cheeks and glancing eyes,
The violet breath--the press of warm, soft hands,
Or the crisp frettle of disordered hair,
That wooed your flaming cheek, as, half ashamed,
The maiden nestled, blushing, on your breast--
And yet you plead your vows! Like some I know
Who pray for mankind in the aggregate,
And damn them all in detail!
_Faus._ Tempt me not.
I left the world of women for these walls,
Because I found a woman false as thou--
I’ll not return.
_Meph._ Illogical again.
“As one is so are all.” Sound argument!
You gather generals from particulars
Like all your brood. Why, there’s no harm in women.
_I_ didn’t make them! They’re my deadliest foes!
Why, he who of his own unfettered will
Cuts himself off from pure communion
With blameless womanhood, withdraws himself
From a far holier influence than he finds
Within these sad and silent solitudes.
_Faus._ Strange sentiments from such as thou!
_Meph._ For that
We devils, as you Churchmen please to call us,
Are not the simple folk you take us for;
We are shrewd fellows in our homely way,
And look facts in the face. I know a maid,
A fair and gentle girl--the pink and bloom
Of all that’s loveliest in maidenhood,
Whose simple truth and pure and blameless life
Have done my cause more harm in eighteen years
Than all the monks in Christendom can mend!
_Faus._ Is this indeed the truth?
_Meph._ Ay, though I tell it.
_Faus._ If there live such a one as thou hast painted--
A maiden--pure as the blue breath of heaven,
Into whose virgin heart no dream of ill
Hath ever crept--the bloom of whose pure lips
Is yet unbrushed by man’s polluting touch;
Whose life is open as the very truth--
A perfect type of blameless maidenhood,
Take me to her, and I _will_ learn of her.
_Meph._ Humph! No, I’d rather not.
_Faus._ And why?
_Meph._ You see,
We devils have our consciences. In vice
We can do nearly all that man can do,
But not quite all. There are some forms of sin
From which we shrink--and this is one of them.
I have no stomach for such worldly work.
Best get a man to help you.
_Faus._ Mocking fiend,
Misjudge me not. As there’s a heaven and hell,
I mean the maid no wrong. I’ll take thy help,
If thou wilt give it me. But be forewarned;
I’ll make no compact with thee. Set me free,
And I will fight thee with the holy aid
Of her pure innocence. Be thou forewarned.
_Meph._ I like your frankness! Well, you’re not the first
Who’s tried to rise to heaven on my shoulders!
Humph! I don’t know. I am a match for _you_.
But, you and she allied! The odds are heavy!
Well, I’m a student still, and always glad
To glean experience when and how I can.
I’m curious to see how this will end;
If _for_ me--good; but if against me--well,
I shall but lose _you_, and you’re no great stake.
And so I’ll risk it. See! The maiden comes!
[_A vision of GRETCHEN is seen, gliding across the stage, through
the tombstones; she is reading a breviary._
_Faus._ (_entranced_). Great grace of Heaven!
Is this indeed a form of mortal mould?
Speak, tempter, speak!
_Meph._ Ay, flesh and blood, like yours,
Taken, haphazard, from a world of women!
How say you? Is she not exceeding fair?
Is there not innocence in every line
Of that pure, face? Is aught more virginal
Than the sweet sadness of those downcast eyes
Bent on her breviary? And yet withal,
There is a wondrous world of latent love
Within that maiden heart. The girl will love
As few can love, when the full time arrives;
So take good heed, deal gently with the maid,
Or harm may come of it--and that were pity!
_Faus._ If there be truth in heaven, there’s truth in her!
If there be heaven on earth, there’s heaven here!
_Meph._ Ay, verily! Why, when I look on her,
I’m almost tempted to turn saint myself;
What would the world do then! Well, what say you?
The choice is well before you. On one hand,
Quibbling chop-logic--lip and letter worship--
Flesh idly mortified--unreasoning dogma--
The shallow sophistries of means and end--
Straws split, and split, and split, and split again--
Each section in itself infallible,
And all dissentients damned! And on the other,
Peace, charity, and mercy, simple faith,
Gentle good-will and loving kindliness.
Come, priest, what say you? Quick--my time is short.
[_The apparition raises her eyes from her book and turns to
FAUSTUS, holding out her hand to him._
_Faus._ Spirit of peace--divine embodiment--
Henceforth be thou my faith--be thou my Church!
Be thou my guide, my hope, my monitress!
Henceforth the beacon-light of thy pure soul
Shall shed its light upon my onward path,
And I will follow whither it may lead!
Spirit of purity, I come to thee!