ACT III.

ACT III.Scene,same as Act II.Belvawneydiscovered withMiss TreherneandMinnie.He is singing to them.Miss Treherneis leaning romantically on piano.Minnieis 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 areyou 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 toMinnie.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![ExitBelvawney.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.EnterCheviot, 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 amnothis wife.Min.(aside). Sorry news! Then sheishis wife.Ch.My dear girls—my very dear girls, my journey has been fruitless—I have no information.Miss T.andMin.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,ishe so? Belvawney has been making the hours fly, has he? I’ll makehimfly, 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 tome!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, wecould not choose but smile. The good soul has promised to teachmethe 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.[ExitCheviot.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!EnterSymperson, 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,youranxiety 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 isnotyet 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![ExitBelinda.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 ofhim!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 notquitesuch a little donkey asthat, 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.[ExitMinnie.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!EnterCheviot, in low spirits.Ch.(throwing himself into a chair; sobs aloud). Oh Uncle Symperson, have you heard the news?Sym.(angrily). Yes, Ihaveheard the news; and a pretty man of businessyouare to invest all your property in an unregistered company!Ch.Uncle, don’tyouturn 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 Iwantto 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 ofsomethingto 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—andthatobjection 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 cannotlive 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.EnterBelvawney, 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 younow 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 atme.Bel.Cheviot, I’ll confess all, if you’ll only live. You—you arenotruined!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.[ExitBelvawney.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!EnterSymperson, 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 stateof 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![ExitSymperson, 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!EnterMinnie.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.)EnterMaggiewithAngusandMrs. Macfarlane.Angushas 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? (Maggiegives 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’sshoulder.)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 toAngus.)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.)EnterMiss TreherneandBelvawney. They are followed bySympersonandMinnie.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 toBelvawney.)Bel.(embracesBelinda). 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 toCheviot.)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’sarm has crept mechanically roundMiss Treherne’swaist.)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![BelindaleavesBelvawney, and turns affectionately toCheviot, who embraces her.]Bel.Belinda, stop a bit! don’t leave me like this!Miss T.(crosses toBelvawney). 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! (Belvawneyturns sobbing toMinnie, who comforts him;Miss T.crosses back toCheviot.) 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.—CheviotembracingMiss Treherne.Belvawneyis being comforted byMinnie.Angusis solacingMaggie, andMrs. Macfarlaneis reposing onMr. Symperson’sbosom.

Scene,same as Act II.

Belvawneydiscovered withMiss TreherneandMinnie.He is singing to them.Miss Treherneis leaning romantically on piano.Minnieis 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.”

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.”

Bel.(sings).“Says the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah,I am drier, Obadiah, I am drier.”

Bel.(sings).

“Says the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah,

I am drier, Obadiah, I am drier.”

Chorus.“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.”

Bel.

“Says the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah,

I’m on fire, Obadiah, I’m on fire.”

Chorus.“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 areyou 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 toMinnie.

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!

[ExitBelvawney.

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.

EnterCheviot, 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 amnothis wife.

Min.(aside). Sorry news! Then sheishis wife.

Ch.My dear girls—my very dear girls, my journey has been fruitless—I have no information.

Miss T.andMin.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,ishe so? Belvawney has been making the hours fly, has he? I’ll makehimfly, 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 tome!

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, wecould not choose but smile. The good soul has promised to teachmethe 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.

[ExitCheviot.

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!

EnterSymperson, 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,youranxiety 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 isnotyet 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!

[ExitBelinda.

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 ofhim!

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 notquitesuch a little donkey asthat, 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.

[ExitMinnie.

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!

EnterCheviot, in low spirits.

Ch.(throwing himself into a chair; sobs aloud). Oh Uncle Symperson, have you heard the news?

Sym.(angrily). Yes, Ihaveheard the news; and a pretty man of businessyouare to invest all your property in an unregistered company!

Ch.Uncle, don’tyouturn 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 Iwantto 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 ofsomethingto 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—andthatobjection 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 cannotlive 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.

EnterBelvawney, 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 younow 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 atme.

Bel.Cheviot, I’ll confess all, if you’ll only live. You—you arenotruined!

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.

[ExitBelvawney.

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!

EnterSymperson, 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 stateof 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!

[ExitSymperson, 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!

EnterMinnie.

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.)

EnterMaggiewithAngusandMrs. Macfarlane.Angushas 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? (Maggiegives 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’sshoulder.)

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 toAngus.)

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.)

EnterMiss TreherneandBelvawney. They are followed bySympersonandMinnie.

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 toBelvawney.)

Bel.(embracesBelinda). 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 toCheviot.)

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’sarm has crept mechanically roundMiss Treherne’swaist.)

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!

[BelindaleavesBelvawney, and turns affectionately toCheviot, who embraces her.]

Bel.Belinda, stop a bit! don’t leave me like this!

Miss T.(crosses toBelvawney). 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! (Belvawneyturns sobbing toMinnie, who comforts him;Miss T.crosses back toCheviot.) 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.—CheviotembracingMiss Treherne.Belvawneyis being comforted byMinnie.Angusis solacingMaggie, andMrs. Macfarlaneis reposing onMr. Symperson’sbosom.

SWEETHEARTS.AN ORIGINAL DRAMATIC CONTRAST,IN TWO ACTS.First produced at the Prince of Wales Theatre, under the management ofMiss Marie Wilton, Saturday, November 7th, 1874.CHARACTERS.Mr. Harry Spreadbrow{ Age 21 in Act I. }{ Age 51 in Act II. }Mr. Coghlan.Wilcox,a GardenerMr. Glover.Miss Jenny Northcott{ Age 18 in Act I. }{ Age 48 in Act II. }Miss M. Wilton.(Mrs. Bancroft.)Ruth,a MaidservantMiss Plowden.

AN ORIGINAL DRAMATIC CONTRAST,IN TWO ACTS.

First produced at the Prince of Wales Theatre, under the management ofMiss Marie Wilton, Saturday, November 7th, 1874.

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.Wilcoxis 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!EnterJennyfrom 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 heisgoing, 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,Jennyremains 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 knewthat, 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 toyou. 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 dessayhe’llbe happy to hear what you’ve got to say abouther.” 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 withhimagain. 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.[ExitWilcox.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—hewouldhave done so if he really, really liked me! I wouldn’t have lefthim—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 findsome peopleout of their way!EnterSpreadbrow, followed byWilcox.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? Thatissudden!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,verysorry—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 itmustbe 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 atWilcox, 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. (Wilcoxgoing—Spreadbrowis delighted.)Jen.No, no, no!—don’t go away! Stop here, only put on your hat. That’s what Mr. Spreadbrow meant. (Wilcoxputs on his hat.) There,noware you happy?Spread.I suppose it will soon be his dinner-time?Jen.Oh, hehasdined. Youhavedined, haven’t you, Wilcox?Wil.Oh, yes, miss,I’vedined, 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? (Wilcoxgoing,Spreadbrowagain delighted.)Jen.No, these will do. (Pointing to open-air flower beds—Spreadbrowagain disappointed.) Stop, on second thoughts perhaps youhadbetter take them out of the conservatory, and cut them carefully—there’s no hurry.Wil.(aside.)Iunderstand! 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.[ExitWilcox.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—youwere abusing me!Jen.N—no, not exactlythat; 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 ofyou.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. Itwillbe 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—ifyoupick 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.[Jennywatches 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.

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.

Wilcoxis 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!

EnterJennyfrom 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 heisgoing, 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,Jennyremains 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 knewthat, 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 toyou. 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 dessayhe’llbe happy to hear what you’ve got to say abouther.” 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 withhimagain. 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.

[ExitWilcox.

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—hewouldhave done so if he really, really liked me! I wouldn’t have lefthim—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 findsome peopleout of their way!

EnterSpreadbrow, followed byWilcox.

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? Thatissudden!

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,verysorry—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 itmustbe 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 atWilcox, 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. (Wilcoxgoing—Spreadbrowis delighted.)

Jen.No, no, no!—don’t go away! Stop here, only put on your hat. That’s what Mr. Spreadbrow meant. (Wilcoxputs on his hat.) There,noware you happy?

Spread.I suppose it will soon be his dinner-time?

Jen.Oh, hehasdined. Youhavedined, haven’t you, Wilcox?

Wil.Oh, yes, miss,I’vedined, 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? (Wilcoxgoing,Spreadbrowagain delighted.)

Jen.No, these will do. (Pointing to open-air flower beds—Spreadbrowagain disappointed.) Stop, on second thoughts perhaps youhadbetter take them out of the conservatory, and cut them carefully—there’s no hurry.

Wil.(aside.)Iunderstand! 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.

[ExitWilcox.

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—youwere abusing me!

Jen.N—no, not exactlythat; 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 ofyou.

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. Itwillbe 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—ifyoupick 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.

[Jennywatches 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.

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