ACT II.

ACT II.Scene.—The same as in Act I., with such additions and changes as may be supposed to have taken place in thirty years. The house, which was bare in Act I., is now entirely covered with Virginia and other creepers; the garden is much more fully planted than in Act I., and trees that were small in Act I. are tall and bushy now; the general arrangement of the garden is the same, except that the sycamore planted in Act I. has developed into a large tree, the boughs of which roof in the stage; the landscape has also undergone a metamorphosis, inasmuch as that which was open country in Act I. is now covered with picturesque semi-detached villas, and there are indications of a large town in the distance. The month is September, and the leaves of the Virginia creepers wear their autumn tint.Jennydiscovered seated on a bench at the foot of the tree, andRuthis standing by her side, holding a skein of cotton, whichJennyis winding.Jennyis now a pleasant-looking middle-aged lady.Jen.Have you any fault to find with poor Tom?Ruth.No, miss, I’ve no fault to find with Tom. But a girl can’t marry every young man she don’t find fault with, can she now, miss?Jen.Certainly not, Ruth. But Tom seems to think you have given him some cause to believe that you are fond of him.Ruth(bridling up). It’s like his impudence, miss, to say so! Fond ofhimindeed!Jen.He hasn’t said so, Ruth, but I’m quite sure he thinks so. I have noticed of late that you have taken a foolish pleasure in playing fast and loose with poor Tom, and this has made him very unhappy—very unhappy indeed; so much so that I think it is very likely that he will make up his mind to leave my service altogether.Ruth(piqued). Oh, miss, if Tom can make up his mind to go, I’m sureIwouldn’t stand in his way for worlds.Jen.But I think you would be sorry if he did.Ruth.Oh yes, miss, I should be sorry to part with Tom!Jen.Then I think it’s only right to tell you that the foolish fellow talks about enlisting for a soldier, and if he does it at all, he will do it to-night.Ruth(with some emotion). Oh, miss, for that, I do like Tom very much indeed; but if he wants to ’list, of course he’s his own master, and if he’s really fond of me, what does he want to go and ’list for? (Going to cry.) One would think he would like to be where he could talk to me, and look at me—odd times! I’m sure I don’t want Tom to go and ’list!Jen.Then take the advice of an old lady, who knows something of these matters, and tell him so before it’s too late—you foolish, foolish girl! Ah, Ruth, I’ve no right to be hard on you! I’ve been a young and foolish girl like yourself in my time, and I’ve done many thoughtless things that I’ve learnt to be very sorry for. I’m not reproaching you—but I’m speaking to you out of the fulness of my experience, and take my word for it, if you treat poor Tom lightly, you may live to be very sorry for it too! (Taking her hand.) There, I’m not angry with you, my dear, but if I’d taken the advice I’m giving you, I shouldn’t be a lonely old lady at a time of life when a good husband has his greatest value. (Ring.) Go and see who’s at the gate![ExitJenny.Ruthgoes to the gate, wiping her eyes on her apron—she opens it.EnterSpreadbrow(nowSir Henry).Spread.My dear, is this Mr. Braybrook’s?Ruth.Yes, sir.Spread.Is he at home?Ruth.No, sir, he is not; but mistress is.Spread.Will you give your mistress my card? (Feeling for his card-case.) Dear me, I’ve left my cards at home! Never mind—will you tell your mistress that a gentleman will be greatly indebted to her, if she will kindly spare him a few minutes of her time? Do you think you can charge yourself with that message?Ruth.Mistress is in the garden, sir; I’ll run and tell her, if you’ll take a seat.[ExitRuth.Spread.That’s a good girl! (He sits on seat.) I couldn’t make up my mind to pass the old house without framing an excuse to take a peep at it. (Looks round.) Very nice—very pretty—but, dear me, on a very much smaller scale than Ifancied. Remarkable changes in thirty years! (Rises and walks round trees, looking about.) Why, the place is a town, and a railway runs right through it. And this is really the old garden in which I spent so many pleasant hours? Poor little Jenny!—I wonder what’s become of her? Pretty little girl, but with a tendency to stoutness; if she’s alive, I’ll be bound she’s fat. So this is Mr. Braybrook’s, is it? I wonder who Braybrook is—I don’t remember any family of that name hereabouts. (Looking off.) This, I suppose, is Mrs. Braybrook. Now, how in the world am I to account for my visit?EnterJenny—she curtsies formally, he bows.I beg your pardon, I hardly know how to explain this intrusion. Perhaps I had better state my facts, they will plead my apology:—I am an old Indian civilian, who, having returned to England after many years’ absence, is whiling away a day in his native place, and amusing himself with polishing old memories—bright enough once, but sadly tarnished—sadly tarnished!Jen.Indeed? May I hope that you have succeeded?Spread.Indifferently well—indifferently well. The fact is, I hardly know where I am, for all my old landmarks are swept away; I assure you I am within the mark, when I say that this house is positively the only place I can identify.Jen.The town has increased very rapidly of late.Spread.Rapidly! When I left, there were not twenty houses in the place, but (politely) that was long before your time. I left a village, I find a town—I left a beadle, I find a mayor and corporation—I left a pump, I find a statue to a borough member. The inn is a “Palace Hotel Company—” the alms-house a county jail—the pound is a police station, and the common a colony of semi-detached bungalows! Everything changed, including myself—everything new, except myself—ha, ha!Jen.I shall be glad to offer you any assistance in my power, I should be a good guide, for I have lived here thirty-two years!Spread.Thirty-two years! is it possible? Then surely I ought to know you? (He feels for his glasses.) My name is Spreadbrow—Sir Henry Spreadbrow!Jen.Spreadbrow! (Putting on spectacles.) Is it possible? Why, my very dear old friend (offering both her hands), don’t you recollect me?Spread.(he puts on his double eye-glass, takes both her hands). God bless me!—is it possible?—and this is really you!—you don’t say so! Dear me, dear me! Well, well, well! I assure you I am delighted, most unaffectedly delighted, to renew our friendship! (Shaking hands again, they sit under tree and look at each other curiously.)Spread.Not changed a bit! My dear Jane, you really must allow me. (They shake hands again.) And now tell me, how is Mr. Braybrook?Jen.(rather surprised). Oh, Mr. Braybrook is very well; I expect him home presently; he will be very glad to see you, for he has often heard me speak of you.Spread.Has he indeed? It will give me the greatest—the very greatest possible pleasure, believe me (very emphatically), to make his acquaintance.Jen.(still surprised at his emphatic manner). I’m sure he will be delighted.Spread.Now tell me all about yourself. Any family?Jen.(puzzled). I beg your pardon?Spread.Any family?Jen.Mr. Braybrook?Spread.Well—yes.Jen.Mr. Braybrook is a bachelor.Spread.A bachelor? Then let me understand—am I not speaking to Mrs. Braybrook?Jen.No, indeed you are not! Ha, ha! (much amused). Mr. Braybrook is my nephew; the place belongs to him now.Spread.Oh! then, my dear Jane, may I ask who you are?Jen.I am not married.Spread.Not married!Jen.No; I keep house for my nephew.Spread.Why, you don’t mean to sit there and look me in the face and tell me, after thirty years, that you are still Jane Northbrook?Jen.(rather hurt at the mistake). Northcott.Spread.Northcott, of course. I beg your pardon—I should have said Northcott. And you are not Mrs. Braybrook? You are not even married! Why, what were they about—what were they about? Not married! Well, now, do you know, I am very sorry to hear that. I am really more sorry and disappointed than I can tell you. (She looks surprised and rather hurt.) You’d have made an admirable wife, Jane, and an admirable mother. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to find that you are still Jane Northbrook—I should say, Northcott.Jen.The same in name—much changed in everything else. (Sighing.)Spread.Changed? Not a bit—I won’t hear of it. I knew you the moment I saw you! We are neither of us changed. Mellowed perhaps—a little mellowed, but what of that? Who shall say that the blossom is pleasanter to look upon than the fruit? Not I for one, Jane—not I for one.Jen.Time has dealt very kindly with us, but we’re old folks now, Henry Spreadbrow. (Rises.)Spread.I won’t allow it, Jane—I won’t hear it. (Rises.) What constitutes youth? A head of hair? Not at all; I was as bald as an egg at five and twenty—babies are always bald. Eyesight? Some people are born blind. Years? Years are an arbitrary impertinence. Am I an old man or you an old woman, because the earth contrives to hurry round the sun in three hundred and sixty-five days? Why, Saturn can’t do it in thirty years. If I had been born on Saturn I should be two years old, ma’am—a public nuisance in petticoats. Let us be thankful that I was not born on Saturn. No—no, as long as I can ride to cover twice a week, walk my five and twenty miles without turning a hair, go to bed at twelve, get up at six, turn into a cold tub and like it, I’m a boy, Jane—a boy—a boy!Jen.And you are still unmarried?Spread.I? Oh dear, yes—very much so. No time to think of marriage. Plenty of opportunity, mind, but no leisure to avail myself of it. I’ve had a bustling time of it, I assure you, Jane, working hard at the Bar and on the Bench, with some success—with some success; (sits again) and now that I’ve done my work, I throw myself back in my easy-chair, fold my hands, cross my legs, and prepare to enjoy myself. Life is before me, and I’m going to begin it. Ha, ha! And so we are really Jane Northcott still?Jen.Still Jane Northcott.Spread.I’m indignant to hear it—I assure you that I am positively indignant to hear it. You would have made some fellow so infernally happy; (rises) I’m sorry for that fellow’s sake—I don’t know him, but still I am sorry. Ah, I wish I had remained in England. I do wish, for the very first time since I left it, that I had remained in England.Jen.Indeed! And why?Spread.Why? Because I should have done my best to remove that reproach from society. I should indeed, Jane! Ha, ha! After all, it don’t much matter, for you wouldn’t have had me. Oh yes! you had no idea of it; but, do you know,I’ve a great mind to tell you—Iwilltell you. Do you know, I was in love with you at one time. Boy and girl, you know—boy and girl. Ha, ha!you’dno idea of it, but I was!Jen.(in wonder). Oh yes; I knew it very well.Spread.(much astonished). You knew it? You knew that I was attached to you!Jen.Why, of course I did!Spread.Did you, indeed! Bless me, you don’t say so! Now that’s amazingly curious. Leave a woman alone to findthatout! It’s instinctive, positively instinctive. Now, my dear Jane, I’m a very close student of human nature, and in pursuit of that study I should like above all things to know by what signs you detected my secret admiration for you. (Takes her hand.)Jen.Why, bless the man! There was no mystery in the matter! You told me all about it!Spread.I told you all about it?Jen.Certainly you did—here, in this garden.Spread.That I admired you—loved you?Jen.Most assuredly! Surely you’ve not forgotten it. (He drops her hand.)Ihaven’t.Spread.I remember that I had the impertinence to be very fond of you. I forgot that I had the impertinence to tell you so. I remember it now. I made a fool of myself. I remember it by that. I told you that I adored you, didn’t I?—that you were as essential to me as the air I breathed—that it was impossible to support existence without you—that your name should be the most hallowed of earthly words, and so forth. Ha, ha! my dear Jane, before I’d been a week on board I was saying the same thing to a middle-aged governess whose name has entirely escaped me. (She has exhibited signs of pleasure during the earlier part of this speech, and disappointment at the last two lines.) What fools we make of ourselves!Jen.And of others!Spread.Oh, I meant it, Jane; I meant every word I said to you.Jen.And the governess?Spread.And the governess! I would have married you, Jane.Jen.And the governess?Spread.And the governess! I’d have marriedher, if she had accepted me—but she didn’t. Perhaps it was as well—she was a widow with five children—I cursed my destiny at the time, but I’ve forgiven it since. I talked of blowing out my brains.I’m glad I didn’t do it, as I’ve found them useful in my profession. Ha! ha! (Looking round;Jennystands watching him.) The place has changed a good deal since my time—improved—improved—we’ve all three improved. I don’t quite like this tree, though—it’s in the way. What is it? A kind of beech, isn’t it?Jen.No, it’s a sycamore.Spread.Ha! I don’t understand English trees—but it’s a curious place for a big tree like this, just outside the drawing-room window. Isn’t it in the way?Jen.Itisrather in the way.Spread.I don’t like a tree before a window, it checks the current of fresh air—don’t you find that?Jen.Itdoescheck the current of fresh air.Spread.Then the leaves blow into the house in autumn, and that’s a nuisance—and besides, it impedes the view.Jen.It is certainly open to these objections.Spread.Then cut it down, my dear Jane. Why don’t you cut it down?Jen.Cut it down! I wouldn’t cut it down for worlds. That tree is identified in my mind with many happy recollections.Spread.Remarkable the influence exercised by associations over a woman’s mind. Observe—you take a house, mainly because it commands a beautiful view. You apportion the rooms principally with reference to that view. You lay out your garden at great expense to harmonize with that view, and, having brought that view into the very best of all possible conditions for the full enjoyment of it, you allow a gigantic and wholly irrelevant tree to block it all out for the sake of the sentimental ghost of some dead and gone sentimental reality! Take my advice and have it down. If I had had anything to do with it, you would never have planted it. I shouldn’t have allowed it!Jen.You had so much to do with it that it was planted there at your suggestion.Spread.At mine? Never saw it before in my life.Jen.We planted it together thirty years ago—the day you sailed for India.Spread.It appears to me that that was a very eventful day in my career. We planted it together! I have no recollection of having ever planted a gigantic sycamore anywhere. And we did it together! Why, it would take a dozen men to move it.Jen.It was a sapling then—you cut it for me.Spread.(suddenly and with energy). From the old sycamore in the old garden at Hampstead! Why, I remember; I went to London expressly to get it for you. (Laughing—sitting on her left.) And the next day I called to say good-bye, and I found you planting it, and I helped; and as I was helping I found an opportunity to seize your hand. (Does so.) I grasped it—pressed it to my lips—(does so), and said, “My dear, dear Jenny” (he drops her hand suddenly), and so forth. Never mindwhatI said—but I meant it—I meant it! (Laughs heartily—she joins him, but her laughter is evidently forced—eventually she shows signs of tears, which he doesn’t notice.) It all comes back with a distinctness which is absolutely photographic. I begged you to give me a flower—you gave me one—a sprig of geranium.Jen.Mignonette.Spread.Wasit mignonette? I think you’re right—it was mignonette. I seized it—pressed it to my trembling lips—placed it next my fluttering heart, and swore that come what might I would never, never part with it!—I wonder what I did with that flower!—And then I took one from my button hole—begged you to take it—you took it, and—ha, ha, ha!—you threw it down carelessly on the table, and thought no more about it, you heartless creature—ha, ha, ha! Oh, I was very angry! I remember it perfectly; it was a camellia.Jen.(half crying aside). Not a camellia, I think.Spread.Yes, a camellia, a large white camellia.Jen.I don’t think it was a camellia; I rather think it was a rose.Spread.Nonsense, Jane—come, come, you hardly looked at it, miserable little flirt that you were; and you pretend, after thirty years, to stake your recollection of the circumstance against mine? No, no, Jane, take my word for it, it was a camellia.Jen.I’m sure it was a rose!Spread.No, I’m sure it was a camellia.Jen.(in tears). Indeed—indeed, it was a rose. (Produces a withered rose from a pocket-book—he is very much impressed—looks at it and at her, and seems much affected.)Spread.Why, Jane, my dear Jane, you don’t mean to say that this is the very flower?Jen.That is the very flower! (Rising.)Spread.Strange! You seemed to attach no value to it when I gave it to you, you threw it away as something utterly insignificant; and when I leave, you pick it up, and keep itfor thirty years! (Rising.) My dear Jane, how like a woman!Jen.And you seized the flower I gave you—pressed it to your lips, and swore that wherever your good or ill fortune might carry you, you would never part with it; and—and you quite forgot what became of it! My dear Harry, how like a man!Spread.I was deceived, my dear Jane—deceived! I had no idea that you attached so much value to my flower.Jen.We were both deceived, Henry Spreadbrow.Spread.Then is it possible that in treating me as you did, Jane, you were acting a part?Jen.We were both acting parts—but the play is over, and there’s an end of it. (With assumed cheerfulness.) Let us talk of something else.Spread.No, no,Jane, the play isnotover—we will talk of nothing else—the play is not nearly over. (Music in orchestra, “John Anderson my Jo.”) My dear Jane—(rising and taking her hand), my very dear Jane—believe me, for I speak from my hardened old heart, so far from the play being over, the serious interest is only just beginning. (He kisses her hand—they walk towards the house.)

Scene.—The same as in Act I., with such additions and changes as may be supposed to have taken place in thirty years. The house, which was bare in Act I., is now entirely covered with Virginia and other creepers; the garden is much more fully planted than in Act I., and trees that were small in Act I. are tall and bushy now; the general arrangement of the garden is the same, except that the sycamore planted in Act I. has developed into a large tree, the boughs of which roof in the stage; the landscape has also undergone a metamorphosis, inasmuch as that which was open country in Act I. is now covered with picturesque semi-detached villas, and there are indications of a large town in the distance. The month is September, and the leaves of the Virginia creepers wear their autumn tint.

Jennydiscovered seated on a bench at the foot of the tree, andRuthis standing by her side, holding a skein of cotton, whichJennyis winding.Jennyis now a pleasant-looking middle-aged lady.

Jen.Have you any fault to find with poor Tom?

Ruth.No, miss, I’ve no fault to find with Tom. But a girl can’t marry every young man she don’t find fault with, can she now, miss?

Jen.Certainly not, Ruth. But Tom seems to think you have given him some cause to believe that you are fond of him.

Ruth(bridling up). It’s like his impudence, miss, to say so! Fond ofhimindeed!

Jen.He hasn’t said so, Ruth, but I’m quite sure he thinks so. I have noticed of late that you have taken a foolish pleasure in playing fast and loose with poor Tom, and this has made him very unhappy—very unhappy indeed; so much so that I think it is very likely that he will make up his mind to leave my service altogether.

Ruth(piqued). Oh, miss, if Tom can make up his mind to go, I’m sureIwouldn’t stand in his way for worlds.

Jen.But I think you would be sorry if he did.

Ruth.Oh yes, miss, I should be sorry to part with Tom!

Jen.Then I think it’s only right to tell you that the foolish fellow talks about enlisting for a soldier, and if he does it at all, he will do it to-night.

Ruth(with some emotion). Oh, miss, for that, I do like Tom very much indeed; but if he wants to ’list, of course he’s his own master, and if he’s really fond of me, what does he want to go and ’list for? (Going to cry.) One would think he would like to be where he could talk to me, and look at me—odd times! I’m sure I don’t want Tom to go and ’list!

Jen.Then take the advice of an old lady, who knows something of these matters, and tell him so before it’s too late—you foolish, foolish girl! Ah, Ruth, I’ve no right to be hard on you! I’ve been a young and foolish girl like yourself in my time, and I’ve done many thoughtless things that I’ve learnt to be very sorry for. I’m not reproaching you—but I’m speaking to you out of the fulness of my experience, and take my word for it, if you treat poor Tom lightly, you may live to be very sorry for it too! (Taking her hand.) There, I’m not angry with you, my dear, but if I’d taken the advice I’m giving you, I shouldn’t be a lonely old lady at a time of life when a good husband has his greatest value. (Ring.) Go and see who’s at the gate!

[ExitJenny.Ruthgoes to the gate, wiping her eyes on her apron—she opens it.

EnterSpreadbrow(nowSir Henry).

Spread.My dear, is this Mr. Braybrook’s?

Ruth.Yes, sir.

Spread.Is he at home?

Ruth.No, sir, he is not; but mistress is.

Spread.Will you give your mistress my card? (Feeling for his card-case.) Dear me, I’ve left my cards at home! Never mind—will you tell your mistress that a gentleman will be greatly indebted to her, if she will kindly spare him a few minutes of her time? Do you think you can charge yourself with that message?

Ruth.Mistress is in the garden, sir; I’ll run and tell her, if you’ll take a seat.

[ExitRuth.

Spread.That’s a good girl! (He sits on seat.) I couldn’t make up my mind to pass the old house without framing an excuse to take a peep at it. (Looks round.) Very nice—very pretty—but, dear me, on a very much smaller scale than Ifancied. Remarkable changes in thirty years! (Rises and walks round trees, looking about.) Why, the place is a town, and a railway runs right through it. And this is really the old garden in which I spent so many pleasant hours? Poor little Jenny!—I wonder what’s become of her? Pretty little girl, but with a tendency to stoutness; if she’s alive, I’ll be bound she’s fat. So this is Mr. Braybrook’s, is it? I wonder who Braybrook is—I don’t remember any family of that name hereabouts. (Looking off.) This, I suppose, is Mrs. Braybrook. Now, how in the world am I to account for my visit?

EnterJenny—she curtsies formally, he bows.

I beg your pardon, I hardly know how to explain this intrusion. Perhaps I had better state my facts, they will plead my apology:—I am an old Indian civilian, who, having returned to England after many years’ absence, is whiling away a day in his native place, and amusing himself with polishing old memories—bright enough once, but sadly tarnished—sadly tarnished!

Jen.Indeed? May I hope that you have succeeded?

Spread.Indifferently well—indifferently well. The fact is, I hardly know where I am, for all my old landmarks are swept away; I assure you I am within the mark, when I say that this house is positively the only place I can identify.

Jen.The town has increased very rapidly of late.

Spread.Rapidly! When I left, there were not twenty houses in the place, but (politely) that was long before your time. I left a village, I find a town—I left a beadle, I find a mayor and corporation—I left a pump, I find a statue to a borough member. The inn is a “Palace Hotel Company—” the alms-house a county jail—the pound is a police station, and the common a colony of semi-detached bungalows! Everything changed, including myself—everything new, except myself—ha, ha!

Jen.I shall be glad to offer you any assistance in my power, I should be a good guide, for I have lived here thirty-two years!

Spread.Thirty-two years! is it possible? Then surely I ought to know you? (He feels for his glasses.) My name is Spreadbrow—Sir Henry Spreadbrow!

Jen.Spreadbrow! (Putting on spectacles.) Is it possible? Why, my very dear old friend (offering both her hands), don’t you recollect me?

Spread.(he puts on his double eye-glass, takes both her hands). God bless me!—is it possible?—and this is really you!—you don’t say so! Dear me, dear me! Well, well, well! I assure you I am delighted, most unaffectedly delighted, to renew our friendship! (Shaking hands again, they sit under tree and look at each other curiously.)

Spread.Not changed a bit! My dear Jane, you really must allow me. (They shake hands again.) And now tell me, how is Mr. Braybrook?

Jen.(rather surprised). Oh, Mr. Braybrook is very well; I expect him home presently; he will be very glad to see you, for he has often heard me speak of you.

Spread.Has he indeed? It will give me the greatest—the very greatest possible pleasure, believe me (very emphatically), to make his acquaintance.

Jen.(still surprised at his emphatic manner). I’m sure he will be delighted.

Spread.Now tell me all about yourself. Any family?

Jen.(puzzled). I beg your pardon?

Spread.Any family?

Jen.Mr. Braybrook?

Spread.Well—yes.

Jen.Mr. Braybrook is a bachelor.

Spread.A bachelor? Then let me understand—am I not speaking to Mrs. Braybrook?

Jen.No, indeed you are not! Ha, ha! (much amused). Mr. Braybrook is my nephew; the place belongs to him now.

Spread.Oh! then, my dear Jane, may I ask who you are?

Jen.I am not married.

Spread.Not married!

Jen.No; I keep house for my nephew.

Spread.Why, you don’t mean to sit there and look me in the face and tell me, after thirty years, that you are still Jane Northbrook?

Jen.(rather hurt at the mistake). Northcott.

Spread.Northcott, of course. I beg your pardon—I should have said Northcott. And you are not Mrs. Braybrook? You are not even married! Why, what were they about—what were they about? Not married! Well, now, do you know, I am very sorry to hear that. I am really more sorry and disappointed than I can tell you. (She looks surprised and rather hurt.) You’d have made an admirable wife, Jane, and an admirable mother. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to find that you are still Jane Northbrook—I should say, Northcott.

Jen.The same in name—much changed in everything else. (Sighing.)

Spread.Changed? Not a bit—I won’t hear of it. I knew you the moment I saw you! We are neither of us changed. Mellowed perhaps—a little mellowed, but what of that? Who shall say that the blossom is pleasanter to look upon than the fruit? Not I for one, Jane—not I for one.

Jen.Time has dealt very kindly with us, but we’re old folks now, Henry Spreadbrow. (Rises.)

Spread.I won’t allow it, Jane—I won’t hear it. (Rises.) What constitutes youth? A head of hair? Not at all; I was as bald as an egg at five and twenty—babies are always bald. Eyesight? Some people are born blind. Years? Years are an arbitrary impertinence. Am I an old man or you an old woman, because the earth contrives to hurry round the sun in three hundred and sixty-five days? Why, Saturn can’t do it in thirty years. If I had been born on Saturn I should be two years old, ma’am—a public nuisance in petticoats. Let us be thankful that I was not born on Saturn. No—no, as long as I can ride to cover twice a week, walk my five and twenty miles without turning a hair, go to bed at twelve, get up at six, turn into a cold tub and like it, I’m a boy, Jane—a boy—a boy!

Jen.And you are still unmarried?

Spread.I? Oh dear, yes—very much so. No time to think of marriage. Plenty of opportunity, mind, but no leisure to avail myself of it. I’ve had a bustling time of it, I assure you, Jane, working hard at the Bar and on the Bench, with some success—with some success; (sits again) and now that I’ve done my work, I throw myself back in my easy-chair, fold my hands, cross my legs, and prepare to enjoy myself. Life is before me, and I’m going to begin it. Ha, ha! And so we are really Jane Northcott still?

Jen.Still Jane Northcott.

Spread.I’m indignant to hear it—I assure you that I am positively indignant to hear it. You would have made some fellow so infernally happy; (rises) I’m sorry for that fellow’s sake—I don’t know him, but still I am sorry. Ah, I wish I had remained in England. I do wish, for the very first time since I left it, that I had remained in England.

Jen.Indeed! And why?

Spread.Why? Because I should have done my best to remove that reproach from society. I should indeed, Jane! Ha, ha! After all, it don’t much matter, for you wouldn’t have had me. Oh yes! you had no idea of it; but, do you know,I’ve a great mind to tell you—Iwilltell you. Do you know, I was in love with you at one time. Boy and girl, you know—boy and girl. Ha, ha!you’dno idea of it, but I was!

Jen.(in wonder). Oh yes; I knew it very well.

Spread.(much astonished). You knew it? You knew that I was attached to you!

Jen.Why, of course I did!

Spread.Did you, indeed! Bless me, you don’t say so! Now that’s amazingly curious. Leave a woman alone to findthatout! It’s instinctive, positively instinctive. Now, my dear Jane, I’m a very close student of human nature, and in pursuit of that study I should like above all things to know by what signs you detected my secret admiration for you. (Takes her hand.)

Jen.Why, bless the man! There was no mystery in the matter! You told me all about it!

Spread.I told you all about it?

Jen.Certainly you did—here, in this garden.

Spread.That I admired you—loved you?

Jen.Most assuredly! Surely you’ve not forgotten it. (He drops her hand.)Ihaven’t.

Spread.I remember that I had the impertinence to be very fond of you. I forgot that I had the impertinence to tell you so. I remember it now. I made a fool of myself. I remember it by that. I told you that I adored you, didn’t I?—that you were as essential to me as the air I breathed—that it was impossible to support existence without you—that your name should be the most hallowed of earthly words, and so forth. Ha, ha! my dear Jane, before I’d been a week on board I was saying the same thing to a middle-aged governess whose name has entirely escaped me. (She has exhibited signs of pleasure during the earlier part of this speech, and disappointment at the last two lines.) What fools we make of ourselves!

Jen.And of others!

Spread.Oh, I meant it, Jane; I meant every word I said to you.

Jen.And the governess?

Spread.And the governess! I would have married you, Jane.

Jen.And the governess?

Spread.And the governess! I’d have marriedher, if she had accepted me—but she didn’t. Perhaps it was as well—she was a widow with five children—I cursed my destiny at the time, but I’ve forgiven it since. I talked of blowing out my brains.I’m glad I didn’t do it, as I’ve found them useful in my profession. Ha! ha! (Looking round;Jennystands watching him.) The place has changed a good deal since my time—improved—improved—we’ve all three improved. I don’t quite like this tree, though—it’s in the way. What is it? A kind of beech, isn’t it?

Jen.No, it’s a sycamore.

Spread.Ha! I don’t understand English trees—but it’s a curious place for a big tree like this, just outside the drawing-room window. Isn’t it in the way?

Jen.Itisrather in the way.

Spread.I don’t like a tree before a window, it checks the current of fresh air—don’t you find that?

Jen.Itdoescheck the current of fresh air.

Spread.Then the leaves blow into the house in autumn, and that’s a nuisance—and besides, it impedes the view.

Jen.It is certainly open to these objections.

Spread.Then cut it down, my dear Jane. Why don’t you cut it down?

Jen.Cut it down! I wouldn’t cut it down for worlds. That tree is identified in my mind with many happy recollections.

Spread.Remarkable the influence exercised by associations over a woman’s mind. Observe—you take a house, mainly because it commands a beautiful view. You apportion the rooms principally with reference to that view. You lay out your garden at great expense to harmonize with that view, and, having brought that view into the very best of all possible conditions for the full enjoyment of it, you allow a gigantic and wholly irrelevant tree to block it all out for the sake of the sentimental ghost of some dead and gone sentimental reality! Take my advice and have it down. If I had had anything to do with it, you would never have planted it. I shouldn’t have allowed it!

Jen.You had so much to do with it that it was planted there at your suggestion.

Spread.At mine? Never saw it before in my life.

Jen.We planted it together thirty years ago—the day you sailed for India.

Spread.It appears to me that that was a very eventful day in my career. We planted it together! I have no recollection of having ever planted a gigantic sycamore anywhere. And we did it together! Why, it would take a dozen men to move it.

Jen.It was a sapling then—you cut it for me.

Spread.(suddenly and with energy). From the old sycamore in the old garden at Hampstead! Why, I remember; I went to London expressly to get it for you. (Laughing—sitting on her left.) And the next day I called to say good-bye, and I found you planting it, and I helped; and as I was helping I found an opportunity to seize your hand. (Does so.) I grasped it—pressed it to my lips—(does so), and said, “My dear, dear Jenny” (he drops her hand suddenly), and so forth. Never mindwhatI said—but I meant it—I meant it! (Laughs heartily—she joins him, but her laughter is evidently forced—eventually she shows signs of tears, which he doesn’t notice.) It all comes back with a distinctness which is absolutely photographic. I begged you to give me a flower—you gave me one—a sprig of geranium.

Jen.Mignonette.

Spread.Wasit mignonette? I think you’re right—it was mignonette. I seized it—pressed it to my trembling lips—placed it next my fluttering heart, and swore that come what might I would never, never part with it!—I wonder what I did with that flower!—And then I took one from my button hole—begged you to take it—you took it, and—ha, ha, ha!—you threw it down carelessly on the table, and thought no more about it, you heartless creature—ha, ha, ha! Oh, I was very angry! I remember it perfectly; it was a camellia.

Jen.(half crying aside). Not a camellia, I think.

Spread.Yes, a camellia, a large white camellia.

Jen.I don’t think it was a camellia; I rather think it was a rose.

Spread.Nonsense, Jane—come, come, you hardly looked at it, miserable little flirt that you were; and you pretend, after thirty years, to stake your recollection of the circumstance against mine? No, no, Jane, take my word for it, it was a camellia.

Jen.I’m sure it was a rose!

Spread.No, I’m sure it was a camellia.

Jen.(in tears). Indeed—indeed, it was a rose. (Produces a withered rose from a pocket-book—he is very much impressed—looks at it and at her, and seems much affected.)

Spread.Why, Jane, my dear Jane, you don’t mean to say that this is the very flower?

Jen.That is the very flower! (Rising.)

Spread.Strange! You seemed to attach no value to it when I gave it to you, you threw it away as something utterly insignificant; and when I leave, you pick it up, and keep itfor thirty years! (Rising.) My dear Jane, how like a woman!

Jen.And you seized the flower I gave you—pressed it to your lips, and swore that wherever your good or ill fortune might carry you, you would never part with it; and—and you quite forgot what became of it! My dear Harry, how like a man!

Spread.I was deceived, my dear Jane—deceived! I had no idea that you attached so much value to my flower.

Jen.We were both deceived, Henry Spreadbrow.

Spread.Then is it possible that in treating me as you did, Jane, you were acting a part?

Jen.We were both acting parts—but the play is over, and there’s an end of it. (With assumed cheerfulness.) Let us talk of something else.

Spread.No, no,Jane, the play isnotover—we will talk of nothing else—the play is not nearly over. (Music in orchestra, “John Anderson my Jo.”) My dear Jane—(rising and taking her hand), my very dear Jane—believe me, for I speak from my hardened old heart, so far from the play being over, the serious interest is only just beginning. (He kisses her hand—they walk towards the house.)

DAN’L DRUCE, BLACKSMITH.A NEW AND ORIGINAL DRAMA,IN THREE ACTS.First performed at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, on Monday September 11th, 1876.An incident in the First Act was suggested by George Eliot’s Novel “Silas Marner.”CHARACTERS.Sir Jasper Combe,a Royalist ColonelMr. Howe.Dan’l DruceMr. Hermann Vezin.Reuben Haines,a Royalist SergeantMr. Odell.Geoffrey Wynyard,a Merchant SailorMr. Forbes Robertson.MarpleMr. Braid.Joe Ripley,a FishermanMr. Weathersby.Sergeant}Of the Parliamentary{Mr. C. Allbrook.Soldier}Army{Mr. Fielder.DorothyMiss Marion Terry.The First Act is supposed to take place shortly after the Battle of Worcester.An interval of fourteen years between the First and Second Acts.ACT I.A RUINED HUT ON THE NORFOLK COAST.ACT II.DAN’L DRUCE’S FORGE.ACT III.INTERIOR OF DRUCE’S COTTAGE.

A NEW AND ORIGINAL DRAMA,IN THREE ACTS.

First performed at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, on Monday September 11th, 1876.

An incident in the First Act was suggested by George Eliot’s Novel “Silas Marner.”

The First Act is supposed to take place shortly after the Battle of Worcester.

An interval of fourteen years between the First and Second Acts.

ACT I.

A RUINED HUT ON THE NORFOLK COAST.

ACT II.

DAN’L DRUCE’S FORGE.

ACT III.

INTERIOR OF DRUCE’S COTTAGE.

DAN’L DRUCE, BLACKSMITH.ACT I.Scene.—Interior ofDan’l Druce’shut, a tumble-down old shanty, of the rudest description; with very small wood fire. The whole place is as squalid and miserable as possible. Wind and snow without. Rain and wind heard each time door is opened. Night.Rip.(without). Hullo! Dan’l, art within? (Knocks.) Dan’l, I say, open, will you? (He kicks the door open.) Why, the hut’s empty. Where’s the old devil gone, I wonder? Come in, master, out of the storm.EnterMarple.Don’t be afeard (Marpleshuts door); he’ll be a bit rusty, to be sure, at our coming in without leave, but that’ll blow off sooner than the gale outside.Mar.Is the man away?Rip.Nay, he’s never a hundred yards from this; he’s hauling up his boat on the beach, maybe, or taking in his nets, and making all snug and taut for the night; and well he may, for the devil’s let loose, and there’ll be mischief afore morning. The devil likes these here Norfolk coasts, burn him!Mar.And so Jonas lives here.Rip.Jonas? No, Dan’l—Dan’l Druce.Mar.Well, Dan’l Druce, if that’s what he calls himself. It’s a strange hole for such a man as he!Rip.It’s a fit hole for such a dog as he! A surly, scowling, drunken, miserly, half-starved cur! Never was a sulky hound so far athwart the world’s ways as Dan’l Druce. Why, he’s as rich as a Jew, and never gave bit nor sup to a soul in the town. Oh, take my word for it, it’s a fit hole for such as he. There’s only one fitter, and I wish he was in it!Mar.Stop that cursed red rag of yours, will you?Rip.Come, come, civil words, master, civil words!Mar.Set the example. I am this man’s brother.Rip.(aside). Well, you’ve got the family tongue in your head, anyhow. If you’re his brother, maybe you know how he came to live here all alone?Mar.Maybe I do.Rip.They say that before he came here—a matter o’ three or four years since—he was a decent sort o’ body enough, a blacksmith, Idohear, but he got struck half silly like through some bad luck, and he’s been a changed man ever since.Mar.Oh, they say that, do they?Rip.Ay. Well, I don’t know what hewas, but I know what heis; that’s enough for me. The scowlingest, black-browedest, three-corneredest chapIever see, ’cept as regards children, and he’s as fond o’ children as a young girl, and the littler they are the more he likes ’em, and they likes him. Now, I’m as tender-hearted as a kitten, but Ihateschildren, and they can’t abide me. That’s odd, ain’t it?Mar.Ay.Rip.Yes, that’s Dan’l Druce’s story as far as we knows it down in these parts. Maybe you know more?Mar.Maybe I do.Rip.Now, I dare swear there was a woman at the bottom of it all. I never gotmychain cable kinked but a woman had a hand in it.Mar.(coming forward). Hark ye, my lad, you’re hard on women. From the look of you, I’ve a notion no woman ever had much to do with any trouble of yours, saving your mother when she bore you. No, no, your tongue’s done all the mischief that ever come toyou. You let women alone; I’m sure they never interfere withyou.EnterDan’l Druce. He has a bundle of nets over his shoulder, and he is half tipsy. His appearance is that of a man of fifty, but haggard with want. His hair is long and matted, and he has a beard of some days’ growth on his chin.Dan.Hullo! Who’s that? Joe Ripley, eh? Why, Joe Ripley, what dost thou do skulking in other men’s huts when they’re away? Nothing to lay hands onhere, Joe Ripley. And thou’st brought a friend, eh? Didst thee think there was too much plunder for a man to carry that thou’st brought an ass to help thee? There’s nowt for thee here. Take thine ugly face into the storm; maybe thou’lt get it battered straight. Come, out wi’ ’ee!Rip.Hold thy peace, man. I want nowt of thine. I’ve brought thee money for thy two nets.Dan.Where is it?Rip.And here’s a man as says he’s thy brother—and I wish him joy o’ his brotherhood! I found him in the village asking for thee, so I brought him to thee. (Marpleholds out his hand.)Dan.(not heeding him). Gi’ me the money.Mar.Dost thou not know me, Jonas Marple?Dan.Dead. Dead three years ago.Mar.Ay, thou gavest thyself out as dead, thathemight make an honest woman of her.Dan.Thou liest, shewasan honest woman, for all she left me. ’Twas him that stole her, God bless her! Jonas Marple died the day she left him. I’m Dan’l Druce.Rip.I knew there was a woman in it.Mar.And if Jonasbedead, hast thou no word of welcome to Jonas’s brother?Dan.None! (ToRipley.) Gi’ me the money.Rip.There! Ay, count it; we’re all thieves and liars. (ToMarple.) That’s his craze. Is it right?Dan.I dunno, I can’t count to-night. Let it be, I’ll count it to-morrow. (ToMarple.) How didst thou find me?Mar.I found thee through this fellow. I was in the town on law business, and I heard men talk of such a one as thou, and I asked and asked, and found out that thou wast the brother who used to work wi’ me. I’ve come to ask thee to come back to us, and be the man thou wast wont to be. Come, man, be thine old self, thou canst not be better; throw off thy present self, thou canst not be worse!Dan.Not worse? Why, man, I’m a king, alone here! Here I live, free from liars and thieves, alone! alone! What, back to the world, the hollow, lying world? Not I! Back to the rock on which my ship was wrecked? Not I! Back to the den of thieves that stripped me? Not I! No, no; I don’t find fish come back to my nets when once they’ve slipped through the meshes, and I’m no more a fool than my fish. See here—I’ve lived here nigh upon four years, and ’cepting some such gaping fool as him (indicatingRipley), I’ve seen no soul, and no soul’s seen me. I’ve done harm to none, and none’s done harm to me. I’ve told no lies, and no lies ain’t been told me. I’ve robbed no one, and no one’s robbed me. Can any one who walks the world say as much? I’ve lived on the fish I’ve caught, the garden I’ve dug, and I’ve savedmoney by the nets I’ve made, not much—a trifle to such as thou, and I’ve sent it far from here—I never keep it here, no, no. I’ve no hopes, no cares, no fears. And thou askest me to go back to the foul old world, the world that poor dead and gone Jonas Marple was robbed in; the bitter black world that blighted his poor harmless life. No! I’m going to bide here.Mar.Well, as thou wilt, Jonas.Dan.Dan’l—that’s my name, Dan’l Druce. Jonas Marple died the day his wife left him. His wife’s a widow, and, mayhap, married again. God bless her!Rip.Thou’lt do no good wi’ him, there’s a devil’s flare in his eyes; best let him bide.Dan.Ay, best let him bide. I’m a poor thing of skin and bone; and this here arm, which made light of a forty-pound hammer four years since, is but a soft-roed thing now; but when muscle went out, devil come in; steer clear o’ me, and let me bide.Mar.Thou’rt sadly changed: it’s fearsome to see a good, honest, hearty soul changed into the white-faced ghost of what he was. Time was when every beggar had the pulling of thy poor purse-strings, and none were turned empty away from the door. To think that Jonas Marple should have earned the name of miser!Dan.Does it seem so strange to thee? Hast thou e’er known what it is to set thy heart night and day on one object, to dream of it, sleepin’ and wakin’, to find the hope of it flavouring thy meat and drink, and weavin’ itself so into thy life that every thought o’ thy brain is born of it, and every deed o’ thy hand has some bearin’ on it? And havin’ done all this, and so fashioned, and twisted, and turned, and trimmed the chances at thy hand that the one hope of thy soul shall be helped on by it, hast thou known what it is to find, at one bitter, black blow, thy hope made hopeless, thy love loveless, thy life lifeless? So did I hope and pray to be blessed with a little child—so was my hope withered when I thought it sure of fulfilment. I had a store of love in my battered heart toset on some one thing of my creating; it was there for that end, and for none other. Whensheleft me (curse him!) I knew, for certain, that one thing would never be of flesh and blood, and it never will, for the love of my heart is given over to the next best thing—gold and silver, gold and silver. Ay, brother, I love my gold as other men love their bairns; it’s of my making, and I love it, I love it! A mean and sordid love, maybe, but hard, and bad, and base as thou thinkest me, I’ve prayed a thousand times that my gold might take a living form, that the one harmless old hope of my wrecked life might come true.Mar.The age of miracles is past, Jonas. Well, I’ve said my say and done my do. Stay where thou art, and Heaven forgive thee, Jonas Marple.Dan.(sternly). He’s dead!Mar.(warmly). He is; dead to the call of reason, dead to the voice of human love, dead to everything that marks a reasoning man off from the beasts that perish. Thou hast well said, Jonas Marpleisdead—rest his soul!Dan.Amen! Now go.[Marple, after a pause, shrugs his shoulders, and exit withRipley.Dan.Ay, he’s dead, dead, dead! He died then, that the blackest devil that ever cursed this earth might put her right with the world. Heaven send he has done so! And the bairn! It was promised to me,—promised, but the promise was a lie, a damned black lie—not hers, no, no! not hers, but the double-dyed devil who stole her from me. (Opens a hole in the floor in front of stool, and takes out a bag of money.) This is my bairn now (handling the money); see, here’s another day to thy life, another inch to thy height; grow as thou growest, child, and thou’lt be a golden beauty ere long. Gold, the best thing in the world; “as good as gold,”—why, it’s a saying; the best thing on earth to make a bairn of! Here’s a child that’ll never grow up to bring sorrow on its dad’s head, that costs nowt to keep, and never grows so big but you wish it bigger—my bairn! I’ve worked for thee and starved for thee that I might see thee grow, and thou hast growed, growed right royally! Lie here, my beauty, lie there in peace; I’ll never wake thee but to add to thy life, my bairn, my beautiful golden bairn![The door is suddenly burst open, andSir Jasper Combeenters hurriedly, followed byReubenas if pursued. They are both very ragged and dirty, dressed in torn and faded Royalist uniforms;Sir Jasper, an officer,Reuben, a sergeant.Reubencarries a child of three or four years of age, wrapped in a cloak, so as not to be seen byDan’l. They close the door hurriedly, and listen for their pursuers.Reubenplaces child on locker.Jas.At last! safe at last from the yelping bloodhounds!By the Lord Harry, but of many bouts with death this is the bout that had like to have gone hardest with us, Reuben!Dan.Who and what are ye, jail-birds?Reu.Hark, sir! I think I hear them again! (Listening eagerly.)Dan.(very loudly). Who and what are ye? (Going up to them.)Jas.(listening). Hold thy fool’s tongue, or I’ll slit it!Dan.But——Reu.(placing his hand overDan’l’smouth). Nay, it is necessary that some one hold thy tongue, and if thou wilt not do it, I must!Jas.Listen to me, my friend! (Reubenremoves his hand fromDan’l’smouth. He again attempts to speak,Reubenagain gags him.) Nay, cover him up. He will hear the better for that he cannot give tongue the while. Now, keep thine ears open, for this concerns thee: We are proscribed Royalists, and you, miserable man, have harboured us, Heaven help you and, if we are taken here, I, and he, and thou will surely hang—I and he for our sins against the Parliament, thou—for thy virtue in aiding, abetting, and comforting us. Dost thou clearly understand me?Reu.(with his hand still overDan’l’smouth). Dost thou clearly understand the Colonel? (Dan’lcannot answer.Reubenrepeats his question loudly and angrily.) Dost thou clearly understand the Colonel?Jas.(toReuben). When thou desirest him to be silent it is well to gag him; when thou wouldst have him speak it is judicious to remove the gag!Reu.As you will, sir. Now then (removing his hand), dost thou clearly understand?Dan.(loudly). I clearly understand that ye are two marauding devils, who——Reu.(hastily clapping his hand overDan’l’smouth). He does not understand.Jas.(listening). They’ve wheeled about, and their hoofs are dying away in the distance. Reuben, let the old beggar go; he may give tongue now till he split his lungs, if he will. We are safe, at least for the present, Reuben; and see to thy pistol—we may have to stand a siege yet, and this door must be barricaded; but with what?Dan.(taking up an iron bar from the fireplace and holding it in a threatening attitude). Go your ways, both of ye; or as I am a man I’ll brain ye with this bar!Jas.The very thing! (Wrenches it easily out of his hand and barricades the door with it, whileReubenshowsDan’la pistol.) There! why, it’s made for it! A thousand thanks, old gentleman. (Dan’lrecovers himself’ flies atJasper, who pushes him away; he falls on to a stool.) Now, master, listen to me, and if you have any respect for yourself, keep your ears open, for I’m speaking words of life and death. We are desperate men in a desperate strait, and little disposed to stand on ceremony, as you may perhaps have remarked. We are flying for our lives, and we desire to cross to France, where my lady is, and where we shall be safe. To carry out this design we have worked our way to the coast, sleeping under hedges and ricks for six bleak days, and tramping in the wind’s eye for six stormy nights, till the fire of life seems to have died out of our bodies, and our legs to have withered from their trunks. You have a stout boat on the beach; when this accursed gale shall have blown itself out you shall have the distinction of working us across to the opposite coast. In the mean time we appoint you our host, and we shall be prepared to look favourably on whatever meat or drink you can set before us.Dan.Do I look like a man who keeps open house?Jas.No, hang me if you do.Dan.If I had my way, I’d hang you, anyhow.Jas.Ay, and there’s many more of your way of thinking.Dan.I’ll be sworn there are. Well, get out o’ my hut (rises); this is notyourway; this is not the road to the gallows.Reu.My good fellow, that’s why we took it!Dan.Who, in the devil’s name, are ye?Jas.I’m a cavalier colonel, a trifle out of repair, and a thought begrimed, maybe, but that’ll wash off. Royalist to the backbone, as I proved some time since at Worcester, where my backbone had to bear the brunt of the flight! This is my regiment, the King’s Dragoons (indicatingReuben). Come, doff thy hat, King’s Dragoons, and salute the gentleman; the credit of the corps is in thy keeping, Reuben, for thou’rt all that’s left of it! (ToDan’l.) A worthy fellow, this regiment of mine, but somewhat shy and constrained in good company, but he will improve when he sees that flask of Schiedam that thou art about to surprise us with. Now, tell me, art thou for the Parliament?Dan.No.Jas.Then thou art for the king?Dan.It’s a lie! I’m for myself.Jas.And for us.Dan.Nay, I’ll be damned if I am!Jas.Nay, I’ll swear thou’rt for us if thou be not traitor to thyself; for if we hang at all we all hang together.I’llsee to that. Now, what food have you got?Dan.None (sulkily).Jas.What can you get?Dan.Nothing.Jas.Where are we then?Dan.Nowhere.Jas.Harkee, sir, I’m just in that mood that I don’t care the flash of a flint whose life is swept out of my way when it comes betwixt me and my wants. I want food—get it.Dan.I’ve no food—I’m a beggar.Jas.Here’s a coin—our last—go and get bread, meat, and drink. Now be off, or Reuben here shall whip you with his sword-flat till he drops. (Reubendraws.) And, mark me, if by deed, word, or sign you do aught to give a clue to our hiding-place, I’ll burn the hut to the ground, and everything in it.Dan.But—— (Reubenpushes him.)Jas.Not a word. Be off, and do your errand—and mind, no treachery, or—— (Jaspertakes a burning log from the fire, and holds it immediately over the hole whereDan’l’smoney is concealed.Dan’lsnatches it from him.)Dan.Put that down, put that down, for the love of Heaven—put it down, I say, you’ll have the hut afire—and I’ll see what I can do, I’ll see what I can do.[Dan’lthrows log on fire and exit.Jas.Whew! I’ve brought the old devil to his senses. What a life this is! Was ever poor dog so hounded about from pillar to post as Jasper Combe? and for no better reason than that he is a gentleman, and loves his king!Reu.Pardon, sir, but I never was accounted a gentleman, and for my king I care not one jot, yet am I hounded much as you are.Jas.Thou art hounded much as I am because thou thyself art as I am, though in a lower degree. King Charles is my king (raises hat)—God bless him!—and I serve him, and am hunted for so doing. Jasper Combe isthyking (Reubenraises hat)—God bless him likewise!—and thou servest him, and thou art hunted for so doing. The analogy is complete. Be thou as faithful to thy king as I am to mine, and thy king will reward thee—when my king rewards me! Is the child safe?Reu.(uncovering the child, and bringing it down). Ay, sir, thanks to my cloak; though I’m but a sorry dry-nurse, havingtaken to it late in life; but it’s never too late to learn, and I’ve learnt this, that babes won’t eat ship’s biscuits, and strong waters choke them. Their poor little heads can’t stand strong waters. I’ll marry some day on that piece of knowledge.Jas.Add this to it, to my dower—that when thou art flying for thy life it’s best to leave thy babes behind. A dozen times we might have got away but for being hampered with this squalling abomination. Was ever officer of cavalry accursed with such a ridiculous element of peril?Reu.Was ever sergeant of horse armed with such a mischief-dealing implement?Jas.Well, there’s no help for it. My lady would have gone mad had I returned to her without it. She is devotedly attached to the child.Reu.Strange that attachment of some mothers for their children. My mother always disliked me and kept me at a convenient distance; butshewas a Scotchwoman and not liable to be imposed on.Jas.Well, we must make the best of a bad job. Whew! How cold it is. I’m chilled to the marrow of my bones. That fellow is taking his leisure over his errand; see, Reuben, if thou canst find aught in the hut.Reu.Here’s a locker, your honour, but close fastened.Jas.A proof that there’s something in it. Start it with thy sword. Stay, I’ll do it (takes up hatchet); so, gently (opens locker). Good, a crust of bread and some dried fish.Reu.And a bottle of right good Schiedam, that never paid duty, I’ll be sworn.Jas.(taking it). And on that account fairly forfeit to the Crown, which, on this occasion, I represent. So, bring an armful of those logs and make a merry blaze, for I ache as though I were trussed in a suit of thumbscrews. (Reubenbrings wood.) That’s well; ha! ha! Now let us enjoy ourselves. Who would have thought the dingy old pig-stye had so much life in it! It’s the first good blaze I’ve seen since the long-nosed devils fired the old mill we lived in. Come, we’ll be jolly. (Reubentakes a piece of bread,Jaspersnatches it from him.) Nay, of food there’s but enough for one (Jaspereats;Reubentakes up bottle and holds it to the light,Jaspersnatches it from him), and of Schiedam there’s not nearly enough for one. Why, thou gross and sensuous varlet, canst thou not be jolly without meat and drink? ’Tis always so with the baseborn; of intellectual recreation they have no notion whatever.Reu.I’ve eaten nothing for two days, and I’m hungry.Jas.Thou’lt have to wait till the old scoundrel returns.Reu.(at door). There’s no signs of him yet.Jas.Then give reins to thy voice and hail him. He took the road to the left. (ExitReubenshouting—his voice dies away in the distance.) Here’s a plight for the Lord of Combe-Raven! Stripped of an ancestral mansion and two thousand old acres; hunted to his death by broad-brimmed bloodhounds—separated from his pretty wife by some two hundred miles of barren land and stormy water, and saddled with a confounded brat that hampers his flight, let him turn whithersoever he will! And say that I cross this accursed Channel—how am I to get to Paris—penniless as I am? When I think of what I have before me, I’m minded to make short work with this world, and try another! By the Lord Harry!—(stamps impatiently; his foot starts a board overDan’l’shoard.) Ha! Why, what’s this? Not gold? (Takes out some.) Gold—and in profusion! Here’s a way out of our difficulties, if Combe-Raven were but the man to take it. The old miser! (Handling the money.) Bah—in another week’s time we may, perhaps, come down to this sort of thing—who knows? But not yet—no, not yet. (Throws it into hole.) Lie there—I’ll not meddle with thee, though (closing hole) thou’lt be spent on a worse errand than helpingJasperCombe to his wife and his king, I’ll be sworn.EnterReubenin breathless haste.Jasperquickly covers the hole.Reu.Yes, sir—we must fly—and that at once.Jas.What d’ye mean?Reu.I mean treachery—the old man has played us false!—I hear the horses’ hoofs in the distance——Jas.A thousand devils wring his damnable neck! Run to the boat—get her ready for the sea. I’ll join thee at once and we’ll launch her together.Reu.But——Jas.Well?Reu.If there’s such a thing as a crust of bread, or the tail of a dried mackerel——Jas.But there’s not—be off. (He watches him out, then quickly turns to the hole in which the money is concealed.) So—this changes the aspect of affairs. Old fool, thou hast betrayed us, and this is fair plunder. (Takes it out of the hole.)With fair luck we may beat across to France to-night, and once there we are safe. But the child—again a clog on our movements! She would surely perish in an open boat on such a night as this. It’s a matter of life and death—herlife as well as mine. It would be murder to take her to sea with us, and it would be murder to remain and fight these fellows with her in our arms. There is no help for it—I must leave her here—this locket will serve to identify her (putting a locket and chain on her neck)—and I’ll reclaim her when I get across. They’ll never harm a child!EnterReubenhurriedly.Reu.Sir, sir, the troops are upon us—they’re not two hundred yards off——Jas.I’m coming. (ExitReuben.Jasperwrites on a piece of paper, and pins it on the child’s dress.) So—lie thou there, and God help thee, little one. I’m loth to leave thee, but it’s for life and death—for life and death![Jasperleaps through the window asDan’land aSergeant,with fourSoldiers,in Parliamentary uniform, enter at the door.Dan.(sees blaze of log fire). Fire! fire! He has fired the hut—he has fired the hut!Ser.Nay, fool, ’tis but thy blazing hearth; thy hut’s safe enough. Where are thy prisoners?Dan.Oh, the reckless prodigal! see how he hath wasted my substance!Ser.There are no men hidden here. The sons of Belial have escaped. Why, thou hast betrayed us; and if so, thou shalt hang for it. (2ndSoldiermounts ladder to get into loft.)Dan.They were here, but the noise of thy horses’ hoofs has alarmed them, and they are gone. I warned thee to tether thy beasts afar, and proceed silently.1st Sol.See, they are putting off from the beach. (2ndSoldierdescends ladder and makes ready to fire.)Dan.My boat, oh, my boat!Ser.Bring down the Philistines, Nahum; a steady shot under the fifth rib, and may the Lord have mercy on them!1st Sol.I will even smite them hip and thigh. (He fires through the window.) Missed! (Others fire outside.) Nay, they’re beyond range. May Heaven mercifully overwhelm them in the great waters!Dan.(sees hole in floor). Gone, gone! Sergeant, see; they are gone—they were hidden in here—and they’re gone!Ser.In there? Nay, there’s never room for two stout men in that cranny.Dan.Men? Curse the men! It’s my gold—my gold! they’ve stolen it; they’ve robbed me! Sixty golden pounds! all I had—all I had! and it’s gone! My child! my child! they’ve stolen my child! (Weeps passionately on his knees.)Ser.Nay, man, see, thy child’s safe enough, and a bonny lass she be. (Taking up child from behind table.)Dan.(raising his head stupidly). Eh? Why, what’s that?Ser.Thy child! Come, man, be thyself; the child’s safe enough. (Places child on ground.)Sol.He’s crazed!Dan.(stupefied). That’s not mine. My gold is my child! The gold that the infernal villains have taken!Ser.Here’s a paper, and some words writ on it.Dan.Read—read—I cannot read.Ser.(reads). “Be kind to the child, and it shall profit thee. Grieve not for thy gold—it hath taken this form.”[Music.Dan.(on his knees taking the child). A miracle, a miracle! Down on your knees, down, I say, for Heaven has worked a miracle to save me. This money, for which I toiled night and day, and which I loved and worshipped, was to me as a child—a dear dear child. I prayed that this might be, but scoffers mocked me when I prayed, and said that the days of miracles were passed. But they lied, for my prayer has been hearkened to. See, it hashereyes,hereyes, my darling, my darling! My Heaven-sent bairn, thou hast brought me back to reason, to manhood, to life! (TheSoldierscrowd round him. 1stSoldieroffers to touch the child.) Hands off, hands off! (All fall back.) Touch not the Lord’s gift! touch not the Lord’s gift![Tableau.Dan’l—the child on the ground before him—soldiersgrouped around.

Scene.—Interior ofDan’l Druce’shut, a tumble-down old shanty, of the rudest description; with very small wood fire. The whole place is as squalid and miserable as possible. Wind and snow without. Rain and wind heard each time door is opened. Night.

Rip.(without). Hullo! Dan’l, art within? (Knocks.) Dan’l, I say, open, will you? (He kicks the door open.) Why, the hut’s empty. Where’s the old devil gone, I wonder? Come in, master, out of the storm.

EnterMarple.

Don’t be afeard (Marpleshuts door); he’ll be a bit rusty, to be sure, at our coming in without leave, but that’ll blow off sooner than the gale outside.

Mar.Is the man away?

Rip.Nay, he’s never a hundred yards from this; he’s hauling up his boat on the beach, maybe, or taking in his nets, and making all snug and taut for the night; and well he may, for the devil’s let loose, and there’ll be mischief afore morning. The devil likes these here Norfolk coasts, burn him!

Mar.And so Jonas lives here.

Rip.Jonas? No, Dan’l—Dan’l Druce.

Mar.Well, Dan’l Druce, if that’s what he calls himself. It’s a strange hole for such a man as he!

Rip.It’s a fit hole for such a dog as he! A surly, scowling, drunken, miserly, half-starved cur! Never was a sulky hound so far athwart the world’s ways as Dan’l Druce. Why, he’s as rich as a Jew, and never gave bit nor sup to a soul in the town. Oh, take my word for it, it’s a fit hole for such as he. There’s only one fitter, and I wish he was in it!

Mar.Stop that cursed red rag of yours, will you?

Rip.Come, come, civil words, master, civil words!

Mar.Set the example. I am this man’s brother.

Rip.(aside). Well, you’ve got the family tongue in your head, anyhow. If you’re his brother, maybe you know how he came to live here all alone?

Mar.Maybe I do.

Rip.They say that before he came here—a matter o’ three or four years since—he was a decent sort o’ body enough, a blacksmith, Idohear, but he got struck half silly like through some bad luck, and he’s been a changed man ever since.

Mar.Oh, they say that, do they?

Rip.Ay. Well, I don’t know what hewas, but I know what heis; that’s enough for me. The scowlingest, black-browedest, three-corneredest chapIever see, ’cept as regards children, and he’s as fond o’ children as a young girl, and the littler they are the more he likes ’em, and they likes him. Now, I’m as tender-hearted as a kitten, but Ihateschildren, and they can’t abide me. That’s odd, ain’t it?

Mar.Ay.

Rip.Yes, that’s Dan’l Druce’s story as far as we knows it down in these parts. Maybe you know more?

Mar.Maybe I do.

Rip.Now, I dare swear there was a woman at the bottom of it all. I never gotmychain cable kinked but a woman had a hand in it.

Mar.(coming forward). Hark ye, my lad, you’re hard on women. From the look of you, I’ve a notion no woman ever had much to do with any trouble of yours, saving your mother when she bore you. No, no, your tongue’s done all the mischief that ever come toyou. You let women alone; I’m sure they never interfere withyou.

EnterDan’l Druce. He has a bundle of nets over his shoulder, and he is half tipsy. His appearance is that of a man of fifty, but haggard with want. His hair is long and matted, and he has a beard of some days’ growth on his chin.

Dan.Hullo! Who’s that? Joe Ripley, eh? Why, Joe Ripley, what dost thou do skulking in other men’s huts when they’re away? Nothing to lay hands onhere, Joe Ripley. And thou’st brought a friend, eh? Didst thee think there was too much plunder for a man to carry that thou’st brought an ass to help thee? There’s nowt for thee here. Take thine ugly face into the storm; maybe thou’lt get it battered straight. Come, out wi’ ’ee!

Rip.Hold thy peace, man. I want nowt of thine. I’ve brought thee money for thy two nets.

Dan.Where is it?

Rip.And here’s a man as says he’s thy brother—and I wish him joy o’ his brotherhood! I found him in the village asking for thee, so I brought him to thee. (Marpleholds out his hand.)

Dan.(not heeding him). Gi’ me the money.

Mar.Dost thou not know me, Jonas Marple?

Dan.Dead. Dead three years ago.

Mar.Ay, thou gavest thyself out as dead, thathemight make an honest woman of her.

Dan.Thou liest, shewasan honest woman, for all she left me. ’Twas him that stole her, God bless her! Jonas Marple died the day she left him. I’m Dan’l Druce.

Rip.I knew there was a woman in it.

Mar.And if Jonasbedead, hast thou no word of welcome to Jonas’s brother?

Dan.None! (ToRipley.) Gi’ me the money.

Rip.There! Ay, count it; we’re all thieves and liars. (ToMarple.) That’s his craze. Is it right?

Dan.I dunno, I can’t count to-night. Let it be, I’ll count it to-morrow. (ToMarple.) How didst thou find me?

Mar.I found thee through this fellow. I was in the town on law business, and I heard men talk of such a one as thou, and I asked and asked, and found out that thou wast the brother who used to work wi’ me. I’ve come to ask thee to come back to us, and be the man thou wast wont to be. Come, man, be thine old self, thou canst not be better; throw off thy present self, thou canst not be worse!

Dan.Not worse? Why, man, I’m a king, alone here! Here I live, free from liars and thieves, alone! alone! What, back to the world, the hollow, lying world? Not I! Back to the rock on which my ship was wrecked? Not I! Back to the den of thieves that stripped me? Not I! No, no; I don’t find fish come back to my nets when once they’ve slipped through the meshes, and I’m no more a fool than my fish. See here—I’ve lived here nigh upon four years, and ’cepting some such gaping fool as him (indicatingRipley), I’ve seen no soul, and no soul’s seen me. I’ve done harm to none, and none’s done harm to me. I’ve told no lies, and no lies ain’t been told me. I’ve robbed no one, and no one’s robbed me. Can any one who walks the world say as much? I’ve lived on the fish I’ve caught, the garden I’ve dug, and I’ve savedmoney by the nets I’ve made, not much—a trifle to such as thou, and I’ve sent it far from here—I never keep it here, no, no. I’ve no hopes, no cares, no fears. And thou askest me to go back to the foul old world, the world that poor dead and gone Jonas Marple was robbed in; the bitter black world that blighted his poor harmless life. No! I’m going to bide here.

Mar.Well, as thou wilt, Jonas.

Dan.Dan’l—that’s my name, Dan’l Druce. Jonas Marple died the day his wife left him. His wife’s a widow, and, mayhap, married again. God bless her!

Rip.Thou’lt do no good wi’ him, there’s a devil’s flare in his eyes; best let him bide.

Dan.Ay, best let him bide. I’m a poor thing of skin and bone; and this here arm, which made light of a forty-pound hammer four years since, is but a soft-roed thing now; but when muscle went out, devil come in; steer clear o’ me, and let me bide.

Mar.Thou’rt sadly changed: it’s fearsome to see a good, honest, hearty soul changed into the white-faced ghost of what he was. Time was when every beggar had the pulling of thy poor purse-strings, and none were turned empty away from the door. To think that Jonas Marple should have earned the name of miser!

Dan.Does it seem so strange to thee? Hast thou e’er known what it is to set thy heart night and day on one object, to dream of it, sleepin’ and wakin’, to find the hope of it flavouring thy meat and drink, and weavin’ itself so into thy life that every thought o’ thy brain is born of it, and every deed o’ thy hand has some bearin’ on it? And havin’ done all this, and so fashioned, and twisted, and turned, and trimmed the chances at thy hand that the one hope of thy soul shall be helped on by it, hast thou known what it is to find, at one bitter, black blow, thy hope made hopeless, thy love loveless, thy life lifeless? So did I hope and pray to be blessed with a little child—so was my hope withered when I thought it sure of fulfilment. I had a store of love in my battered heart toset on some one thing of my creating; it was there for that end, and for none other. Whensheleft me (curse him!) I knew, for certain, that one thing would never be of flesh and blood, and it never will, for the love of my heart is given over to the next best thing—gold and silver, gold and silver. Ay, brother, I love my gold as other men love their bairns; it’s of my making, and I love it, I love it! A mean and sordid love, maybe, but hard, and bad, and base as thou thinkest me, I’ve prayed a thousand times that my gold might take a living form, that the one harmless old hope of my wrecked life might come true.

Mar.The age of miracles is past, Jonas. Well, I’ve said my say and done my do. Stay where thou art, and Heaven forgive thee, Jonas Marple.

Dan.(sternly). He’s dead!

Mar.(warmly). He is; dead to the call of reason, dead to the voice of human love, dead to everything that marks a reasoning man off from the beasts that perish. Thou hast well said, Jonas Marpleisdead—rest his soul!

Dan.Amen! Now go.

[Marple, after a pause, shrugs his shoulders, and exit withRipley.

Dan.Ay, he’s dead, dead, dead! He died then, that the blackest devil that ever cursed this earth might put her right with the world. Heaven send he has done so! And the bairn! It was promised to me,—promised, but the promise was a lie, a damned black lie—not hers, no, no! not hers, but the double-dyed devil who stole her from me. (Opens a hole in the floor in front of stool, and takes out a bag of money.) This is my bairn now (handling the money); see, here’s another day to thy life, another inch to thy height; grow as thou growest, child, and thou’lt be a golden beauty ere long. Gold, the best thing in the world; “as good as gold,”—why, it’s a saying; the best thing on earth to make a bairn of! Here’s a child that’ll never grow up to bring sorrow on its dad’s head, that costs nowt to keep, and never grows so big but you wish it bigger—my bairn! I’ve worked for thee and starved for thee that I might see thee grow, and thou hast growed, growed right royally! Lie here, my beauty, lie there in peace; I’ll never wake thee but to add to thy life, my bairn, my beautiful golden bairn!

[The door is suddenly burst open, andSir Jasper Combeenters hurriedly, followed byReubenas if pursued. They are both very ragged and dirty, dressed in torn and faded Royalist uniforms;Sir Jasper, an officer,Reuben, a sergeant.Reubencarries a child of three or four years of age, wrapped in a cloak, so as not to be seen byDan’l. They close the door hurriedly, and listen for their pursuers.Reubenplaces child on locker.

Jas.At last! safe at last from the yelping bloodhounds!By the Lord Harry, but of many bouts with death this is the bout that had like to have gone hardest with us, Reuben!

Dan.Who and what are ye, jail-birds?

Reu.Hark, sir! I think I hear them again! (Listening eagerly.)

Dan.(very loudly). Who and what are ye? (Going up to them.)

Jas.(listening). Hold thy fool’s tongue, or I’ll slit it!

Dan.But——

Reu.(placing his hand overDan’l’smouth). Nay, it is necessary that some one hold thy tongue, and if thou wilt not do it, I must!

Jas.Listen to me, my friend! (Reubenremoves his hand fromDan’l’smouth. He again attempts to speak,Reubenagain gags him.) Nay, cover him up. He will hear the better for that he cannot give tongue the while. Now, keep thine ears open, for this concerns thee: We are proscribed Royalists, and you, miserable man, have harboured us, Heaven help you and, if we are taken here, I, and he, and thou will surely hang—I and he for our sins against the Parliament, thou—for thy virtue in aiding, abetting, and comforting us. Dost thou clearly understand me?

Reu.(with his hand still overDan’l’smouth). Dost thou clearly understand the Colonel? (Dan’lcannot answer.Reubenrepeats his question loudly and angrily.) Dost thou clearly understand the Colonel?

Jas.(toReuben). When thou desirest him to be silent it is well to gag him; when thou wouldst have him speak it is judicious to remove the gag!

Reu.As you will, sir. Now then (removing his hand), dost thou clearly understand?

Dan.(loudly). I clearly understand that ye are two marauding devils, who——

Reu.(hastily clapping his hand overDan’l’smouth). He does not understand.

Jas.(listening). They’ve wheeled about, and their hoofs are dying away in the distance. Reuben, let the old beggar go; he may give tongue now till he split his lungs, if he will. We are safe, at least for the present, Reuben; and see to thy pistol—we may have to stand a siege yet, and this door must be barricaded; but with what?

Dan.(taking up an iron bar from the fireplace and holding it in a threatening attitude). Go your ways, both of ye; or as I am a man I’ll brain ye with this bar!

Jas.The very thing! (Wrenches it easily out of his hand and barricades the door with it, whileReubenshowsDan’la pistol.) There! why, it’s made for it! A thousand thanks, old gentleman. (Dan’lrecovers himself’ flies atJasper, who pushes him away; he falls on to a stool.) Now, master, listen to me, and if you have any respect for yourself, keep your ears open, for I’m speaking words of life and death. We are desperate men in a desperate strait, and little disposed to stand on ceremony, as you may perhaps have remarked. We are flying for our lives, and we desire to cross to France, where my lady is, and where we shall be safe. To carry out this design we have worked our way to the coast, sleeping under hedges and ricks for six bleak days, and tramping in the wind’s eye for six stormy nights, till the fire of life seems to have died out of our bodies, and our legs to have withered from their trunks. You have a stout boat on the beach; when this accursed gale shall have blown itself out you shall have the distinction of working us across to the opposite coast. In the mean time we appoint you our host, and we shall be prepared to look favourably on whatever meat or drink you can set before us.

Dan.Do I look like a man who keeps open house?

Jas.No, hang me if you do.

Dan.If I had my way, I’d hang you, anyhow.

Jas.Ay, and there’s many more of your way of thinking.

Dan.I’ll be sworn there are. Well, get out o’ my hut (rises); this is notyourway; this is not the road to the gallows.

Reu.My good fellow, that’s why we took it!

Dan.Who, in the devil’s name, are ye?

Jas.I’m a cavalier colonel, a trifle out of repair, and a thought begrimed, maybe, but that’ll wash off. Royalist to the backbone, as I proved some time since at Worcester, where my backbone had to bear the brunt of the flight! This is my regiment, the King’s Dragoons (indicatingReuben). Come, doff thy hat, King’s Dragoons, and salute the gentleman; the credit of the corps is in thy keeping, Reuben, for thou’rt all that’s left of it! (ToDan’l.) A worthy fellow, this regiment of mine, but somewhat shy and constrained in good company, but he will improve when he sees that flask of Schiedam that thou art about to surprise us with. Now, tell me, art thou for the Parliament?

Dan.No.

Jas.Then thou art for the king?

Dan.It’s a lie! I’m for myself.

Jas.And for us.

Dan.Nay, I’ll be damned if I am!

Jas.Nay, I’ll swear thou’rt for us if thou be not traitor to thyself; for if we hang at all we all hang together.I’llsee to that. Now, what food have you got?

Dan.None (sulkily).

Jas.What can you get?

Dan.Nothing.

Jas.Where are we then?

Dan.Nowhere.

Jas.Harkee, sir, I’m just in that mood that I don’t care the flash of a flint whose life is swept out of my way when it comes betwixt me and my wants. I want food—get it.

Dan.I’ve no food—I’m a beggar.

Jas.Here’s a coin—our last—go and get bread, meat, and drink. Now be off, or Reuben here shall whip you with his sword-flat till he drops. (Reubendraws.) And, mark me, if by deed, word, or sign you do aught to give a clue to our hiding-place, I’ll burn the hut to the ground, and everything in it.

Dan.But—— (Reubenpushes him.)

Jas.Not a word. Be off, and do your errand—and mind, no treachery, or—— (Jaspertakes a burning log from the fire, and holds it immediately over the hole whereDan’l’smoney is concealed.Dan’lsnatches it from him.)

Dan.Put that down, put that down, for the love of Heaven—put it down, I say, you’ll have the hut afire—and I’ll see what I can do, I’ll see what I can do.

[Dan’lthrows log on fire and exit.

Jas.Whew! I’ve brought the old devil to his senses. What a life this is! Was ever poor dog so hounded about from pillar to post as Jasper Combe? and for no better reason than that he is a gentleman, and loves his king!

Reu.Pardon, sir, but I never was accounted a gentleman, and for my king I care not one jot, yet am I hounded much as you are.

Jas.Thou art hounded much as I am because thou thyself art as I am, though in a lower degree. King Charles is my king (raises hat)—God bless him!—and I serve him, and am hunted for so doing. Jasper Combe isthyking (Reubenraises hat)—God bless him likewise!—and thou servest him, and thou art hunted for so doing. The analogy is complete. Be thou as faithful to thy king as I am to mine, and thy king will reward thee—when my king rewards me! Is the child safe?

Reu.(uncovering the child, and bringing it down). Ay, sir, thanks to my cloak; though I’m but a sorry dry-nurse, havingtaken to it late in life; but it’s never too late to learn, and I’ve learnt this, that babes won’t eat ship’s biscuits, and strong waters choke them. Their poor little heads can’t stand strong waters. I’ll marry some day on that piece of knowledge.

Jas.Add this to it, to my dower—that when thou art flying for thy life it’s best to leave thy babes behind. A dozen times we might have got away but for being hampered with this squalling abomination. Was ever officer of cavalry accursed with such a ridiculous element of peril?

Reu.Was ever sergeant of horse armed with such a mischief-dealing implement?

Jas.Well, there’s no help for it. My lady would have gone mad had I returned to her without it. She is devotedly attached to the child.

Reu.Strange that attachment of some mothers for their children. My mother always disliked me and kept me at a convenient distance; butshewas a Scotchwoman and not liable to be imposed on.

Jas.Well, we must make the best of a bad job. Whew! How cold it is. I’m chilled to the marrow of my bones. That fellow is taking his leisure over his errand; see, Reuben, if thou canst find aught in the hut.

Reu.Here’s a locker, your honour, but close fastened.

Jas.A proof that there’s something in it. Start it with thy sword. Stay, I’ll do it (takes up hatchet); so, gently (opens locker). Good, a crust of bread and some dried fish.

Reu.And a bottle of right good Schiedam, that never paid duty, I’ll be sworn.

Jas.(taking it). And on that account fairly forfeit to the Crown, which, on this occasion, I represent. So, bring an armful of those logs and make a merry blaze, for I ache as though I were trussed in a suit of thumbscrews. (Reubenbrings wood.) That’s well; ha! ha! Now let us enjoy ourselves. Who would have thought the dingy old pig-stye had so much life in it! It’s the first good blaze I’ve seen since the long-nosed devils fired the old mill we lived in. Come, we’ll be jolly. (Reubentakes a piece of bread,Jaspersnatches it from him.) Nay, of food there’s but enough for one (Jaspereats;Reubentakes up bottle and holds it to the light,Jaspersnatches it from him), and of Schiedam there’s not nearly enough for one. Why, thou gross and sensuous varlet, canst thou not be jolly without meat and drink? ’Tis always so with the baseborn; of intellectual recreation they have no notion whatever.

Reu.I’ve eaten nothing for two days, and I’m hungry.

Jas.Thou’lt have to wait till the old scoundrel returns.

Reu.(at door). There’s no signs of him yet.

Jas.Then give reins to thy voice and hail him. He took the road to the left. (ExitReubenshouting—his voice dies away in the distance.) Here’s a plight for the Lord of Combe-Raven! Stripped of an ancestral mansion and two thousand old acres; hunted to his death by broad-brimmed bloodhounds—separated from his pretty wife by some two hundred miles of barren land and stormy water, and saddled with a confounded brat that hampers his flight, let him turn whithersoever he will! And say that I cross this accursed Channel—how am I to get to Paris—penniless as I am? When I think of what I have before me, I’m minded to make short work with this world, and try another! By the Lord Harry!—(stamps impatiently; his foot starts a board overDan’l’shoard.) Ha! Why, what’s this? Not gold? (Takes out some.) Gold—and in profusion! Here’s a way out of our difficulties, if Combe-Raven were but the man to take it. The old miser! (Handling the money.) Bah—in another week’s time we may, perhaps, come down to this sort of thing—who knows? But not yet—no, not yet. (Throws it into hole.) Lie there—I’ll not meddle with thee, though (closing hole) thou’lt be spent on a worse errand than helpingJasperCombe to his wife and his king, I’ll be sworn.

EnterReubenin breathless haste.Jasperquickly covers the hole.

Reu.Yes, sir—we must fly—and that at once.

Jas.What d’ye mean?

Reu.I mean treachery—the old man has played us false!—I hear the horses’ hoofs in the distance——

Jas.A thousand devils wring his damnable neck! Run to the boat—get her ready for the sea. I’ll join thee at once and we’ll launch her together.

Reu.But——

Jas.Well?

Reu.If there’s such a thing as a crust of bread, or the tail of a dried mackerel——

Jas.But there’s not—be off. (He watches him out, then quickly turns to the hole in which the money is concealed.) So—this changes the aspect of affairs. Old fool, thou hast betrayed us, and this is fair plunder. (Takes it out of the hole.)With fair luck we may beat across to France to-night, and once there we are safe. But the child—again a clog on our movements! She would surely perish in an open boat on such a night as this. It’s a matter of life and death—herlife as well as mine. It would be murder to take her to sea with us, and it would be murder to remain and fight these fellows with her in our arms. There is no help for it—I must leave her here—this locket will serve to identify her (putting a locket and chain on her neck)—and I’ll reclaim her when I get across. They’ll never harm a child!

EnterReubenhurriedly.

Reu.Sir, sir, the troops are upon us—they’re not two hundred yards off——

Jas.I’m coming. (ExitReuben.Jasperwrites on a piece of paper, and pins it on the child’s dress.) So—lie thou there, and God help thee, little one. I’m loth to leave thee, but it’s for life and death—for life and death!

[Jasperleaps through the window asDan’land aSergeant,with fourSoldiers,in Parliamentary uniform, enter at the door.

Dan.(sees blaze of log fire). Fire! fire! He has fired the hut—he has fired the hut!

Ser.Nay, fool, ’tis but thy blazing hearth; thy hut’s safe enough. Where are thy prisoners?

Dan.Oh, the reckless prodigal! see how he hath wasted my substance!

Ser.There are no men hidden here. The sons of Belial have escaped. Why, thou hast betrayed us; and if so, thou shalt hang for it. (2ndSoldiermounts ladder to get into loft.)

Dan.They were here, but the noise of thy horses’ hoofs has alarmed them, and they are gone. I warned thee to tether thy beasts afar, and proceed silently.

1st Sol.See, they are putting off from the beach. (2ndSoldierdescends ladder and makes ready to fire.)

Dan.My boat, oh, my boat!

Ser.Bring down the Philistines, Nahum; a steady shot under the fifth rib, and may the Lord have mercy on them!

1st Sol.I will even smite them hip and thigh. (He fires through the window.) Missed! (Others fire outside.) Nay, they’re beyond range. May Heaven mercifully overwhelm them in the great waters!

Dan.(sees hole in floor). Gone, gone! Sergeant, see; they are gone—they were hidden in here—and they’re gone!

Ser.In there? Nay, there’s never room for two stout men in that cranny.

Dan.Men? Curse the men! It’s my gold—my gold! they’ve stolen it; they’ve robbed me! Sixty golden pounds! all I had—all I had! and it’s gone! My child! my child! they’ve stolen my child! (Weeps passionately on his knees.)

Ser.Nay, man, see, thy child’s safe enough, and a bonny lass she be. (Taking up child from behind table.)

Dan.(raising his head stupidly). Eh? Why, what’s that?

Ser.Thy child! Come, man, be thyself; the child’s safe enough. (Places child on ground.)

Sol.He’s crazed!

Dan.(stupefied). That’s not mine. My gold is my child! The gold that the infernal villains have taken!

Ser.Here’s a paper, and some words writ on it.

Dan.Read—read—I cannot read.

Ser.(reads). “Be kind to the child, and it shall profit thee. Grieve not for thy gold—it hath taken this form.”

[Music.

Dan.(on his knees taking the child). A miracle, a miracle! Down on your knees, down, I say, for Heaven has worked a miracle to save me. This money, for which I toiled night and day, and which I loved and worshipped, was to me as a child—a dear dear child. I prayed that this might be, but scoffers mocked me when I prayed, and said that the days of miracles were passed. But they lied, for my prayer has been hearkened to. See, it hashereyes,hereyes, my darling, my darling! My Heaven-sent bairn, thou hast brought me back to reason, to manhood, to life! (TheSoldierscrowd round him. 1stSoldieroffers to touch the child.) Hands off, hands off! (All fall back.) Touch not the Lord’s gift! touch not the Lord’s gift!

[Tableau.Dan’l—the child on the ground before him—soldiersgrouped around.

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