ENGAGED.AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL FARCICAL COMEDY,IN THREE ACTS.First produced at the Haymarket Theatre, under the management ofMr. J. S. Clarke,Wednesday, 3rd October, 1877.DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.Cheviot Hill,a young man of propertyMr. George Honey.Belvawney,his friendMr. Harold Kyrle.Mr. SympersonMr. Howe.Angus Macalister,a Lowland peasant ladMr. Dewar.Major McGillicuddyMr. Weathersby.Belinda TreherneMiss Marion Terry.Minnie,Symperson’s daughterMiss Lucy Buckstone.Mrs. Macfarlane,a Lowland widowMiss Emily Thorne.Maggie,her daughter, a Lowland lassieMiss Julia Stewart.Parker,Minnie’s maidMiss Julia Roselle.ACT I.GARDEN OF A COTTAGE, NEAR GRETNA.(On the border, between England and Scotland.)ACTS II. AND III.DRAWING-ROOM IN SYMPERSON’S HOUSE IN LONDON.Three months’ interval is supposed to elapse between Acts I. and II.Three days’ interval is supposed to elapse between Acts II. and III.
AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL FARCICAL COMEDY,IN THREE ACTS.
First produced at the Haymarket Theatre, under the management ofMr. J. S. Clarke,Wednesday, 3rd October, 1877.
ACT I.
GARDEN OF A COTTAGE, NEAR GRETNA.
(On the border, between England and Scotland.)
ACTS II. AND III.
DRAWING-ROOM IN SYMPERSON’S HOUSE IN LONDON.
Three months’ interval is supposed to elapse between Acts I. and II.
Three days’ interval is supposed to elapse between Acts II. and III.
ENGAGED.ACT I.Scene.—Garden of a humble but picturesque cottage, near Gretna, on the border between England and Scotland. The whole scene is suggestive of rustic prosperity and content.Maggie Macfarlane, a pretty country girl, is discovered spinning at a wheel, and singing as she spins.Angus Macalister, a good-looking peasant lad, appears on at back, and creeps softly down toMaggieas she sings and spins, and places his hands over her eyes.Ang.Wha is it?Mag.Oh, Angus, ye frightened me sae! (He releases her.) And see there—the flax is a’ knotted and scribbled—and I’ll do naething wi’ it!Ang.Meg! My Meg! My ain bonnie Meg!Mag.Angus, why, lad, what’s wrang wi’ e’e? Thou hast tear-drops in thy bonnie blue een.Ang.Dinna heed them, Meg. It comes fra glowerin’ at thy bright beauty. Glowerin’ at thee is like glowerin’ at the noonday sun!Mag.Angus, thou’rt talking fulishly. I’m but a puir brown hill-side lassie. I dinna like to hear sic things from a straight honest lad like thee. It’s the way the dandy toun-folk speak to me, and it does na come rightly from the lips of a simple man.Ang.Forgive me, Meg, for I speak honestly to ye. Angus Macalister is not the man to deal in squeaming compliments. Meg, I love thee dearly, as thou well knowest. I’m but a puir lad, and I’ve little but twa braw arms and a straight hairt to live by, but I’ve saved a wee bit siller—I’ve a braw housie and a scrappie of gude garden-land—and it’s a’ for thee, lassie, if thou’ll gie me thy true and tender little hairt!Mag.Angus, I’ll be fair and straight wi’ ee. Thou askestme for my hairt. Why, Angus, thou’rt tall, and fair, and brave. Thou’st a gude, honest face, and a gude, honest hairt, which is mair precious than a’ the gold on earth! No man has a word to say against Angus Macalister—no, nor any woman neither. Thou hast strong arms to work wi’, and a strong hairt to help thee work. And wha am I that I should say that a’ these blessings are not enough for me? If thou, gude, brave, honest man, will be troubled wi’ sic a puir little, humble mousie as Maggie Macfarlane, why, she’ll just be the proudest and happiest lassie in a’ Dumfries!Ang.My ain darling! (They embrace.)EnterMrs. Macfarlanefrom cottage.Mrs. Mac.Why, Angus—Maggie, what’s a’ this!Ang.Mistress Macfarlane, dinna be fasht wi’ me; dinna think worse o’ me than I deserve. I’ve loved your lass honestly these fifteen years, but I never plucked up the hairt to tell her so until noo; and when she answered fairly, it wasna in human nature to do aught else but hold her to my hairt and place one kiss on her bonnie cheek.Mrs. Mac.Angus, say nae mair. My hairt is sair at losing my only bairn; but I’m nae fasht wi’ ee. Thou’rt a gude lad, and it’s been the hope of my widowed auld heart to see you twain one. Thou’lt treat her kindly—I ken that weel. Thou’rt a prosperous, kirk-going man, and my Mag should be a happy lass indeed. Bless thee, Angus; bless thee!Ang.(wiping his eyes). Dinna heed the water in my ee—it will come when I’m ower glad. Yes, I’m a fairly prosperous man. What wi’ farmin’ a bit land, and gillieing odd times, and a bit o’ poachin’ now and again; and what wi’ my illicit whusky still—and throwin’ trains off the line, that the poor distracted passengers may come to my cot, I’ve mair ways than one of making an honest living—and I’ll work them a’ nicht and day for my bonnie Meg!Mrs. Mac.D’ye ken, Angus, I sometimes think that thou’rt losing some o’ thine auld skill at upsetting railway trains. Thou hast not done sic a thing these sax weeks, and the cottage stands sairly in need of sic chance custom as the poor delayed passengers may bring.Mag.Nay, mither, thou wrangest him. Even noo, this very day, has he not placed twa bonnie braw sleepers across the up-line, ready for the express from Glaisgie, which is due in twa minutes or so?Mrs. Mac.Gude lad! Gude thoughtfu’ lad! But I hope the unfortunate passengers will na’ be much hurt, puir unconscious bodies!Ang.Fear nought, mither. Lang experience has taught me to do my work deftly. The train will run off the line, and the traffic will just be blocked for half a day, but I’ll warrant ye that, wi’ a’ this, nae mon, woman, or child amang them will get sae much as a bruised head or a broken nose.Mag.My ain tender-hearted Angus! He wadna hurt sae much as a blatherin’ buzzin’ bluebottle flee!Ang.Nae, Meg, not if takin’ care and thought could help the poor dumb thing! (Wiping his eyes.) There, see, lass (looking off), the train’s at a standstill, and there’s nae harm done. I’ll just go and tell the puir distraught passengers that they may rest them here, in thy cot, gin they will, till the line is cleared again. Mither, get thy rooms ready, and put brose i’ the pot, for mebbe they’ll be hungry, puir souls. Farewell, Meg; I’ll be back ere lang, and if I don’t bring ’ee a full half-dozen o’ well-paying passengers, thou may’st just wed the red-headed exciseman![ExitAngus.Mag.Oh, mither, mither, I’m ower happy! I’ve nae deserved sic a good fortune as to be the wife o’ yon brave and honest lad!Mrs. Mac.Meg, thine auld mither’s hairt is sair at the thought o’ losin’ ye, for hitherto she’s just been a’ the world to ’ee; but now thou’lt cleave to thine Angus, and thou’lt learn to love him better than thy puir auld mither! But it mun be—it mun be!Mag.Nay, mither, say not that. A gude girl loves her husband wi’ one love and her mither wi’ anither. They are not alike, but neither is greater nor less than the ither, and they dwell together in peace and unity. That is how a gude girl loves.Mrs. Mac.And thou art a gude girl, Meg?Mag.I am a varra gude girl indeed, mither—a varra, varra gude girl!Mrs. Mac.I’m richt sure o’ that. Well, the puir belated passengers will be here directly, and it is our duty to provide for them sic puir hospitality as our humble roof will afford. It shall never be said o’ Janie Macfarlane that she ever turned the weary traveller fainting from her door.Mac.My ain gentle-hearted mither![Exeunt together into cottage.EnterAnguswithBelvawneyandMiss Treherne. She is in travelling costume, and both are much agitated and alarmed.Ang.Step in, sir—step in, and sit ye doun for a wee. I’ll just send Mistress Macfarlane to ye. She’s a gude auld bodie, and will see to your comforts as if she was your ain mither.Bel.Thank you, my worthy lad, for your kindness at this trying moment. I assure you we shall not forget it.Ang.Ah, sir, wadna any mon do as muckle? A dry shelter, a bannock and a pan o’ parritch is a’ we can offer ye, but sic as it is ye’re hairtily welcome.Bel.It is well—we thank you.Ang.For wha wadna help the unfortunate?Bel.(occupied withMiss Treherne). Exactly—every one would.Ang.Or feed the hungry?Bel.No doubt.Ang.It just brings the tear drop to my ee’ to think——Bel.(leading him off). My friend, we would be alone, this maiden and I. Farewell! (ExitAngus, into cottage.) Belinda—my own—my life! Compose yourself. It was in truth a weird and gruesome accident. The line is blocked—your parasol is broken, and your butterscotch trampled in the dust, but no serious harm is done. Come, be cheerful. We are safe—quite safe.Miss T.Safe! Ah, Belvawney, my own own Belvawney—there is, I fear, no safety for us so long as we are liable to be overtaken by that fearful Major to whom I was to have been married this morning!Bel.Major McGillicuddy? I confess I do not feel comfortable when I think of Major McGillicuddy.Miss T.You know his barbaric nature, and how madly jealous he is. If he should find that I have eloped with you he will most surely shoot us both!Bel.It is an uneasy prospect. (Suddenly.) Belinda, do you love me?Miss T.With an impetuous passion that I shall carry with me to the tomb!Bel.Then be mine to-morrow! We are not far from Gretna, and the thing can be done without delay. Once married, the arm of the law will protect us from this fearful man, and we can defy him to do his worst.Miss T.Belvawney, all this is quite true. I love you madly,passionately; I care to live but in your heart, I breathe but for your love; yet, before I actually consent to take the irrevocable step that will place me on the pinnacle of my fondest hopes, you must give me some definite idea of your pecuniary position. I am not mercenary, Heaven knows; but business is business, and I confess I should like a little definite information about the settlements.Bel.I often think that it is deeply to be deplored that these grovelling questions of money should alloy the tenderest and most hallowed sentiments that inspire our imperfect natures.Miss T.It is unfortunate, no doubt, but at the same time it is absolutely necessary.Bel.Belinda, I will be frank with you. My income is £1000 a year, which I hold on certain conditions. You know my friend Cheviot Hill, who is travelling to London in the same train with us, but in the third class?Miss T.I believe I know the man you mean.Bel.Cheviot, who is a young man of large property, but extremely close-fisted, is cursed with a strangely amatory disposition, as you will admit when I tell you that he has contracted a habit of proposing marriage, as a matter of course, to every woman he meets. His haughty father (who comes of a very old family—the Cheviot Hills had settled in this part of the world centuries before the Conquest) is compelled by his health to reside in Madeira. Knowing that I exercise an all but supernatural influence over his son, and fearing that his affectionate disposition would lead him to contract an undesirable marriage, the old gentleman allows me £1000 a year so long as Cheviot shall live single, but at his death or marriage the money goes over to Cheviot’s uncle Symperson, who is now travelling to town with him.Miss T.Then so long as your influence over him lasts, so long only will you retain your income?Bel.That is, I am sorry to say, the state of the case.Miss T.(after a pause). Belvawney, I love you with an imperishable ardour which mocks the power of words. If I were to begin to tell you now of the force of my indomitable passion for you, the tomb would close over me before I could exhaust the entrancing subject. But, as I said before, business is business, and unless I can see some distinct probability that your income will be permanent, I shall have no alternative but to weep my heart out in all the anguish of maiden solitude—uncared for, unloved, and alone![ExitMiss Treherneinto cottage.Bel.There goes a noble-hearted girl, indeed! Oh, for the gift of Cheviot’s airy badinage—oh, for his skill in weaving a net about the hearts of women! If I could but induce her to marry me at once before the dreadful Major learns our flight! Why not? We are in Scotland. Methinks I’ve heard two loving hearts can wed, in this strange country, by merely making declaration to that effect. I will think out some cunning scheme to lure her into marriage unawares.EnterMaggie, from cottage.Mag.Will ye walk in and rest a wee, Maister Belvawney? There’s a room ready for ye, kind sir, and ye’re heartily welcome to it.Bel.It is well. Stop! Come hither, maiden.Mag.Oh, sir! you do not mean any harm towards a puir, innocent, unprotected cottage lassie?Bel.Harm! No: of course, I don’t. What do you mean?Mag.I’m but a puir, humble mountain girl; but let me tell you, sir, that my character’s just as dear to me as the richest and proudest lady’s in the land. Before I consent to approach ye, swear to me that you mean me no harm.Bel.Harm? Of course, I don’t. Don’t be a little fool! Come here.Mag.There is something in his manner that reassures me. It is not that of the airy trifler with innocent hairts. (Aloud.) What wad ye wi’ puir, harmless Maggie Macfarlane, gude sir?Bel.Can you tell me what constitutes a Scotch marriage?Mag.Oh, sir, it’s nae use asking me that; for my hairt is not my ain to give. I’m betrothed to the best and noblest lad in a’ the bonnie Borderland. Oh, sir, I canna be your bride!Bel.My girl, you mistake. I do not want you for my bride. Can’t you answer a simple question? What constitutes a Scotch marriage?Mag.Ye’ve just to say before twa witnesses, “Maggie Macfarlane is my wife;” and I’ve just to say, “Maister Belvawney is my husband,” and nae mon can set us asunder. But, sir, I canna be your bride; for I am betrothed to the best and noblest——Bel.I congratulate you. You can go.Mag.Yes, sir.[ExitMaggieinto cottage.Bel.It is a simple process; simple, but yet how beautiful! One thing is certain—Cheviot may marry any day, despite myprecautions, and then I shall be penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be penniless. Belinda has £500 a year; it is not much, but it would, at least, save me from starvation.[ExitBelvawney.EnterSympersonandCheviot Hillover bridge. They both show signs of damage—their hats are beaten in and their clothes disordered through the accident.Sym.Well, here we are at last——Ch.Yes; here we are at last, and a pretty state I’m in, to be sure.Sym.My dear nephew, you would travel third class, and this is the consequence. After all, there’s not much harm done.Ch.Not much harm? What d’ye call that? (Showing his hat.) Ten and ninepence at one operation! My gloves split—one and four! My coat ruined—eighteen and six! It’s a coarse and brutal nature that recognizes no harm that don’t involve loss of blood. I’m reduced by this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human being, to a moral pulp—a mash—a poultice. Damme, sir, that’s what I am! I’m a poultice!Sym.Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the accident you were speaking to me on a very interesting subject.Ch.Was I? I forget what it was. The accident has knocked it clean out of my head.Sym.You were saying that you were a man of good position and fortune; that you derived £2000 a year from your bank; that you thought it was time you settled. You then reminded me that I should come into Belvawney’s £1000 a year on your marriage, and I’m not sure, but I rather think you mentioned, casually, that my daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light.Ch.True, and just then we went off the line. To resume—Uncle Symperson, your daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light, a perfect being, as innocent as a new-laid egg.Sym.Minnie is, indeed, all that you have described her.Ch.Uncle, I’m a man of few words. I feel and I speak. I love that girl, madly, passionately, irresistibly. She is my whole life, my whole soul and body, my Past, my Present, and my To Come. I have thought for none but her; she fills my mind, sleeping and waking; she is the essence of every hope—the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my own To Come!Sym.(who has sunk overpowered on to stool during this speech). Cheviot, my dear boy, excuse a father’s tears. I won’t beat about the bush. You have anticipated my devoutest wish. Cheviot, my dear boy, take her, she is yours!Ch.I have often heard of rapture, but I never knew what it was till now. Uncle Symperson, bearing in mind the fact that your income will date from the day of the wedding, when may this be?Sym.My boy, the sooner the better! Delicacy would prompt me to give Belvawney a reasonable notice of the impending loss of his income, but should I, for such a mere selfish reason as that, rob my child of one hour of the happiness that you are about to confer upon her? No! Duty to my child is paramount!Ch.On one condition, however, I must insist. This must be kept from Belvawney’s knowledge. You know the strange, mysterious influence that his dreadful eyes exercise over me.Sym.I have remarked it with astonishment.Ch.They are much inflamed just now, and he has to wear green spectacles. While this lasts I am a free agent, but under treatment they may recover. In that case, if he knew that I contemplated matrimony, he would use them to prevent my doing so—and I cannot resist them—I cannot resist them! Therefore, I say, until I am safely and securely tied up, Belvawney must know nothing about it.Sym.Trust me, Cheviot, he shall know nothing about it fromme. (Aside.) A thousand a year! I have endeavoured, but in vain, to woo Fortune for fifty-six years, but she smiles upon me at last!—she smiles upon me at last![ExitSympersoninto cottage.Ch.At length my hopes are to be crowned! Oh, my own—my own—the hope of my heart—my love—my life!EnterBelvawney, who has overheard these words.Bel.Cheviot! Whom are you apostrophizing in those terms? You’ve been at it again, I see!Ch.Belvawney, that apostrophe was private; I decline to admit you to my confidence.Bel.Cheviot, what is the reason of this strange tone of defiance? A week ago I had but to express a wish, to have it obeyed as a matter of course.Ch.Belvawney, it may not be denied that there was a time when, owing to the remarkable influence exercised over me byyour extraordinary eyes, you could do with me as you would. It would be affectation to deny it; your eyes withered my will; they paralyzed my volition. They were strange and lurid eyes, and I bowed to them. Those eyes were my Fate—my Destiny—my unerring Must—my inevitable Shall. That time has gone—for ever!Bel.Alas for the days that are past and the good that came and went with them!Ch.Weep for them if you will. I cannot weep with you, for I loved them not. But, as you say, they are past. The light that lit up those eyes is extinct—their fire has died out—their soul has fled. They are no longer eyes, they are poached eggs. I have not yet sunk so low as to be the slave of two poached eggs.Bel.Have mercy. If any girl has succeeded in enslaving you—and I know how easily you are enslaved—dismiss her from your thoughts; have no more to say to her; and I will—yes, I will bless you with my latest breath!Ch.Whether a blessing conferred with one’s latest breath is a superior article to one conferred in robust health we need not stop to inquire. I decline, as I said before, to admit you to my confidence on any terms whatever. Begone! (ExitBelvawney.) Dismiss from my thoughts the only woman I ever loved! Have no more to say to the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing! No, Belvawney, I cannot cut off my tree as if it were gas or water. I do not treat women like that. Some men do, but I don’t. I am not that sort of man. I respect women; I love women. They are good; they are pure; they are beautiful; at least, many of them are.EnterMaggiefrom cottage: he is much fascinated.This one, for example, is very beautiful indeed!Mag.If ye’ll just walk in, sir, ye’ll find a bannock and a pan o’ parritch waitin’ for ye on the table.Ch.This is one of the loveliest women I ever met in the whole course of my life!Mag.(aside). What’s he glowerin’ at? (Aloud.) Oh, sir, ye mean no harm to the poor Lowland lassie?Ch.Pardon me; it’s very foolish. I can’t account for it—but I am arrested, fascinated.Mag.Oh, gude sir, what’s fascinated ye?Ch.I don’t know; there is something about you that exercises a most remarkable influence over me; it seems toweave a kind of enchantment around me. I can’t think what it is. You are a good girl, I am sure. None but a good girl could so powerfully affect me. Youarea good girl, are you not?Mag.I am a varra gude girl indeed, sir.Ch.I was quite sure of it. (Gets his arm round her waist.)Mag.I am a much better girl than nineteen out of twenty in these pairts. And they are all gude girls too.Ch.My darling! (Kisses her.)Mag.Oh, kind sir, what’s that for?Ch.It is your reward for being a good girl.Mag.Oh, sir, I did na look for sic a recompense; you are varra varra kind to puir little Maggie Macfarlane.Ch.I cannot think what it is about you that fascinates me so remarkably.Mag.Maybe it’s my beauty.Ch.Maybe it is. It is quite possible that it may be, as you say, your beauty.Mag.I am remarkably pretty, and I’ve a varra neat figure.Ch.There is a natural modesty in this guileless appreciation of your own perfection that is, to me, infinitely more charming than the affected ignorance of an artificial town-bred beauty.Mag.Oh, sir, can I close my een to the picture that my looking-glass holds up to me twenty times a day? We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair; we see the silver moon sailing in the braw blue heavens, and we say that she is bright; we see the brawling stream purling over the smooth stanes i’ the burn, and we say that it is beautiful; and shall we close our een to the fairest of nature’s works—a pure and beautiful woman? Why, sir, it wad just be base ingratitude! No, it’s best to tell the truth about a’ things: I am a varra, varra, beautiful girl!Ch.Maggie Macfarlane, I’m a plain, blunt, straightforward man, and I come quickly to the point. I see more to love in you than I ever saw in any woman in all my life before. I have a large income, which I do not spend recklessly. I love you passionately; you are the essence of every hope; you are the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my Past, my Present, my Future—you are my own To Come. Tell me, will you be mine—will you join your life with mine?EnterAngus, who listens.Mag.Ah, kind sir, I’m sairly grieved to wound sae true and tender a love as yours, but ye’re ower late, my love is nae myain to give ye, it’s given ower to the best and bravest lad in a’ the bonnie Borderland!Ch.Give me his address that I may go and curse him!Mag.(kneels toHill). Ah, ye must not curse him. Oh, spare him, spare him, for he is good and brave, and he loves me, oh, sae dearly, and I love him, oh, sae dearly too. Oh, sir, kind sir, have mercy on him, and do not—do not curse him, or I shall die! (Throwing herself at his feet.)Ch.Will you, or will you not, oblige me by telling me where he is, that I may at once go and curse him?Ang.(coming forward). He is here, sir, but dinna waste your curses on me. Maggie, my bairn (raising her), I heard the answer ye gave to this man, my true and gentle lassie! Ye spake well and bravely, Meg—well and bravely! Dinna heed the water in my e’e—it’s a tear of joy and gratitude, Meg—a tear of joy and gratitude!Ch.(touched). Poor fellow! I willnotcurse him! (Aloud.) Young man, I respect your honest emotion. I don’t want to distress you, but I cannot help loving this most charming girl. Come, is it reasonable to quarrel with a man because he’s of the same way of thinking as yourself?Ang.Nay, sir, I’m nae fasht, but it just seems to drive a’ the bluid back into my hairt when I think that my Meg is loved by anither! Oh, sir, she’s a fair and winsome lassie, and I micht as justly be angry wi’ ye for loving the blue heavens! She’s just as far above us as they are! (Wiping his eyes and kissing her.)Ch.(with decision). Pardon me, I cannot allow that.Ang.Eh?Ch.I love that girl madly—passionately—and I cannot possibly allow you to do that—not before my eyes, I beg. You simply torture me.Mag.(toAng.). Leave, off, dear, till the puir gentleman’s gone, and then ye can begin again.Ch.Angus, listen to me. You love this girl?Ang.I love her, sir, a’most as weel as I love mysel’!Ch.Then reflect how you are standing in the way of her prosperity. I am a rich man. I have money, position, and education. I am a much more intellectual and generally agreeable companion for her than you can ever hope to be. I am full of anecdote, and all my anecdotes are in the best possible taste. I will tell you some of them some of these days, and you can judge for yourself. Maggie, if she married me, would live in a nice house in a good square. She would have wine—occasionally. She would be kept beautifully clean. Now, if you really love this girl almost as well as you love yourself, are you doing wisely or kindly in standing in the way of her getting all these good things? As to compensation—why, I’ve had heavy expenses of late—but if—yes, if thirty shillings——Ang.(hotly). Sir, I’m puir in pocket, but I’ve a rich hairt. It is rich in a pure and overflowing love, and he that hath love hath all. You canna ken what true love is, or you wadna dare to insult a puir but honest lad by offering to buy his treasure for money. (Cheviotretires up.)Mag.My ain true darling! (They embrace.)Ch.Now, I’ll not have it! Understand me, I’ll not have it. It’s simple agony to me. Angus, I respect your indignation, but you are too hasty. I do not offer to buy your treasure for money. You love her; it will naturally cause you pain to part with her, and I prescribe thirty shillings, not as a cure, but as a temporary solace. If thirty shillings is not enough, why, I don’t mind making it two pounds.Ang.Nae, sir, it’s useless, and we ken it weel, do we not, my brave lassie? Our hearts are one as our bodies will be some day; and the man is na born, and the gold is na coined, that can set us twain asunder!Mag.Angus, dear, I’m varra proud o’ sae staunch and true a love; it’s like your ain true self, an’ I can say nae more for it than that. But dinna act wi’out prudence and forethought, dear. In these hard times twa pound is twa pound, and I’m nae sure that ye’re acting richtly in refusing sae large a sum. I love you varra dearly—ye ken that right weel—an’ if ye’ll be troubled wi’ sic a poor little mousie I’ll mak’ ye a true an’ loving wife, but I doubt whether, wi’ a’ my love, I’ll ever be worth as much to ye as twa pound. Dinna act in haste, dear; tak’ time to think before ye refuse this kind gentleman’s offer.Ang.Oh, sir, is not this rare modesty? Could ye match it amang your toun-bred fine ladies? I think not! Meg, it shall be as you say. I’ll tak’ the siller, but it’ll be wi’ a sair and broken hairt! (CheviotgivesAngusmoney.) Fare thee weel, my love—my childhood’s—boyhood’s—manhood’s love! Ye’re ganging fra my hairt to anither, who’ll gie thee mair o’ the gude things o’ this world than I could ever gie ’ee, except love, an’ o’ that my hairt is full indeed! But it’s a’ for the best; ye’ll be happier wi’ him—and twa pound is twa pound. Meg, mak’ him a gude wife, be true to him, and love him as ye loved me. Oh, Meg, my poor bruised hairt is well nigh like to break![Exit into cottage, in great agony.Mag.(looking wistfully after him). Puir laddie, puir laddie! Oh, I did na ken till noo how weel he loved me!Ch.Maggie, I’m almost sorry I—poor lad, poor fellow! He has a generous heart. I am glad I did not curse him. (Aside.) This is weakness! (Aloud.) Maggie my own—ever and for always my own, we will be very happy, will we not?Mag.Oh, sir, I dinna ken, but in truth I hope so. Oh, sir, my happiness is in your hands noo; be kind to the puir cottage lassie who loves ye sae weel; my hairt is a’ your ain, and if ye forsake me my lot will be a sair one indeed![Exit, weeping, into cottage.Ch.Poor little Lowland lassie! That’s my idea of a wife. No ridiculous extravagance; no expensive tastes. Knows how to dress like a lady on £5 a year; ah, and does it too! No pretence there of being blind to her own beauties; she knows that she is beautiful, and scorns to lie about it. In that respect she resembles Symperson’s dear daughter, Minnie. My darling Minnie. (Looks at miniature.) My own darling Minnie. Minnie is fair, Maggie is dark. Maggie loves me! That excellent and perfect country creature loves me! She is to be the light of my life, my own to come! In some respects she is even prettier than Minnie—my darling Minnie, Symperson’s dear daughter, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing; my Past, my Present, and my Future, my own To Come! But this tendency to reverie is growing on me; I must shake it off.EnterMiss Treherne.Heaven and earth, what a singularly lovely girl!Miss T.A stranger! Pardon me, I will withdraw!—Ch.A stranger indeed, in one sense, inasmuch as he never had the happiness of meeting you before—but, in that he has a heart that can sympathize with another’s misfortune, he trusts he may claim to be regarded almost as a friend.Miss T.May I ask, sir, to what misfortunes you allude?Ch.I—a—do not know their precise nature, but that perception would indeed be dull, and that heart would be indeed flinty, that did not at once perceive that you are very very unhappy. Accept, madam, my deepest and most respectful sympathy.Miss T.You have guessed rightly, sir! I am indeed a most unhappy woman.Ch.I am delighted to hear it—a—I mean I feel a pleasure, a melancholy and chastened pleasure, in reflecting that, if your distress is not of a pecuniary nature, it may perchance lay in my power to alleviate your sorrow.Miss T.Impossible, sir, though I thank you for your respectful sympathy.Ch.How many women would forego twenty years of their lives to be as beautiful as yourself, little dreaming that extraordinary loveliness can co-exist with the most poignant anguish of mind! But so, too often, we find it, do we not, dear lady?Miss T.Sir! this tone of address, from a complete stranger!Ch.Nay, be not unreasonably severe upon an impassionable and impulsive man, whose tongue is but the too faithful herald of his heart. We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair, we see the bonnie brooks purling over the smooth stanes—I should say stones—in the burn, and we say that it is beautiful, and shall we close our eyes to the fairest of nature’s works, a pure and beautiful woman? Why, it would be base ingratitude, indeed!Miss T.I cannot deny that there is much truth in the sentiments you so beautifully express, but I am, unhappily, too well aware that, whatever advantages I may possess, personal beauty is not among their number.Ch.How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensibility to your own singular loveliness! How infinitely more winning than the bold-faced self-appreciation of under-bred country girls!Miss T.I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with my modesty. It has often been admired.Ch.Pleased! I am more than pleased—that’s a very weak word. I am enchanted. Madam, I am a man of quick impulse and energetic action. I feel and I speak—I cannot help it. Madam, be not surprised when I tell you that I cannot resist the conviction that you are the light of my future life, the essence of every hope, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my Past, my Present, my Future, my own To Come! Do not extinguish that light, do not disperse that essence, do not blight that tree! I am well off; I’m a bachelor; I’m thirty-two; and I love you, madam, humbly, truly, trustfully, patiently. Paralyzed with admiration, I wait anxiously, and yet hopefully, for your reply.Miss T.Sir, that heart would indeed be cold that did not feel grateful for so much earnest, single-hearted devotion. I am deeply grieved to have to say one word to cause pain to one who expresses himself in such well-chosen terms of respectful esteem; but, alas! I have already yielded up my heart to one who, if I mistake not, is a dear personal friend of your own.Ch.Am I to understand that you are the young lady of property whom Belvawney hopes to marry?Miss T.I am! indeed, that unhappy woman!Ch.And is it possible that you love him?Miss T.With a rapture that thrills every fibre of my heart—with a devotion that enthralls my very soul! But there’s some difficulty about his settlements.Ch.A difficulty! I should think there was. Why, on my marrying, his entire income goes over to Symperson! I could reduce him to penury to-morrow. As it happens, Iamengaged, I recollect, to Symperson’s daughter; and if Belvawney dares to interpose between you and me, by George, I’ll do it!Miss T.Oh, spare him, sir! You say that you love me? Then, for my sake, remain single for ever—it is all I ask, it is not much. Promise me that you will never, never marry, and we will both bless you with our latest breath!Ch.There seems to be a special importance attached to a blessing conferred with one’s latest breath that I entirely fail to grasp. It seems to me to convey no definite advantage of any kind whatever.Miss T.Cruel, cruel man!EnterBelvawney, in great alarm.Bel.We are lost!—we are lost!Miss T.What do you mean?Ch.Who has lost you?Bel.Major McGillicuddy discovered your flight, and followed in the next train. The line is blocked through our accident, and his train has pulled up within a few yards of our own. He is now making his way to this very cottage! What do you say to that?Miss T.I agree with you, we are lost!Ch.I disagree with you; I should say you are found.Bel.This man is a reckless fire-eater; he is jealous of me. He will assuredly shoot us both if he sees us here together. I am no coward—but—I confess I am uneasy.Miss T.(toCheviot). Oh, sir, you have a ready wit; help us out of this difficulty, and we will both bless you——Bel.With our latest breath!Ch.That decides me. Madam, remain here with me. Belvawney, withdraw. (Belvawneyretires.) I will deal with this maniac alone. All I ask is, that if I find it necessary to make a statement that is not consistent with strict truth, you, madam, will unhesitatingly endorse it?Miss T.I will stake my very existence on its veracity, whatever it may be.Ch.Good. He is at hand. Belvawney, go. [ExitBelvawney.Now, madam, repose upon my shoulders, place your arms around me so—is that comfortable?Miss T.It is luxurious.Ch.Good.Miss T.You are sure it does not inconvenience you?Ch.Not at all. Go back, I like it. Now we are ready for him.EnterMcGillicuddywith two friends dressed as for a wedding, with white favours.McGillicuddyhas pistols. All greatly excited.McG.Where is the villain? I’ll swear he is concealed somewhere. Search every tree, every bush, every geranium. Ha! they are here. Perjured woman! I’ve found you at last.Miss T.(toCheviot). Save me![Belvawneyappears at back, listening.McG.Who is the unsightly scoundrel with whom you have flown—the unpleasant-looking scamp whom you have dared to prefer to me? Uncurl yourself from around the plain villain at once, unless you would share his fate.[MaggieandAngusappear from cottage.Miss T.Major, spare him!Ch.Now, sir, perhaps you will be so good as to explain who the deuce you are, and what you want with this lady?McG.I don’t know who you may be, but I’m McGillicuddy. I am betrothed to this lady; we were to have been married this morning. I waited for her at the church from ten till four, then I began to get impatient.Ch.I really think you must be labouring under some delusion.McG.Delusion? Ha! ha! (Two friends produce large wedding cake.) Here’s the cake!Ch.Still I think there’s a mistake somewhere. This lady is my wife.McG.What! Belinda! oh, Belinda! Tell me that this unattractive man lies; tell me that you are mine and only mine, now and for ever!Miss T.I cannot say that. This gentleman is my husband![McGillicuddyfalls sobbing on seat;Belvawneytears his hair in despair;Maggiesobs onAngus’sshoulder.
Scene.—Garden of a humble but picturesque cottage, near Gretna, on the border between England and Scotland. The whole scene is suggestive of rustic prosperity and content.Maggie Macfarlane, a pretty country girl, is discovered spinning at a wheel, and singing as she spins.Angus Macalister, a good-looking peasant lad, appears on at back, and creeps softly down toMaggieas she sings and spins, and places his hands over her eyes.
Ang.Wha is it?
Mag.Oh, Angus, ye frightened me sae! (He releases her.) And see there—the flax is a’ knotted and scribbled—and I’ll do naething wi’ it!
Ang.Meg! My Meg! My ain bonnie Meg!
Mag.Angus, why, lad, what’s wrang wi’ e’e? Thou hast tear-drops in thy bonnie blue een.
Ang.Dinna heed them, Meg. It comes fra glowerin’ at thy bright beauty. Glowerin’ at thee is like glowerin’ at the noonday sun!
Mag.Angus, thou’rt talking fulishly. I’m but a puir brown hill-side lassie. I dinna like to hear sic things from a straight honest lad like thee. It’s the way the dandy toun-folk speak to me, and it does na come rightly from the lips of a simple man.
Ang.Forgive me, Meg, for I speak honestly to ye. Angus Macalister is not the man to deal in squeaming compliments. Meg, I love thee dearly, as thou well knowest. I’m but a puir lad, and I’ve little but twa braw arms and a straight hairt to live by, but I’ve saved a wee bit siller—I’ve a braw housie and a scrappie of gude garden-land—and it’s a’ for thee, lassie, if thou’ll gie me thy true and tender little hairt!
Mag.Angus, I’ll be fair and straight wi’ ee. Thou askestme for my hairt. Why, Angus, thou’rt tall, and fair, and brave. Thou’st a gude, honest face, and a gude, honest hairt, which is mair precious than a’ the gold on earth! No man has a word to say against Angus Macalister—no, nor any woman neither. Thou hast strong arms to work wi’, and a strong hairt to help thee work. And wha am I that I should say that a’ these blessings are not enough for me? If thou, gude, brave, honest man, will be troubled wi’ sic a puir little, humble mousie as Maggie Macfarlane, why, she’ll just be the proudest and happiest lassie in a’ Dumfries!
Ang.My ain darling! (They embrace.)
EnterMrs. Macfarlanefrom cottage.
Mrs. Mac.Why, Angus—Maggie, what’s a’ this!
Ang.Mistress Macfarlane, dinna be fasht wi’ me; dinna think worse o’ me than I deserve. I’ve loved your lass honestly these fifteen years, but I never plucked up the hairt to tell her so until noo; and when she answered fairly, it wasna in human nature to do aught else but hold her to my hairt and place one kiss on her bonnie cheek.
Mrs. Mac.Angus, say nae mair. My hairt is sair at losing my only bairn; but I’m nae fasht wi’ ee. Thou’rt a gude lad, and it’s been the hope of my widowed auld heart to see you twain one. Thou’lt treat her kindly—I ken that weel. Thou’rt a prosperous, kirk-going man, and my Mag should be a happy lass indeed. Bless thee, Angus; bless thee!
Ang.(wiping his eyes). Dinna heed the water in my ee—it will come when I’m ower glad. Yes, I’m a fairly prosperous man. What wi’ farmin’ a bit land, and gillieing odd times, and a bit o’ poachin’ now and again; and what wi’ my illicit whusky still—and throwin’ trains off the line, that the poor distracted passengers may come to my cot, I’ve mair ways than one of making an honest living—and I’ll work them a’ nicht and day for my bonnie Meg!
Mrs. Mac.D’ye ken, Angus, I sometimes think that thou’rt losing some o’ thine auld skill at upsetting railway trains. Thou hast not done sic a thing these sax weeks, and the cottage stands sairly in need of sic chance custom as the poor delayed passengers may bring.
Mag.Nay, mither, thou wrangest him. Even noo, this very day, has he not placed twa bonnie braw sleepers across the up-line, ready for the express from Glaisgie, which is due in twa minutes or so?
Mrs. Mac.Gude lad! Gude thoughtfu’ lad! But I hope the unfortunate passengers will na’ be much hurt, puir unconscious bodies!
Ang.Fear nought, mither. Lang experience has taught me to do my work deftly. The train will run off the line, and the traffic will just be blocked for half a day, but I’ll warrant ye that, wi’ a’ this, nae mon, woman, or child amang them will get sae much as a bruised head or a broken nose.
Mag.My ain tender-hearted Angus! He wadna hurt sae much as a blatherin’ buzzin’ bluebottle flee!
Ang.Nae, Meg, not if takin’ care and thought could help the poor dumb thing! (Wiping his eyes.) There, see, lass (looking off), the train’s at a standstill, and there’s nae harm done. I’ll just go and tell the puir distraught passengers that they may rest them here, in thy cot, gin they will, till the line is cleared again. Mither, get thy rooms ready, and put brose i’ the pot, for mebbe they’ll be hungry, puir souls. Farewell, Meg; I’ll be back ere lang, and if I don’t bring ’ee a full half-dozen o’ well-paying passengers, thou may’st just wed the red-headed exciseman!
[ExitAngus.
Mag.Oh, mither, mither, I’m ower happy! I’ve nae deserved sic a good fortune as to be the wife o’ yon brave and honest lad!
Mrs. Mac.Meg, thine auld mither’s hairt is sair at the thought o’ losin’ ye, for hitherto she’s just been a’ the world to ’ee; but now thou’lt cleave to thine Angus, and thou’lt learn to love him better than thy puir auld mither! But it mun be—it mun be!
Mag.Nay, mither, say not that. A gude girl loves her husband wi’ one love and her mither wi’ anither. They are not alike, but neither is greater nor less than the ither, and they dwell together in peace and unity. That is how a gude girl loves.
Mrs. Mac.And thou art a gude girl, Meg?
Mag.I am a varra gude girl indeed, mither—a varra, varra gude girl!
Mrs. Mac.I’m richt sure o’ that. Well, the puir belated passengers will be here directly, and it is our duty to provide for them sic puir hospitality as our humble roof will afford. It shall never be said o’ Janie Macfarlane that she ever turned the weary traveller fainting from her door.
Mac.My ain gentle-hearted mither!
[Exeunt together into cottage.
EnterAnguswithBelvawneyandMiss Treherne. She is in travelling costume, and both are much agitated and alarmed.
Ang.Step in, sir—step in, and sit ye doun for a wee. I’ll just send Mistress Macfarlane to ye. She’s a gude auld bodie, and will see to your comforts as if she was your ain mither.
Bel.Thank you, my worthy lad, for your kindness at this trying moment. I assure you we shall not forget it.
Ang.Ah, sir, wadna any mon do as muckle? A dry shelter, a bannock and a pan o’ parritch is a’ we can offer ye, but sic as it is ye’re hairtily welcome.
Bel.It is well—we thank you.
Ang.For wha wadna help the unfortunate?
Bel.(occupied withMiss Treherne). Exactly—every one would.
Ang.Or feed the hungry?
Bel.No doubt.
Ang.It just brings the tear drop to my ee’ to think——
Bel.(leading him off). My friend, we would be alone, this maiden and I. Farewell! (ExitAngus, into cottage.) Belinda—my own—my life! Compose yourself. It was in truth a weird and gruesome accident. The line is blocked—your parasol is broken, and your butterscotch trampled in the dust, but no serious harm is done. Come, be cheerful. We are safe—quite safe.
Miss T.Safe! Ah, Belvawney, my own own Belvawney—there is, I fear, no safety for us so long as we are liable to be overtaken by that fearful Major to whom I was to have been married this morning!
Bel.Major McGillicuddy? I confess I do not feel comfortable when I think of Major McGillicuddy.
Miss T.You know his barbaric nature, and how madly jealous he is. If he should find that I have eloped with you he will most surely shoot us both!
Bel.It is an uneasy prospect. (Suddenly.) Belinda, do you love me?
Miss T.With an impetuous passion that I shall carry with me to the tomb!
Bel.Then be mine to-morrow! We are not far from Gretna, and the thing can be done without delay. Once married, the arm of the law will protect us from this fearful man, and we can defy him to do his worst.
Miss T.Belvawney, all this is quite true. I love you madly,passionately; I care to live but in your heart, I breathe but for your love; yet, before I actually consent to take the irrevocable step that will place me on the pinnacle of my fondest hopes, you must give me some definite idea of your pecuniary position. I am not mercenary, Heaven knows; but business is business, and I confess I should like a little definite information about the settlements.
Bel.I often think that it is deeply to be deplored that these grovelling questions of money should alloy the tenderest and most hallowed sentiments that inspire our imperfect natures.
Miss T.It is unfortunate, no doubt, but at the same time it is absolutely necessary.
Bel.Belinda, I will be frank with you. My income is £1000 a year, which I hold on certain conditions. You know my friend Cheviot Hill, who is travelling to London in the same train with us, but in the third class?
Miss T.I believe I know the man you mean.
Bel.Cheviot, who is a young man of large property, but extremely close-fisted, is cursed with a strangely amatory disposition, as you will admit when I tell you that he has contracted a habit of proposing marriage, as a matter of course, to every woman he meets. His haughty father (who comes of a very old family—the Cheviot Hills had settled in this part of the world centuries before the Conquest) is compelled by his health to reside in Madeira. Knowing that I exercise an all but supernatural influence over his son, and fearing that his affectionate disposition would lead him to contract an undesirable marriage, the old gentleman allows me £1000 a year so long as Cheviot shall live single, but at his death or marriage the money goes over to Cheviot’s uncle Symperson, who is now travelling to town with him.
Miss T.Then so long as your influence over him lasts, so long only will you retain your income?
Bel.That is, I am sorry to say, the state of the case.
Miss T.(after a pause). Belvawney, I love you with an imperishable ardour which mocks the power of words. If I were to begin to tell you now of the force of my indomitable passion for you, the tomb would close over me before I could exhaust the entrancing subject. But, as I said before, business is business, and unless I can see some distinct probability that your income will be permanent, I shall have no alternative but to weep my heart out in all the anguish of maiden solitude—uncared for, unloved, and alone!
[ExitMiss Treherneinto cottage.
Bel.There goes a noble-hearted girl, indeed! Oh, for the gift of Cheviot’s airy badinage—oh, for his skill in weaving a net about the hearts of women! If I could but induce her to marry me at once before the dreadful Major learns our flight! Why not? We are in Scotland. Methinks I’ve heard two loving hearts can wed, in this strange country, by merely making declaration to that effect. I will think out some cunning scheme to lure her into marriage unawares.
EnterMaggie, from cottage.
Mag.Will ye walk in and rest a wee, Maister Belvawney? There’s a room ready for ye, kind sir, and ye’re heartily welcome to it.
Bel.It is well. Stop! Come hither, maiden.
Mag.Oh, sir! you do not mean any harm towards a puir, innocent, unprotected cottage lassie?
Bel.Harm! No: of course, I don’t. What do you mean?
Mag.I’m but a puir, humble mountain girl; but let me tell you, sir, that my character’s just as dear to me as the richest and proudest lady’s in the land. Before I consent to approach ye, swear to me that you mean me no harm.
Bel.Harm? Of course, I don’t. Don’t be a little fool! Come here.
Mag.There is something in his manner that reassures me. It is not that of the airy trifler with innocent hairts. (Aloud.) What wad ye wi’ puir, harmless Maggie Macfarlane, gude sir?
Bel.Can you tell me what constitutes a Scotch marriage?
Mag.Oh, sir, it’s nae use asking me that; for my hairt is not my ain to give. I’m betrothed to the best and noblest lad in a’ the bonnie Borderland. Oh, sir, I canna be your bride!
Bel.My girl, you mistake. I do not want you for my bride. Can’t you answer a simple question? What constitutes a Scotch marriage?
Mag.Ye’ve just to say before twa witnesses, “Maggie Macfarlane is my wife;” and I’ve just to say, “Maister Belvawney is my husband,” and nae mon can set us asunder. But, sir, I canna be your bride; for I am betrothed to the best and noblest——
Bel.I congratulate you. You can go.
Mag.Yes, sir.
[ExitMaggieinto cottage.
Bel.It is a simple process; simple, but yet how beautiful! One thing is certain—Cheviot may marry any day, despite myprecautions, and then I shall be penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be penniless. Belinda has £500 a year; it is not much, but it would, at least, save me from starvation.
[ExitBelvawney.
EnterSympersonandCheviot Hillover bridge. They both show signs of damage—their hats are beaten in and their clothes disordered through the accident.
Sym.Well, here we are at last——
Ch.Yes; here we are at last, and a pretty state I’m in, to be sure.
Sym.My dear nephew, you would travel third class, and this is the consequence. After all, there’s not much harm done.
Ch.Not much harm? What d’ye call that? (Showing his hat.) Ten and ninepence at one operation! My gloves split—one and four! My coat ruined—eighteen and six! It’s a coarse and brutal nature that recognizes no harm that don’t involve loss of blood. I’m reduced by this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human being, to a moral pulp—a mash—a poultice. Damme, sir, that’s what I am! I’m a poultice!
Sym.Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the accident you were speaking to me on a very interesting subject.
Ch.Was I? I forget what it was. The accident has knocked it clean out of my head.
Sym.You were saying that you were a man of good position and fortune; that you derived £2000 a year from your bank; that you thought it was time you settled. You then reminded me that I should come into Belvawney’s £1000 a year on your marriage, and I’m not sure, but I rather think you mentioned, casually, that my daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light.
Ch.True, and just then we went off the line. To resume—Uncle Symperson, your daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light, a perfect being, as innocent as a new-laid egg.
Sym.Minnie is, indeed, all that you have described her.
Ch.Uncle, I’m a man of few words. I feel and I speak. I love that girl, madly, passionately, irresistibly. She is my whole life, my whole soul and body, my Past, my Present, and my To Come. I have thought for none but her; she fills my mind, sleeping and waking; she is the essence of every hope—the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my own To Come!
Sym.(who has sunk overpowered on to stool during this speech). Cheviot, my dear boy, excuse a father’s tears. I won’t beat about the bush. You have anticipated my devoutest wish. Cheviot, my dear boy, take her, she is yours!
Ch.I have often heard of rapture, but I never knew what it was till now. Uncle Symperson, bearing in mind the fact that your income will date from the day of the wedding, when may this be?
Sym.My boy, the sooner the better! Delicacy would prompt me to give Belvawney a reasonable notice of the impending loss of his income, but should I, for such a mere selfish reason as that, rob my child of one hour of the happiness that you are about to confer upon her? No! Duty to my child is paramount!
Ch.On one condition, however, I must insist. This must be kept from Belvawney’s knowledge. You know the strange, mysterious influence that his dreadful eyes exercise over me.
Sym.I have remarked it with astonishment.
Ch.They are much inflamed just now, and he has to wear green spectacles. While this lasts I am a free agent, but under treatment they may recover. In that case, if he knew that I contemplated matrimony, he would use them to prevent my doing so—and I cannot resist them—I cannot resist them! Therefore, I say, until I am safely and securely tied up, Belvawney must know nothing about it.
Sym.Trust me, Cheviot, he shall know nothing about it fromme. (Aside.) A thousand a year! I have endeavoured, but in vain, to woo Fortune for fifty-six years, but she smiles upon me at last!—she smiles upon me at last!
[ExitSympersoninto cottage.
Ch.At length my hopes are to be crowned! Oh, my own—my own—the hope of my heart—my love—my life!
EnterBelvawney, who has overheard these words.
Bel.Cheviot! Whom are you apostrophizing in those terms? You’ve been at it again, I see!
Ch.Belvawney, that apostrophe was private; I decline to admit you to my confidence.
Bel.Cheviot, what is the reason of this strange tone of defiance? A week ago I had but to express a wish, to have it obeyed as a matter of course.
Ch.Belvawney, it may not be denied that there was a time when, owing to the remarkable influence exercised over me byyour extraordinary eyes, you could do with me as you would. It would be affectation to deny it; your eyes withered my will; they paralyzed my volition. They were strange and lurid eyes, and I bowed to them. Those eyes were my Fate—my Destiny—my unerring Must—my inevitable Shall. That time has gone—for ever!
Bel.Alas for the days that are past and the good that came and went with them!
Ch.Weep for them if you will. I cannot weep with you, for I loved them not. But, as you say, they are past. The light that lit up those eyes is extinct—their fire has died out—their soul has fled. They are no longer eyes, they are poached eggs. I have not yet sunk so low as to be the slave of two poached eggs.
Bel.Have mercy. If any girl has succeeded in enslaving you—and I know how easily you are enslaved—dismiss her from your thoughts; have no more to say to her; and I will—yes, I will bless you with my latest breath!
Ch.Whether a blessing conferred with one’s latest breath is a superior article to one conferred in robust health we need not stop to inquire. I decline, as I said before, to admit you to my confidence on any terms whatever. Begone! (ExitBelvawney.) Dismiss from my thoughts the only woman I ever loved! Have no more to say to the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing! No, Belvawney, I cannot cut off my tree as if it were gas or water. I do not treat women like that. Some men do, but I don’t. I am not that sort of man. I respect women; I love women. They are good; they are pure; they are beautiful; at least, many of them are.
EnterMaggiefrom cottage: he is much fascinated.
This one, for example, is very beautiful indeed!
Mag.If ye’ll just walk in, sir, ye’ll find a bannock and a pan o’ parritch waitin’ for ye on the table.
Ch.This is one of the loveliest women I ever met in the whole course of my life!
Mag.(aside). What’s he glowerin’ at? (Aloud.) Oh, sir, ye mean no harm to the poor Lowland lassie?
Ch.Pardon me; it’s very foolish. I can’t account for it—but I am arrested, fascinated.
Mag.Oh, gude sir, what’s fascinated ye?
Ch.I don’t know; there is something about you that exercises a most remarkable influence over me; it seems toweave a kind of enchantment around me. I can’t think what it is. You are a good girl, I am sure. None but a good girl could so powerfully affect me. Youarea good girl, are you not?
Mag.I am a varra gude girl indeed, sir.
Ch.I was quite sure of it. (Gets his arm round her waist.)
Mag.I am a much better girl than nineteen out of twenty in these pairts. And they are all gude girls too.
Ch.My darling! (Kisses her.)
Mag.Oh, kind sir, what’s that for?
Ch.It is your reward for being a good girl.
Mag.Oh, sir, I did na look for sic a recompense; you are varra varra kind to puir little Maggie Macfarlane.
Ch.I cannot think what it is about you that fascinates me so remarkably.
Mag.Maybe it’s my beauty.
Ch.Maybe it is. It is quite possible that it may be, as you say, your beauty.
Mag.I am remarkably pretty, and I’ve a varra neat figure.
Ch.There is a natural modesty in this guileless appreciation of your own perfection that is, to me, infinitely more charming than the affected ignorance of an artificial town-bred beauty.
Mag.Oh, sir, can I close my een to the picture that my looking-glass holds up to me twenty times a day? We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair; we see the silver moon sailing in the braw blue heavens, and we say that she is bright; we see the brawling stream purling over the smooth stanes i’ the burn, and we say that it is beautiful; and shall we close our een to the fairest of nature’s works—a pure and beautiful woman? Why, sir, it wad just be base ingratitude! No, it’s best to tell the truth about a’ things: I am a varra, varra, beautiful girl!
Ch.Maggie Macfarlane, I’m a plain, blunt, straightforward man, and I come quickly to the point. I see more to love in you than I ever saw in any woman in all my life before. I have a large income, which I do not spend recklessly. I love you passionately; you are the essence of every hope; you are the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my Past, my Present, my Future—you are my own To Come. Tell me, will you be mine—will you join your life with mine?
EnterAngus, who listens.
Mag.Ah, kind sir, I’m sairly grieved to wound sae true and tender a love as yours, but ye’re ower late, my love is nae myain to give ye, it’s given ower to the best and bravest lad in a’ the bonnie Borderland!
Ch.Give me his address that I may go and curse him!
Mag.(kneels toHill). Ah, ye must not curse him. Oh, spare him, spare him, for he is good and brave, and he loves me, oh, sae dearly, and I love him, oh, sae dearly too. Oh, sir, kind sir, have mercy on him, and do not—do not curse him, or I shall die! (Throwing herself at his feet.)
Ch.Will you, or will you not, oblige me by telling me where he is, that I may at once go and curse him?
Ang.(coming forward). He is here, sir, but dinna waste your curses on me. Maggie, my bairn (raising her), I heard the answer ye gave to this man, my true and gentle lassie! Ye spake well and bravely, Meg—well and bravely! Dinna heed the water in my e’e—it’s a tear of joy and gratitude, Meg—a tear of joy and gratitude!
Ch.(touched). Poor fellow! I willnotcurse him! (Aloud.) Young man, I respect your honest emotion. I don’t want to distress you, but I cannot help loving this most charming girl. Come, is it reasonable to quarrel with a man because he’s of the same way of thinking as yourself?
Ang.Nay, sir, I’m nae fasht, but it just seems to drive a’ the bluid back into my hairt when I think that my Meg is loved by anither! Oh, sir, she’s a fair and winsome lassie, and I micht as justly be angry wi’ ye for loving the blue heavens! She’s just as far above us as they are! (Wiping his eyes and kissing her.)
Ch.(with decision). Pardon me, I cannot allow that.
Ang.Eh?
Ch.I love that girl madly—passionately—and I cannot possibly allow you to do that—not before my eyes, I beg. You simply torture me.
Mag.(toAng.). Leave, off, dear, till the puir gentleman’s gone, and then ye can begin again.
Ch.Angus, listen to me. You love this girl?
Ang.I love her, sir, a’most as weel as I love mysel’!
Ch.Then reflect how you are standing in the way of her prosperity. I am a rich man. I have money, position, and education. I am a much more intellectual and generally agreeable companion for her than you can ever hope to be. I am full of anecdote, and all my anecdotes are in the best possible taste. I will tell you some of them some of these days, and you can judge for yourself. Maggie, if she married me, would live in a nice house in a good square. She would have wine—occasionally. She would be kept beautifully clean. Now, if you really love this girl almost as well as you love yourself, are you doing wisely or kindly in standing in the way of her getting all these good things? As to compensation—why, I’ve had heavy expenses of late—but if—yes, if thirty shillings——
Ang.(hotly). Sir, I’m puir in pocket, but I’ve a rich hairt. It is rich in a pure and overflowing love, and he that hath love hath all. You canna ken what true love is, or you wadna dare to insult a puir but honest lad by offering to buy his treasure for money. (Cheviotretires up.)
Mag.My ain true darling! (They embrace.)
Ch.Now, I’ll not have it! Understand me, I’ll not have it. It’s simple agony to me. Angus, I respect your indignation, but you are too hasty. I do not offer to buy your treasure for money. You love her; it will naturally cause you pain to part with her, and I prescribe thirty shillings, not as a cure, but as a temporary solace. If thirty shillings is not enough, why, I don’t mind making it two pounds.
Ang.Nae, sir, it’s useless, and we ken it weel, do we not, my brave lassie? Our hearts are one as our bodies will be some day; and the man is na born, and the gold is na coined, that can set us twain asunder!
Mag.Angus, dear, I’m varra proud o’ sae staunch and true a love; it’s like your ain true self, an’ I can say nae more for it than that. But dinna act wi’out prudence and forethought, dear. In these hard times twa pound is twa pound, and I’m nae sure that ye’re acting richtly in refusing sae large a sum. I love you varra dearly—ye ken that right weel—an’ if ye’ll be troubled wi’ sic a poor little mousie I’ll mak’ ye a true an’ loving wife, but I doubt whether, wi’ a’ my love, I’ll ever be worth as much to ye as twa pound. Dinna act in haste, dear; tak’ time to think before ye refuse this kind gentleman’s offer.
Ang.Oh, sir, is not this rare modesty? Could ye match it amang your toun-bred fine ladies? I think not! Meg, it shall be as you say. I’ll tak’ the siller, but it’ll be wi’ a sair and broken hairt! (CheviotgivesAngusmoney.) Fare thee weel, my love—my childhood’s—boyhood’s—manhood’s love! Ye’re ganging fra my hairt to anither, who’ll gie thee mair o’ the gude things o’ this world than I could ever gie ’ee, except love, an’ o’ that my hairt is full indeed! But it’s a’ for the best; ye’ll be happier wi’ him—and twa pound is twa pound. Meg, mak’ him a gude wife, be true to him, and love him as ye loved me. Oh, Meg, my poor bruised hairt is well nigh like to break!
[Exit into cottage, in great agony.
Mag.(looking wistfully after him). Puir laddie, puir laddie! Oh, I did na ken till noo how weel he loved me!
Ch.Maggie, I’m almost sorry I—poor lad, poor fellow! He has a generous heart. I am glad I did not curse him. (Aside.) This is weakness! (Aloud.) Maggie my own—ever and for always my own, we will be very happy, will we not?
Mag.Oh, sir, I dinna ken, but in truth I hope so. Oh, sir, my happiness is in your hands noo; be kind to the puir cottage lassie who loves ye sae weel; my hairt is a’ your ain, and if ye forsake me my lot will be a sair one indeed!
[Exit, weeping, into cottage.
Ch.Poor little Lowland lassie! That’s my idea of a wife. No ridiculous extravagance; no expensive tastes. Knows how to dress like a lady on £5 a year; ah, and does it too! No pretence there of being blind to her own beauties; she knows that she is beautiful, and scorns to lie about it. In that respect she resembles Symperson’s dear daughter, Minnie. My darling Minnie. (Looks at miniature.) My own darling Minnie. Minnie is fair, Maggie is dark. Maggie loves me! That excellent and perfect country creature loves me! She is to be the light of my life, my own to come! In some respects she is even prettier than Minnie—my darling Minnie, Symperson’s dear daughter, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing; my Past, my Present, and my Future, my own To Come! But this tendency to reverie is growing on me; I must shake it off.
EnterMiss Treherne.
Heaven and earth, what a singularly lovely girl!
Miss T.A stranger! Pardon me, I will withdraw!—
Ch.A stranger indeed, in one sense, inasmuch as he never had the happiness of meeting you before—but, in that he has a heart that can sympathize with another’s misfortune, he trusts he may claim to be regarded almost as a friend.
Miss T.May I ask, sir, to what misfortunes you allude?
Ch.I—a—do not know their precise nature, but that perception would indeed be dull, and that heart would be indeed flinty, that did not at once perceive that you are very very unhappy. Accept, madam, my deepest and most respectful sympathy.
Miss T.You have guessed rightly, sir! I am indeed a most unhappy woman.
Ch.I am delighted to hear it—a—I mean I feel a pleasure, a melancholy and chastened pleasure, in reflecting that, if your distress is not of a pecuniary nature, it may perchance lay in my power to alleviate your sorrow.
Miss T.Impossible, sir, though I thank you for your respectful sympathy.
Ch.How many women would forego twenty years of their lives to be as beautiful as yourself, little dreaming that extraordinary loveliness can co-exist with the most poignant anguish of mind! But so, too often, we find it, do we not, dear lady?
Miss T.Sir! this tone of address, from a complete stranger!
Ch.Nay, be not unreasonably severe upon an impassionable and impulsive man, whose tongue is but the too faithful herald of his heart. We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair, we see the bonnie brooks purling over the smooth stanes—I should say stones—in the burn, and we say that it is beautiful, and shall we close our eyes to the fairest of nature’s works, a pure and beautiful woman? Why, it would be base ingratitude, indeed!
Miss T.I cannot deny that there is much truth in the sentiments you so beautifully express, but I am, unhappily, too well aware that, whatever advantages I may possess, personal beauty is not among their number.
Ch.How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensibility to your own singular loveliness! How infinitely more winning than the bold-faced self-appreciation of under-bred country girls!
Miss T.I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with my modesty. It has often been admired.
Ch.Pleased! I am more than pleased—that’s a very weak word. I am enchanted. Madam, I am a man of quick impulse and energetic action. I feel and I speak—I cannot help it. Madam, be not surprised when I tell you that I cannot resist the conviction that you are the light of my future life, the essence of every hope, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my Past, my Present, my Future, my own To Come! Do not extinguish that light, do not disperse that essence, do not blight that tree! I am well off; I’m a bachelor; I’m thirty-two; and I love you, madam, humbly, truly, trustfully, patiently. Paralyzed with admiration, I wait anxiously, and yet hopefully, for your reply.
Miss T.Sir, that heart would indeed be cold that did not feel grateful for so much earnest, single-hearted devotion. I am deeply grieved to have to say one word to cause pain to one who expresses himself in such well-chosen terms of respectful esteem; but, alas! I have already yielded up my heart to one who, if I mistake not, is a dear personal friend of your own.
Ch.Am I to understand that you are the young lady of property whom Belvawney hopes to marry?
Miss T.I am! indeed, that unhappy woman!
Ch.And is it possible that you love him?
Miss T.With a rapture that thrills every fibre of my heart—with a devotion that enthralls my very soul! But there’s some difficulty about his settlements.
Ch.A difficulty! I should think there was. Why, on my marrying, his entire income goes over to Symperson! I could reduce him to penury to-morrow. As it happens, Iamengaged, I recollect, to Symperson’s daughter; and if Belvawney dares to interpose between you and me, by George, I’ll do it!
Miss T.Oh, spare him, sir! You say that you love me? Then, for my sake, remain single for ever—it is all I ask, it is not much. Promise me that you will never, never marry, and we will both bless you with our latest breath!
Ch.There seems to be a special importance attached to a blessing conferred with one’s latest breath that I entirely fail to grasp. It seems to me to convey no definite advantage of any kind whatever.
Miss T.Cruel, cruel man!
EnterBelvawney, in great alarm.
Bel.We are lost!—we are lost!
Miss T.What do you mean?
Ch.Who has lost you?
Bel.Major McGillicuddy discovered your flight, and followed in the next train. The line is blocked through our accident, and his train has pulled up within a few yards of our own. He is now making his way to this very cottage! What do you say to that?
Miss T.I agree with you, we are lost!
Ch.I disagree with you; I should say you are found.
Bel.This man is a reckless fire-eater; he is jealous of me. He will assuredly shoot us both if he sees us here together. I am no coward—but—I confess I am uneasy.
Miss T.(toCheviot). Oh, sir, you have a ready wit; help us out of this difficulty, and we will both bless you——
Bel.With our latest breath!
Ch.That decides me. Madam, remain here with me. Belvawney, withdraw. (Belvawneyretires.) I will deal with this maniac alone. All I ask is, that if I find it necessary to make a statement that is not consistent with strict truth, you, madam, will unhesitatingly endorse it?
Miss T.I will stake my very existence on its veracity, whatever it may be.
Ch.Good. He is at hand. Belvawney, go. [ExitBelvawney.
Now, madam, repose upon my shoulders, place your arms around me so—is that comfortable?
Miss T.It is luxurious.
Ch.Good.
Miss T.You are sure it does not inconvenience you?
Ch.Not at all. Go back, I like it. Now we are ready for him.
EnterMcGillicuddywith two friends dressed as for a wedding, with white favours.McGillicuddyhas pistols. All greatly excited.
McG.Where is the villain? I’ll swear he is concealed somewhere. Search every tree, every bush, every geranium. Ha! they are here. Perjured woman! I’ve found you at last.
Miss T.(toCheviot). Save me!
[Belvawneyappears at back, listening.
McG.Who is the unsightly scoundrel with whom you have flown—the unpleasant-looking scamp whom you have dared to prefer to me? Uncurl yourself from around the plain villain at once, unless you would share his fate.
[MaggieandAngusappear from cottage.
Miss T.Major, spare him!
Ch.Now, sir, perhaps you will be so good as to explain who the deuce you are, and what you want with this lady?
McG.I don’t know who you may be, but I’m McGillicuddy. I am betrothed to this lady; we were to have been married this morning. I waited for her at the church from ten till four, then I began to get impatient.
Ch.I really think you must be labouring under some delusion.
McG.Delusion? Ha! ha! (Two friends produce large wedding cake.) Here’s the cake!
Ch.Still I think there’s a mistake somewhere. This lady is my wife.
McG.What! Belinda! oh, Belinda! Tell me that this unattractive man lies; tell me that you are mine and only mine, now and for ever!
Miss T.I cannot say that. This gentleman is my husband!
[McGillicuddyfalls sobbing on seat;Belvawneytears his hair in despair;Maggiesobs onAngus’sshoulder.
ACT II.Scene.—Double Drawing-room in Symperson’s House. Indications that a wedding is about to take place. A plate of tarts and a bottle of wine on table.EnterMinnie Symperson, in wedding dress, followed byParker, her maid, holding her train.Min.Take care, Parker—that’s right. There! How do I look?Par.Beautiful, miss; quite beautiful.Min.(earnestly). Oh, Parker, am I really beautiful? Really,reallybeautiful, you know?Par.Oh, miss, there’s no question about it. Oh, I do so hope you and Mr. Cheviot Hill will be happy.Min.Oh, I’m sure we shall, Parker. He has often told me that I am the tree upon which the fruit of his heart is growing; and one couldn’t wish to be more thanthat. And he tells me that his greatest happiness is to see me happy. So it will be my duty—myduty, Parker—to devote my life, my whole life, to making myself as happy as I possibly can.EnterSymperson, dressed for wedding.Sym.So, my little lamb is ready for the sacrifice. You can go, Parker. And I am to lose my pet at last; my little dickey-bird is to be married to-day! Well, well, it’s for her good. I must try and bear it—I must try and bear it.Min.And as my dear old papa comes into £1000 a year by it, I hope he won’t allow it to distress him too much. He must try and bear up. He mustn’t fret.Sym.My child, I will not deny that £1000 a year is a consolation. It’s quite a fortune. I hardly know what I shall do with it.Min.I think, dear papa, you will spend a good deal of it on brandy, and a good deal more on billiards, and a good deal more on betting.Sym.It may be so: I don’t say it won’t. We shall see, Minnie, we shall see. These simple pleasures would certainlytend to soothe your poor old father’s declining years. And my darling has not done badly either, has she?Min.No, dear papa; only fancy! Cheviot has £2000 a year from shares in the Royal Indestructible Bank.Sym.And don’t spend £200. By-the-bye, I’m sorry that my little bird has not contrived to induce him to settle anything on her; that, I think, was remiss in my tom-tit.Min.Dear papa, Cheviot is the very soul of honour; he’s a fine, noble, manly, spirited fellow, but if hehasa fault, it is that he is very, oh very,verystingy. He would rather lose his heart’s blood than part with a shilling unnecessarily. He’s a noble fellow, but he’s like that.Sym.Still I can’t help feeling that if my robin had worked him judiciously——Min.Papa, dear, Cheviot is an all but perfect character, the very type of knightly chivalry; but hehasfaults, and among other things he’s one of the worst tempered men I ever met in all my little life. Poor, simple, little Minnie, thought the matter over very carefully in her silly childish way, and she came to the conclusion, in her foolish little noddle, that, on the whole, perhaps she could work it better after marriage, than before.Sym.Well, well, perhaps my wren is right. (Rises.)Min.Don’t laugh at my silly little thoughts, dear papa, when I say I’m sure she is.Sym.Minnie, my dear daughter, take a father’s advice, the last he will ever be entitled to give you. If you would be truly happy in the married state, be sure you have your own way in everything. Brook no contradictions. Never yield to outside pressure. Give in to no argument. Admit no appeal. However wrong you may be, maintain a firm, resolute, and determined front. These were your angel mother’s principles through life, and she was a happy woman indeed. I neglected those principles, and while she lived I was a miserable wretch.Min.Papa dear, I have thought over the matter very carefully in my little baby-noddle, and I have come to the conclusion—don’t laugh at me, dear papa—that it is my duty—myduty—to fall in with Cheviot’s views in everythingbeforemarriage, and Cheviot’s duty to fall into my views in everythingaftermarriage. I think that is only fair, don’t you?Sym.Yes, I dare say it will come to that.Min.Don’t think me a very silly little goose when I say I’m sure it will. Quite, quite sure, dear papa. Quite.[ExitMinnie.Sym.Dear child—dear child! I sometimes fancy I can see traces of her angel mother’s disposition in her. Yes, I think—Ithinkshe will be happy. But, poor Cheviot! Oh, lor, poor Cheviot! Dear me, it won’t bear thinking of!EnterMiss Treherne, unobserved. She is dressed in stately and funereal black.Miss T.Come here, man-servant. Approach. I’m not going to bite you. Can I see the fair young thing they call Minnie Symperson?Sym.Well really, I can hardly say. There’s nothing wrong, I hope?Miss T.Nothing wrong? Oh, thoughtless, frivolous, light-hearted creature! Oh, reckless old butterfly! Nothing wrong! You’ve eyes in your head, a nose on your face, ears on each side of it, a brain of some sort in your skull, haven’t you, butler?Sym.Undoubtedly, but I beg to observe I’m not the——Miss T.Have you or have you not the gift of simple apprehension? Can you or can you not draw conclusions? Go to, go to, you offend me.Sym.(aside). Thereissomething wrong, and it’shere(touching his forehead). I’ll tell her you’re here. Whom shall I say?Miss T.Say that one on whose devoted head the black sorrows of a long lifetime have fallen, even as a funeral pall, craves a minute’s interview with a dear old friend. Do you think you can recollect that message, butler?Sym.I’ll try, but I beg, Ibegto observe, I’m not the butler. (Aside.) This is a most surprising young person![Exit.Miss T.At last I’m in my darling’s home, the home of the bright blythe carolling thing that lit, as with a ray of heaven’s sunlight, the murky gloom of my miserable school-days. But what do I see? Tarts? Ginger wine? There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas, I am out of place here. What have I in common with tarts? Oh, I am ill-attuned to scenes of revelry! (Takes a tart and eats it.)EnterMinnie.Min.Belinda! (They rush to each other’s arms.)Miss T.Minnie! My own long-lost lamb! This is the first gleam of joy that has lighted my darksome course this manyand many a day! And in spite of the change that time and misery have brought upon me, you knew me at once! (Eating the tart all this time.)Min.Oh, I felt sure it was you, from the message.Miss T.How wondrously fair you have grown! And this dress! Why, it is surely a bridal dress! Those tarts—that wine! Surely this is not your wedding-day?Min.Yes, dear, I shall be married in half an hour.Miss T.Oh, strange chance! Oh, unheard-of coincidence! Married! And to whom?Min.Oh, to the dearest love—My cousin, Mr. Cheviot Hill. Perhaps you know the name?Miss T.I have heard of the Cheviot Hills, somewhere. Happy—strangely happy girl! You, at least, know your husband’s name.Min.Oh yes, it’s on all his pocket-handkerchiefs.Miss T.It is much to know. I do not know mine.Min.Have you forgotten it?Miss T.No; I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. It may not be unfathomed. It is buried in the fathomless gulf of the Eternal Past. There let it lie.Min.Oh, tell me all about it, dear.Miss T.It is a lurid tale. Three months since I fled from a hated one, who was to have married me. He pursued me. I confided my distress to a young and wealthy stranger. Acting on his advice, I declared myself to be his wife; he declared himself to be my husband. We were parted immediately afterwards, and we have never met since. But this took place in Scotland; and by the law of that remarkable country we are man and wife, though I didn’t know it at the time.Min.What fun!Miss T.Fun! Say, rather, horror—distraction—chaos! I am rent with conflicting doubts! Perhaps he was already married; in that case, I am a bigamist. Maybe he is dead; in that case, I am a widow. Maybe he is alive; in that case, I am a wife. What am I? Am I single? Am I married? Am I a widow? Can I marry? Have I married? May I marry? Who am I? Where am I? What am I?—What is my name? What is my condition in life? If I am married, to whom am I married? If I am a widow, how came I to be a widow, and whose widow came I to be? Why am I his widow? What did he die of? Did he leave me anything? if anything, how much, and is it saddled with conditions?—Can I marry again without forfeiting it? Have I a mother-in-law?Have I a family of step-children, and if so, how many, and what are their ages, sexes, sizes, names and dispositions? These are questions that rack me night and day, and until they are settled, peace and I are not on terms!Min.Poor dear thing!Miss T.But enough of my selfish sorrows. (Goes up to table and takes a tart.Minnieis annoyed at this.) Tell me about the noble boy who is about to make you his. Has he any dross?Min.I don’t know. (Secretly removes tarts to another table close to door.) I never thought of asking—I’m such a goose But papa knows.Miss T.Have those base and servile things called settlements been satisfactorily adjusted? (Eating.)Min.I don’t know. It never occurred to me to inquire. But papa can tell you.Miss T.The same artless little soul!Min.(standing so as to conceal tarts fromBelinda). Yes, I am quite artless—quite, quite artless. But now that youarehere you will stay and see me married.Miss T.I would willingly be a witness to my darling’s joy, but this attire is, perhaps, scarcely in harmony with a scene of revelry.Min.Well, dear, you’re not a cheerful object, and that’s the truth.Miss T.And yet these charnel-house rags may serve to remind the thoughtless banquetters that they are but mortal.Min.I don’t think it will be necessary to do that, dear. Papa’s sherry will makethatquite clear to them.Miss T.Then I will hie me home, and array me in garments of less sombre hue.Min.I think it would be better, dear. Those are the very things for a funeral, but this is a wedding.Miss T.I see very little difference between them. But it shall be as you wish, though I have worn nothing but black since my miserable marriage. There is breakfast, I suppose?Min.Yes, at dear Cheviot’s house.Miss T.That is well. I shall return in time for it. Thank heaven I can still eat! (Takes a tart from table, and exit, followed byMinnie.)EnterCheviot Hill. He is dressed as for a wedding.Ch.Here I am at last—quite flurried and hot after the usual row with the cabman, just when I wanted to be particularlycalm and self-contained. I got the best of it though. Dear me, this is a great day for me—a great day. Where’s Minnie, I wonder? Arraying herself for the sacrifice, no doubt. Pouf! This is a very nervous occasion. I wonder if I’m taking a prudent step. Marriage is a very risky thing; it’s like Chancery, once in it you can’t get out of it, and the costs are enormous. There you are—fixed. Fifty years hence, if we’re both alive, there we shall both be—fixed. That’s the devil of it. It’s an unreasonably long time to be responsible for another person’s expenses. I don’t see the use of making it for as long as that. It seems greedy to take up half a century of another person’s attention. Besides—one never knows—one might come across somebody else one liked better—that uncommonly nice girl I met in Scotland, for instance. No, no, I shall be true to my Minnie—quite true. I am quite determined that nothing shall shake my constancy to Minnie.EnterParker.What a devilish pretty girl!Par.(aside). He’s a mean young man, but he ought to be good for half-a-crown to-day.Ch.Come here, my dear; a—How do I look?Par.Very nice indeed, sir.Ch.What, really?Par.Really.Ch.What, tempting, eh?Par.Very tempting indeed.Ch.Hah! The married state is an enviable state, Parker.Par.Isit, sir? I hope it may be. It depends.Ch.What do you mean by “it depends?” You’re a member of the Church of England, I trust? Then don’t you know that in saying “it depends” you are flying in the face of the marriage service? Don’t go and throw cold water on the married state, Parker. I know what you’re going to say—it’s expensive. So it is, at first, very expensive, but with economy you soon retrench that. By a beautiful provision of Nature, what’s enough for one is enough for two. This phenomenon points directly to the married state as our natural state.Par.Oh, for that matter, sir, a tigress would get on with you. You’re so liberal, so gentle, so—there’s only one word for it—dove-like.Ch.What, you’ve remarked that, eh? Ha! ha! But dove-like as I am, Parker, in some respects, yet (getting his armround her) in other respects—(aside), deuced pretty girl!—in other respects I am a man, Parker, of a strangely impetuous and headstrong nature. I don’t beat about the bush; I come quickly to the point. Shall I tell you a secret? There’s something about you, I don’t know what it is, that—in other words, you are the tree upon which—no, no, damn it, Cheviot—not to-day, not to-day.Par.What a way you have with you, sir!Ch.What, you’ve noticed that, have you? Ha! ha! yes, I have a way, no doubt; it’s been remarked before. Whenever I see a pretty girl (and you are a very pretty girl) I can’t help putting my arm like that (putting it round her waist.) Now, pleasant as this sort of thing is, and you find it pleasant, don’t you? (Parkernods.) Yes, you find it pleasant—pleasant as it is, it is decidedly wrong.Par.It is decidedly wrong in a married man.Ch.It is decidedly wrong in a married man. In a married man it’s abominable, and I shall be a married man in half an hour. So, Parker, it will become necessary to conquer this tendency, to struggle with it, and subdue it—in half an hour (getting more affectionate). Not that there’s any real harm in putting your arm round a girl’s waist. Highly respectable people do it, when they waltz.Par.Yes, sir, but then a band’s playing.Ch.True, and when a band’s playing it don’t matter, but when a band isnotplaying, why it’s dangerous, you see. You begin with this, and you go on from one thing to another, getting more and more affectionate, until you reachthisstage (kissing her). Not that there’s any real harm in kissing, either; for you see fathers and mothers, who ought to set a good example, kissing their children every day.Par.Lor, sir, kissing’s nothing; everybody does that.Ch.That is your experience, is it? It tallies with my own. Take it that I am your father, you are my daughter—or take it even that I am merely your husband, and you my wife, and it would be expected of me. (Kissing her.)Par.But I’m not your wife, sir.Ch.No, not yet, that’s very true, and, of course, makes a difference. That’s why I say I must subdue this tendency; I must struggle with it; I must conquer it—in half-an-hour.Min.(without). Parker, where’s Mr. Cheviot?Ch.There is your mistress, my dear—she’s coming. Will you excuse me? (Releasing her.) Thank you. Good day, Parker.Par.(disgusted). Not so much as a shilling; and that man’s worth thousands![ExitParker.EnterMinnie.Ch.My darling Minnie—my own, own To Come! (Kissing her.)Min.Oh, you mustn’t crush me, Cheviot, you’ll spoil my dress. How do you like it?Ch.It’s lovely. It’s a beautiful material.Min.Yes; dear papa’s been going it.Ch.Oh, but you’re indebted to me for that beautiful dress.Min.To you! Oh, thank you—thank you!Ch.Yes. I said to your papa, “Now do for once let the girl have a nice dress; be liberal; buy the very best that money will procure, you’ll never miss it.” So, thanks to me, he bought you a beauty. Seventeen and six a yard if it’s a penny. Dear me! To think that in half-an-hour this magnificent dress will bemyproperty!Min.Yes. Dear papa said that as you had offered to give the breakfast at your house, he would give me the best dress that money could procure.Ch.Yes, Ididoffer to provide the breakfast in a reckless moment; that’s so like me. It was a rash offer, but I’ve made it, and I’ve stuck to it. Oh, then, there’s the cake.Min.Oh, tell me all about the cake.Ch.It’s a very pretty cake. Very little cake is eaten at a wedding breakfast, so I’ve ordered what’s known in the trade as the three-quarter article.Min.I see; three-quarters cake, and the rest wood.Ch.No; three-quarters wood, the rest cake. Be sure, my dear, you don’t cut into the wood, for it has to be returned to the pastrycook to be filled up with cake for another occasion.Ithought at first of ordering a seven-eighths article; but one isn’t married every day—it’s only once a year—I mean it’s only now and then. So I said, “Hang the expense; let’s do the thing well.” And so it’s a three-quarters.Min.How good you are to me! We shall be very happy, shall we not?Ch.I—I hope so—yes. Ihopeso. Playfully happy, like two little kittens.Min.That will be delightful.Ch.Economically happy, like two sensible people.Min.Oh, we must be very economical.Ch.No vulgar display; no pandering to a jaded appetite. A refined and economical elegance; that is what we must aim at. A simple mutton chop, nicely broiled, for you; andtwosimple mutton chops,verynicely broiled, for me—Min.And some flowery potatoes—Ch.A loaf of nice household bread—Min.A stick of celery—Ch.And a bit of cheese, and you’ve a dinner fit for a monarch.Min.Then how shall we spend our evenings?Ch.We’ll have pleasant little fireside games. Are you fond of fireside games?Min.Oh, they’re great fun.Ch.Then we’ll play at tailoring.Min.Tailoring? I don’t think I know that game.Ch.It’s a very good game. You shall be the clever little jobbing tailor, and I’ll be the particular customer who brings his own materials to be made up. You shall take my measure, cut out the cloth (real cloth, you know), stitch it together, and try it on; and then I’ll find fault like a real customer, and you shall alter it until it fits, and when it fits beautifully that counts one to you.Min.Delightful!Ch.Then there’s another little fireside game which is great fun. We each take a bit of paper and a pencil and try who can jot down the nicest dinner for ninepence, and the next day we have it.Min.Oh, Cheviot, what a paradise you hold open to me!Ch.Yes. How’s papa?Min.He’s very well and very happy. He’s going to increase his establishment on the strength of the £1000 a year, and keep a manservant.Ch.I know. I’ve been looking after some servants for him; they’ll be here in the course of the morning. A cook, a housemaid, and a footman. I found them through an advertisement. They’re country people, and will come very cheap.Min.How kind and thoughtful you are! Oh, Cheviot, I’m a very lucky girl![ExitMinnie.Ch.Yes, I think so too, if I can only repress my tendency to think of that tall girl I met in Scotland! Cheviot, my boy, you must make an effort; you are going to be married, and the tall girl is nothing to you!EnterParker.Par.Please, sir, here’s a gentleman to see you.Ch.Oh, my solicitor, no doubt. Show him up.Par.And please, some persons have called to see you about an advertisement.Ch.Oh, Symperson’s servants. To be sure. Show up the gentleman, and tell the others to wait.[ExitParker.EnterBelvawney. He looks very miserable.Ch.Belvawney! This is unexpected. (Much confused.)Bel.Yes, Cheviot. At last we meet. Don’t, oh don’t, frown upon a heartbroken wretch.Ch.Belvawney, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I will not disguise from you that, not having seen you for three months, I was in hopes that I had got rid of you for ever.Bel.Oh, Cheviot, don’t say that, I am so unhappy. And you have it in your power to make me comfortable. Do this, and I will bless you with my latest breath!Ch.It is a tempting offer; I am not proof against it. We all have our price, and that is mine. Proceed.Bel.Miss Treherne—Belinda—whom I love so dearly, won’t have anything to say to me.Ch.It does her credit. She’s a very superior girl.Bel.It’s all through you, Cheviot. She declares that the mutual declaration you made to protect her from McGillicuddy amounts to a Scotch marriage.Ch.What!!!Bel.She declares she is your wife. She professes to love me as fondly as ever; but a stern sense of duty to you forbids her to hold any communication with me.Ch.Oh, but this is absurd, you know!Bel.Of course it is; but what’s to be done? You left with Symperson immediately after making the declaration. As soon as she found you were gone she implored me to tell her your name and address. Of course I refused, and she quitted me, telling me that she would devote her life to finding you out.Ch.But this is simple madness. I can’t have it! This day, too, of all others! If she’d claimed me last week, or even yesterday, I wouldn’t have minded, for she’s a devilish fine woman; but if she were to turn up now—! (Aloud.) Belvawney, my dear friend, tell me what to do—I’ll do anything.Bel.It seems that there’s some doubt whether this cottage, which is just on the border, is in England or Scotland. If it is in England, she has no case; if it is in Scotland, I’m afraid she has. I’ve written to the owner of the property to ascertain, and if, in the mean time, she claims you, you must absolutely decline to recognize this marriage for a moment.Ch.Not for one moment!Bel.It was a mere artifice to enable her to escape from McGillicuddy.Ch.Nothing more!Bel.It’s monstrous—perfectly monstrous—that that should constitute a marriage. It’s disgraceful—it’s abominable. Damme, Cheviot, it’s immoral.Ch.So it is—it’s immoral. That settles it inmymind. It’s immoral.Bel.You’re quite sure you’ll be resolute, Cheviot?Ch.Resolute? I should think so! Why, hang it all, man, I’m going to be married in twenty minutes to Minnie Symperson!Bel.What!Ch.(confused at having let this out). Didn’t I tell you? I believe you’re right; I didnottell you. It escaped me. Oh, yes, this is my wedding-day.Bel.Cheviot, you’re joking—you don’t mean this! Why, I shall lose £1000 a year by it, every penny I have in the world! Oh, it can’t be—it’s nonsense!Ch.What do you mean by nonsense? The married state is an honourable estate, I believe? A man is not looked upon as utterly lost to all sense of decency because he’s got married, I’m given to understand! People have been married before this, and have not been irretrievably tabooed in consequence, unless I’m grossly misinformed? Then what the dickens do you mean by saying “nonsense” when I tell you that I’m going to be married?Bel.Cheviot, be careful how you take this step. Beware how you involve an innocent and helpless girl in social destruction.Ch.What do you mean, sir?Bel.You cannot marry; you are a married man.Ch.Come, come, Belvawney, this is trifling.Bel.You are married to Miss Treherne. I was present, and can depose to the fact.Ch.Oh, you’re not serious.Bel.Never more serious in mylife.Ch.But, as you very properly said just now, it was a mere artifice—we didn’t mean anything. It would be monstrous to regard that as a marriage. Damme, Belvawney, it would be immoral!Bel.I may deplore the state of the law, but I cannot stand tamely by and see it deliberately violated before my eyes.Ch.(wildly). But, Belvawney, my dear friend, reflect; everything is prepared for my marriage, at a great expense. I love Minnie deeply, devotedly. She is the actual tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing. There’s no mistake about it. She is my own To Come. I love her madly—rapturously. (Going on his knees toBelvawney.) I have prepared a wedding breakfast at a great expense to do her honour. I have ordered four flys for the wedding party. I have taken two second-class Cook’s tourists’ tickets for Ilfracombe, Devon, Exeter, Cornwall, Westward Ho! and Bideford Bay. The whole thing has cost me some twenty or twenty-five pounds, and all this will be wasted—utterly wasted—if you interfere. Oh, Belvawney, dear Belvawney, let the recollection of our long and dear friendship operate to prevent your shipwrecking my future life. (Sobbing hysterically.)Bel.I have a duty to do. I must do it.Ch.But reflect, dear Belvawney; if I am married to Miss Treherne, you lose your income as much as if I married Minnie Symperson.Bel.No doubt, if you could prove your marriage to Miss Treherne. But you can’t—— (With melodramatic intensity.)Ch.Those eyes!Bel.You don’t know where she is—— (With fiendish exultation.)Ch.Oh, those eyes!Bel.The cottage has been pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated to Patagonia——Ch.Oh, those eyes!Bel.I’m the only witness left.Ican prove your marriage, if I like; but you can’t. Ha! ha! ha! ha! (with Satanic laugh.) It’s a most painful and unfortunate situation for you; and, believe me, dear Cheviot, you have my deepest and most respectful sympathy.[ExitBelvawney.Ch.This is appalling; simply appalling! The cup of happiness dashed from my lips just as I was about to drink a life-long draught. The ladder kicked from under my feet just as I was about to pick the fruit of my heart from the tree upon which it has been growing so long. I’m a married man! Morethan that, my honeymoon’s past, and I never knew it! Stop a moment, though. The bride can’t be found; the cottage is pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated; what proof is there that such a marriage ever took place? There’s only Belvawney, and Belvawney isn’t a proof. Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be worth something; uncorroborated, it is worthless. I’ll risk it. He can do nothing; the bride is nowhere; the cottagers are in Patagonia, and——[At this momentMrs. Macfarlane,Maggie, andAngusappear at the back. They stand bobbing and curtsying in rustic fashion toCheviot(whom they do not recognize). He stares aghast at them for a moment, then staggers back to sofa.Ch.The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that’s infernal!Mrs. Mac.Gude day, sir. We’ve just ca’d to see ye about the advertisement. (Producing paper.)Ch.I don’t know you—I don’t know you. Go away.[Cheviotburies his head in a newspaper, and pretends to read on sofa.Mag.Ah, sir, ye said that we were to ca’ on ye this day at eleven o’clock, and sae we’ve coom a’ the way fra Dumfries to see ye.Ch.I tell you I don’t know you. Go away. I’m not at all well. I’m very ill, and it’s infectious.Ang.We fear no illness, sir. This is Mistress Macfarlane, the gude auld mither, who’ll cook the brose and boil the parritch, and sit wi’ ye, and nurse ye through your illness till the sad day ye dee! (Wiping his eye.)[Cheviotpokes a hole with his finger through newspaper, and reconnoitres unobserved.Mrs. Mac.And this is Meg, my ain lass Meg!Ch.(aside). Attractive girl, very. I remember her perfectly.Mrs. Mac.And this is Angus Macalister, who’s going to marry her, and who’ll be mair than a son to me!Ang.Oh, mither, mither, dinna say it, for ye bring the tear drop to my ee; an’ it’s no canny for a strong man to be blithering and soughing like a poor weak lassie! (Wiping his eye.)[AngusandMrs. Macfarlanesit.Maggieadvances to hole in newspaper and peeps through.Mag.Oh, mither, mither! (Staggers back into Angus’s arms.)Mrs. Mac.What is it, Meg?Ang.Meg, my weel lo’ed Meg, my wee wifie that is to be, tell me what’s wrang wi’ ’ee?Mag.Oh, mither, it’s him; the noble gentleman I plighted my troth to three weary months agone! The gallant Englishman who gave Angus twa golden pound to give me up!Ang.It’s the coward Sassenach who well nigh broke our Meg’s heart!Mrs. Mac.My lass, my lass, dinna greet, maybe he’ll marry ye yet.Ch.(desperately). Here’s another! Does anybody else want to marry me? Don’t be shy. You, ma’am (toMrs. Mac.)you’rea fine woman—perhapsyouwould like to try your luck?Mag.Ah, sir! I dinna ken your name, but your bonnie face has lived in my twa een, sleeping and waking, three weary, weary months! Oh, sir, ye should na’ ha’ deceived a trusting, simple Lowland lassie. ’Twas na’ weel done—’twas na’ weel done! (Weeping on his shoulder; he puts his arm round her waist.)Ch.(softening). My good girl, what do you wish me to do? I remember you now perfectly. Ididadmire you very much—in fact, I do still; you’re a very charming girl. Let us talk this over, calmly and quietly. (Mag.moves away.) No, you needn’t go; you can stop there if you like. There, there, my dear! don’t fret. (Aside.) Sheisa very charming girl. I almost wish I—I really begin to think I—no, no! damn it, Cheviot! not to-day.Mag.Oh! mither, he told me he loved me!Ch.So I did. The fact is, when I fell in love with you—don’t go my pretty bird—I quite forgot that I was engaged. There, there! I thought at the time that you were the tree upon which the fruit of my heart was growing; but I was mistaken. Don’t go; you needn’t go on that account. It was another tree—Mag.Oh, mither, it was anither tree! (Weeping onCheviot’sshoulder.)Mrs. Mac.Angus, it was anither tree! (Weeping onAngus’sshoulder.)Ang.Dinna, mither, dinna; I canna bear it! (Weeps.)Ch.Yes, it was another tree—you can remain there for the present—in point of fact, it was growing on both trees. I don’t know how it is, but it seems to grow on a great many trees—a perfect orchard—and you are one of them, my dear. Come, come, don’t fret, you are one of them!EnterMinnieandSymperson.Min.Cheviot!Sym.What is all this?Ch.(rapidly referring to piece of paper given to him by Mrs. Macfarlane, as if going over a washerwoman’s bill.) “Twenty-four pairs socks, two shirts, thirty-seven collars, one sheet, forty-four nightshirts, twenty-two flannel waistcoats, one white tie.” Ridiculous—quite ridiculous—I won’t pay it.Min.Cheviot, who is this person who was found hanging on your neck? Say she is somebody—for instance, your sister or your aunt. Oh, Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I implore you! (The three cottagers curtsy and bow toMinnie.)Sym.Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I command you.Ch.Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t see you. These ladies are—are my washerwomen. Allow me to introduce them. They have come—they have come for their small account. (Maggie, who has been sobbing through this, throws herself hysterically on toCheviot’sbosom.) There’s a discrepancy in the items—twenty-two flannel waistcoats are ridiculous, and, in short, some washerwomen are like this when they’re contradicted—they can’t help it—it’s something in the suds: it undermines their constitution.Sym.(sternly). Cheviot, I should like to believe you, but it seems scarcely credible.Mag.Oh, sir, he’s na telling ye truly. I’m the puir Lowland lassie that he stole the hairt out of, three months ago, and promised to marry; and I love him sae weel—sae weel, and now he’s married to anither!Ch.Nothing of the kind. I—Sym.You are mistaken, and so is your mith—mother. He is not yet married to anith—nother.Mag.Why, sir, it took place before my very ain eyes, before us a’, to a beautiful lady, three months since.Min.Cheviot, say that this is not true. Say that the beautiful lady was somebody—for instance, your aunt. Oh, say she was your aunt, I implore you!Sym.(sternly). Cheviot, say she was your aunt, I command you!Ch.Minnie, Symperson, don’t believe them—it was no marriage. I don’t even know the lady’s name—I never saw her before—I’ve never seen her since. It’s ridiculous—I couldn’t have married her without knowing it—it’s out of the question!Sym.Cheviot, let’s know exactly where we are. I don’t much care whom you marry, so that you marry someone—that’s enough for me. But please be explicit, for this is business, and mustn’t be trifled with. Tell me all about it.Ch.(in despair). I cannot!EnterBelvawney.Bel.I can.Sym.Belvawney!Bel.I was present when Cheviot and a certain lady declared themselves to be man and wife. This took place in a cottage on the Border—in the presence of these worthy people.Sym.That’s enough for me. It’s a Scotch marriage! Minnie, my child, we must find you someone else. Cheviot’s married. Belvawney, I am sorry to say, I deprive you of your income.Bel.I beg your pardon, not yet.Sym.Why not?Bel.In the first place, it’s not certain whether the cottage was in England or in Scotland; in the second place, the bride can’t be found.Sym.But sheshallbe found. What is her name?Bel.That I decline to state.Sym.But you shall be made to state. I insist upon knowing the young lady’s name.EnterMiss Treherne, in a light and cheerful dress.Bel.(amazed). Belinda Treherne!Miss T.(rushing toMinnie). Minnie, my own old friend!Ch.’Tis she!Miss T.(turns and recognizesCheviot). My husband!Ch.My wife![Miss T.throws herself atCheviot’sfeet, kissing his hands rapturously.Belvawneystaggers back.Minniefaints in her father’s arms.Maggiesobs onAngus’sbreast.
Scene.—Double Drawing-room in Symperson’s House. Indications that a wedding is about to take place. A plate of tarts and a bottle of wine on table.
EnterMinnie Symperson, in wedding dress, followed byParker, her maid, holding her train.
Min.Take care, Parker—that’s right. There! How do I look?
Par.Beautiful, miss; quite beautiful.
Min.(earnestly). Oh, Parker, am I really beautiful? Really,reallybeautiful, you know?
Par.Oh, miss, there’s no question about it. Oh, I do so hope you and Mr. Cheviot Hill will be happy.
Min.Oh, I’m sure we shall, Parker. He has often told me that I am the tree upon which the fruit of his heart is growing; and one couldn’t wish to be more thanthat. And he tells me that his greatest happiness is to see me happy. So it will be my duty—myduty, Parker—to devote my life, my whole life, to making myself as happy as I possibly can.
EnterSymperson, dressed for wedding.
Sym.So, my little lamb is ready for the sacrifice. You can go, Parker. And I am to lose my pet at last; my little dickey-bird is to be married to-day! Well, well, it’s for her good. I must try and bear it—I must try and bear it.
Min.And as my dear old papa comes into £1000 a year by it, I hope he won’t allow it to distress him too much. He must try and bear up. He mustn’t fret.
Sym.My child, I will not deny that £1000 a year is a consolation. It’s quite a fortune. I hardly know what I shall do with it.
Min.I think, dear papa, you will spend a good deal of it on brandy, and a good deal more on billiards, and a good deal more on betting.
Sym.It may be so: I don’t say it won’t. We shall see, Minnie, we shall see. These simple pleasures would certainlytend to soothe your poor old father’s declining years. And my darling has not done badly either, has she?
Min.No, dear papa; only fancy! Cheviot has £2000 a year from shares in the Royal Indestructible Bank.
Sym.And don’t spend £200. By-the-bye, I’m sorry that my little bird has not contrived to induce him to settle anything on her; that, I think, was remiss in my tom-tit.
Min.Dear papa, Cheviot is the very soul of honour; he’s a fine, noble, manly, spirited fellow, but if hehasa fault, it is that he is very, oh very,verystingy. He would rather lose his heart’s blood than part with a shilling unnecessarily. He’s a noble fellow, but he’s like that.
Sym.Still I can’t help feeling that if my robin had worked him judiciously——
Min.Papa, dear, Cheviot is an all but perfect character, the very type of knightly chivalry; but hehasfaults, and among other things he’s one of the worst tempered men I ever met in all my little life. Poor, simple, little Minnie, thought the matter over very carefully in her silly childish way, and she came to the conclusion, in her foolish little noddle, that, on the whole, perhaps she could work it better after marriage, than before.
Sym.Well, well, perhaps my wren is right. (Rises.)
Min.Don’t laugh at my silly little thoughts, dear papa, when I say I’m sure she is.
Sym.Minnie, my dear daughter, take a father’s advice, the last he will ever be entitled to give you. If you would be truly happy in the married state, be sure you have your own way in everything. Brook no contradictions. Never yield to outside pressure. Give in to no argument. Admit no appeal. However wrong you may be, maintain a firm, resolute, and determined front. These were your angel mother’s principles through life, and she was a happy woman indeed. I neglected those principles, and while she lived I was a miserable wretch.
Min.Papa dear, I have thought over the matter very carefully in my little baby-noddle, and I have come to the conclusion—don’t laugh at me, dear papa—that it is my duty—myduty—to fall in with Cheviot’s views in everythingbeforemarriage, and Cheviot’s duty to fall into my views in everythingaftermarriage. I think that is only fair, don’t you?
Sym.Yes, I dare say it will come to that.
Min.Don’t think me a very silly little goose when I say I’m sure it will. Quite, quite sure, dear papa. Quite.
[ExitMinnie.
Sym.Dear child—dear child! I sometimes fancy I can see traces of her angel mother’s disposition in her. Yes, I think—Ithinkshe will be happy. But, poor Cheviot! Oh, lor, poor Cheviot! Dear me, it won’t bear thinking of!
EnterMiss Treherne, unobserved. She is dressed in stately and funereal black.
Miss T.Come here, man-servant. Approach. I’m not going to bite you. Can I see the fair young thing they call Minnie Symperson?
Sym.Well really, I can hardly say. There’s nothing wrong, I hope?
Miss T.Nothing wrong? Oh, thoughtless, frivolous, light-hearted creature! Oh, reckless old butterfly! Nothing wrong! You’ve eyes in your head, a nose on your face, ears on each side of it, a brain of some sort in your skull, haven’t you, butler?
Sym.Undoubtedly, but I beg to observe I’m not the——
Miss T.Have you or have you not the gift of simple apprehension? Can you or can you not draw conclusions? Go to, go to, you offend me.
Sym.(aside). Thereissomething wrong, and it’shere(touching his forehead). I’ll tell her you’re here. Whom shall I say?
Miss T.Say that one on whose devoted head the black sorrows of a long lifetime have fallen, even as a funeral pall, craves a minute’s interview with a dear old friend. Do you think you can recollect that message, butler?
Sym.I’ll try, but I beg, Ibegto observe, I’m not the butler. (Aside.) This is a most surprising young person!
[Exit.
Miss T.At last I’m in my darling’s home, the home of the bright blythe carolling thing that lit, as with a ray of heaven’s sunlight, the murky gloom of my miserable school-days. But what do I see? Tarts? Ginger wine? There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas, I am out of place here. What have I in common with tarts? Oh, I am ill-attuned to scenes of revelry! (Takes a tart and eats it.)
EnterMinnie.
Min.Belinda! (They rush to each other’s arms.)
Miss T.Minnie! My own long-lost lamb! This is the first gleam of joy that has lighted my darksome course this manyand many a day! And in spite of the change that time and misery have brought upon me, you knew me at once! (Eating the tart all this time.)
Min.Oh, I felt sure it was you, from the message.
Miss T.How wondrously fair you have grown! And this dress! Why, it is surely a bridal dress! Those tarts—that wine! Surely this is not your wedding-day?
Min.Yes, dear, I shall be married in half an hour.
Miss T.Oh, strange chance! Oh, unheard-of coincidence! Married! And to whom?
Min.Oh, to the dearest love—My cousin, Mr. Cheviot Hill. Perhaps you know the name?
Miss T.I have heard of the Cheviot Hills, somewhere. Happy—strangely happy girl! You, at least, know your husband’s name.
Min.Oh yes, it’s on all his pocket-handkerchiefs.
Miss T.It is much to know. I do not know mine.
Min.Have you forgotten it?
Miss T.No; I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. It may not be unfathomed. It is buried in the fathomless gulf of the Eternal Past. There let it lie.
Min.Oh, tell me all about it, dear.
Miss T.It is a lurid tale. Three months since I fled from a hated one, who was to have married me. He pursued me. I confided my distress to a young and wealthy stranger. Acting on his advice, I declared myself to be his wife; he declared himself to be my husband. We were parted immediately afterwards, and we have never met since. But this took place in Scotland; and by the law of that remarkable country we are man and wife, though I didn’t know it at the time.
Min.What fun!
Miss T.Fun! Say, rather, horror—distraction—chaos! I am rent with conflicting doubts! Perhaps he was already married; in that case, I am a bigamist. Maybe he is dead; in that case, I am a widow. Maybe he is alive; in that case, I am a wife. What am I? Am I single? Am I married? Am I a widow? Can I marry? Have I married? May I marry? Who am I? Where am I? What am I?—What is my name? What is my condition in life? If I am married, to whom am I married? If I am a widow, how came I to be a widow, and whose widow came I to be? Why am I his widow? What did he die of? Did he leave me anything? if anything, how much, and is it saddled with conditions?—Can I marry again without forfeiting it? Have I a mother-in-law?Have I a family of step-children, and if so, how many, and what are their ages, sexes, sizes, names and dispositions? These are questions that rack me night and day, and until they are settled, peace and I are not on terms!
Min.Poor dear thing!
Miss T.But enough of my selfish sorrows. (Goes up to table and takes a tart.Minnieis annoyed at this.) Tell me about the noble boy who is about to make you his. Has he any dross?
Min.I don’t know. (Secretly removes tarts to another table close to door.) I never thought of asking—I’m such a goose But papa knows.
Miss T.Have those base and servile things called settlements been satisfactorily adjusted? (Eating.)
Min.I don’t know. It never occurred to me to inquire. But papa can tell you.
Miss T.The same artless little soul!
Min.(standing so as to conceal tarts fromBelinda). Yes, I am quite artless—quite, quite artless. But now that youarehere you will stay and see me married.
Miss T.I would willingly be a witness to my darling’s joy, but this attire is, perhaps, scarcely in harmony with a scene of revelry.
Min.Well, dear, you’re not a cheerful object, and that’s the truth.
Miss T.And yet these charnel-house rags may serve to remind the thoughtless banquetters that they are but mortal.
Min.I don’t think it will be necessary to do that, dear. Papa’s sherry will makethatquite clear to them.
Miss T.Then I will hie me home, and array me in garments of less sombre hue.
Min.I think it would be better, dear. Those are the very things for a funeral, but this is a wedding.
Miss T.I see very little difference between them. But it shall be as you wish, though I have worn nothing but black since my miserable marriage. There is breakfast, I suppose?
Min.Yes, at dear Cheviot’s house.
Miss T.That is well. I shall return in time for it. Thank heaven I can still eat! (Takes a tart from table, and exit, followed byMinnie.)
EnterCheviot Hill. He is dressed as for a wedding.
Ch.Here I am at last—quite flurried and hot after the usual row with the cabman, just when I wanted to be particularlycalm and self-contained. I got the best of it though. Dear me, this is a great day for me—a great day. Where’s Minnie, I wonder? Arraying herself for the sacrifice, no doubt. Pouf! This is a very nervous occasion. I wonder if I’m taking a prudent step. Marriage is a very risky thing; it’s like Chancery, once in it you can’t get out of it, and the costs are enormous. There you are—fixed. Fifty years hence, if we’re both alive, there we shall both be—fixed. That’s the devil of it. It’s an unreasonably long time to be responsible for another person’s expenses. I don’t see the use of making it for as long as that. It seems greedy to take up half a century of another person’s attention. Besides—one never knows—one might come across somebody else one liked better—that uncommonly nice girl I met in Scotland, for instance. No, no, I shall be true to my Minnie—quite true. I am quite determined that nothing shall shake my constancy to Minnie.
EnterParker.
What a devilish pretty girl!
Par.(aside). He’s a mean young man, but he ought to be good for half-a-crown to-day.
Ch.Come here, my dear; a—How do I look?
Par.Very nice indeed, sir.
Ch.What, really?
Par.Really.
Ch.What, tempting, eh?
Par.Very tempting indeed.
Ch.Hah! The married state is an enviable state, Parker.
Par.Isit, sir? I hope it may be. It depends.
Ch.What do you mean by “it depends?” You’re a member of the Church of England, I trust? Then don’t you know that in saying “it depends” you are flying in the face of the marriage service? Don’t go and throw cold water on the married state, Parker. I know what you’re going to say—it’s expensive. So it is, at first, very expensive, but with economy you soon retrench that. By a beautiful provision of Nature, what’s enough for one is enough for two. This phenomenon points directly to the married state as our natural state.
Par.Oh, for that matter, sir, a tigress would get on with you. You’re so liberal, so gentle, so—there’s only one word for it—dove-like.
Ch.What, you’ve remarked that, eh? Ha! ha! But dove-like as I am, Parker, in some respects, yet (getting his armround her) in other respects—(aside), deuced pretty girl!—in other respects I am a man, Parker, of a strangely impetuous and headstrong nature. I don’t beat about the bush; I come quickly to the point. Shall I tell you a secret? There’s something about you, I don’t know what it is, that—in other words, you are the tree upon which—no, no, damn it, Cheviot—not to-day, not to-day.
Par.What a way you have with you, sir!
Ch.What, you’ve noticed that, have you? Ha! ha! yes, I have a way, no doubt; it’s been remarked before. Whenever I see a pretty girl (and you are a very pretty girl) I can’t help putting my arm like that (putting it round her waist.) Now, pleasant as this sort of thing is, and you find it pleasant, don’t you? (Parkernods.) Yes, you find it pleasant—pleasant as it is, it is decidedly wrong.
Par.It is decidedly wrong in a married man.
Ch.It is decidedly wrong in a married man. In a married man it’s abominable, and I shall be a married man in half an hour. So, Parker, it will become necessary to conquer this tendency, to struggle with it, and subdue it—in half an hour (getting more affectionate). Not that there’s any real harm in putting your arm round a girl’s waist. Highly respectable people do it, when they waltz.
Par.Yes, sir, but then a band’s playing.
Ch.True, and when a band’s playing it don’t matter, but when a band isnotplaying, why it’s dangerous, you see. You begin with this, and you go on from one thing to another, getting more and more affectionate, until you reachthisstage (kissing her). Not that there’s any real harm in kissing, either; for you see fathers and mothers, who ought to set a good example, kissing their children every day.
Par.Lor, sir, kissing’s nothing; everybody does that.
Ch.That is your experience, is it? It tallies with my own. Take it that I am your father, you are my daughter—or take it even that I am merely your husband, and you my wife, and it would be expected of me. (Kissing her.)
Par.But I’m not your wife, sir.
Ch.No, not yet, that’s very true, and, of course, makes a difference. That’s why I say I must subdue this tendency; I must struggle with it; I must conquer it—in half-an-hour.
Min.(without). Parker, where’s Mr. Cheviot?
Ch.There is your mistress, my dear—she’s coming. Will you excuse me? (Releasing her.) Thank you. Good day, Parker.
Par.(disgusted). Not so much as a shilling; and that man’s worth thousands!
[ExitParker.
EnterMinnie.
Ch.My darling Minnie—my own, own To Come! (Kissing her.)
Min.Oh, you mustn’t crush me, Cheviot, you’ll spoil my dress. How do you like it?
Ch.It’s lovely. It’s a beautiful material.
Min.Yes; dear papa’s been going it.
Ch.Oh, but you’re indebted to me for that beautiful dress.
Min.To you! Oh, thank you—thank you!
Ch.Yes. I said to your papa, “Now do for once let the girl have a nice dress; be liberal; buy the very best that money will procure, you’ll never miss it.” So, thanks to me, he bought you a beauty. Seventeen and six a yard if it’s a penny. Dear me! To think that in half-an-hour this magnificent dress will bemyproperty!
Min.Yes. Dear papa said that as you had offered to give the breakfast at your house, he would give me the best dress that money could procure.
Ch.Yes, Ididoffer to provide the breakfast in a reckless moment; that’s so like me. It was a rash offer, but I’ve made it, and I’ve stuck to it. Oh, then, there’s the cake.
Min.Oh, tell me all about the cake.
Ch.It’s a very pretty cake. Very little cake is eaten at a wedding breakfast, so I’ve ordered what’s known in the trade as the three-quarter article.
Min.I see; three-quarters cake, and the rest wood.
Ch.No; three-quarters wood, the rest cake. Be sure, my dear, you don’t cut into the wood, for it has to be returned to the pastrycook to be filled up with cake for another occasion.Ithought at first of ordering a seven-eighths article; but one isn’t married every day—it’s only once a year—I mean it’s only now and then. So I said, “Hang the expense; let’s do the thing well.” And so it’s a three-quarters.
Min.How good you are to me! We shall be very happy, shall we not?
Ch.I—I hope so—yes. Ihopeso. Playfully happy, like two little kittens.
Min.That will be delightful.
Ch.Economically happy, like two sensible people.
Min.Oh, we must be very economical.
Ch.No vulgar display; no pandering to a jaded appetite. A refined and economical elegance; that is what we must aim at. A simple mutton chop, nicely broiled, for you; andtwosimple mutton chops,verynicely broiled, for me—
Min.And some flowery potatoes—
Ch.A loaf of nice household bread—
Min.A stick of celery—
Ch.And a bit of cheese, and you’ve a dinner fit for a monarch.
Min.Then how shall we spend our evenings?
Ch.We’ll have pleasant little fireside games. Are you fond of fireside games?
Min.Oh, they’re great fun.
Ch.Then we’ll play at tailoring.
Min.Tailoring? I don’t think I know that game.
Ch.It’s a very good game. You shall be the clever little jobbing tailor, and I’ll be the particular customer who brings his own materials to be made up. You shall take my measure, cut out the cloth (real cloth, you know), stitch it together, and try it on; and then I’ll find fault like a real customer, and you shall alter it until it fits, and when it fits beautifully that counts one to you.
Min.Delightful!
Ch.Then there’s another little fireside game which is great fun. We each take a bit of paper and a pencil and try who can jot down the nicest dinner for ninepence, and the next day we have it.
Min.Oh, Cheviot, what a paradise you hold open to me!
Ch.Yes. How’s papa?
Min.He’s very well and very happy. He’s going to increase his establishment on the strength of the £1000 a year, and keep a manservant.
Ch.I know. I’ve been looking after some servants for him; they’ll be here in the course of the morning. A cook, a housemaid, and a footman. I found them through an advertisement. They’re country people, and will come very cheap.
Min.How kind and thoughtful you are! Oh, Cheviot, I’m a very lucky girl!
[ExitMinnie.
Ch.Yes, I think so too, if I can only repress my tendency to think of that tall girl I met in Scotland! Cheviot, my boy, you must make an effort; you are going to be married, and the tall girl is nothing to you!
EnterParker.
Par.Please, sir, here’s a gentleman to see you.
Ch.Oh, my solicitor, no doubt. Show him up.
Par.And please, some persons have called to see you about an advertisement.
Ch.Oh, Symperson’s servants. To be sure. Show up the gentleman, and tell the others to wait.
[ExitParker.
EnterBelvawney. He looks very miserable.
Ch.Belvawney! This is unexpected. (Much confused.)
Bel.Yes, Cheviot. At last we meet. Don’t, oh don’t, frown upon a heartbroken wretch.
Ch.Belvawney, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I will not disguise from you that, not having seen you for three months, I was in hopes that I had got rid of you for ever.
Bel.Oh, Cheviot, don’t say that, I am so unhappy. And you have it in your power to make me comfortable. Do this, and I will bless you with my latest breath!
Ch.It is a tempting offer; I am not proof against it. We all have our price, and that is mine. Proceed.
Bel.Miss Treherne—Belinda—whom I love so dearly, won’t have anything to say to me.
Ch.It does her credit. She’s a very superior girl.
Bel.It’s all through you, Cheviot. She declares that the mutual declaration you made to protect her from McGillicuddy amounts to a Scotch marriage.
Ch.What!!!
Bel.She declares she is your wife. She professes to love me as fondly as ever; but a stern sense of duty to you forbids her to hold any communication with me.
Ch.Oh, but this is absurd, you know!
Bel.Of course it is; but what’s to be done? You left with Symperson immediately after making the declaration. As soon as she found you were gone she implored me to tell her your name and address. Of course I refused, and she quitted me, telling me that she would devote her life to finding you out.
Ch.But this is simple madness. I can’t have it! This day, too, of all others! If she’d claimed me last week, or even yesterday, I wouldn’t have minded, for she’s a devilish fine woman; but if she were to turn up now—! (Aloud.) Belvawney, my dear friend, tell me what to do—I’ll do anything.
Bel.It seems that there’s some doubt whether this cottage, which is just on the border, is in England or Scotland. If it is in England, she has no case; if it is in Scotland, I’m afraid she has. I’ve written to the owner of the property to ascertain, and if, in the mean time, she claims you, you must absolutely decline to recognize this marriage for a moment.
Ch.Not for one moment!
Bel.It was a mere artifice to enable her to escape from McGillicuddy.
Ch.Nothing more!
Bel.It’s monstrous—perfectly monstrous—that that should constitute a marriage. It’s disgraceful—it’s abominable. Damme, Cheviot, it’s immoral.
Ch.So it is—it’s immoral. That settles it inmymind. It’s immoral.
Bel.You’re quite sure you’ll be resolute, Cheviot?
Ch.Resolute? I should think so! Why, hang it all, man, I’m going to be married in twenty minutes to Minnie Symperson!
Bel.What!
Ch.(confused at having let this out). Didn’t I tell you? I believe you’re right; I didnottell you. It escaped me. Oh, yes, this is my wedding-day.
Bel.Cheviot, you’re joking—you don’t mean this! Why, I shall lose £1000 a year by it, every penny I have in the world! Oh, it can’t be—it’s nonsense!
Ch.What do you mean by nonsense? The married state is an honourable estate, I believe? A man is not looked upon as utterly lost to all sense of decency because he’s got married, I’m given to understand! People have been married before this, and have not been irretrievably tabooed in consequence, unless I’m grossly misinformed? Then what the dickens do you mean by saying “nonsense” when I tell you that I’m going to be married?
Bel.Cheviot, be careful how you take this step. Beware how you involve an innocent and helpless girl in social destruction.
Ch.What do you mean, sir?
Bel.You cannot marry; you are a married man.
Ch.Come, come, Belvawney, this is trifling.
Bel.You are married to Miss Treherne. I was present, and can depose to the fact.
Ch.Oh, you’re not serious.
Bel.Never more serious in mylife.
Ch.But, as you very properly said just now, it was a mere artifice—we didn’t mean anything. It would be monstrous to regard that as a marriage. Damme, Belvawney, it would be immoral!
Bel.I may deplore the state of the law, but I cannot stand tamely by and see it deliberately violated before my eyes.
Ch.(wildly). But, Belvawney, my dear friend, reflect; everything is prepared for my marriage, at a great expense. I love Minnie deeply, devotedly. She is the actual tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing. There’s no mistake about it. She is my own To Come. I love her madly—rapturously. (Going on his knees toBelvawney.) I have prepared a wedding breakfast at a great expense to do her honour. I have ordered four flys for the wedding party. I have taken two second-class Cook’s tourists’ tickets for Ilfracombe, Devon, Exeter, Cornwall, Westward Ho! and Bideford Bay. The whole thing has cost me some twenty or twenty-five pounds, and all this will be wasted—utterly wasted—if you interfere. Oh, Belvawney, dear Belvawney, let the recollection of our long and dear friendship operate to prevent your shipwrecking my future life. (Sobbing hysterically.)
Bel.I have a duty to do. I must do it.
Ch.But reflect, dear Belvawney; if I am married to Miss Treherne, you lose your income as much as if I married Minnie Symperson.
Bel.No doubt, if you could prove your marriage to Miss Treherne. But you can’t—— (With melodramatic intensity.)
Ch.Those eyes!
Bel.You don’t know where she is—— (With fiendish exultation.)
Ch.Oh, those eyes!
Bel.The cottage has been pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated to Patagonia——
Ch.Oh, those eyes!
Bel.I’m the only witness left.Ican prove your marriage, if I like; but you can’t. Ha! ha! ha! ha! (with Satanic laugh.) It’s a most painful and unfortunate situation for you; and, believe me, dear Cheviot, you have my deepest and most respectful sympathy.
[ExitBelvawney.
Ch.This is appalling; simply appalling! The cup of happiness dashed from my lips just as I was about to drink a life-long draught. The ladder kicked from under my feet just as I was about to pick the fruit of my heart from the tree upon which it has been growing so long. I’m a married man! Morethan that, my honeymoon’s past, and I never knew it! Stop a moment, though. The bride can’t be found; the cottage is pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated; what proof is there that such a marriage ever took place? There’s only Belvawney, and Belvawney isn’t a proof. Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be worth something; uncorroborated, it is worthless. I’ll risk it. He can do nothing; the bride is nowhere; the cottagers are in Patagonia, and——
[At this momentMrs. Macfarlane,Maggie, andAngusappear at the back. They stand bobbing and curtsying in rustic fashion toCheviot(whom they do not recognize). He stares aghast at them for a moment, then staggers back to sofa.
Ch.The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that’s infernal!
Mrs. Mac.Gude day, sir. We’ve just ca’d to see ye about the advertisement. (Producing paper.)
Ch.I don’t know you—I don’t know you. Go away.
[Cheviotburies his head in a newspaper, and pretends to read on sofa.
Mag.Ah, sir, ye said that we were to ca’ on ye this day at eleven o’clock, and sae we’ve coom a’ the way fra Dumfries to see ye.
Ch.I tell you I don’t know you. Go away. I’m not at all well. I’m very ill, and it’s infectious.
Ang.We fear no illness, sir. This is Mistress Macfarlane, the gude auld mither, who’ll cook the brose and boil the parritch, and sit wi’ ye, and nurse ye through your illness till the sad day ye dee! (Wiping his eye.)
[Cheviotpokes a hole with his finger through newspaper, and reconnoitres unobserved.
Mrs. Mac.And this is Meg, my ain lass Meg!
Ch.(aside). Attractive girl, very. I remember her perfectly.
Mrs. Mac.And this is Angus Macalister, who’s going to marry her, and who’ll be mair than a son to me!
Ang.Oh, mither, mither, dinna say it, for ye bring the tear drop to my ee; an’ it’s no canny for a strong man to be blithering and soughing like a poor weak lassie! (Wiping his eye.)
[AngusandMrs. Macfarlanesit.Maggieadvances to hole in newspaper and peeps through.
Mag.Oh, mither, mither! (Staggers back into Angus’s arms.)
Mrs. Mac.What is it, Meg?
Ang.Meg, my weel lo’ed Meg, my wee wifie that is to be, tell me what’s wrang wi’ ’ee?
Mag.Oh, mither, it’s him; the noble gentleman I plighted my troth to three weary months agone! The gallant Englishman who gave Angus twa golden pound to give me up!
Ang.It’s the coward Sassenach who well nigh broke our Meg’s heart!
Mrs. Mac.My lass, my lass, dinna greet, maybe he’ll marry ye yet.
Ch.(desperately). Here’s another! Does anybody else want to marry me? Don’t be shy. You, ma’am (toMrs. Mac.)you’rea fine woman—perhapsyouwould like to try your luck?
Mag.Ah, sir! I dinna ken your name, but your bonnie face has lived in my twa een, sleeping and waking, three weary, weary months! Oh, sir, ye should na’ ha’ deceived a trusting, simple Lowland lassie. ’Twas na’ weel done—’twas na’ weel done! (Weeping on his shoulder; he puts his arm round her waist.)
Ch.(softening). My good girl, what do you wish me to do? I remember you now perfectly. Ididadmire you very much—in fact, I do still; you’re a very charming girl. Let us talk this over, calmly and quietly. (Mag.moves away.) No, you needn’t go; you can stop there if you like. There, there, my dear! don’t fret. (Aside.) Sheisa very charming girl. I almost wish I—I really begin to think I—no, no! damn it, Cheviot! not to-day.
Mag.Oh! mither, he told me he loved me!
Ch.So I did. The fact is, when I fell in love with you—don’t go my pretty bird—I quite forgot that I was engaged. There, there! I thought at the time that you were the tree upon which the fruit of my heart was growing; but I was mistaken. Don’t go; you needn’t go on that account. It was another tree—
Mag.Oh, mither, it was anither tree! (Weeping onCheviot’sshoulder.)
Mrs. Mac.Angus, it was anither tree! (Weeping onAngus’sshoulder.)
Ang.Dinna, mither, dinna; I canna bear it! (Weeps.)
Ch.Yes, it was another tree—you can remain there for the present—in point of fact, it was growing on both trees. I don’t know how it is, but it seems to grow on a great many trees—a perfect orchard—and you are one of them, my dear. Come, come, don’t fret, you are one of them!
EnterMinnieandSymperson.
Min.Cheviot!
Sym.What is all this?
Ch.(rapidly referring to piece of paper given to him by Mrs. Macfarlane, as if going over a washerwoman’s bill.) “Twenty-four pairs socks, two shirts, thirty-seven collars, one sheet, forty-four nightshirts, twenty-two flannel waistcoats, one white tie.” Ridiculous—quite ridiculous—I won’t pay it.
Min.Cheviot, who is this person who was found hanging on your neck? Say she is somebody—for instance, your sister or your aunt. Oh, Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I implore you! (The three cottagers curtsy and bow toMinnie.)
Sym.Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I command you.
Ch.Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t see you. These ladies are—are my washerwomen. Allow me to introduce them. They have come—they have come for their small account. (Maggie, who has been sobbing through this, throws herself hysterically on toCheviot’sbosom.) There’s a discrepancy in the items—twenty-two flannel waistcoats are ridiculous, and, in short, some washerwomen are like this when they’re contradicted—they can’t help it—it’s something in the suds: it undermines their constitution.
Sym.(sternly). Cheviot, I should like to believe you, but it seems scarcely credible.
Mag.Oh, sir, he’s na telling ye truly. I’m the puir Lowland lassie that he stole the hairt out of, three months ago, and promised to marry; and I love him sae weel—sae weel, and now he’s married to anither!
Ch.Nothing of the kind. I—
Sym.You are mistaken, and so is your mith—mother. He is not yet married to anith—nother.
Mag.Why, sir, it took place before my very ain eyes, before us a’, to a beautiful lady, three months since.
Min.Cheviot, say that this is not true. Say that the beautiful lady was somebody—for instance, your aunt. Oh, say she was your aunt, I implore you!
Sym.(sternly). Cheviot, say she was your aunt, I command you!
Ch.Minnie, Symperson, don’t believe them—it was no marriage. I don’t even know the lady’s name—I never saw her before—I’ve never seen her since. It’s ridiculous—I couldn’t have married her without knowing it—it’s out of the question!
Sym.Cheviot, let’s know exactly where we are. I don’t much care whom you marry, so that you marry someone—that’s enough for me. But please be explicit, for this is business, and mustn’t be trifled with. Tell me all about it.
Ch.(in despair). I cannot!
EnterBelvawney.
Bel.I can.
Sym.Belvawney!
Bel.I was present when Cheviot and a certain lady declared themselves to be man and wife. This took place in a cottage on the Border—in the presence of these worthy people.
Sym.That’s enough for me. It’s a Scotch marriage! Minnie, my child, we must find you someone else. Cheviot’s married. Belvawney, I am sorry to say, I deprive you of your income.
Bel.I beg your pardon, not yet.
Sym.Why not?
Bel.In the first place, it’s not certain whether the cottage was in England or in Scotland; in the second place, the bride can’t be found.
Sym.But sheshallbe found. What is her name?
Bel.That I decline to state.
Sym.But you shall be made to state. I insist upon knowing the young lady’s name.
EnterMiss Treherne, in a light and cheerful dress.
Bel.(amazed). Belinda Treherne!
Miss T.(rushing toMinnie). Minnie, my own old friend!
Ch.’Tis she!
Miss T.(turns and recognizesCheviot). My husband!
Ch.My wife!
[Miss T.throws herself atCheviot’sfeet, kissing his hands rapturously.Belvawneystaggers back.Minniefaints in her father’s arms.Maggiesobs onAngus’sbreast.