A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Stephen Archer and Other Tales

G >> George MacDonald >> Stephen Archer and Other Tales




_Bill_. Mattie, I was a fetchin' of him, but he wouldn't trust me. And
didn't he cut up crusty, and collar me tight! He's a game old cock--he
is, Mattie.

_Mat_. (_getting up and pacing about the room_). Oh, Susan! my heart'll
break. To think he's somewhere near and I can't get to him! Oh my side!
_Don't_ you know where he is, Bill?

_Bill_. He's someveres about, and blow me if I don't, find him!--a
respectable old party in a white pinny, an' 'peared as if he'd go on a
walkin' till he walked hisself up staudin'. A scrumptious old party!

_Mat_. Had he a stick, Bill?

_Bill_. Yes--a knobby stick--leastways a stick wi' knobs all over it.

_Mat_. That's him, Susan!

_Bill_. I could swear to the stick. I was too near gittin' at the taste
on it not to know it again.

_Mat_. When was it you saw him, Bill?

_Bill_. Yesterday, Mattie--jest arter you give me the tart. I sawr him
again this mornin', but he wouldn't place no confidence in me.

_Mat_. Oh dear! Why didn't you come straight to me, Bill?

_Bill_. If I'd only ha' known as you wanted him! But that was sech a
_un_likely thing! It's werry perwokin'! I uses my judgment, an' puts
my hoof in it! I _am_ sorry, Mattie. But I didn't know no better
(_crying_).

_Mat_. Don't cry, Bill. You'll find him for me yet--won't you?

_Bill_. I'm off this indentical minute. But you see--

_Sus_. There! there!--now you mizzle. _I_ don't want no fathers
here--goodness knows; but the poor girl's took a fancy to hers, and
she'll die if she don't get him. Run now--there's a good boy! (_Exit_
BILL.) You 'ain't forgotten who's a comin', Mattie?

_Mat_. No, indeed.

_Sus_. Well, I hope she'll be civil, or I'll just give her a bit of my
mind.

_Mat_. Not enough to change hers, I'm afraid. That sort of thing never
does any good.

_Sus_. And am I to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs, and sayin' _yes, ma'am_,
an' _no, ma'am_? Not if I knows it, Matilda!

_Mat_. You will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of
us.

_Sus_. An' what's that to me?

_Mat_. Well, I don't like to be thought a thief. Besides, Mrs. Clifford
has been kind to us.

_Sus_. She's paid us for work done; so has old Nathan.

_Mat_. Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took home
his slops?

_Sus_. Oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she takes it out in
kingdom-come.

_Mat_. You're unfair, Susan.

_Sus_. Well, it's little fairness I get.

_Mat_. And to set that right you're unfair yourself! What you call
speaking your mind, is as cheap, and as nasty, as the worst shoddy old
Nathan ever got gobble-stitched into coats and trousers.

_Sus_. Very well, Miss Matilda! (_rising and snatching her bonnet_). The
sooner we part the better! You stick by your fine friends! I don't care
_that_ for them! (_snapping her fingers_)--and you may tell 'em so! I
can make a livin' without them or you either. Goodness gracious knows it
ain't much of a livin' I've made sin' I come across _you_, Miss! _Exit_.

_Mat (_trying to rise_). Susan! Susan! (_Lays her head on the table_).

_A tap at the door, and enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD, _with_ JAMES _behind_.
MATTIE _rises_.

_Mrs. C._ Wait on the landing, James.

_James_. Yes, ma'am.

_Exit_ JAMES, _leaving the door a little ajar_.

_Mrs. C._ Well, Miss Pearson! (_Mattie offers a chair_.) No, thank you.
That person is still with you, I see!

_Mat_. Indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl.

_Mrs. C._ She is a low creature, and capable of anything. I advise you
to get rid of her.

_Mat_. Was she rude on the stair, ma'am?

_Mrs. C._ Rude! Vulgar--quite vulgar! Insulting!

_Mat_. I am very sorry. But, believe me, ma'am, she is an honest girl,
and never pawned that work. It was done--every stitch of it; and the
loss of the money is hard upon us too. Indeed, ma'am, she did lose the
parcel.

_Mrs. C._ You have only her word for it. If you don't give _her_ up, I
give _you_ up.

_Mat_. I can't, ma'am. She might go into bad ways if I did.

_Mrs. C._ She can't well get into worse. Her language! You would do ever
so much better without her.

_Mat_. I daren't, ma'am. I should never get it off my conscience.

_Mrs. C._ Your conscience indeed! (_rising_). I wish you a good morning,
Miss Pearson.--(_Sound of a blow, followed by scuffling_.)--What is
that? I fear I have got into an improper place.

SUSAN _bursts in_.

_Sus_. Yes, ma'am, and that you have! It's a _wery_ improper place for
the likes o' you, ma'am--as believes all sorts o' wicked things of
people as is poor. Who are you to bring your low flunkies a-listenin'
at honest girls' doors! (_Turning to James in the doorway_.) Get out,
will you? Let me catch you here again, and I'll mark you that the devil
wouldn't know his own! You dirty Paul Pry--you! (_Falls on her knees to
Mattie_.) Mattie, you angel!

_Mat_. (_trying to make her get up_) Never mind. It's all right between
you and me, Susan.

_Mrs. C._ I see! I thought as much!

_Sus_. (_starting up_) As much as what, then, my lady? Oh, _I_ know you
and your sort--well enough! We're the dirt under your feet--lucky if we
stick to your shoes! But this room's mine.

_Mrs. C._ That linen was mine, young woman, I believe.

_Sus_. An' it's for that miserable parcel you come a-talkin', an'
abusin' as no lady ought to! How dare you look that angel in the face
there an' say she stole it--which you're not fit to lace her boots for
her! There!

_Mat_. Susan! Susan! do be quiet.

_Sus_. It's all very well for the likes o' me (_courtesying
spitefully_)--which I'm no better'n I should be, and a great deal worse,
if I'm on my oath to your ladyship--that's neither here nor there!--but
_she's_ better'n a van-load o' sich ladies as you, pryin' into other
people's houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' yer flunkies!
_I_ know ye! I _do_!

_Mat_. Don't, Susan.

_Sus_. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye
good manners? I been better brought up myself.

_Mrs. C._ I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the matter
over to the police.

_Sus_. The perlice, indeed!--You get out of this, ma'am, or I'll make
you!--you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in
the face through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with
your--_insolence_--that's your word!

_Exit_ MRS. CLIFFORD.

_Mat_. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us?

_Sus_. She daren't do it--the old scrooge! But just let her try it on!
See if I don't show her up afore the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work ray
fingers to the bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let me.
I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger,
which it's as true as gospel.

_Mat_. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey.

_Sus_. There _must_ be some good people somewheres, Mattie.

_Mat_. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, Sukey.

_Sus_. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women ha' done it afore.
It's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out--and they
shouldn't me. There's ne'er a one o' the redcoats 'ill cut up rougher
'n I shall--barrin' the beard, and _that_ don't go for much now-a-days.

_Mat_. And what should I do without you, Susan?

_Sus_. Do you care to have me, then?

_Mat_. That I do, indeed. But you shouldn't have talked like that to
Mrs. Clifford. Ladies ain't used to such words. They sound worse than
they are--quite dreadful, to them. She don't know your kind heart as I
do. Besides, the _look_ of things is against us. Ain't it now? Say
yourself.

_Sus_. (_starting up_) I'll go and beg her pardon. I'll go direckly--I
will. I swear I will. I can't abear her, but I'll do it. I believe
hunger has nigh drove me mad.

_Mat_. It takes all the madness out of me.--No, Susan; we must bear it
now. Come along. We can be miserable just as well working. There's your
sleeve. I'll thread your needle for you. Don't cry--there's a dear!

_Sus_. I _will_ cry. It's all I ever could do to my own mind, and it's
all as is left me. But if I could get my claws on that lovyer o' yours,
I wouldn't cry then. He's at the bottom of it! I don't see myself what's
the use of fallin' in love. One man's as much of a fool as another to
me. But you must go to bed. You ain't fit. You'll be easier when you've
got your frock off. There! Why, child, you're all of a tremble!--And no
wonder, wi' nothing on her blessed body but her frock and her shimmy!

_Mat_. Don't take off my frock, Sue. I must get on with my work.

_Sus_. Lie down a bit, anyhow. I'll lie at your back, and you'll soon be
as warm's a toast. (MAT. _lies down_.) O Lord! she's dead! Her heart's
stopped beatin'. (_Runs out of the room_.)

_A moment of silence. A tap at the door_.

CONSTANCE _peeps in, then enters, with a basket_.

_Con_. Miss Pearson!--She's asleep. (_Goes near_.) Good heavens!
(_Lays her hand on her_.) No. (_Takes a bottle from her basket, finds
a cup, and pours into it_.) Take this, Miss Pearson; it will do you
good. There now! You'll find something else in the basket.

_Mat_. I don't want anything. I had so nearly got away! Why did you
bring me back?

_Con_. Life is good!

_Mat_. It is _not_ good. How dare you do it? Why keep a miserable
creature alive? Life ain't to us what it is to you. The grave is the
only place _we_ have any right to.

_Con_. If I could make your life worth something to you--

_Mat_. You make my life worth to me! You don't know what you're saying,
miss. (_Sitting up_.)

_Con_. I think I do.

_Mat_. I will _not_ owe my life to you. I _could_ love you, though--your
hands are so white, and your look so brave. That's what comes of being
born a lady. We never have a chance.

_Con_. Miss Pearson--Mattie, I would call you, if you wouldn't be
offended--

_Mat_. Me offended, miss!--I've not got life enough for it. I only want
my father and my mother, and a long sleep.--If I had been born rich--

_Con_. You might have been miserable all the same. Listen, Mattie. I
will tell you _my_ story--I was once as badly off as you--worse in some
ways--ran about the streets without shoes to my feet, and hardly a frock
to cover me.

_Mat_. La, miss! you don't say so! It's not possible! Look at you!

_Con_. Indeed, I tell you the truth. I know what hunger is too--well
enough. My father was a silkweaver in Spitalfields. When he died, I
didn't know where to go. But a gentleman--

_Mat_. Oh! a gentleman!--(_Fiercely_.) Why couldn't you be content with
_one_, then?

_Con_. I don't understand you.

_Mat_. I dare say not! There! take your basket. I'll die afore a morsel
passes _my_ lips. There! Go away, miss.

_Con_. (_aside_). Poor girl! she is delirious. I must ask William to
fetch a doctor. _Exit_.

_Mat_. I wish my hands were as white as hers.

_Enter_ SUSAN, _followed by_ COL. G. CONSTANCE _behind_.

_Sus_. Mattie! dear Mattie! this gentleman--don't be vexed--I couldn't
help him bein' a gentleman; I was cryin' that bad, and I didn't see no
one come up to me, and when he spoke to me, it made me jump, and I
couldn't help answerin' of him--he spoke so civil and soft like, and
me nigh mad! I thought you was dead, Mattie. He says he'll see us
righted, Mattie.

_Col. G._ I'll do what I can, if you will tell me what's amiss.

_Sus_. Oh, everything's amiss--everything!--Who was that went out,
Mattie--this minute--as we come in?

_Mat_. Miss Lacordère.

_Sus_. Her imperence! Well! I should die of shame if I was her.

_Mat_. She's an angel, Susan. There's her basket. I told her to take
it away, but she would leave it.

_Sus_. (_peeping into the basket_). Oh, my! Ain't this nice? You
_must_ have a bit, Mattie.

_Mat_. Not one mouthful. You wouldn't have me, Susan!

_Sus_. _I_ ain't so peticlar (_eating a great mouthful_). You really
must, Mattie. (_Goes on eating_.)

_Col. G._ Don't tease her. We'll get something for her presently. And
don't you eat too much--all at once.

_Sus_. I think she'd like a chop, sir.--There's that boy, Bill,
again!--Always when he ain't wanted!

_Enter_ BILL.

_Bill_ (_aside to Susan_). What's the row? What's that 'ere gent up
to? I've been an' had enough o' gents. They're a bad lot. I been too
much for one on 'em, though. I ha' run _him_ down.--And, Mattie, I've
found the old gen'leman.

_Mat_. My father, Bill?

_Bill_. That's it percisely! Right as a trivet--he is!

_Mat_. Susan! take hold of me. My heart's going again.

_Bill_. Lord! what's up wi' Mattie? She do look dreadful.

_Sus_. You been an' upset her, you clumsy boy! Here--run and fetch a
sausage or two, and a--

_Col. G._ No, no! That will never do.

_Sus_. Them's for Bill and me, sir. I was a goin' on, sir.--And, Bill,
a chop--a nice chop. But Lord! how are we to cook it, with never a
fryin'-pan, or a bit o' fire to set it on!

_Col. G._ You'd never think of doing a chop for an invalid in the
frying-pan?

_Sus_. Certainly not, sir--we 'ain't got one. Everything's up the
spout an' over the top. Run, Bill. A bit of cold chicken, and two
pints o' bottled stout. There's the money the gen'leman give me.--'T
'ain't no Miss Lackodare's, Mattie.

_Bill_. I'll trouble no gen'leman to perwide for _my_ family--obleeged
all the same, sir. Mattie never wos a dub at dewourin', but I'll get
her some'at toothsome. I favours grub myself.

_Col. G._ I'll go with you, Bill. I want to talk to you.

_Bill_. Well, I 'ain't no objection--so be you wants to talk friendly,
sir.

_Col. G._ Good night. I'll come and see you to-morrow.

_Sus_. God bless you, sir. You've saved both on our lives. I _was_ a
goin' to drown myself, Mattie--I really was this time. Wasn't I, sir?

_Col. G._ Well, you looked like it--that is all I can say. You shall
do it next time--so far as I'm concerned.

_Sus_. I won't never no more again, sir--not if Mattie don't drive me
to it.

_Con_. (_to_ COL. G.). Come back for me in a little while.

_Col. G._ Yes, miss. Come, Bill. _Exit_.

_Bill_. All right, sir. I'm a follerin', as the cat said to the
pigeon. _Exit_.

_Sus_. I'll just go and get you a cup o' tea. Mrs. Jones's kettle's
sure to be a bilin'. That's what you would like.

_Exit_. Constance steps aside, and Susan passes without seeing her_.

_Mat_. Oh! to be a baby again in my mother's arms! But it'll soon be
over now.

CONSTANCE _comes forward_.

_Con_. I hope you're a little better now?

_Mat_. You're very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon for speaking to
you as I did.

_Con_. Don't say a word about it. You didn't quite know what you were
saying. I'm in trouble myself. I don't know how soon I may be worse
off than you.

_Mat_. Why, miss, I thought you were going to be married!

_Con_. No, I am not.

_Mat_. Why, miss, what's happened. He's never going to play _you_
false--is he?

_Con_. I don't mean ever to speak to him again?

_Mat_. What has he done to offend you, miss?

_Con_. Nothing. Only I know now I don't like him. To tell you the
truth, Mattie, he's not a gentleman.

_Mat_. Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so?

_Con_. Do _you_ know anything about him? Did you ever see him?

_Mat_. Yes.

_Con_. Where?

_Mat_. Once at your house.

_Con_. Oh! I remember--that time! I begin to--It couldn't be at the
sight of him you fainted, Mattie?--You knew him? Tell me! tell me!
Make me sure of it.

_Mat_. To give you your revenge! No. It's a mean spite to say he ain't
a gentleman.

_Con_. Perhaps you and I have different ideas of what goes to make a
gentleman.

_Mat_. Very likely.

_Con_. Oh! don't be vexed, Mattie. I didn't mean to hurt you.

_Mat_. Oh! I dare say!

_Con_. If you talk to me like that, I must go.

_Mat_. I never asked you to come.

_Con_. Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I wouldn't hurt you
for the world.

_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) I beg your pardon, miss. I'm behaving
like a brute. But you must forgive me; my heart is breaking.

_Con_. Poor dear! (_kissing her_) So is mine almost. Let us be
friends. Where's Susan gone?

_Mat_. To fetch me a cup of tea. She'll be back directly.

_Con_. Don't let her say bad words: I can't bear them. I think it's
because I was so used to them once--in the streets, I mean--not at
home--never at home.

_Mat_. She don't often, miss. She's a good-hearted creature. It's only
when hunger makes her cross. She don't like to be hungry.

_Con_. I should think not, poor girl!

_Mat_. Don't mind what she says, please. If you say nothing, she'll
come all right. When she's spoken her mind, she feels better. Here she
comes!

_Re-enter_ SUSAN. _It begins to grow dark_.

_Sus_. Well, and who have we got here?

_Mat_. Miss Lacordère, Sukey.

_Sus_. There's no lack o' dare about _her_, to come here!

_Mat_. It's very kind of her to come, Susan.

_Sus_. I tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole. It _was_ stole,
miss!--stole from me--an' that angel there a dyin' in the street!

_Con_. I'm quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought anything else.

_Sus_. Not but I allow it was a pity, miss!--I'm very sorry. But,
bless you! (_lighting a candle_)--with all _your_ fine clothes--! My!
you look like a theayter-queen--you do, miss! If you was to send
_them_ up the spout now!--My! what a lot they'd let you have on that
silk!

_Con_. The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe. It's an Indian
one--all needlework.

_Sus_. And the bee-utiful silk! Laws, miss! just shouldn't I like to
wear a frock like that! I _should_ be hard up before I pledged _that_!
But the shawl! If I was you, miss, I would send 'most everything up
before that!--things inside, you know, miss--where it don't matter so
much.

_Con_. (_laughing_) The shawl would be the first thing I should part
with. I would rather be nice inside than out.

_Sus_. Lawk, miss! I shouldn't wonder if that was one of the differs
now! Well, I never! It ain't seen! It must be one o' the differs!

_Con_. What differs? I don't understand you.

_Sus_. The differs 'tween girls an' ladies--girls like me an' real
ladies like you.

_Con_. Oh, I see! But how dark it has got! What can be keeping
William? I must go at once, or what will my aunt say! Would you mind
going with me a little bit, Susan?

_Sus_. I'll go with pleasure, miss.

_Con_. Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the wide streets. You
couldn't lend me an old cloak, could you?

_Sus_. I 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what I stand up in--'cep' it
be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket-'an'kercher. Nobody 'ill know you.

_Con_. But I oughtn't to be out dressed like this.

_Sus_. You've only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss.

_Con_. (_drawing up her skirt_) I never thought of that!

_Sus_. Well, I never!

_Con_. What's the matter?

_Sus_. Only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my breath away, miss.
It ain't no use turnin' of _it_ up: you'll look like a lady whatever
you do to hide it. But never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as
you don't look down on the rest of us. There, miss! There you are--fit
for a play! Come along; I'll take care of you. Lawks! I'm as good as a
man--_I_ am!

_Con_. Good-bye then, Mattie.

_Mat_. Good-bye, miss. God bless you.

_Exeunt_.

END OF ACT III.




ACT IV.

SCENE.--_The Studio_.


_Enter_ COL. G. _Walks about restless and eager_.

_Col. G._ Thank heaven! If Bill has found Mr. Warren now,--_Exit_.

_Enter_ WARREN.

_War_. What can the fellow be up to? There's something odd about
him--something I don't like--but it can't mean mischief when he sends
for me. Where could Gervaise have picked him up?--Nobody here?

_Re-enter_ COL. G. _and hurries to him with outstretched hand_.

_Col. G._ My dear sir! I am greatly obliged to you. This is very kind.

_War_. (_stepping back_) Excuse me.--I do not understand.

_Col. G._ I beg your pardon. I ought to have explained.

_War_. I believe something of the sort _is_ necessary.

_Col. G._ You are my master's friend.

_War_. I should be proud of the honour. Can I be of any service to
him?

_Col. G._ I believe I can trust you. I _will_ trust you--I am his
father.

_War_. Whose father? Belzebub's?

_Col. G._ Arthur's--your friend Gervaise's. I am Sir Walter Gervaise.
You must help me to help him.

WARREN _regards him for a moment_.

_War_. (_stiffly_) Sir Walter, I owe your son much--you nothing yet. I
am _his_ friend.

_Col. G._ There is not a moment to lose. Listen. An old man came about
the place a few weeks ago, looking for his daughter. He has been got
out of the way, but I have learned where he is: I want you to bring
him.

_War_. I would serve your son blindfold: _you_ must excuse me if I
wish to understand first.

_Col. G._ Arthur is in trouble. He has a secret.--God forgive me!--I
feared it was a bad one.

_War_. You don't know him as I do!

_Col. G._ I know him now--and can help him. Only I can't _prove_
anything yet. I must have the old man. I've found his daughter, and
suspect the villain: if I can bring the three together, all will come
out, sure enough. The boy I sent for you will take you to the father.
He will trust you, and come. (_Bell rings_.) I must go to Arthur now.
_Exit_.

_War_. What a strange old fellow! An officer--and disguise himself!

_Enter_ BILL.

_Bill_. Here you are, sir!

_War_. No vast amount of information in that statement, my boy!

_Bill_. Well, sir--here _I_ are, sir.

_War_. That _is_ a trifle more to the point, though scarcely requiring
mention.

_Bill_. Then, here _we_ are, sir.

_War_. That'll do--if you know what comes next?

_Bill_. I do, sir.

_War_. Go on, then.

_Bill_. Here goes! Come along, sir. You'll have to take a bobby,
though.

_War_. We'll see about that. You go on.

_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ GERVAISE, followed by COL. G.

_Ger._ What a time you have been, William!

_Col. G._ I'm sorry, sir. Did you want anything?

_Ger._ No. But I don't like to be left. You are the only friend I
have.

_Col. G._ Thank you, sir. A man _must_ do his duty, but it's a comfort
when his colonel takes notice of it.

_Ger._ Is it _all_ from duty, William? Yet why should I look for more?
There was a little girl I tried to do my duty by once--My head's
rather queer still, William.

_Col. G._ Is there nothing to be done, sir?

_Ger._ No; it's here--(_putting his hand to his head_)--inside.

_Col. G._ I meant about the little girl, sir.--I can keep dark as well
as another.--When there's anything on a man's mind, sir--good _or_
bad--it's a relief to mention it. If you could trust me--(_A pause_.)
Men _have_ trusted their servants and not repented it.

_Ger._ No doubt--no doubt. But there is no help for me.

_Col. G._ You cannot be sure of that, sir.

_Ger._ You would help me if you could, I believe.

_Col. G._ God knows I would, sir--to the last drop of my blood.

_Ger._ That's saying much, William. A son couldn't say more--no, nor a
father either.

_Col. G._ Oh! yes, he could, sir.

_Ger._ And mean it?

_Col. G._ Yes.

_Ger._ If I had a father, William, I would tell him all about it. I
was but two years old when he left me.

_Col. G._ Then you don't remember him, sir?

_Ger._ I often dream about him, and then I seem to remember him.

_Col. G._ What is he like, sir?--in your dreams, I mean.

_Ger._ I never see him distinctly: I try hard sometimes, but it's no
use. If he would but come home! I feel as if I could bear anything
then.--But I'm talking like a girl!

_Col. G._ Where is your father, sir?

_Ger._ In India.

_Col. G._ A soldier, sir?

_Ger._ Yes. Colonel Gervaise--you must have heard of him. Sir Walter
he is now.

_Col. G._ I've heard of _him_, sir--away in the north parts he's been,
mostly.

_Ger._ Yes. How I wish he would come home! I would do everything to
please him. I have it, William! I'll go to India. I did think of going
to Garibaldi--but I won't--I'll go to India. I _must_ find my father.
Will you go with me?

_Col. G._ Willingly, sir.

_Ger._ Is there any fighting there now?

_Col. G._ Not at present, I believe.

_Ger._ That's a pity. I would have listed in my father's regiment, and
then--that is, by the time he found me out--he wouldn't be ashamed of
me. I've done nothing yet. I'm nobody yet, and what could he do with a
son that was nobody--a great man like him! A fine son _I_ should be! A
son ought to be worthy of his father. Don't you think so, William?

_Col. G._ That wouldn't be difficult, sir!--I mean with most fathers.

_Ger._ Ah! but _mine_, you know, William!--Are you good at the cut and
thrust?

_Col G._ Pretty good, sir, I believe.

_Ger._ Then we'll have a bout or two. I've got rusty.--Have I said
anything odd--or--or--I mean since I've been ill?

_Col. G._ Nothing you need mind, sir.

_Ger._ I'm glad of that.--I feel as if--(_putting his hand to his
head_). William! what could you do for a man--if he was your
friend?--no, I mean, if he was your enemy?

_Col. G._ I daren't say, sir.

_Ger._ Is the sun shining?

_Col. G._ Yes, sir. It's a lovely day.

_Ger._ What a desert the sky is!--so dreary and wide and waste!--Ah!
if I might but creep into a hole in a tree, and feel it closing about
me! How comfortable those toads must feel!

_Col. G._ (_aside_). He's getting light-headed again! I must send for
the doctor. _Exit_.

_Ger._ But the tree would rot, and the walls grow thin, and the light
come through. It is crumbling now! And I shall have to meet _her_!
And then the wedding! Oh my God! (_Starts up and paces about the
room_.)--It _is_ the only way! My pistols, I think--yes.--(_Goes to
a table, finds his keys, and unlocks a case_.)--There they are! I may
as well have a passport at hand! (_Loading one_.)--The delicate
thunder-tube! (_Turns it over lovingly_.) Solitude and silence! One
roar and then rest! No--no rest!--still the demon to fight! But no
eyes to meet and brave!--Who is that in the street?--She is at the
door--with him!

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