If I Had a Father

By George MacDonald.

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Act I

Scene.⁠—A Sculptor’s studio. Arthur Gervaise working at a clay figure and humming a tune. A knock.

Gervaise	Come in. Throws a wet cloth over the clay. Enter Warren* by the door communicating with the house.* Ah, Warren! How do you do?
Warren	How are you, Gervaise? I’m delighted to see you once more. I have but just heard of your return.
Gervaise	I’ve been home but a fortnight. I was just thinking of you.
Warren	I was certain I should find you at work.
Gervaise	You see my work can go on by any light. It is more independent than yours.
Warren	I wish it weren’t, then.
Gervaise	Why?
Warren	Because there would be a chance of our getting you out of your den sometimes.
Gervaise	Like any other wild beast when the dark falls⁠—eh?
Warren	Just so.
Gervaise	And where the good?
Warren	Why shouldn’t you roar a little now and then like other honest lions?
Gervaise	I doubt if the roaring lions do much beyond roaring.
Warren	And I doubt whether the lion that won’t even whisk his tail, will get food enough shoved through his bars to make it worth his while to keep a cage in London.
Gervaise	I certainly shall not make use of myself to recommend my work.
Warren	What is it now?
Gervaise	Oh, nothing!⁠—only a little fancy of my own.
Warren	There again! The moment I set foot in your study, you throw the sheet over your clay, and when I ask you what you are working at⁠—“Oh⁠—a little fancy of my own!”
Gervaise	I couldn’t tell it was you coming.
Warren	Let me see what you’ve been doing, then.
Gervaise	Oh, she’s a mere Lot’s-wife as yet!
Warren	Approaching the figure. Of course, of course! I understand all that.
Gervaise	Laying his hand on his arm. Excuse me: I would rather not show it.
Warren	I beg your pardon.⁠—I couldn’t believe you really meant it.
Gervaise	I’ll show you the mould if you like.
Warren	I don’t know what you mean by that: you would never throw a wet sheet over a cast! Gervaise lifts a painting from the floor and sets it on an easel. Warren regards it for a few moments in silence. Ah! by Jove, Gervaise! someone sent you down the wrong turn: you ought to have been a painter. What a sky! And what a sea! Those blues and greens⁠—rich as a peacock’s feather-eyes! Superb! A tropical night! The dolphin at its last gasp in the west, and all above, an abyss of blue, at the bottom of which the stars lie like gems in the mineshaft of the darkness!
Gervaise	You seem to have taken the wrong turn, Warren! You ought to have been a poet.
Warren	Such a thing as that puts the slang out of a fellow’s bend.
Gervaise	I’m glad you like it. I do myself, though it falls short of my intent sadly enough.
Warren	But I don’t for the life of me see what this has to do with that. You said something about a mould.
Gervaise	I will tell you what I meant. Every individual aspect of nature looks to me as if about to give birth to a human form, embodying that of which itself only dreams. In this way landscape-painting is, in my eyes, the mother of sculpture. That Apollo is of the summer dawn; that Aphrodite of the moonlit sea; this picture represents the mother of my Psyche.
Warren	Under the sheet there?
Gervaise	Yes. You shall see her some day; but to show your work too soon, is to uncork your champagne before dinner.
Warren	Well, you’ve spoiled my picture. I shall go home and scrape my canvas to the bone.
Gervaise	On second thoughts, I will show you my Psyche. Uncovers the clay. Warren* stands in admiration. Enter Waterfield by same door.*
Waterfield	Ah, Warren! here you are before me! Mr. Gervaise, I hope I see you well.
Warren	Mr. Waterfield⁠—an old friend of yours, Gervaise, I believe.
Gervaise	I cannot appropriate the honour.
Waterfield	I was twice in your studio at Rome, but it’s six months ago, Mr. Gervaise. Ha! Using his eyeglass. What a charming figure! A Psyche! Wings suggested by⁠—Very skilful! Contour lovely! Altogether antique in pose and expression!⁠—Is she a commission?
Gervaise	No.
Waterfield	Then I beg you will consider her one.
Gervaise	Excuse me; I never work on commission⁠—at least never in this kind. A bust or two I have done.
Waterfield	By Jove!⁠—I should like to see your model!⁠—This is perfect. Are you going to carve her?
Gervaise	Possibly.
Waterfield	Uncommissioned?
Gervaise	If at all.
Waterfield	Well, I can’t call it running any risk. What lines!⁠—You will let me drop in some day when you’ve got your model here?
Gervaise	Impossible.
Waterfield	You don’t mean⁠—?
Gervaise	I had no model.
Waterfield	No model? Ha! ha!⁠—You must excuse me! Gervaise takes up the wet sheet. I understand. Reasons. A little mystery enhances⁠—eh?⁠—is convenient too⁠—balks intrusion⁠—throws the drapery over the mignonette. I understand. Gervaise covers the clay. Oh! pray don’t carry out my figure. That is a damper now!
Gervaise	I am not fond of acting the showman. You must excuse me: I am busy.
Waterfield	Ah well!⁠—some other time⁠—when you’ve got on with her a bit. Good morning. Ta, ta, Warren.
Gervaise	Good morning. This way, if you please. Shows him out by the door to the street. How did the fellow find his way here?
Warren	I am the culprit, I’m sorry to say. He asked me for your address, and I gave it him.
Gervaise	How long have you known him?
Warren	A month or two.
Gervaise	Don’t bring him here again.
Warren	Don’t say I brought him. I didn’t do that. But I’m afraid you’ve not seen the last of him.
Gervaise	Oh yes, I have! Old Martha would let in anybody, but I’ve got a man now.⁠—William!
	Enter Col. Gervaise* dressed as a servant.*
	You didn’t see the gentleman just gone, I’m afraid, William?
Col. Gervaise	No, sir.
Gervaise	Don’t let in anyone calling himself “Waterfield.”
Col. Gervaise	No, sir.
Gervaise	I’m going out with Mr. Warren. I shall be back shortly.
Col. Gervaise	Very well, sir. Exit into the house.
Gervaise	To Warren. I can’t touch clay again till I get that fellow out of my head.
Warren	Come along, then.
	Exeunt Gervaise* and Warren Reenter Col. Gervaise polishing a boot. Regards it with dissatisfaction.*
Col. Gervaise	Confound the thing! I wish it were a scabbard. When I think I’m getting it all right⁠—one rub more and it’s gone dull again!
	The house-door opens slowly, and Thomas* peeps cautiously in.*
Thomas	What sort of a plaze be this, maister?
Col. Gervaise	You ought to have asked that outside. How did you get in?
Thomas	By th’ dur-hole. Iv yo leave th’ dur oppen, th’ dogs’ll coom in.
Col. Gervaise	I must speak to Martha again. She will leave the street-door open!⁠—Well, you needn’t look so frightened. It ain’t a robbers’ cave.
Thomas	That be more’n aw knaw⁠—not for sartin sure, maister. Nobory mun keawnt upon nobory up to Lonnon, they tells mo. But iv a gentleman axes mo into his heawse, aw’m noan beawn to be afeard. Aw’ll coom in, for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak here?
Col. Gervaise	What would you think now?
Thomas	It looks to mo like a mason’s shed⁠—a greight one.
Col. Gervaise	You’re not so far wrong.
Thomas	Advancing. It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so sure abeawt it. But they wonnot coot mo throat beout warnin’. Aw’ll bother noan. Sits down on the dais and wipes his face. Well, aw be a’most weary.
Col. Gervaise	Is there anything I can do for you?
Thomas	Nay, aw donnot know; but beout aw get somebory to help mo, aw dunnot think aw’ll coom to th’ end in haste. Aw’re a lookin’ for summut aw’ve lost, mou.
Col. Gervaise	Did you come all the way from Lancashire to look for it?
Thomas	Eh, lad! aw thowt thae’rt beawn to know wheer aw coom fro!
Col. Gervaise	Anybody could tell that, the first word you spoke. I mean no offence.
Thomas	Looking disappointed. Well, noan’s ta’en. But thae dunnot say thae’s ne’er been to Lancashire thisel’?
Col. Gervaise	No, I don’t say that: I’ve been to Lancashire several times.
Thomas	Wheer to?
Col. Gervaise	Why, Manchester.
Thomas	That’s noan ov it.
Col. Gervaise	And Lancaster.
Thomas	Tut! tut! That’s noan of it, nayther.
Col. Gervaise	And Liverpool. I was once there for a whole week.
Thomas	Nay, nay. Noather o’ those plazes. Fur away off ’em.
Col. Gervaise	But what does it matter where I have or haven’t been?
Thomas	Mun aw tell tho again? Aw’ve lost summut, aw tell tho. Didsto ne’er hear tell ov th’ owd woman ’at lost her shillin’? Hoo couldn’t sit her deawn beawt hoo feawnd it! Yon’s me. Hides his face in his hands.
Col. Gervaise	Ah! now I begin to guess! Aside.⁠—You don’t mean you’ve lost your⁠—
Thomas	Starting up and grasping his stick with both hands. Aw do mane aw’ve lost mo yung lass; and aw dunnot say thae’s feawnd her, but aw do say thae knows wheer hoo is. Aw do. Theighur! Nea then!
Col. Gervaise	What on earth makes you think that? I don’t know what you’re after.
Thomas	Thae knows well enough. Thae knowed what aw’d lost afoor aw tou’d tho yo’ be deny in’ your own name. Thae knows. Aw’ll tay tho afore the police, beout thou gie her oop. Aw wull.
Col. Gervaise	What story have you to tell the police then? They’ll want to know.
Thomas	Story saysto? The dule’s i’ th’ mon! Didn’t aw seigh th’ mon ’at stealed her away goo into this heawse not mich over hauve an hour ago?⁠—Aw seigh him wi’ mo own eighes.
Col. Gervaise	Why didn’t you speak to him?
Thomas	He poppit in at th’ same dur, and there aw’ve been a-watching ever since. Aw’ve not took my eighes off ov it. He’s somewheeres now in this same heawse.
Col. Gervaise	He may have been out in the morning aside.⁠—But you see there are more doors than one to the place. There is a back door; and there is a door out into the street.
Thomas	Eigh! eigh! Th’ t’one has to do wi’ th’ t’other⁠—have it? Three dur-holes to one shed! That looks bad!
Col. Gervaise	He’s not here, whoever it was. There’s not a man but myself in the place.
Thomas	Hea am aw to know yo’re not playin’ a marlock wi’ mo? He’ll be oop i’ th’ heawse theer. Aw mun go look going.
Col. Gervaise	Preventing him. And how am I to know you’re not a housebreaker?
Thomas	Dun yo think an owd mon like mosel’ would be of mich use for sich wark as that, mon?
Col. Gervaise	The more fit for a spy, though, to see what might be made of it.
Thomas	Eh, mon! Dun they do sich things as you? But aw’m seechin’ nothin’, man nor meawse, that donnot belung me. Aw tell yo true. Gie mo mo Mattie, and aw’ll trouble yo no moor. Aw winnot⁠—if yo’ll give mo back mo Mattie. Comes close up to him and lays his hand on his arm. Be yo a feyther, mon?
Col. Gervaise	Yes.
Thomas	Ov a pratty yung lass?
Col. Gervaise	Well, no. I have but a son.
Thomas	Then thae winnot help mo?
Col. Gervaise	I shall be very glad to help you, if you will tell me how.
Thomas	Tell yor maister ’at Mattie’s owd feyther’s coom a’ the gait fro Rachda to fot her whoam, and aw’ll be much obleeged to him iv he’ll let her goo beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to whoam: hoo’s but poorly. Tell yor maister that.
Col. Gervaise	But I don’t believe my master knows anything about her.
Thomas	Aw’re tellin’ tho, aw seigh’ th’ mon goo into this heawse but a feow minutes agoo?
Col. Gervaise	You’ve mistaken somebody for him.
Thomas	Well, aw’m beawn to tell tho moore. Twothre days ago, aw seigh mo chylt coom eawt ov this same dur⁠—aw mane th’ heawsedur, yon.
Col. Gervaise	Are you sure of that?
Thomas	Sure as death. Aw seigh her back.
Col. Gervaise	Her back! Who could be sure of a back?
Thomas	By th’ maskins! dosto think I dunnot know mo Mattie’s back? I seign her coom eawt o’ that dur, aw tell tho!
Col. Gervaise	Why didn’t you speak to her?
Thomas	Aw co’d.
Col. Gervaise	And she didn’t answer?
Thomas	Aw didn’t co’ leawd. Aw’re not willin’ to have ony mak ov a din.
Col. Gervaise	But you followed her surely?
Thomas	Aw did; but aw’re noan so good at walkin’ as aw wur when aw coom; th’ stwons ha’ blistered mo fet. An it’re the edge o’ dark like. Aw connot seigh weel at neet, wi o’ th’ lamps; an afoor aw geet oop wi’ her, hoo’s reawnd th’ nook, and gwon fro mo seet.
Col. Gervaise	There are ten thousands girls in London you might take for your own under such circumstances⁠—not seeing more than the backs of them.
Thomas	Ten theawsand girls like mo Mattie, saysto?⁠—wi’her greight eighes and her lung yure?⁠—Puh!
Col. Gervaise	But you’ve just said you didn’t see her face!
Thomas	Dunnot aw know what th’ face ov mo chylt be like, beout seein’ ov it? Aw’m noan ov a lump-yed. Nobory as seigh her once wouldn’t know her again.
Col. Gervaise	Aside. He’s a lunatic!⁠—I don’t see what I can do for you, old fellow.
Thomas	Rising. And aw met ha’ known it beout axin’! O’reet! Aw’re a greight foo’! But aw’re beawn to coom in: aw lung’d to goo through th’ same dur wi’ mo Mattie. Good day, sir. It be like maister, like mon! God’s curse upon o’ sich! Turns his back. After a moment turns again. Noa. Aw winnot say that; for mo Mattie’s sake aw winnot say that. God forgie you! Going by the house.
Col. Gervaise	This way, please! Opening the street-door.
Thomas	Aw see. Aw’m not to have a chance ov seein’ oather Mattie or th’ mon. Exit.
	Col. Gervaise resumes his boot absently. Reenter Thomas, shaking his fist.
Thomas	But aw tell tho, aw’ll stick to th’ place day and neet, aw wull. Aw wull. Aw wull.
Col. Gervaise	Come back tomorrow.
Thomas	Coom back, saysto? Aw’ll not goo away growing fierce. Wilto gie mo mo Mattie? Aw’m noan beawn to ston here so mich lunger. Wilto gie mo mo Mattie?
Col. Gervaise	I cannot give you what I haven’t got.
Thomas	Aw’ll break thi yed, thou villain! Threatening him with his stick. Eh, Mattie! Mattie! to loe sich a mon’s maister more’n me! I would dey fur thee, Mattie. Exit.
Col. Gervaise	It’s all a mistake, of course. There are plenty of young men⁠—but my Arthur’s none of such. I cannot believe it of him. The daughter! If I could find her, she would settle the question. It begins to grow dark. I must help the old man to find her. He’s sure to come back. Arthur does not look the least like it. But⁠—polishes vigorously. I cannot get this boot to look like a gentleman’s. I wish I had taken a lesson or two first. I’ll get hold of a shoeblack, and make him come for a morning or two. No, he does not look like it. There he comes. Goes on polishing.
	Enter Gervaise.
Gervaise	William!
Col. Gervaise	Turning. Yes, sir.
Gervaise	Light the gas. Anyone called?
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir.
Gervaise	Who?
Col. Gervaise	I don’t know, sir. Lighting the gas.
Gervaise	You should have asked his name. Stands before the clay, contemplating it.
Col. Gervaise	I’m sorry I forgot, sir. It was only an old man from the country⁠—after his daughter, he said.
Gervaise	Came to offer his daughter, or himself perhaps. Begins to work at the figure.
Col. Gervaise	Watching him stealthily. He looked a respectable old party⁠—from Lancashire, he said.
Gervaise	I dare say. You will have many such callers. Take the address. Models, you know.
Col. Gervaise	If he calls again, sir?
Gervaise	Ask him to leave his address, I say.
Col. Gervaise	But he told me you knew her.
Gervaise	Possibly. I had a good many models before I left. But it’s of no consequence; I don’t want any at present.
Col. Gervaise	He seemed in a great way, sir⁠—and swore. I couldn’t make him out.
Gervaise	Ah! hm!
Col. Gervaise	He says he saw her come out of the house.
Gervaise	Has there been any girl here? Have you seen any about?
Col. Gervaise	No, sir.
Gervaise	My aunt had a dressmaker to meet her here the other evening. I have had no model since I came back.
Col. Gervaise	The man was in a sad taking about her, sir. I didn’t know what to make of it. There seemed some truth⁠—something suspicious.
Gervaise	Perhaps my aunt can throw some light upon it. Col. Gervaise lingers. That will do. Exit Col. Gervaise. How oddly the man behaves! A sunstroke in India, perhaps. Or he may have had a knock on the head. I must keep my eye on him. Stops working, steps backward, and gazes at the Psyche. She is growing very like someone! Who can it be? She knows she is puzzling me, the beauty! See how she is keeping back a smile! She knows if she lets one smile out, her whole face will follow it through the clay. How strange the half-lights of memory are! You know and you don’t know⁠—both at once. Like a bat in the twilight you are sure of it, and the same moment it is nowhere. Who is my Psyche like?⁠—The forehead above the eyebrow, and round by the temple? The half-playful, half-sorrowful curve of the lip? The hope in the lifted eyelid? There is more there than ever I put there. Some power has been shaping my ends. By heaven, I have it!⁠—No⁠—yes⁠—it is⁠—it is Constance⁠—momently dawning out of the clay! What does this mean? She never gave me a sitting⁠—at least, she has not done so for the last ten years⁠—yet here she is⁠—she, and no other! I never thought she was beautiful. When she came with my aunt the other day though, I did fancy I saw a new soul dawning through the lovely face. Here it is⁠—the same soul breaking through the clay of my Psyche!⁠—I will give just one touch to the corner of the mouth.
	Gives a few touches, then steps back again and contemplates the figure. Turns away and walks up and down. The light darkens to slow plaintive music, which lasts for a minute. Then the morning begins to dawn, gleaming blue upon the statues and casts, and revealing Gervaise seated before his Psyche, gazing at her. He rises, and exit. Enter Col. Gervaise and looks about.
Col. Gervaise	I don’t know what to make of it! Or rather I’m afraid I do know what to make of it! It looks bad. He’s not been in bed all night. But it shows he has some conscience left⁠—and that’s a comfort.
	Enter Mrs. Clifford, peeping round cautiously.
Col. Gervaise	What, Clara! you here so early!
Mrs. Clifford	Well, you know, brother, you’re so fond of mystery!
Col. Gervaise	It’s very kind of you to come! But we must be very careful; I can’t tell when my master may be home.
Mrs. Clifford	Has he been out all night, then?
Col. Gervaise	Oh no; he’s just gone.
Mrs. Clifford	I never knew him such an early bird. I made sure he was safe in bed for a couple of hours yet. But I do trust, Walter, you have had enough of this fooling, and are prepared to act like a rational man and a gentleman.
Col. Gervaise	On the contrary, Clara, with my usual obstinacy, I am more determined than ever that my boy shall not know me, until, as I told you, I have rendered him such service as may prove me not altogether unworthy to be his father. Twenty years of neglect will be hard to surmount.
Mrs. Clifford	But mere menial service cannot discharge the least portion of your obligations. As his father alone can you really serve him.
Col. Gervaise	You persist in misunderstanding me. This is not the service I mean. I scorn the fancy. This is only the means, as I told you plainly before, of finding out how I may serve him⁠—of learning what he really needs⁠—or most desires. If I fail in discovering how to recommend myself to him, I shall go back to India, and content myself with leaving him a tolerable fortune.
Mrs. Clifford	How ever a hair-brained fellow like you, Walter, could have made such a soldier!⁠—Why don’t you tell your boy you love him, and have done with it?
Col. Gervaise	I will, as soon as I have proof to back the assertion.
Mrs. Clifford	I tell you it is rank pride.
Col. Gervaise	It may be pride, sister; but it is the pride of a repentant thief who puts off his confession until he has the money in his hand to prove the genuineness of his sorrow.
Mrs. C.	It never was of any use to argue with you, Walter; you know that, or at least I know it. So I give up.⁠—I trust you have got over your prejudice against his profession. It is not my fault.
Col. Gervaise	In truth, I had forgotten the profession⁠—as you call it⁠—in watching the professor.
Mrs. Clifford	And has it not once occurred to you to ask how he may take such watching?
Col. Gervaise	By the time he is aware of it, he will be ready to understand it.
Mrs. Clifford	But suppose he should discover you before you have thus established your position?
Col. Gervaise	I must run the risk.
Mrs. Clifford	Suppose then you should thus find out something he would not have you know?
Col. Gervaise	Hurriedly. Do you imagine his servant might know a thing he would hide from his father?
Mrs. Clifford	I do not, Walter. I can trust him. But he might well resent the espionage of even his father. You cannot get rid of the vile look of the thing.
Col. Gervaise	Again I say, my boy shall be my judge, and my love shall be my plea. In any case I shall have to ask his forgiveness. But there is his key in the lock! Run into the house.
	Exit Mrs. Clifford* Enter Gervaise, and goes straight to the Psyche.*
Col. Gervaise	Breakfast is waiting, sir.
Gervaise	By and by, William.
Col. Gervaise	You haven’t been in bed, sir!
Gervaise	Well? What of that?
Col. Gervaise	I hope you’re not ill, sir.
Gervaise	Not in the least: I work all night sometimes.⁠—You can go. Col. Gervaise lingers, with a searching gaze at the Psyche.⁠—I don’t want anything.
Col. Gervaise	Pardon me, sir, but I am sure you are ill. You’ve done no work since last night.
Gervaise	With displeasure. I am quite well, and wish to be alone.
Col. Gervaise	Mayn’t I go and fetch a doctor, sir? It is better to take things in time.
Gervaise	You are troublesome. Exit Col. Gervaise.⁠—What can the fellow mean? He looked at me so strangely too! He’s officious⁠—that’s all, I dare say. A good sort of man, I do think! William!⁠—What is it in the man’s face?⁠—Enter Col. Gervaise. Is the breakfast ready?
Col. Gervaise	Quite ready, sir.
Gervaise	I’m sorry I spoke to you so hastily. The fact is⁠—
Col. Gervaise	Don’t mention it, sir. Speak as you will to me; I shan’t mind it. When there’s anything on a man’s conscience⁠—I⁠—I⁠—I mean on a man’s mind⁠—
Gervaise	What do you mean?
Col. Gervaise	I mean, when there is anything there, he can’t well help his temper, sir.
Gervaise	I don’t understand you; but, anyhow, you⁠—go too far, William.
Col. Gervaise	I beg your pardon, sir: I forgot myself. I do humbly beg your pardon. Shall I make some fresh coffee, sir? It’s not cold⁠—only it’s stood too long.
Gervaise	The coffee will do well enough. Exit Col. Gervaise.⁠—Is she so beautiful? Turning to the Psyche.⁠—Is there a likeness?⁠—I see it.⁠—Nonsense! A mere chance confluence of the ideal and the actual.⁠—Even then the chance must mean something. Such a mere chance would indeed be a strange one!
	Enter Constance.
	Oh, my heart! here she comes! my Psyche herself!⁠—Well, Constance!
Constance	Oh, Arthur, I am so glad I’ve found you! I want to talk to you about something. I know you don’t care much about me now, but I must tell you, for it would be wrong not.
Gervaise	Aside. How beautiful she is! What can she have to tell me about? It cannot be⁠—it shall not be⁠—. Sit down, won’t you? Offering her a chair.
Constance	No. You sit there pointing to the dais, and I will sit here placing herself on the lower step. It was here I used to sit so often when I was a little girl. Why can’t one keep little? I was always with you then! Sighs.
Gervaise	It is not my fault, Constance.
Constance	Oh no! I suppose it can’t be. Only I don’t see why. Oh, Arthur, where should I be but for you! I saw the old place yesterday. How dreadful and yet how dear it was!
Gervaise	Who took you there?
Constance	Nobody. I went alone.
Gervaise	It was hardly safe.⁠—I don’t like your going out alone, Constance.
Constance	Why, Arthur! I used to know every court and alley about Shoreditch better than I know Berkeley Square now!
Gervaise	But what made you go there?
Constance	I went to find a dressmaker who has been working for my aunt, and lost my way. And⁠—would you believe it?⁠—I was actually frightened!
Gervaise	No wonder! There are rough people about there.
Constance	I never used to think them rough when I lived among them with my father and mother. There must be just as good people there as anywhere else. Yet I could not help shuddering at the thought of living there again!⁠—How strange it made me feel! You have been my angel, Arthur. What would have become of me if you hadn’t taken me, I dare not think.
Gervaise	I have had my reward, Constance: you are happy.
Constance	Not quite. There’s something I want to tell you.
Gervaise	Tell on, child.
Constance	Oh, thank you!⁠—that is how you used to talk to me. Hesitates.
Gervaise	With foreboding. Well, what is it?
Constance	Pulling the fingers of her gloves. A gentleman⁠—you know him⁠—has been⁠—calling upon aunt⁠—and me. We have seen a good deal of him.
Gervaise	Who is he?
Constance	Mr. Waterfield. Keeps her eyes on the floor.
Gervaise	Well?
Constance	He says⁠—he⁠—he⁠—he wants me to marry him.⁠—Aunt likes him.
Gervaise	And you?
Constance	I like him too. I don’t think I like him enough⁠—I dare say I shall. It is so good of him to take poor me! He is very rich, they say.
Gervaise	Have you accepted him?
Constance	I am afraid he thinks so.⁠—Ye⁠—e⁠—s.⁠—I hardly know.
Gervaise	Haven’t you⁠—been rather⁠—in a hurry⁠—Constance?
Constance	No, indeed! I haven’t been in a hurry at all. He has been a long time trying to make me like him. I have been too long a burden to Mrs. Clifford.
Gervaise	So! it is her doing, then!
Constance	You were away, you know.
Gervaise	Bitterly. Yes; too far⁠—chipping stones and making mud-pies!
Constance	I don’t know what you mean by that, Arthur.
Gervaise	Oh⁠—nothing. I mean that⁠—that⁠—Of course if you are engaged to him, then⁠—
Constance	I’m afraid I’ve done very wrong, Arthur. If I had thought you would care!⁠—I knew aunt would be pleased!⁠—she wanted me to have him, I knew.⁠—I ought to do what I can to please her⁠—ought I not? I have no right to⁠—
Gervaise	Surely, surely. Yes, yes; I understand. It was not your fault. Only you mustn’t marry him, if you⁠—. Thank you for telling me.
Constance	I ought to have told you before⁠—before I let him speak to me again. But I didn’t think you would care⁠—not much.
Gervaise	Yes, yes.
Constance	Looking up with anxiety. Ah! you are vexed with me, Arthur! I see how wrong it was now. I never saw you look like that. I am very, very sorry. Bursts into tears.
Gervaise	No, no, child! Only it is rather sudden, and I want to think about it. Shall I send William home with you?
Constance	No, thank you. I have a cab waiting. You’re not angry with your little beggar, Arthur?
Gervaise	What is there to be angry about, child?
Constance	That I⁠—did anything without asking you first.
Gervaise	Nonsense! You couldn’t help it. You’re not to blame one bit.
Constance	Oh, yes, I am! I ought to have asked you first. But indeed I did not know you would care. Goodbye.⁠—Shall I go at once?
Gervaise	Goodbye. Exit Constance, looking back troubled. Come at last! Oh fool! fool! fool! In love with her at last!⁠—and too late! For three years I haven’t seen her⁠—have not once written to her! Since I came back I’ve seen her just twice⁠—and now in the very hell of love! The ragged little darling that used to lie coiled up there in that corner! If it were my sister, it would be hard to lose her so! And to such a fellow as that!⁠—not even a gentleman! How could she take him for one! That does perplex me! Ah, well! I suppose men have borne such things before, and men will bear them again! I must work! Nothing but work will save me. Approaches the Psyche, but turns from it with a look of despair and disgust. What a fool I have been!⁠—Constance! Constance!⁠—A brute like that to touch one of her fingers! God in heaven! It will drive me mad. Rushes out, leaving the door open.
	Enter Col. Gervaise.
Col. Gervaise	Gone again! and without his breakfast! My poor boy! There’s something very wrong with you! It’s that girl! It must be! But there’s conscience in him yet!⁠—It is all my fault. If I had been a father to him, this would never have happened.⁠—If he were to marry the girl now?⁠—Only, who can tell but she led him astray? I have known such a thing. Sits down and buries his face in his hands.
	Enter Waterfield.
Waterfield	Is Mr. Gervaise in?
Col. Gervaise	Rising. No, sir.
Waterfield	Tell him I called, will you? Exit.
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir.⁠—Forgot again. Young man;⁠—gentleman or cad?⁠—don’t know; think the latter.
	Enter Thomas.
Thomas	Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir?
Col. Gervaise	Starting up. In the name of God, I know nothing of your child; but bring her here, and I will give you a hundred pounds⁠—in golden sovereigns.
Thomas	Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot know wheer hoo be, sir?
Col. Gervaise	That’s your business. Bring her, and there will be your money.
Thomas	Dun yo think, sir, o’ the gouden suverings i’ th’ Bank ov England would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for mo lass? Eh, mon! Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther⁠—ov the feyther ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo sorry for’t? I’ hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw’ll goo whoam again, for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we’ll wait till we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us.
Col. Gervaise	For anything I know, your daughter is alive and well. Bring her here, I say, and I will make you happy.
Thomas	Aw shannot want thes or thi silverings either to mak mo happy then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd o’ mo lass, it’s noan o’ yere aw’d be a coomin’ wi’ her. It’s reet streight whoam to her mother we’d be gooin’, aw’ll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!⁠—aw’m noan sich a greight foo as yo tak mo for.
	Exit. Col. Gervaise* follows him. Enter. Gervaise Sits down before the Psyche, but without looking at her.*
Gervaise	Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible chords on my heart! I will conquer it. But I will love her. The spear shall fill its own wound. To draw it out and die, would be no victory. “I’ll but lie down and bleed awhile, and then I’ll rise and fight again.” Brave old Sir Andrew!
	Enter Col. Gervaise.
Col. Gervaise	I beg your pardon, sir⁠—a young man called while you were out.
Gervaise	Listlessly. Very well, William.
Col. Gervaise	Is there any message, if he calls again, sir? He said he would.
Gervaise	No. Col. Gervaise lingers. You can go.
Col. Gervaise	I hope you feel better, sir?
Gervaise	Quite well.
Col. Gervaise	Can I get you anything, sir?
Gervaise	No, thank you; I want nothing.⁠—Why do you stay?
Col. Gervaise	Can’t you think of something I can do for you, sir?
Gervaise	Fetch that red cloth.
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir.
Gervaise	Throw it over that⁠—
Col. Gervaise	This, sir?
Gervaise	No, no⁠—the clay there. Thank you. A knock at the door. See who that is.
Col. Gervaise	Are you at home, sir?
Gervaise	That depends. Not to Mr. Waterfield. Oh, my head! my head! Exit Col. Gervaise.
	Enter Constance. Gervaise* starts, but keeps his head leaning on his hand.*
Constance	I forgot to say to you, Arthur⁠—. But you are ill! What is the matter, dear Arthur?
Gervaise	Without looking up. Nothing⁠—only a headache.
Constance	Do come home with me, and let aunt and me nurse you. Don’t be vexed with me any more. I will do whatever you like. I couldn’t go home without seeing you again. And now I find you ill!
Gervaise	Not a bit. I am only dreadfully busy. I must go out of town. I am so busy! I can’t stay in it a moment longer. I have so many things to do.
Constance	Mayn’t I come and see you while you work? I never used to interrupt you. I want so to sit once more in my old place. Draws a stool towards him.
Gervaise	No, no⁠—not⁠—not there! Constance used to sit there. William!
Constance	You frighten me, Arthur!
	Enter Col. Gervaise.
Gervaise	Bring a chair, William.
	Constance sits down like a chidden child. Exit Col. Gervaise.
Constance	I must have offended you more than I thought, Arthur! What can I say? It is so stupid to be always saying “I am sorry.”
Gervaise	No, no. But someone may call.
Constance	You mean more than that. Will you not let me understand?
Gervaise	Your friend Mr. Waterfield called a few minutes ago. He will be here again presently, I dare say.
Constance	Indifferently. Indeed!
Gervaise	I suppose you appointed⁠—expected⁠—to meet him here.
Constance	Arthur! Do you think I would come to you to meet him? I saw him this morning; I don’t want to see him again. I wish you knew him.
Gervaise	Why should you want me to know him?
Constance	Because you would do him good.
Gervaise	What good does he want done him?
Constance	He has got beautiful things in him⁠—talks well⁠—in bits⁠—arms and feet and faces⁠—never anything like⁠—turning to the Psyche Why have you⁠—? Has she been naughty too?
Gervaise	Is it only naughty things that must be put out of sight, Constance?
Constance	Dear Arthur! you spoke like your own self then.
Gervaise	Rising hurriedly. Excuse me. I must go. It is very rude, but⁠—William!
	Enter Col. Gervaise.
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir.
Gervaise	Fetch a hansom directly.
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir. Exit.
Constance	You do frighten me, Arthur! I am sure you are ill.
Gervaise	Not at all. I have an engagement.
Constance	I must go then⁠—must I?
Gervaise	Do not think me unkind?
Constance	I will not think anything you would not have me think.
	Reenter Col. Gervaise.
Col. Gervaise	The cab is at the door, sir.
Gervaise	Thank you. Then show Miss Lacordère out. Stay. I will open the door for her myself. Exeunt Gervaise* and Constance.*
Col. Gervaise	He speaks like one in despair, forcing every word! If he should die! Oh, my God!
	Reenter Gervaise* Walks up and down the room.*
Col. Gervaise	Ain’t you going, sir?
Gervaise	No. I have sent the lady in the cab.
Col. Gervaise	Then hadn’t you better lie down, sir?
Gervaise	Lie down! What do you mean? I’m not in the way of lying down except to sleep.
Col. Gervaise	And let me go for the doctor, sir?
Gervaise	The doctor! Ha! ha ha!⁠—You are a soldier, you say?
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir.
Gervaise	Right. We’re all soldiers⁠—or ought to be. I will put you to your catechism. What is a soldier’s first duty?
Col. Gervaise	Obedience, sir.
	Gervaise sits down and leans his head on his hands. Col. Gervaise watches him.
Gervaise	Ah! obedience, is it? Then turn those women out. They will hurt you⁠—may kill you; but you must not mind that. They burn, they blister, and they blast, for as white as they look! The hottest is the white fire. But duty, old soldier!⁠—obedience, you know!⁠—Ha! ha! Oh, my head! my head! I believe I am losing my senses, William. I was in a bad part of the town this morning. I went to see a place I knew long ago. It had gone to hell⁠—but the black edges of it were left. There was a smell⁠—and I can’t get it out of me. Oh, William! William! take hold of me. Don’t let them come near me. Psyche is laughing at me. I told you to throw the red cloth over her.
Col. Gervaise	My poor boy!
Gervaise	Don’t fancy you’re my father, though! I wish you were. But I cannot allow that.⁠—Why the devil didn’t you throw the red cloth over that butterfly? She’s sucking the blood from my heart.
Col. Gervaise	You said the Psyche, sir! The red cloth is over the Psyche, sir. Look.
Gervaise	Yes. Yes. I beg your pardon. Take it off. It is too red. It will scorch her wings. It burns my brain. Take it off, I say! Col. Gervaise uncovers the Psyche. There! I told you! She’s laughing at me! Ungrateful child! I’m not her Cupid. Cover her up. Not the red cloth again. It’s too hot, I say. I won’t torture her. I am a man and I can bear it. She’s a woman and she shan’t bear it.
	Sinks back in his chair. Col. Gervaise* lays him on the dais, and sits down beside him.*
Col. Gervaise	His heart’s all right! And when a fellow’s miserable over his faults, there must be some way out of them.⁠—But the consequences?⁠—Ah! there’s the rub.
Gervaise	What’s the matter? Where am I?
Col. Gervaise	I must fetch a doctor, sir. You’ve been in a faint.
Gervaise	Why couldn’t I keep in it? It was very nice: you know nothing⁠—and that’s the nicest thing of all. Why is it we can’t stop, William?
Col. Gervaise	I don’t understand you, sir.
Gervaise	Stop living, I mean. It’s no use killing yourself, for you don’t stop then. At least they say you go on living all the same. If I thought it did mean stopping, William⁠—
Col. Gervaise	Do come to your room, sir.
Gervaise	I won’t. I’ll stop here. How hot it is! Don’t let anybody in.
	Stretches out his hand. Col. Gervaise* holds it. He falls asleep.*
Col. Gervaise	What shall I do? If he married her, he’d be miserable, and make her miserable too. I’ll take her away somewhere. I’ll be a father to her; I’ll tend her as if she were his widow. But what confusions would follow! Alas! alas! one crime is the mother of a thousand miseries! And now he’s in for a fever⁠—typhus, perhaps!⁠—I must find this girl!⁠—What a sweet creature that Miss Lacordère is! If only he might have her! I don’t care what she was.
Gervaise	Don’t let them near me, William! They will drive me mad. They think I shall love them. I will not. If she comes one step nearer, I shall strike her. You Diana! Hecate! Hellcat!⁠—Fire-hearted Chaos is burning me to ashes! My brain is a cinder! Some water, William!
Col. Gervaise	Here it is, sir.
Gervaise	But just look to Psyche there. Ah, she’s off! There she goes! melting away in the blue, like a dissolving vapour. Bring me my field-glass, William. I may catch a glimpse of her yet. Make haste.
Col. Gervaise	Pray don’t talk so, sir. Do be quiet, or you will make yourself very ill. Think what will become of me if⁠—
Gervaise	What worse would you be, William? You are a soldier. I must talk. You are all wrong about it: it keeps me quiet holding his head with both hands. I should go raving mad else wildly. Give me some water. He drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the room. Now they are gone, and I do believe they won’t come again! I see everything⁠—and your face, William. You are very good to me⁠—very patient! I should die if it weren’t for you.
Col. Gervaise	I would die for you, sir.
Gervaise	Would you? But perhaps you don’t care much for your life. Anybody might have my life for the asking. I dare say it’s just as good to be dead.⁠—Ah! there is a toad⁠—a toad with a tail! No; it’s a toad with a slowworm after him. Take them away, William!⁠—Thank you.⁠—I used to think life pleasant, but now⁠—somehow there’s nothing in it. She told me the truth about it⁠—Constance did. Don’t let those women come back. What if I should love them, William!⁠—love and hate them both at once! William! William! A knock at the door. See who that is. Mind you don’t let them in.
Col. Gervaise	Martha is there, sir.
Gervaise	She’s but an old woman; she can’t keep them out. They would walk over her. All the goddesses have such long legs! You go and look. You’ll easily know them: if they’ve got no irises to their eyes, don’t let them in, for the love of God, William! Real women have irises to their eyes: those have none⁠—those frightful snowy beauties.⁠—And yet snow is very nice! And I’m so hot! There they come again! Exit Col. Gervaise.
	Enter Mrs. Clifford.
Gervaise	Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come!
Mrs. Clifford	What is it, my Arthur? They shan’t hurt you. I am here. I will take care of you.
Gervaise	Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of them now. Do you know them, aunt? I’ll tell you a secret: they are Juno and Diana and Venus.⁠—They hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three white women⁠—only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are purple⁠—and inside their lips, when they smile⁠—and in the hollows of their eyes⁠—ugh! They want me to love them; and they say you are all⁠—all of you women⁠—no better than they are. I know that is a lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes.
Mrs. Clifford	Dear boy, they shan’t come near you. Shall I sing to you, and drive them away?
Gervaise	No, don’t. I can’t bear birds in my brain.
Mrs. Clifford	How long have you had this headache? Laying her hand on his forehead.
Gervaise	Only a year or two⁠—since the white woman came⁠—that woman pointing to the Psyche. She’s been buried for ages, and won’t grow brown.
Mrs. Clifford	There’s no woman there, Arthur.
Gervaise	Of course not. It was an old story that bothered me. Oh, my head! my head!⁠—There’s my father standing behind the door and won’t come in!⁠—He could help me now, if he would. William! show my father in. But he isn’t in the story⁠—so he can’t.
Mrs. Clifford	Do try to keep yourself quiet, Arthur. The doctor will be here in a few minutes.
Gervaise	He shan’t come here! He would put the white woman out. She does smell earthy, but I won’t part with her. A knock. What a devil of a noise! Why don’t they use the knocker? What’s the use of taking a sledgehammer?
Mrs. Clifford	It’s that stupid James!
	Enter Constance. Mrs. Clifford* goes to meet her.*
Mrs. Clifford	Constance, you go and hurry the doctor. I will stay with Arthur.
Constance	Is he very ill, aunt?
Mrs. Clifford	I’m afraid he is.
Gervaise	Sitting up. Constance! Constance!
Constance	Here I am! Running to him.
Gervaise	Oh, my head! I wish I could find somewhere to lay it!⁠—Sit by me, Constance, and let me lay my head on your shoulder⁠—for one minute⁠—only one minute. It aches so! She sits down by him. His head sinks on her shoulder. Mrs. Clifford* looks annoyed, and exit.*
Constance	Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! Sobbing. You used to like me! I could not believe you hated me now. You have forgiven me? Dear head!
	He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music.
Gervaise	Half waking. I can’t read. When I get to the bottom of the page, I wonder what it was all about. I shall never get to Garibaldi! and if I don’t, I shall never get farther. If I could but keep that one line away! It drives me mad, mad. “He took her by the lily-white hand.”⁠—I could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they will come!⁠—I won’t go mad. I should never get to Garibaldi, and never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my heart. I will not go mad! I will die like a man.
Constance	Arthur! Arthur!
Gervaise	God in heaven! she is there! And the others are behind her!⁠—Psyche! Psyche! Don’t speak to those women! Come alone, and I will tear my heart out and give it you.⁠—It is Psyche herself now, and the rest are gone! Psyche⁠—listen.
Constance	It’s only me, Arthur! your own little Constance! If aunt would but let me stay and nurse you! But I don’t know what’s come to her: she’s not like herself at all.
Gervaise	Who’s that behind you?
Constance	Behind me? Looking round. There’s nobody behind me.
Gervaise	I thought there was somebody behind you. William!⁠—What can have become of William?
Constance	I dare say aunt has sent him somewhere.
Gervaise	Then he’s gone! he’s gone!
Constance	You’re not afraid of being left alone with me, Arthur?
Gervaise	Oh no! of course not?⁠—What can have become of William? Don’t you know they sent him⁠—not those women, but the dead people⁠—to look after me? He’s a good fellow. He said he would die for me. Ha! ha! ha! Not much in that⁠—is there?
Constance	Don’t laugh so, dear Arthur.
Gervaise	Well, I won’t. I have something to tell you, Constance. I will try to keep my senses till I’ve told you.
Constance	Do tell me. I hope I haven’t done anything more to vex you. Indeed I am sorry. I won’t speak to that man again, if you like. I would rather not⁠—if you wish it.
Gervaise	What right have I to dictate to you, my child?
Constance	Every right. I am yours. I belong to you. Nobody owned me when you took me.
Gervaise	Don’t talk like that; you will drive me mad.
Constance	Arthur! Arthur!
Gervaise	Listen to me, Constance. I am going to Garibaldi. He wants soldiers. I must not live an idle life any longer.⁠—We must part, Constance.⁠—Goodbye, my darling!
Constance	No, no; not yet; we’ll talk about it by-and-by. You see I shall have ever so many things to make for you before you can go! Smiling.
Gervaise	Garibaldi can’t wait, Constance⁠—and I can’t wait. I shall die if I stop here.
Constance	Oh, Arthur, you are in some trouble, and you won’t tell me what it is, so I can’t help you!
Gervaise	I shall be killed, I know. I mean to be. Will you think of me sometimes? Give me one kiss. I may have a last kiss.
Constance	Weeping. My heart will break if you talk like that, Arthur. I will do anything you please. There’s something wrong, dreadfully wrong! And it must be my fault!⁠—Oh! there’s that man! Starting up. He shall not come here.
	Runs to the house-door, and stands listening, with her hand on the key.

End of Act I.

Act II

Scene.⁠—A street in Mayfair. Mrs. Clifford’s house. A pastrycook’s shop. Boys looking in at the window.

Bill	I say, Jim, ain’t it a lot o’ grub? If I wos a pig now⁠—
Jack	I likes to hear Bill a supposin’ of hisself. Go it, Bill!⁠—There ain’t nothink he can’t suppose hisself, Jim.⁠—Bein’ as you ain’t a pig. Bill, you’ve got yer own trotters, an’ yer own tater-trap.
Bill	Vereupon blue Bobby eccosts me with the remark, “I wants you, Bill;” and seein’ me too parerlyzed to bolt, he pops me in that ’ere jug vithout e’er a handle.
Jack	Mother kep’ a pig once.
Jim	What was he like, Jack?
Jack	As like any other pig as ever he could look; accep’ that where other pigs is black he wor white, an’ where other pigs is white he wor black.
Jim	Did you have the milk in your tea, Jack?
Jack	Pigs ain’t got no milk, Jim, you stupe!
Bill	Pigs has milk, Jack, only they don’t give it to coves.⁠—I wish I wos the Lord Mayor!
Jack	Go it again, Bill. He ought ha’ been a beak, Bill ought. What ’ud you do, Bill, supposin’ as how you wos the Lord Mayor?
Bill	I’d take all the beaks, an’ all the peelers, an’ put their own bracelets on ’em, an’ feed ’em once a day on scraps o’ wittles to bring out the hunger: a cove can’t be hungry upon nuffin at all.
Jim	He gets what mother calls the squeamishes.
Jack	Well, Bill?
Bill	Well, the worry moment their bellies was as long an’ as loose as a o’-clo’-bag of a winter’s mornin’, I’d bring ’em all up to this ’ere winder, five or six at a time⁠—with the darbies on, mind ye⁠—
Jim	And I’m to be there to see, Bill⁠—ain’t I?
Bill	If you’re good, Jim, an’ don’t forget yer prayers.
Jack	My eye! it’s as good as a penny gaff! Go it, Bill.
Bill	Then I up an’ addresses ’em: “My Lords an’ Gen’lemen, ’cos as how ye’re all good boys, an’ goes to church, an’ don’t eat too many wittles, an’ don’t take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you shall obswerve me eat.”
Jim	Go it, Bill! I likes you, Bill.
Bill	No, Jim; I must close. The imagination is a ’ungry gift, as the cock said when he bolted the pebbles. Let’s sojourn the meetin’.
Jack	Yes; come along. ’Tain’t a comfable corner this yere: the wind cuts round uncommon sharp. Them pies ain’t good⁠—leastways not to look at.
Bill	They ain’t disgestible. But look ye here, Jack and Jim⁠—hearkee, my kids. Puts an arm round the neck of each, and whispers first to one and then to the other.
	Enter Mattie* and Susan.*
Susan	Now, Mattie, we’re close to the house, an’ I don’t want to be seen with you, for she’s mad at me.
Mattie	You must have made her mad, then, Sue.
Susan	She madded me first: what else when she wouldn’t believe a word I said? She’d ha’ sworn on the gospel book, we sent the parcel up the spout. But she’ll believe you, an’ give you something, and then we’ll have a chop!
Mattie	How can you expect that, Sue, when the work’s lost?
Susan	Never mind; you go and see.
Mattie	I shan’t take it, Susan. I couldn’t.
Susan	Stuff and nonsense! I’ll wait you round the corner: I don’t like the smell o’ them pastry things.
	Exit. Mattie* walks past the window.*
Mattie	I don’t like going. It makes me feel a thief to be suspected.
Bill	Lor! it’s our Mattie! There’s our Mattie!⁠—Mattie! Mattie!
Mattie	Ah, Bill! you’re there⁠—are you?
Bill	Yes, Mattie. It’s a tart-show. You walks up and takes yer chice;⁠—leastways, you makes it: somebody else takes it.
Mattie	Wouldn’t you like to take your choice sometimes, Bill?
Bill	In course I would.
Mattie	Then why don’t you work, and better yourself a bit?
Bill	Bless you, Mattie! myself is werry comf’able. He never complains.
Mattie	You’re hungry sometimes⁠—ain’t you?
Bill	Most remarkable ’ungry, Mattie⁠—this werry moment. Odd you should ask now⁠—ain’t it?
Mattie	You would get plenty to eat if you would work.
Bill	Thank you⁠—I’d rayther not. Them as ain’t ’ungry never enj’ys their damaged tarts. If I’m ’appy, vere’s the odds? as the cat said to the mouse as wanted to be let off the engagement. Why should I work more’n any other gen’leman?
Mattie	A gentleman that don’t work is a curse to his neighbours, Bill.
Bill	Bless you, Mattie! I ain’t a curse⁠—nohow to nobody. I don’t see as you’ve got any call to say that, Mattie. I don’t go fakin’ clies, or crackin’ cribs⁠—nothin’ o’ the sort. An’ I don’t mind doin’ of a odd job, if it is a odd one. Don’t go for to say that again, Mattie.
Mattie	I won’t, then, Bill. But just look at yourself!⁠—You’re all in rags.
Bill	Rags is the hairier, as the Skye terrier said to the black-an’-tan.⁠—I shouldn’t object to a new pair of old trousers, though.
Mattie	Why don’t you have a pair of real new ones? If you would only sweep a crossing⁠—
Bill	There ain’t, a crossin’ but what’s took. Besides, my legs ain’t put together for one place all day long. It ain’t to be done, Mattie. They can’t do it.
Mattie	There’s the shoeblack business, then.
Bill	That ain’t so bad, acause you can shoulder your box and trudge. But if it’s all the same to you, Mattie, I’d rayther enj’y life: they say it’s short.
Mattie	But it ain’t the same to me. It’s so bad for you to be idle, Bill!
Bill	Not as I knows on. I’m tollable jolly, so long’s I gets the browns for my bed.
Mattie	Wouldn’t you like a bed with a blanket to it?
Bill	Well, yes⁠—if it was guv to me. But I don’t go in for knocking of yourself about, to sleep warm.
Mattie	Well, look here, Bill. It’s all Susan and I can do to pay for our room, and get a bit of bread and a cup of tea. It ain’t enough.⁠—If you were to earn a few pence now⁠—
Bill	Oh golly! I never thought o’ that. What a hass I wur, to be sure! I’ll go a shoeblackin’ to-morror⁠—I will.
Mattie	Did you ever black a shoe, Bill?
Bill	I tried a boot oncet⁠—when Jim wor a blackin’ for a day or two. But I made nothink on it⁠—nothink worth mentionin’. The blackin’ or som’at was wrong. The gen’leman said it wur coal-dust, an he’d slog me, an’ adwised me to go an’ learn my trade.
Mattie	And what did you say to that?
Bill	Holler’d out “Shine yer boots!” as loud as I could holler.
Mattie	You must try my boots next time you come.
Bill	This wery night, Mattie. I’ll make ’em shine like plate glass⁠—see then if I don’t. But where’ll I get a box and brushes?
Mattie	You shall have our brushes and my footstool.
Bill	I see! Turn the stool upside down, put the brushes in, and carry it by one leg⁠—as drunken Moll does her kid.⁠—Here you are, sir! Black your boots, sir?⁠—Shine your trotters, sir? Bawling.
Mattie	That’ll do; that’ll do, Bill! Famous! You needn’t do it again holding her ears. Would you like a tart?
Bill	Just wouldn’t I, then!⁠—Shine your boooooots!
Mattie	Laughing. Do hold your tongue, Bill. There’s a penny for a tart.
Bill	Thank you, Mattie. Thank you.
	Exit into the shop.
Jack and Jim	Touching their supposed caps. Please, ma’am! Please, ma’am! I likes ’em too. I likes ’em more ’n Bill.
Mattie	I’m very sorry, but⁠—feeling in her pocket I’ve got a ha’penny, I believe. No⁠—there’s a penny! You must share it, you know. Gives it to Jack. Knocks at Mrs. Clifford’s door.
Jack and Jim	Thank you, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.
	Exit Mattie* into Mrs. Clifford’s.*
Jim	Now, Jack, what’s it to be?
Jack	I believe I shall spend it in St. Martin’s Lane.
Jim	A ha’p’orth on it’s mine, you know, Jack.
Jack	Well, you do put the stunners on me!
Jim	She said we wos to divide it⁠—she did.
Jack	’Taint possible. It beats my ivories. He pretends to bite it. Jim* flies at him in a rage.*
	Reenter Bill, with his mouth full.
Bill	Now what are you two a squabblin’ over? Oh! Jack’s got a yennep, and Jim’s iookin’ shirty.
Jim	She told him to divide it, and he won’t.
Bill	Who told him?
Jim	Mattie.
Bill	You dare, Jack? Hand over.
Jack	Be hanged if I do.
Bill	Then do and be hanged. A struggle. There, Jim! Now you go and buy what you like.
Jim	Am I to give Jack the half?
Bill	Yes, if our Mattie said it.
Jim	All right, Bill. Goes into the shop.
Jack	I owe you one for that, Bill.
Bill	Owe it me then, Jack. I do like fair play⁠—always did eating.
Jack	You ain’t a sharin’ of your yennep, Bill.
Bill	Mattie didn’t say I was to. She knowed one wouldn’t break up into three nohow. ’Tain’t in natur’, Jack.
Jack	You might ha’ guv me a bite, anyhow, Bill.
Bill	It ain’t desirable, Jack⁠—size o’ trap dooly considered. Here comes your share.
	Reenter Jim. Gives a bun to Jack.
Jim	I tell you what, Bill⁠—she ain’t your Mattie. She ain’t nobody’s Mattie; she’s a hangel.
Bill	No, Jim, she ain’t a hangel; she ’ain’t got no wings, leastways outside her clo’es, and she ’ain’t got clo’es enough to hide ’em. I wish I wos a hangel!
Jack	At it again, Bill! I do like to hear Bill a wishin’ of hisself! Why, Bill?
Bill	Acause they’re never ’ungry.
Jack	How do you know they ain’t?
Bill	You never sees ’em loafin’ about nowheres.
Jim	Is Mattie your sister, Bill?
Bill	No, Jim; I ain’t good ’nough to have a sister like she.
Jack	Your sweetheart, Bill? Ha! ha! ha!
Bill	Dry up, Jack.
Jim	Tell me about her, Bill. I didn’t jaw you.
Bill	She lives in our court, Jim. Makes shirts and things.
Jack	Oh! ho!
	Bill hits Jack. Jack doubles himself up.
Bill	Jim, our Mattie ain’t like other gals; I never see her out afore this blessed day⁠—upon my word and honour, Jim, never!
Jack	Wiping his nose with his sleeve. You don’t know a joke from a jemmy, Bill.
Bill	I’ll joke you!⁠—A hangel tips you a tart, and you plucks her feathers! Get on t’other side of the way, you little dirty devil, or I’ll give you another smeller⁠—cheap too. Off with you!
Jack	No, Bill; no, please. I’m wery sorry. I ain’t so bad’s all that comes to.
Bill	If you wants to go with Jim and me, then behave like a gen’leman.
Jim	I calls our Mattie a brick!
Bill	None o’ your jaw, Jim! She ain’t your Mattie.
	Enter Thomas.
Thomas	Childer, dun yo know th’ way to Paradise⁠—Row, or Road, or summat?
Bill	Dunnow, sir. You axes at the Sunday-school.
Thomas	Wheer’s th’ Sunday-school, chylt?
Bill	Second door round the corner, sir.
Thomas	Second dur reawnd th’ corner! Which corner, my man?
Bill	Round any corner. Second door’s all-ways Sunday-school. Takes a sight. Exeunt boys.
	Thomas sits down on a doorstep.
Thomas	Eh, but aw be main weary! Surely th’ Lord dunnot be a forsakin’ ov mo. There’s that abeawt th’ lost ship. Oop yon, wheer th’ angels keep greight flocks ov ’em, they dunnot like to lose one ov ’em, an’ they met well be helpin’ ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i’ this awful plaze! What has th’ shepherd o’ th’ sheep himsel’ to do, God bless him! but go look for th’ lost ones and carry ’em whoam! O Lord! gie mo mo Mattie. Aw’m a silly ship mosel, a sarchin’ for mo lost lamb. Boys begin to gather and stare. She’s o’ the world to me. O Lord, hear mo, and gie mo mo Mattie. Nea, aw’ll geet oop, and go look again. Rises.
First Boy	Ain’t he a cricket, Tommy?
Second Boy	Spry, ain’t he? Prod him, and see him jump. General insult.
Thomas	Why, childer, what have aw done, that yo cry after mo like a thief?
First Boy	Daddy Longlegs! Daddy Longlegs!
	They hustle and crowd him. Reenter Bill. Thomas* makes a rush. They run. He seizes Bill. They gather again.*
Thomas	Han yo getten a mother, lad?
Bill	No, thank ye. ’Ain’t got no mother. Come of a haunt, I do.
First Boy	Game!⁠—ain’t he?
Thomas	Well, aw’ll tak yo whoam to yor aunt⁠—aw wull.
Bill	Will you now, old chap? Wery well. Squats.
Thomas	Holding him up by the collar, and shaking his stick over him. Tell mo wheer’s por aunt, or aw’ll breyk every bone i’ yor body.
Bill	Wriggling and howling and rubbing his eyes with alternate sleeves. Let me go, I say. Let me go and I’ll tell ye. I will indeed, sir.
Thomas	Letting go. Wheer then, mo lad?
Bill	Starting up. I’ the church-cellar, sir⁠—first bin over the left⁠—feeds musty, and smells strong. Ho! ho! ho! Takes a sight.
	Thomas makes a dart. Bill dodges him.
First Boy	Ain’t he a cricket now, Tommy?
Second Boy	Got one leg too many for a cricket, Sam.
Third Boy	That’s what he jerks hisself with, Tommy.
Thomas	Boys, I want to be freens wi’ yo. Here’s a penny.
	One of the boys knocks it out of his hand. A scramble.
Thomas	Now, boys, dun yo know wheer’s a young woman bi th’ name ov Mattie⁠—somewheer abeawt Paradise Row?
First Boy	Yes, old un.
Second Boy	Lots on ’em.
Third Boy	Which on em’ do you want, Mr. Cricket?
Fourth Boy	You ain’t peticlar, I s’pose, old corner-bones?
First Boy	Don’t you fret, old stilts. We’ll find you a Mattie. There’s plenty on ’em⁠—all nice gals.
Thomas	I want mo own Mattie.
First Boy	Why, you’d never tell one from t’other on ’em!
Third Boy	All on ’em wery glad to see old Daddy Longlegs!
Thomas	Oh dear! Oh dear! What an awful plaze this Lon’on do be! To see the childer so bad!
Second Boy	Don’t cry, gran’pa. She’d chaff you worser ’n us! We’re only poor little innocent boys. We don’t know nothink, bless you! Oh no!
First Boy	You’d better let her alone, arter all, bag o’ nails.
Second Boy	She’ll have it out on you now, for woppin’ of her when she wor a kid.
First Boy	She’s a wopper herself now.
Third Boy	Mighty fine, with your shirt for a greatcoat. He! he! he!
Fourth Boy	Mattie never kicks us poor innocent boys⁠—cos we ’ain’t got no mothers to take our parts. Boo hoo!
	Enter Jack⁠—his hands in his pockets.
Jack	What’s the row, Bill?
Bill	Dunnow, Jack. Old chap collared me when I wasn’t alludin’ to him. He’s after some Mattie or other. It can’t be our Mattie. She wouldn’t never have such a blazin’ old parient as that.
Jack	Supposin’ it was your Mattie, Bill, would you split, and let Scull-and-crossbones nab her?
Bill	Would I? Would I ’and over our Mattie to her natural enemy? Did you ax it, Jack?
Jack	Natural enemy! My eye, Bill! what words you fakes!
Bill	Ain’t he her natural enemy, then? Ain’t it yer father as bumps yer ’ed, an’ cusses ye, an’ lets ye see him eat? Afore he gets our Mattie, I’ll bite!
Thomas	Poor lad! poor lad! Dunnot say that! Her feyther’s th’ best freen’ hoo’s getten. Th’ moor’s th’ pity, for it’s not mich he can do for her. But he would dee for her⁠—he would.
Boys (all together).	Go along, Daddy-devil! Pick yer own bones, an’ ha’ done. Bag-raker! Skin-cat! Bag o’ nails! Scull-an’-crossbones! Old Daddy Longlegs wouldn’t say his prayers⁠—Take him by his left leg, and throw him downstairs. Go along! Go to hell! We’ll skin you. Melt ye down for taller, we will. Only he ’ain’t got none, the red herrin’! They throw things at him. He sits down on the doorstep, and covers his head with his arms. Enter Col. Gervaise* Boys run off.*
Thomas	Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie!
Col. Gervaise	Poor old fellow! Are you hurt?
Thomas	Eh! yo be a followin’ ov mo too!
Col. Gervaise	What are you doing here?
Thomas	What am aw doin’ yere! Thee knows well enough what aw’re a doin’ yere. It ’re o’ thy fau’t, mon.
Col. Gervaise	Why, you’ve got a blow! Your head is cut! Poor old fellow!
Thomas	Never yo mind mo yed.
Col. Gervaise	You must go home.
Thomas	Goo whoam, says to! Aw goo no-wheers but to th’ grave afoor aw’ve feawnd mo chylt.
Col. Gervaise	Come along with me; I will do all I can to find her. Perhaps I can help you after all.
Thomas	Aw mak nea deawbt o’ that, mon. And thae seems a gradely chap. Aw’m a’most spent. An’ aw’m sick, sick! Dunnot let th’ boys shove mo abeawt again.
Col. Gervaise	I will not. They shan’t come near you. Take my arm. Poor old fellow! If you would but trust me! Hey! Cab there!
	Exeunt. Enter Susan, peeping.
Susan	I wonder whatever’s come to Mattie! It’s long time she was out again.
	Enter Mattie, hurriedly.
Mattie	Oh, Susan! Susan! Falls.
Susan	Mattie! Mattie! Kneels beside her, and undoes her bonnet.
	Enter Policeman.
Policeman	What ails her? Goes to lift her.
Susan	Leave her alone, will you? Let her head down. Get some water.
Policeman	Drunk⁠—is she?
Susan	Hold your tongue, you brute! If she’d a satin frock on, i’stead o’ this here poor cotton gownd, you’d ha’ showed her t’other side o’ your manners! Get away with you. You’re too ugly to look at.⁠—Mattie! Mattie! Look up, child.
Policeman	She mustn’t lie there.
Mattie	Susan!
Policeman	Come, my girl.
Susan	You keep off, I tell you! Don’t touch her. She’s none o’ your sort. Come, Mattie, dear.⁠—Why don’t you make ’em move on?
Policeman	You’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, young woman.
Susan	You live lobster!
Policeman	I’ll have to lock you up, I see. One violent. T’other incapable.
Susan	You’re another. Mattie, my dear, come along home.
Policeman	That’s right; be off with you.
	Mattie rises.
Mattie	Let’s go. Sue! Let’s get farther off.
Susan	You can’t walk, child. If I hadn’t been so short o’ wittles for a week, I could ha’ carried you. But it’s only a step to the cook-shop.
Mattie	No money, Sue. Tries to walk.
Susan	O Lord! What shall I do! And that bluebottle there a buzzin’ an’ a starin’ at us like a dead codfish!⁠—Boh!
	Enter Bill.
Bill	Our Mattie! Gracious! what’s the row, Susan?
Susan	She ain’t well. Take her other arm, Bill, and help her out o’ this. We ain’t in no Christian country. Pluck up, Mattie, dear.
Bill	Come into the tart-shop. I’m a customer.
	They go towards the shop. Exit Policeman.
Mattie	No, no, Sukey! I can’t abide the smell of it. Let me sit on the kerb for a minute. Sits down. Oh, father! father!
Bill	Never you mind, Mattie! If he wor twenty fathers, he shan’t come near ye.
Mattie	Oh, Bill! if you could find him for me! He would take me home.
Bill	Now who’d ha’ thought o’ that? Axially wantin’ her own father! I’d run far enough out o’ the way o’ mine⁠—an’ farther if he wur a-axin’ arter me.
Mattie	Oh me! my side!
Susan	It’s hunger, poor dear! Sits down beside her.
Bill	Aside. This won’t do, Bill! I’m a shamed o’ you, Bill! Exit.
Mattie	No, Susan, it’s not hunger. It’s the old story, Sue.
Susan	Mattie! I never! You don’t mean to go for to tell me you’re a breakin’ of your precious heart about him? It’s not your gentleman surely! It’s not him ye’re turnin’ sick about, this time o’ day?
	Mattie nods her head listlessly.
Susan	What’s up fresh, then? You was pretty bobbish when you left me. It’s little he thinks of you, I’ll be bound.
Mattie	That’s true enough. It’s little he ever thought of me. He did say he loved me, though. It’s fifty times he did!
Susan	Lies, lies, Mattie⁠—all lies!
Mattie	No, Susan; it wasn’t lies. He meant it⁠—at the time. That’s what made it look all right. Oh dear! Oh dear!
Susan	But what’s come to you now, Mattie? What’s fresh in it? You’re not turned like this all at once for nothink!
Mattie	I’ve seen him!
Susan	Seen him! Oh, my! I wish it had been me. I’d ha’ seen him! I’d ha’ torn his ugly eyes out.
Mattie	They ain’t ugly eyes. They’re big and blue, and they sparkle so when he talks to her!
Susan	And who’s “her?” Ye didn’t mention a “her.” Some brazen-faced imperence!
Mattie	No. The young lady at Mrs. Clifford’s.
Susan	Oho! See if I do a stitch for her!⁠—Shan’t I leave a needle in her shimmy, just!
Mattie	What shall I do! All the good’s gone out of me! And such a pain here!
Susan	Keep in yer breath a minute, an’ push yer ribs out. It’s one on ’em’s got a top o’ the other.
Mattie	Such a grand creature! And her colour coming and going like the shadows on the corn! It’s no wonder he forgot poor me. But it’ll burn itself out afore long.
Susan	Don’t ye talk like that, Mattie; I can’t abear it.
Mattie	If I was dressed like her, though, and could get my colour back! But laws! I’m such a washed out piece o’ goods beside her!
Susan	That’s as I say, Matilda! It’s the dress makes the differ.
Mattie	No, Susan, it ain’t. It’s the free look of them⁠—and the head up⁠—and the white hands⁠—and the taper fingers. They’re stronger than us, and they’re that trained like, that all their body goes in one, like the music at a concert. I couldn’t pick up a needle without going down on my knees after it. It’s the pain in my side, Sue.⁠—Yes, it’s a fine thing to be born a lady. It’s not the clothes, Sue. If we was dressed ever so, we couldn’t come near them. It’s that look⁠—I don’t know what.
Susan	Speak for yerself, Mattie; I’m not a goin’ to think such small beer of myself, I can tell you! I believe if I’d been took in time⁠—
Mattie	It’s a big if that though, Sue.⁠—And then she looked so good! You’d hardly think it of me⁠—perhaps it’s because I’m dying⁠—but for one minute I could ha’ kissed her very shoes. Oh, my side!
Susan	Putting her arm tight round her waist. Does that help it Mattie, dear?⁠—a little teeny bit?
Mattie	Yes, Sukey. It holds it together a bit. Will he break her heart too, I wonder?
Susan	No fear o’ that! Ladies takes care o’ theirselves. They’re brought up to it.
Mattie	It’s only poor girls gentlemen don’t mind hurting, I suppose.
Susan	It’s the ladies’ fathers and brothers, Mattie! We’ve got nobody to look after us.
Mattie	They may break their hearts, though, for all that.
Susan	They won’t forgive them like you, then, Mattie!
Mattie	I dare say they’re much the same as we are when it comes to that, Sue.
Susan	Don’t say me, Mattie. I wouldn’t forgive him⁠—no, not if I was to die for it. But what came of it, child?
Mattie	I made some noise, I suppose, and the lady started.
Susan	And then you up and spoke?
Mattie	I turned sick, and fell down.
Susan	Poor dear!
Mattie	She got me a glass of wine, but I couldn’t swallow it, and got up and crawled out.
Susan	Did he see you?
Mattie	I think he did.
Susan	You’ll tell her, in course?
Mattie	No, Sue; he’d hate me, and I couldn’t bear that. Oh me! my side! It’s so bad!
Susan	Let’s try for home, Mattie. It’s a long way, and there’s nothing to eat when you’re there; but you can lie down, and that’s everything to them as can’t sit up.
Mattie	Rising. I keep fancying I’m going to meet my father.
Susan	Let’s fancy it then every turn all the way home, an’ that’ll get us along. There, take my arm. There!⁠—Come along. Exeunt.
	Slow music. Twilight. Enter Bill* with a three-legged stool, brushes, etc.*
Bill	Come! it’s blackin’ all over! When gents can’t no longer see their boots, ’tain’t much use offerin’ to shine ’em. But if I can get a penny, I will. I must take a tart to Mattie, or this here damaged one laying his hand on his stomach won’t go to sleep this night.
	Enter Waterfield.
Bill	Black your boots for a party, sir?
Waterfield	Aside. The very rascal I saw her speaking to! But wasn’t she a brick not to split! That’s what I call devotion now! There are some of them capable of it. I’ll set her up for life. I’d give a cool thousand it hadn’t happened, though. I saw her father too hanging about Gervaise’s yesterday.
Bill	Clean your boots, sir? Shine ’em till they grin like a Cheshire cat eatin’ cheese!
Waterfield	Shine away, you beggar.
Bill	Turning up his trousers. I ain’t no beggar, sir. Shine for a shiner’s fair play.
Waterfield	Do you live in this neighbourhood?
Bill	No, sir.
Waterfield	Where, then?
Bill	Feeling where a pocket should be. I don’t appear to ’ave a card about me, sir, but my address is Lamb’s Court, Camomile Street⁠—leastways I do my sleepin’ not far off of it. I’ve lived there, what livin’ I have done, sin’ ever I wor anywheres as I knows on.
Waterfield	Do you happen to know a girl of the name of Pearson?
Bill	No, sir. I can’t say as how I rec’lect the name. Is she a old girl or a young un?
Waterfield	You young liar! I saw you talking to her not two hours ago!
Bill	Did ye now, sir? That’s odd, ain’t it? Bless you! I talks to everybody. I ain’t proud, sir.
Waterfield	Well, do you see this? Holding up a sovereign.
Bill	That’s one o’ them tilings what don’t require much seein’, sir. There! Bright as a butterfly! T’other twin, sir!
Waterfield	I’ll give you this, if you’ll do something for me⁠—and another to that when the thing’s done.
Bill	’Tain’t stealin’, sir?
Waterfield	No.
Bill	Cos, you see, Mattie⁠—
Waterfield	Who did you say?
Bill	Old Madge as lets the beds at tuppence a short night. ’Tain’t stealin’, you say, sir?
Waterfield	What do you take me for? I want you to find out for me where the girl Pearson lives⁠—that’s all.
Bill	Snatching the sovereign and putting it in his mouth. Now then, sir!⁠—What’s the young woman like?
Waterfield	Rather tall⁠—thin⁠—dark hair⁠—large dark eyes⁠—and long white hands. Her name’s Matilda⁠—Mattie Pearson⁠—the girl you were talking to, I tell you, on this very spot an hour or two ago.
Bill	Dropping the sovereign, and stooping to find it. Golly! it is our Mattie!
Waterfield	Shall you know her again?
Bill	Any boy as wasn’t a hass would know his own grandmother by them spots. Besides, I remember sich a gal addressin’ of me this mornin’. If you say her it was, I’ll detect her for ye.
Waterfield	There’s a good boy! What’s your name?
Bill	Timothy, sir.
Waterfield	What else?
Bill	Never had no other⁠—leastways as I knows on.
Waterfield	Well, Timothy⁠—there’s the other sov.⁠—and it’s yours the moment you take me to her. Look at it.
Bill	My eye!⁠—Is she a square Moll, sir?
Waterfield	What do you mean by that?
Bill	Green you are, to be sure!⁠—She ain’t one as steals, or⁠—
Waterfield	Not she. She’s a sempstress⁠—a needlewoman, or something of the sort.
Bill	And where shall I find you, sir?
Waterfield	Let me see:⁠—tomorrow night⁠—on the steps of St. Martin’s Church⁠—ten o’clock.
Bill	But if I don’t find her? It may be a week⁠—or a month⁠—or⁠—
Waterfield	Come whether you find her or not, and let me know.
Bill	All serene, sir! There you are, sir! Brush your trousers, sir?
Waterfield	No; leave ’em.⁠—Don’t forget now.
Bill	Honour bright, sir! Not if I knows it, sir!
Waterfield	There’s that other skid, you know.
Bill	All right, sir! Anything more, sir?
Waterfield	Damn your impudence! Get along.
	Exit. Bill* watches him into Mrs. Clifford’s.*
Bill	Now by all the ’ungry gums of Arabiar, ’ere’s a swell arter our Mattie!⁠—A right rig’lar swell! I knows ’em⁠—soverings an’ red socks. What’s come to our Mattie? ’Ere’s Daddy Longlegs arter her, vith his penny and his blessin’! an’ ’ere’s this ’ere mighty swell vith his soverings⁠—an’ his red socks! An’ she’s ’ungry, poor gal!⁠—This ’ere yellow-boy?⁠—I ’ain’t got no faith in swells⁠—no more ’n in Daddy Longlegses⁠—I ’ain’t!⁠—S’posin’ he wants to marry her?⁠—Not if I knows it. He ain’t half good ’nough for her. Too many quids⁠—goin’ a flingin’ on ’em about like buttons! He’s been a crackin’ o’ cribs⁠—he has. I ain’t a goin’ to interduce our Mattie to no sich blokes as him. No fathers or lovyers for me⁠—says I!⁠—But this here pebble o’ Paradise!⁠—What’s to be done wi’ the cherub? I can’t tell her a lie about it, an’ who’ll break it up for a cove like me, lookin’ jes’ as if I’d been an’ tarred myself and crep’ through a ragbag! They’d jug me. An’ what ’ud Mattie say then? I wish I ’adn’t ’a’ touched it. I’m blowed if I don’t toss it over a bridge!⁠—Then the gent ’ain’t got the weight on his dunop out o’ me. O Lord! what shall I do with it? I wish I’d skied it in his face! I don’t believe it’s a good un; I don’t! Bites it. It do taste wery nasty. It’s nothin’ better ’n a gilt fardin’! Jes’ what a cove might look for from sich a swell! Goes to a street lamp and examines it. Lor! there’s a bobby! Exit. Reenter to the lamp. I wish the gen’leman ’ad guv me a penny. I can’t do nothin’ wi’ this ’ere quid. Vere am I to put it? I ’ain’t got no pocket, an’ if I was to stow it in my ’tato-trap, I couldn’t wag my red rag⁠—an’ Mother Madge ’ud soon have me by the chops. Nor I’ve got noveres to plant it.⁠—O Lor! it’s all I’ve got, an’ Madge lets nobody go to bed without the tuppence. It’s all up with Bill⁠—for the night!⁠—Where’s the odds!⁠—there’s a first-class hotel by the river⁠—The Adelphi Arches, they calls it⁠—where they’ll take me in fast enough, and I can go to sleep with it in my cheek. Coves is past talkin’ to you there. Nobody as sees me in that ’ere ’aunt of luxury, ’ill take me for a millionaire vith a skid in his mouth. ’Tain’t a bit cold tonight neither going.⁠—Vy do they say a “aunt” of luxury? I s’pose acause she’s wife to my uncle. Exit.
	Slow music. The night passes. A policeman crosses twice. Thomas* crosses between. Dawn. Reenter Bill.*
Bill	I’m hanged if this here blasted quid ain’t a burnin’ of me like a red-hot fardin’! I’m blest if I’ve slep’ more ’n half the night. I woke up oncet, with it a slippin’ down red lane. I wish I had swallered it. Then nobody ’d ’a’ ast me vere I got it. I don’t wonder as rich coves turn out sich a bad lot. I believe the devil’s in this ’ere!
	Knocks at Mrs. Clifford’s* door. James opens. Is shutting it again. Bill shoves in his stool.*
Bill	Hillo, Blazes! where’s your manners? Is that the way you behaves to callers on your gov’nor’s business?
James	Half opening the door. Get about your own business, you imperent boy!
Bill	I’m about it now, young man. I wants to see your gov’nor.
James	You’ve got business with him, have you, eh?
Bill	Amazin’ precoxity! You’ve hit it! I have got business with him, Doorpost⁠—not in the wery smallest with you, Doorpost!⁠—essep’ the knife-boy’s been and neglected of your feet-bags this mornin’. James would slam the door. Bill shoves in his stool. Don’t you try that ’ere little game again, young man! for if I loses my temper and takes to hollerin’, you’ll wish yourself farther.
James	A humbug you are! I ’ain’t got no gov’nor, boy. The master as belongs to me is a mis’ess.
Bill	Then that ’ere gen’lemen as comes an’ goes, ain’t your master⁠—eh?
James	What gen’leman, stoopid?
Bill	Oh! it don’t matter.
James	What have⁠—you⁠—got to say to him?
Bill	Some’at pickled: it’ll keep.
James	I’ll give him a message, if you like.
Bill	Well, you may tell him the bargain’s hoff, and if he wants his money, it’s a waitin’ of him round the corner.
James	You little blackguard! Do you suppose a gen’leman’s a goin’ to deliver sich a message as that! Be off, you himp! Makes a dart at him.
Bill	Dodging him. How d’e do, Clumsy? Don’t touch me; I ain’t nice. Why, what was you made for, Parrot? Is them calves your own rearin’ now? Is that a quid or a fardin? Have a shot, now, Shins.
James	None o’ your imperence, young blackie! ’And me over the money, and I’ll give it to the gen’leman.
Bill	Do you see anything peticlar green in my eye, Rainbow?
	James makes a rush. Bill gets down before him. James tumbles over him. Bill blacks his face with his brush.
Bill	Running a little way. Ha! ha! ha! Bill Shoeblack⁠—his mark! Who’s blackie now? You owes me a penny⁠—twopence⁠—’twor sich a ugly job! Ain’t shiny? I’ll come back and shine ye for another penny. Good mornin’, Jim Crow! Take my adwice, and don’t on no account apply your winegar afore you’ve opened your hoyster. Likeways: Butter don’t melt on a cold tater. Exit.
	Exit James* into the house, banging the door. Enter Waterfield, followed by Bill.*
Bill	Please, sir, I been a watchin’ for you.
Waterfield	Go to the devil!
Bill	I’d rayther not. So there’s your suv’ring!
Waterfield	Go along. Meet me where I told you.
Bill	I won’t. There’s yer skid.
Waterfield	Be off, or I’ll give you in charge. Hey! Policeman! Exit.
Bill	Well, I’m blowed! This quid ’11 be the hangin’ o’ me! Damn you! Throws it fiercely on the ground and stamps on it. Serves me right for chaffin’ the old un! He didn’t look a bad sort⁠—for a gov’nor.⁠—Now I reflexes, I heerd Mattie spoony on some father or other, afore. O Lord! I’ll get Jim and Jack to help me look out for him. Enter Thomas. Lor’ ha’ mussy!⁠—talk o’ the old un!⁠—I’m wery peticlar glad as I found you, daddy. I been a lookin’ for ye⁠—leastways I was a goin’ to look for ye this wery moment as you turns up. I chaffed you like a zorologicle monkey yesterday, daddy, an’ I’m wery sorry. But you see fathers ain’t nice i’ this ’ere part o’ the continent. Enter James, in plain clothes, watching them. They ain’t no good nohow to nobody. If I wos a husband and a father, I don’t know as how I should be A One, myself. P’r’aps I might think it wur my turn to break arms and legs. I knowed more ’n one father as did. It’s no wonder the boys is a plaguy lot, daddy.
Thomas	Goo away, boy. Dosto yer, aw’ve seen so mich wickedness sin’ aw coom to Lon’on, that aw dunnot knaw whether to breighk thi yed, or to goo wi’ tho? There be thieves and there be robbers.
Bill	Never fear, daddy. You ain’t worth robbin’ of, I don’t think.
Thomas	How dosto knaw that? Aw’ve moore ’n I want to lose abeawt mo.
Bill	Then Mattie ’ill have som’at to eat⁠—will she, daddy?
Thomas	Som’at to eight, boy! Be mo Mattie hungry⁠—dun yo think?
Bill	Many and many’s the time, daddy.
Thomas	Yigh⁠—afore her dinner!
Bill	And after it too, daddy.
Thomas	O Lord!⁠—And what does hoo do when hoo ’s hungry?
Bill	Grins and bears it. Come and see her, daddy?
Thomas	O Lord! Mo Mattie, an’ nothin’ to eight! Goo on, boy. Aw’m beawn to follow yo. Tak mo wheer yo like. Aw’ll goo.
Bill	Come along then, daddy.
James	Collaring him. Hullo, young un! You’re the rascal as stole the suvering: I saw you!
Bill	Dunno what you’re up to. I never stole nothink.
James	Oh no! of course not! What’s that in yer fist now? Catches Bill’s* hand, and forces it open.* There!
	Bill drops his stool on James’s foot, throws up the coin, catches it with his other hand, and puts it in his mouth.
Thomas	Theighur! Theighur! The like ov that! Aw’re agooin wi’ a thief⁠—aw wur!
Bill	Never you mind, daddy. It wur guv to me.
James	That’s what they allus says, sir.⁠—You come along.⁠—I’d be obliged to you, sir, if you would come too, and say you saw him.
Thomas	Nay! aw connot say aw seigh him steyle it.
James	You saw it in his hand.
Thomas	Yigh! aw did.
Bill	It wis guv to me, I tell ye.
James	Honest boy, this one! Looks like it, don’t he, sir? What do you think of yourself, you young devil, a decoying of a grey-haired old gen’leman like this? Why, sir, him an’ his pals ’ud ha’ taken every penny you had about you! Murdered you, they might⁠—I’ve knowed as much. It’s a good thing I ’appened on the spot.⁠—Come along, you bad boy!
Bill	I didn’t, take it. And I won’t go.
James	Come along. They’ll change it for you at the lockup.
Bill	You didn’t see me steal it! You ain’t never a goin’ to gi’ me in charge?
James	Wrong again, young un! That’s? percisely what I am a goin’ to do!
Bill	Oh, sir! please, sir! I’m a honest boy. It’s the Bible-truth. I’ll kiss twenty books on it.
James	I won’t ax you.⁠—Why, sir, he ain’t even one o’ the shoe-brigade. He ’ain’t got a red coat. Bless my soul! he ’ain’t even got a box⁠—nothin’ but a scrubby pair o’ brushes as I’m alive! He ain’t no shoeblack. He’s a thief as purtends to black shoes, and picks pockets.
Bill	You’re a liar! I never picked a pocket, in my life.
James	Bad language, you see! What more would you have?
Thomas	Who’d iver lia’ thowt o’ sich wickedness in a boy like that!
Bill	I ain’t a wicked boy, no. Nay, doan’t thae tell mo that! Thae made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw’d been a mak ov a deevil⁠—yo did.
James	He’s one of the worst boys I know. This Timothy is one of the very worst boys in all London.
Bill	Aside. Timothy, eh? I twigs! It’s Rainbow, by Peter and Paul!⁠—Look y’e here, old gen’leman! This ’ere’s a bad cove as is takin’ adwantage o’ your woolliness. I knows him. His master guv me the suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where your Mattie was.
James	Don’t you fancy you’re g’ in’ to take in an experienced old gen’leman like that with your cock-and-bull stories! Come along, I say. Hey! Police!
Bill	Here you are! Takes the coin from his mouth, rubs it dry on his jacket, and offers it. I don’t want it. Give it to old Hunx there.⁠—He shan’t never see his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, arter all.
James	Taking the coin. Now look here, Timothy. I’m a detective hofficer. But I won’t never be hard on no buy as wants to make a honest livin’. So you be hoff! I’ll show the old gen’leman where he wants to go to.
	Bill moves two paces, and takes a sight at him.
Thomas	The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr Mattie then?
James	It’s the dooty of a detective hofficer to know every girl in his beat.
Bill	My eye! there’s a oner!
Thomas	Tak mo to her, sir, an’ aw’ll pray for yo.
James	I will.⁠—If I cotch you nearer than Mile End, I’ll give you in charge at oncet.
Bill	Bolting five yards. He’s a humbug, daddy! but he’ll serve you right. He’ll melt you down for taller. He ain’t no ’tective. I know him.
Thomas	Goo away.
Bill	Goodbye, daddy! He don’t know your Mattie. Goodbye, skelington! Exit.
Thomas	Eh! sech a boy!
James	Let me see. You want a girl of the name of Mattie?
Thomas	Aw do, sir.
James	The name is not an oncommon one. There’s Mattie Kent?
Thomas	Nay; it’s noan o’ her.
James	Then there’s Mattie Winchfield?
Thomas	Nay; it’s noan o’ her.
James	Then there’s Mattie Pearson?
Thomas	Yigh, that’s hoo! That’s hoo! Wheer? Wheer?
James	Well, it’s too far for a man of your age to walk. But I’ll call a cab, and we’ll go comfortable.
Thomas	But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab⁠—as yo co it.
James	You don’t suppose I’m a goin’ to put an honest man like you to expense!
Thomas	It’s but raysonable I should peigh. But thae knows best.
James	Hey! Cab there! Exeunt.
	Reenter Bill, following them.
Bill	I’ll have an eye of him, though. The swell as give me the yellow-boy⁠—he’s his master! Poor old codger! He’ll believe any cove but the one as tells him the truth!
	Exit. Enter from the house Mrs. Clifford. Enter from opposite side Col. Gervaise.
Col. Gervaise	I was just coming to see you, Clara.
Mrs. Clifford	And I was going to see you. How’s Arthur today? I thought you would have come yesterday.
Col. Gervaise	My poor boy is as dependent on me as if I were not his father. I am very anxious about him. The fever keeps returning.
Mrs. Clifford	Fortune seems to have favoured your mad scheme, Walter.
Col. Gervaise	Or something better than fortune.
Mrs. Clifford	You have had rare and ample opportunity. You may end the farce when you please, and in triumph.
Col. Gervaise	On the contrary, Clara, it would be nothing but an anticlimax to end what you are pleased to call “the farce” now. As if I could make a merit of nursing my own boy! I did more for my black servant. I wish I had him here.
Mrs. Clifford	You would like to double the watch⁠—would you?
Col. Gervaise	Something has vexed you, Clara.
Mrs. Clifford	I never liked the scheme, and I like it less every day.
Col. Gervaise	I have had no chance yet. He has been ill all the time. I wish you would come and see him a little oftener.
Mrs. Clifford	He doesn’t want me. You are everything now. Besides, I can’t come alone.
Col. Gervaise	Why not?
Mrs. Clifford	Constance would fancy I did not want to take her.
Col. Gervaise	Then why not take her?
Mrs. Clifford	I have my reasons.
Col. Gervaise	What are they?
Mrs. Clifford	Never mind.
Col. Gervaise	I insist upon knowing them.
Mrs. Clifford	It would break my heart, Walter, to quarrel with you, but I will if you use such an expression.
Col. Gervaise	But why shouldn’t you bring Miss Lacordère with you?
Mrs. Clifford	He’s but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head.
Col. Gervaise	She’s a fine girl. You make a friend of her.
Mrs. Clifford	She’s a good girl, and a ladylike girl; but I don’t want to meddle with the bulwarks of society. I hope to goodness they will last my time.
Col. Gervaise	Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride be a Christian virtue.
Mrs. Clifford	I see! You’ll be a radical before long. Everything is going that way.
Col. Gervaise	I don’t care what I am, so I do what’s right. I’m sick of all that kind of thing. What I want is bare honesty. I believe I’m a tory as yet, but I should be a radical tomorrow if I thought justice lay on that side.⁠—If a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn’t he marry her?
Mrs. Clifford	She may be unfit for him.
Col. Gervaise	How should he fall in love with her, then? Men don’t fall in love with birds.
Mrs. Clifford	It’s a risk⁠—a great risk.
Col. Gervaise	None the greater that he pleases himself, and all the more worth taking. I wish my poor boy⁠—
Mrs. Clifford	Your poor boy might please himself and yet not succeed in pleasing you, brother!
Col. Gervaise	Aside. She knows something.⁠—I must go and see about his dinner. Goodbye, sister.
Mrs. Clifford	Goodbye, then. You will have your own way!
Col. Gervaise	This once, Clara. Exeunt severally.

End of Act II.

Act III

Scene.⁠—A garret-room. Mattie. Susan.

Mattie	At the worst we’ve got to die some day, Sue, and I don’t know but hunger may be as easy a way as another.
Susan	I’d rather have a choice, though. And it’s not hunger I would choose.
Mattie	There are worse ways.
Susan	Never mind: we don’t seem likely to be bothered wi’ choosin’.
Mattie	There’s that buttonhole done. Lays down her work with a sigh, and leans back in her chair.
Susan	I’ll take it to old Nathan. It’ll be a chop apiece. It’s wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up.
Mattie	I don’t think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content with bread, I think.
Susan	Bread, indeed!
Mattie	Well, it’s something to eat.
Susan	Do you call it eatin’ when you see a dog polishin’ a bone?
Mattie	Bread’s very good with a cup of tea.
Susan	Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!⁠—If you’d mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now!
Mattie	I never tasted lobster-salad.
Susan	I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don’t care about your wittles: I do. When I’m hungry, I’m not at all comfortable.
Mattie	Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard.
Susan	I can’t eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain’t dyin’ of ’unger. It’s only I’m peckish. Very peckish, though. I could eat⁠—let me see what I could eat:⁠—I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken⁠—if it was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it⁠—and a Bath-bun, and a sandwich; and in fact I don’t know what I couldn’t eat, except just that crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle of champagne.
Mattie	I don’t know what one of those things tastes like⁠—scarce one; and I don’t believe you do either.
Susan	Don’t I?⁠—I never did taste champagne, but I’ve seen them eating lobster-salad many a time;⁠—girls not half so good-lookin’ as you or me, Mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin’ upon ’em. Oh dear! I am so hungry! Think of having your supper with a real gentleman as talks to you as if you was fit to talk to⁠—not like them Jew-tailors, as tosses your work about as if it dirtied their fingers⁠—and them none so clean for all their fine rings!
Mattie	I saw Nathan’s Joseph in a pastrycook’s last Saturday, and a very pretty girl with him, poor thing!
Susan	Oh the hussy to let that beast pay for her!
Mattie	I suppose she was hungry.
Susan	I’d die before I let a snob like that treat me. No, Mattie! I spoke of a real gentleman.
Mattie	Are you sure you wouldn’t take Nathan’s Joseph for a gentleman if he was civil to you?
Susan	Thank you, miss! I know a sham from a real gentleman the moment I set eyes on him.
Mattie	What do you mean by a real gentleman, Susan?
Susan	A gentleman as makes a lady of his girl.
Mattie	But what sort of lady, Sue? The poor girl may fancy herself a lady, but only till she’s left in the dirt. That sort of gentleman makes fine speeches to your face, and calls you horrid names behind your back. Sue, dear, don’t have a word to say to one of them⁠—if he speaks ever so soft.
Susan	Lawks, Mattie! they ain’t all one sort.
Mattie	You won’t have more than one sort to choose from. They may be rough or civil, good-natured or bad, but they’re all the same in this, that not one of them cares a pin more for you than if you was a horse⁠—no⁠—nor half a quarter so much. Don’t for God’s sake have a word to say to one of them. If I die, Susan⁠—
Susan	If you do, Matilda⁠—if you go and do that thing, I’ll take to gin⁠—that’s what I’ll do. Don’t say I didn’t act fair, and tell you beforehand.
Mattie	How can I help dying, Susan?
Susan	I say, Don’t do it, Mattie. We’ll fall out, if you do. Don’t do it, Matilda⁠—La! there’s that lumping Bill again⁠—always a comin’ up the stair when you don’t want him!
	Enter Bill.
Mattie	Well, Bill, how have you been getting on?
Bill	Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can’t go on so. Holds out his stool. It ain’t respectable.
Mattie	What ain’t respectable? Everything’s respectable that’s honest.
Bill	Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin’ about with a three-legged stool for a blackin’ box? It ain’t the thing. The rig’lars chaffs me fit to throw it at their ’eads, they does⁠—only there’s too many on ’em, an’ I’ve got to dror it mild. A box I must have, or a feller’s ockypation’s gone. Look ye here! One bob, one tanner, and a joey! There! that’s what comes of never condescending to an ’a’penny.
Susan	Bless us! what mighty fine words we’ve got a waitin’ on us!
Bill	If I ’ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it’s for the right word in the right place⁠—as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him up for purfane swearin’.⁠—When a gen’leman hoffers me an ’a’penny, I axes him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige me by givin’ of it to the first beggar he may ’ave the good fort’n to meet. Some on ’em throws down the ’a’penny. Most on ’em makes it a penny.⁠—But I say, Mattie, you don’t want nobody arter you⁠—do you now?
Mattie	I don’t know what you mean by that, Bill.
Bill	You don’t want a father⁠—do you now? Do she, Susan?
Susan	We want no father a hectorin’ here, Bill. You ’ain’t seen one about, have you?
Bill	I seen a rig’lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow.
Mattie	What do you mean, Bill? Bill. A rig’lar swell⁠—I repeats it⁠—a astin’ arter a young woman by the name o’ Mattie.
Susan	Pulling him aside. Hold your tongue, Bill! You’ll kill her! You young viper! Hold your tongue, or I’ll twist your neck. Don’t you see how white she is?
Mattie	What was he like? Do tell me, Bill.
Bill	A long-legged rig’lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane with a hivory ’andle.
Susan	He’s a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can’t abide him. If you tell him where she is, she’ll never speak to you again.
Mattie	Oh, Susan! what shall I do? Don’t bring him here, Bill. I shall have to run away again; and I can’t, for we owe a week’s rent.
Susan	There, Bill!
Bill	Don’t you be afeard, Mattie. He shan’t touch you. Nor the old one neither.
Mattie	There wasn’t an old man with him?⁠—not an old man with a long stick?
Bill	Not with him. Daddy was on his own hook?
Mattie	It must have been my father, Susan. Sinks back on her chair.
Susan	’Tain’t the least likely.⁠—There, Bill! I always said you was no good! You’ve killed her.
Bill	Mattie! Mattie! I didn’t tell him where you was.
Mattie	Reviving. Run and fetch him, Bill⁠—there’s a dear! Oh! how proud I’ve been! If mother did say a hard word, she didn’t mean it⁠—not for long. Run, Bill, run and fetch him.
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.
Mattie	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!
Mattie	Had he a stick, Bill?
Bill	Yes⁠—a knobby stick⁠—leastways a stick wi’ knobs all over it.
Mattie	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.
Mattie	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.
Mattie	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 unlikely 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.
Mattie	Don’t cry, Bill. You’ll find him for me yet⁠—won’t you?
Bill	I’m off this indentical minute. But you see⁠—
Susan	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?
Mattie	No, indeed.
Susan	Well, I hope she’ll be civil, or I’ll just give her a bit of my mind.
Mattie	Not enough to change hers, I’m afraid. That sort of thing never does any good.
Susan	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!
Mattie	You will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of us.
Susan	An’ what’s that to me?
Mattie	Well, I don’t like to be thought a thief. Besides, Mrs. Clifford has been kind to us.
Susan	She’s paid us for work done; so has old Nathan.
Mattie	Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took home his slops?
Susan	Oh! that don’t cost much; and besides, she takes it out in kingdom-come.
Mattie	You’re unfair, Susan.
Susan	Well, it’s little fairness I get.
Mattie	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.
Susan	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.
Mattie	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. Clifford	Wait on the landing, James.
James	Yes, ma’am.
	Exit James, leaving the door a little ajar.
Mrs. Clifford	Well, Miss Pearson! Mattie offers a chair. No, thank you. That person is still with you, I see!
Mattie	Indeed, ma’am, she’s an honest girl.
Mrs. Clifford	She is a low creature, and capable of anything. I advise you to get rid of her.
Mattie	Was she rude on the stair, ma’am?
Mrs. Clifford	Rude! Vulgar⁠—quite vulgar! Insulting!
Mattie	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.
Mattie	I can’t, ma’am. She might go into bad ways if I did.
Mrs. Clifford	She can’t well get into worse. Her language! You would do ever so much better without her.
Mattie	I daren’t, ma’am. I should never get it off my conscience.
Mrs. Clifford	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.
Susan	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!
Mattie	Trying to make her get up. Never mind. It’s all right between you and me, Susan.
Mrs. Clifford	I see! I thought as much!
Susan	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. Clifford	That linen was mine, young woman, I believe.
Susan	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!
Mattie	Susan! Susan! do be quiet.
Susan	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!
Mattie	Don’t, Susan.
Susan	Why don’t ye go an’ pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye good manners? I been better brought up myself.
Mrs. Clifford	I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the matter over to the police.
Susan	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.
Mattie	Susan! Susan! what is to become of us?
Susan	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 my 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.
Mattie	They’d send me to the workhouse, Sukey.
Susan	There must be some good people somewheres, Mattie.
Mattie	Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, Sukey.
Susan	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 nowadays.
Mattie	And what should I do without you, Susan?
Susan	Do you care to have me, then?
Mattie	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.
Susan	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.
Mattie	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!
Susan	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!
Mattie	Don’t take off my frock, Sue. I must get on with my work.
Susan	Lie down a bit, anyhow. I’ll lie at your back, and you’ll soon be as warm’s a toast. Mattie 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.*
Constance	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.
Mattie	I don’t want anything. I had so nearly got away! Why did you bring me back?
Constance	Life is good!
Mattie	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.
Constance	If I could make your life worth something to you⁠—
Mattie	You make my life worth to me! You don’t know what you’re saying, miss. Sitting up.
Constance	I think I do.
Mattie	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.
Constance	Miss Pearson⁠—Mattie, I would call you, if you wouldn’t be offended⁠—
Mattie	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—
Constance	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.
Mattie	La, miss! you don’t say so! It’s not possible! Look at you!
Constance	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—
Mattie	Oh! a gentleman!⁠—Fiercely. Why couldn’t you be content with one, then?
Constance	I don’t understand you.
Mattie	I dare say not! There! take your basket. I’ll die afore a morsel passes my lips. There! Go away, miss.
Constance	Aside. Poor girl! she is delirious. I must ask William to fetch a doctor. Exit.
Mattie	I wish my hands were as white as hers.
	Enter Susan, followed by Col. Gervaise. Constance* behind.*
Susan	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. Gervaise	I’ll do what I can, if you will tell me what’s amiss.
Susan	Oh, everything’s amiss⁠—everything!⁠—Who was that went out, Mattie⁠—this minute⁠—as we come in?
Mattie	Miss Lacordère.
Susan	Her imperence! Well! I should die of shame if I was her.
Mattie	She’s an angel, Susan. There’s her basket. I told her to take it away, but she would leave it.
Susan	Peeping into the basket. Oh, my! Ain’t this nice? You must have a bit, Mattie.
Mattie	Not one mouthful. You wouldn’t have me, Susan!
Susan	I ain’t so peticlar eating a great mouthful. You really must, Mattie. Goes on eating.
Col. Gervaise	Don’t tease her. We’ll get something for her presently. And don’t you eat too much⁠—all at once.
Susan	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.
Mattie	My father, Bill?
Bill	That’s it percisely! Right as a trivet⁠—he is!
Mattie	Susan! take hold of me. My heart’s going again.
Bill	Lord! what’s up wi’ Mattie? She do look dreadful.
Susan	You been an’ upset her, you clumsy boy! Here⁠—run and fetch a sausage or two, and a⁠—
Col. Gervaise	No, no! That will never do.
Susan	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. Gervaise	You’d never think of doing a chop for an invalid in the frying-pan?
Susan	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. Gervaise	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. Gervaise	Good night. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.
Susan	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. Gervaise	Well, you looked like it⁠—that is all I can say. You shall do it next time⁠—so far as I’m concerned.
Susan	I won’t never no more again, sir⁠—not if Mattie don’t drive me to it.
Constance	To Col. Gervaise. Come back for me in a little while.
Col. Gervaise	Yes, miss. Come, Bill. Exit.
Bill	All right, sir. I’m a follerin’, as the cat said to the pigeon. Exit.
Susan	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.
Mattie	Oh! to be a baby again in my mother’s arms! But it’ll soon be over now.
	Constance comes forward.
Constance	I hope you’re a little better now?
Mattie	You’re very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon for speaking to you as I did.
Constance	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.
Mattie	Why, miss, I thought you were going to be married!
Constance	No, I am not.
Mattie	Why, miss, what’s happened. He’s never going to play you false⁠—is he?
Constance	I don’t mean ever to speak to him again!
Mattie	What has he done to offend you, miss?
Constance	Nothing. Only I know now I don’t like him. To tell you the truth, Mattie, he’s not a gentleman.
Mattie	Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so?
Constance	Do you know anything about him? Did you ever see him?
Mattie	Yes.
Constance	Where?
Mattie	Once at your house.
Constance	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.
Mattie	To give you your revenge! No. It’s a mean spite to say he ain’t a gentleman.
Constance	Perhaps you and I have different ideas of what goes to make a gentleman.
Mattie	Very likely.
Constance	Oh! don’t be vexed, Mattie. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
Mattie	Oh! I dare say!
Constance	If you talk to me like that, I must go.
Mattie	I never asked you to come.
Constance	Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.
Mattie	Bursting into tears. I beg your pardon, miss. I’m behaving like a brute. But you must forgive me; my heart is breaking.
Constance	Poor dear! Kissing her. So is mine almost. Let us be friends. Where’s Susan gone?
Mattie	To fetch me a cup of tea. She’ll be back directly.
Constance	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.
Mattie	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.
Constance	I should think not, poor girl!
Mattie	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!
	Reenter Susan. It begins to grow dark.
Susan	Well, and who have we got here?
Mattie	Miss Lacordère, Sukey.
Susan	There’s no lack o’ dare about her, to come here!
Mattie	It’s very kind of her to come, Susan.
Susan	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!
Constance	I’m quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought anything else.
Susan	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!
Constance	The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe. It’s an Indian one⁠—all needlework.
Susan	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.
Constance	Laughing. The shawl would be the first thing I should part with. I would rather be nice inside than out.
Susan	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!
Constance	What differs? I don’t understand you.
Susan	The differs ’tween girls an’ ladies⁠—girls like me an’ real ladies like you.
Constance	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?
Susan	I’ll go with pleasure, miss.
Constance	Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the wide streets. You couldn’t lend me an old cloak, could you?
Susan	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.
Constance	But I oughtn’t to be out dressed like this.
Susan	You’ve only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss.
Constance	Drawing up her skirt. I never thought of that!
Susan	Well, I never!
Constance	What’s the matter?
Susan	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!
Constance	Goodbye then, Mattie.
Mattie	Goodbye, miss. God bless you.
	Exeunt.

End of Act III.

Act IV

Scene.⁠—The Studio.

	Enter Col. Gervaise* Walks about restless and eager.*
Col. Gervaise	Thank heaven! If Bill has found Mr. Warren now⁠—Exit.
	Enter Warren.
Warren	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?
	Reenter Col. Gervaise* and hurries to him with outstretched hand.*
Col. Gervaise	My dear sir! I am greatly obliged to you. This is very kind.
Warren	Stepping back. Excuse me.⁠—I do not understand.
Col. Gervaise	I beg your pardon. I ought to have explained.
Warren	I believe something of the sort is necessary.
Col. Gervaise	You are my master’s friend.
Warren	I should be proud of the honour. Can I be of any service to him?
Col. Gervaise	I believe I can trust you. I will trust you⁠—I am his father.
Warren	Whose father? Belzebub’s?
Col. Gervaise	Arthur’s⁠—your friend Gervaise’s. I am Sir Walter Gervaise. You must help me to help him.
	Warren regards him for a moment.
Warren	Stiffly. Sir Walter, I owe your son much⁠—you nothing yet. I am his friend.
Col. Gervaise	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.
Warren	I would serve your son blindfold: you must excuse me if I wish to understand first.
Col. Gervaise	Arthur is in trouble. He has a secret.⁠—God forgive me!⁠—I feared it was a bad one.
Warren	You don’t know him as I do!
Col. Gervaise	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.
Warren	What a strange old fellow! An officer⁠—and disguise himself!
	Enter Bill.
Bill	Here you are, sir!
Warren	No vast amount of information in that statement, my boy!
Bill	Well, sir⁠—here I are, sir.
Warren	That is a trifle more to the point, though scarcely requiring mention.
Bill	Then, here we are, sir.
Warren	That’ll do⁠—if you know what comes next?
Bill	I do, sir.
Warren	Go on, then.
Bill	Here goes! Come along, sir. You’ll have to take a bobby, though.
Warren	We’ll see about that. You go on.
	Exeunt. Enter Gervaise, followed by Col. Gervaise.
Gervaise	What a time you have been, William!
Col. Gervaise	I’m sorry, sir. Did you want anything?
Gervaise	No. But I don’t like to be left. You are the only friend I have.
Col. Gervaise	Thank you, sir. A man must do his duty, but it’s a comfort when his colonel takes notice of it.
Gervaise	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. Gervaise	Is there nothing to be done, sir?
Gervaise	No; it’s here⁠—putting his hand to his head⁠—inside.
Col. Gervaise	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.
Gervaise	No doubt⁠—no doubt. But there is no help for me.
Col. Gervaise	You cannot be sure of that, sir.
Gervaise	You would help me if you could, I believe.
Col. Gervaise	God knows I would, sir⁠—to the last drop of my blood.
Gervaise	That’s saying much, William. A son couldn’t say more⁠—no, nor a father either.
Col. Gervaise	Oh! yes, he could, sir.
Gervaise	And mean it?
Col. Gervaise	Yes.
Gervaise	If I had a father, William, I would tell him all about it. I was but two years old when he left me.
Col. Gervaise	Then you don’t remember him, sir?
Gervaise	I often dream about him, and then I seem to remember him.
Col. Gervaise	What is he like, sir?⁠—in your dreams, I mean.
Gervaise	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. Gervaise	Where is your father, sir?
Gervaise	In India.
Col. Gervaise	A soldier, sir?
Gervaise	Yes. Colonel Gervaise⁠—you must have heard of him. Sir Walter he is now.
Col. Gervaise	I’ve heard of him, sir⁠—away in the north parts he’s been, mostly.
Gervaise	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. Gervaise	Willingly, sir.
Gervaise	Is there any fighting there now?
Col. Gervaise	Not at present, I believe.
Gervaise	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. Gervaise	That wouldn’t be difficult, sir!⁠—I mean with most fathers.
Gervaise	Ah! but mine, you know, William!⁠—Are you good at the cut and thrust?
Col. Gervaise	Pretty good, sir, I believe.
Gervaise	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. Gervaise	Nothing you need mind, sir.
Gervaise	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. Gervaise	I daren’t say, sir.
Gervaise	Is the sun shining?
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir. It’s a lovely day.
Gervaise	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. Gervaise	Aside. He’s getting lightheaded again! I must send for the doctor. Exit.
Gervaise	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!
	Enter Col. Gervaise* and seizes his arm.*
Gervaise	With a cry. You’ve killed my Psyche! Goes to the clay, and lifts the cloth. There’s the bullet-hole through her heart!
Col. Gervaise	It might have been worse, sir.
Gervaise	Worse! I’ve killed her! See where she flies! She’s gone! She’s gone! Bursts into tears. Col. Gervaise* leads him to the couch.* Thank you, William. I couldn’t help it. That man was with her. I meant it for myself.
Col. Gervaise	Who did you say was with her?
Gervaise	You mustn’t heed what I say. I am mad. A knock. He starts up. Don’t let them in, William. I shall rave if you do.
	Col. Gervaise catches up the pistols and exit hurriedly. Gervaise throws himself on the couch. Reenter Col. Gervaise.
Col. Gervaise	Aside. He is in love with her! Everything proves it. My boy! My boy!
Gervaise	Father! father!⁠—Oh, William! I was dreaming, and took you for my father! I must die, William⁠—somehow. There must be some way out of this! The doors can’t all be locked.
Col. Gervaise	There’s generally a chance to be had, sir. There’s always a right and a wrong fighting it out somewhere. There’s Garibaldi in the field again! Die by the hand of an enemy⁠—if you will die, sir.
Gervaise	Smiling. That I couldn’t, William: the man that killed me would be my best friend.⁠—Yes⁠—Garibaldi!⁠—I don’t deserve it, though: he fights for his country; I should fight but for death. Only a man doesn’t stop when he dies⁠—does he, William?
Col. Gervaise	I trust not, sir. But he may hope to be quieter⁠—that is, if he dies honestly. It’s grand for a soldier! He sweeps on the roaring billows of war into a soundless haven! Think of that, sir!
Gervaise	Why, William! how you talk!⁠—Yes! it would be grand! On the crest of the war-cataract⁠—heading a cavalry charge!⁠—Tomorrow, William. I shall be getting stronger all the way. We’ll start tomorrow.
Col. Gervaise	Where for, sir?
Gervaise	For Italy⁠—for Garibaldi. You’ll go with me?
Col. Gervaise	To the death, sir.
Gervaise	Yes; that’s it⁠—that’s where I’m going. But not today. Look at my arm: it wouldn’t kill a rat!⁠—You saved my life, but I’m not grateful. If I was dead, I might be watching her⁠—out of the lovely silence!⁠—My poor Psyche!
Col. Gervaise	She’s none the worse, sir. The pistol didn’t go off.
Gervaise	Ah!⁠—She ought to have fallen to pieces⁠—long ago! You’ve been seeking to keep her shroud wet. But it’s no matter. Let her go. Earth to earth, and dust to dust!⁠—the law of Nature⁠—and Art too.
	Exit into the house.
Col. Gervaise	Following him. I mustn’t lose sight of him.⁠—Here he comes again, thank God!
	Catches up a coat, and begins brushing it. Reenter Gervaise.
Gervaise	I don’t like to see you doing that.
Col. Gervaise	Why shouldn’t I serve my own⁠—superior, sir? Anything’s better than serving yourself. And that’s what everyone does who won’t serve other people.
Gervaise	You are right. And it’s so cheap.
Col. Gervaise	And so nasty!
Gervaise	Right again, William!⁠—Right indeed!⁠—You’re a gentleman! If there’s anything I could help you in⁠—anything gone wrong⁠—any friends offended⁠—I’m not altogether without influence.
Col. Gervaise	Aside. He will vanquish me with my own weapons!
Gervaise	But you will go to Garibaldi with me?
Col. Gervaise	I will, sir.
Gervaise	And ride by my side?
Col. Gervaise	Of course.
Gervaise	If you ride by me, you will have to ride far.
Col. Gervaise	I know, sir. But if you would be fit for fighting, you must come and have something to eat and drink.
Gervaise	All right. A soldier must obey: I shall begin by obeying you. Only mind you keep up with me. Exit, leaning on Col. Gervaise.
	Enter Thomas.
Thomas	Th’ dule a mon be yere! Aw’re main troubled to get shut ov they reyvers! Aw’m olez i’ trouble! Mine’s a gradely yed! it be!⁠—Hoy!⁠—Nobory yere! ’T seems to me, honest men be scarce i’ Lonnon. Aw’m beawn to believe nobory but mo own heighes, and mo own oud lass. Exit.
	Reenter Gervaise, followed by Col. Gervaise.
Gervaise	No, William; I won’t lie down. I feel much better. Let’s have a bout with the foils.
Col. Gervaise	Very well, sir. Aside. A little of that will go far, I know. Gets down the foils.
Gervaise	And, William, you must set a block up here. I shall have a cut or two at it tomorrow. There’s a good cavalry weapon up there⁠—next that cast of Davis’s arm.
Col. Gervaise	Suppose your father were to arrive just after you had started!
Gervaise	I shouldn’t mind. I don’t want to see him yet. I’m such a poor creature! The heart seems to have gone out of me. You see, William⁠—
	Enter Mrs. Clifford.
Gervaise	Ah! How do you do, aunt?
Mrs. Clifford	What’s this nonsense about Garibaldi, Arthur?
Gervaise	Who told you?
Mrs. Clifford	You don’t mean it’s true?
Gervaise	Quite true, aunt.
Mrs. Clifford	Really, Arthur, you are more of a scatterbrain than I took you for!
Gervaise	Don’t say that, aunt. I only take after my father.
Mrs. Clifford	Don’t talk to me of your father! I have no patience with him. A careless hard-hearted fellow⁠—not worthy the name of a father! She glares at Sir Walter.
Gervaise	You may go, William. Col. Gervaise retires slowly.
Gervaise	Aunt, you have been a mother to me; but were you really my mother, I must not listen to such words of my father. He has good reasons for what he does, though I admit there is something in it we don’t understand. Aside. If I could but understand how Constance⁠—
Mrs. Clifford	What do you say? What was that about Constance?
Gervaise	Oh, nothing, aunt. I was only thinking how difficult it is to understand people.
Mrs. Clifford	If you mean Constance, I agree with you. She is a most provoking girl.
Gervaise	Smiling. I am sorry to hear that, aunt.
Mrs. Clifford	I’m very glad you were never so silly as take a fancy to the girl. She would have led you a pretty dance! If you saw how she treats that unfortunate Waterfield! But what’s bred in the bone won’t out of the flesh.
Gervaise	There’s nothing bred in her I would have out, aunt.
Mrs. Clifford	Perhaps she originated her vulgarity. That is a shade worse.
Gervaise	Vulgarity, aunt! I cannot remember the meaning of the word when I think of her.
Mrs. Clifford	If you choose to insult me, Arthur⁠—
	Exit.
Gervaise	It is high time I were gone! If I should be called in now to settle matters between⁠—William! William!⁠—William!
	Enter Col. Gervaise.
Gervaise	Tomorrow, William. Not a word. If you will go with me, I shall be glad. If you will not, I shall go without you.
	Exit.
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir.⁠—I wish Warren were here with the old man. I don’t know what to do till he comes.
	Enter Constance.
Constance	I thought my aunt was here, William.
Col. Gervaise	No, miss. She was here, but she’s gone again.
Constance	Could I see Mr. Gervaise for a moment?
Col. Gervaise	Certainly, miss. I’ll tell him.
Constance	Is he still determined on going, William?
Col. Gervaise	Yes, miss;⁠—tomorrow, he says.
Constance	Tomorrow!
Col. Gervaise	Yes, miss. I think he means to start for Dover in the morning.
Constance	What am I to do?
Col. Gervaise	What’s the matter, miss?
Constance	What can I do? I know he is angry with me. I don’t quite know why. I wish I had never⁠—I can’t help it now. My heart will break. Weeps.
Col. Gervaise	Don’t let him go to Dover tomorrow, miss.
Constance	He would have listened to me once. He won’t now. It’s all so different! Everything has gone wrong somehow.
Col. Gervaise	Do try to keep him from going, miss.
Constance	He would but think me forward. I could bear anything better than have him think ill of me.
Col. Gervaise	No fear of that, miss. The danger is all the other way.
Constance	What other way, William?
Col. Gervaise	He thinks you don’t care a bit about him.
	Exit. Constance* drops on the dais, nearly under the veiled Psyche.* Enter Gervaise* and stands a moment regarding her.*
Gervaise	Constance.
Constance	Starting up, and flying to him with her hands clasped. Arthur! Arthur! don’t go. I can’t bear you to go. It’s all my fault, but do forgive me! Oh, do, do⁠—dear Arthur! Don’t go tomorrow. I shall be miserable if you do.
Gervaise	But why, my⁠—why, Constance?
Constance	I was your Constance once.
Gervaise	But why should I not go? Nobody wants me here.
Constance	Oh, Arthur! how can you be so cruel? Can it be that⁠—? Do say something. If you won’t say anything, how can I know what you are thinking⁠—what you wish? Perhaps you don’t like⁠—I would⁠—I have⁠—I won’t⁠—Oh, Arthur! do say something.
Gervaise	I have nothing to say, Constance.
Constance	Then I have lost you⁠—altogether! I dare say I deserve it. I hardly know. God help me! What can I have done so very wicked? Oh! why did you take me out of the streets? I should have been used to them by this time! They are terrible to me now. No, no, Arthur! I thank you⁠—thank you⁠—with my very soul! What might I not have been by this time! But I used to lie in that corner, and I daren’t now!
	Enter Col. Gervaise* behind.*
	It was a happy time, for I had not offended you then. Goodbye. Won’t you say one word to me?⁠—You will never see me again.
	She pauses a moment; then exit weeping⁠—by the back door, behind the Psyche. Col. Gervaise* follows her.*
Gervaise	How could she love that fellow? Looking up. Gone? gone! My Constance! My Psyche! I’ve driven her into the wild street! O my God! William! William! Constance! Which door? I won’t go, Constance⁠—I won’t. I will do anything you ask me. What was that she said?⁠—Goodbye! God in heaven!⁠—William! you idiot! where are you? William!
	He rushes out by the front door. Reenter Col. Gervaise* by the back door.*
Col. Gervaise	It was lucky I met Bill! He’s after her like the wind. That message will bring her back, I think. I could trust that boy with anything! But where is he? Enter Thomas. What, friend! here at last! Thank God! Just sit down a moment, will you? Peeps into the room off the study. He’s not there! I heard him calling this moment! Perhaps he’s in the house.⁠—Did you leave the door open, sir?
Thomas	Nay. Th’ dur wur oppen. Aw seigh sombory run eawt as aw coom oop.
Col. Gervaise	My boy! my boy! It will kill him!⁠—Stop here till I come back. Rushes out.
Thomas	Aw connot stop. Aw’m tired enough, God knows, to stop anywheeres; mo yed goes reawnd and reawnd, an’ aw’d fain lie mo deawn. But aw mun be gooin’. Nobory can tell what may be coomin to mo Mattie. Aw mun go look, go look! Ha! ha! they couldn’t keep mo, owd mon as aw wur! But aw wish aw hed a word wi’ th’ mon first.
	Enter Warren.
Warren	Aside. This must be the old fellow himself! Here he is after all! Peeps into the room.
Thomas	Theer be nobory theer, sir. Th’ maister’s run eawt, and th’ mon after him.
Warren	Run out!
Thomas	Aw niver says what aw donnot mane. An’ aw’m glad yo’re theer, sir; for William he towd mo to stay till he coom back; but aw’ve not geet so mich time to spare; and so be’s yo’re a friend ov th’ maister’s, yo’ll mebbe mind th’ shop a smo’ bit. Aw mun goo going.
Warren	I say, old man⁠—your name’s Thomas Pearson⁠—ain’t it?
Thomas	Yigh. Aw yer. But hea cooms to to knaw mo name?
Warren	I know all about you.
Thomas	Ivvery body knaws ivvery body yere! Aw connot stur a fut fur folks as knaws mo, and knaws mo name, and knaws what aw be after. Lonnon is a dreedfu’ plaze. Aw mun geet mo lass to whoam. Yo’ll mind th’ shop till th’ maister cooms back. Good neet going.
Warren	Stopping him. They want you here a bit. You’d better stop. The man will be back directly. You’re too suspicious.
Thomas	Nea, maister, thae’rt wrung theer. Aw’ve trusted too mich⁠—a theawsand times too mich.
Warren	You trusted the wrong people, then.
Thomas	It taks no mak o’ a warlock to tell mo that, maister. It’s smo’ comfort, noather.
Warren	Well now, you give me a turn, and hear what I’ve got to say.
Thomas	Yo’re o’ tarred wi’ th’ same stick. Ivvery body maks gam ov th’ poor owd mon! Let me goo, maister. Aw want mo chylt, mo Mattie!
Warren	You must wait till Mr. Gervaise’s man comes back.
Thomas	Despairingly. O Lord. Th’ peack ov sunbrunt lies they ha’ been tellin’ me sin’ aw coom yere!⁠—childer an o’!
Warren	Have patience, man. You won’t repent it.
Thomas	What mun be, mun. Aw connot ha’ patience, but aw con stop. Aw’d rayther goo, tho. Aw’m noan sorry to rest noather. Sits down on the dais.
	Enter Bill.
Warren	Here, boy! Don’t let the old man go till someone comes. Exit.
Bill	All right, sir! Hillo, daddy! There you are! Thank God!
Thomas	What fur, boy? Wull he gie mo mo Mattie again⁠—dosto think?
Bill	That he will, daddy! You come along, an’ you’ll know a honest boy next time.⁠—I can’t till I see Mr. William, though.
Thomas	Iv thae manes th’ maister’s mon yere, he’s run eawt. An’ aw connot goo witho. Aw’m keepin’ th’ shop till he coom back. An’ aw dunnot mich care to goo witho. Aw dunnot mich trust tho. Th’ Lord have a care ov mo! Aw dimnot knaw which to trust, and which not to trust. But aw mun wait for maister William, as yo co’ him.
Bill	All right, daddy!⁠—Don’t you stir from here till I come back⁠—not for nobody⁠—no, not for Joseph!
Thomas	Aw dunnot knaw no Joseph.
Bill	I’ll soon let you see I’m a honest boy! As you can’t go to Mattie, I’ll bring Mattie to you: see if I don’t! An’ if she ain’t the right un, I’ll take her back, and charge ye nuffin for carriage. Can’t say fairer than that, daddy!
Thomas	Bless tho, mo boy! Dosto mane it true?
Bill	Yes⁠—an’ that you’ll see, afore you’re an ’alf an hour older, daddy. When Mr. William comes, you say to him, “Bill’s been.⁠—All right.”
Thomas	Aw dunnot like secrets, lad. What don yo mane? Ivvery body seems to mane something, and nobory to say it.
Bill	Never you mind, daddy! “Bill’s been.⁠—All right.” That’s your ticket. I’m off. Exit.
	Thomas gets up, and walks about, murmuring to himself. A knock at the door.
Thomas	Somebory after mo again! Aw’ll geet eawt ov th’ way. Goes behind the Psyche.
	Enter Waterfield.
Waterfield	Nobody here! I am unlucky. “Not at home,” said the rascal⁠—and grinned, by Jove! I’ll be at the bottom of this. There’s no harm in Gervaise. He’s a decent fellow. Knocks at the door of Gervaise’s* room.* I won’t leave the place till I’ve set things right⁠—not if I’ve got to give him a post-obit for five thousand⁠—I won’t!⁠—Nobody there? Looks in. No. Then I’ll go in and wait. Exit.
Thomas	Peeping from behind the Psyche. That’s the villain! Lord o’ mercy! that’s the villain! If aw’re as strung as aw’m owd, aw’d scrunch his yed⁠—aw would! Aw’m sure it’s th’ mon. He kep eawt ov mo way⁠—but aw seigh him once. O Lord, keep mo hands off ov him. Aw met kill him. Aw’m sartin sure ov him when aw see him. Aw’ll not goo nigh him till somebory cooms⁠—cep’ he roons away. Aw’m noan fleyed ov him, but aw met not be able to keep mo howd ov him. Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie! to leave thi owd faither for sich a mak ov a mon as yon! But yere cooms somebory moor. Goes behind the Psyche.
	Enter Mrs. Clifford.
Mrs. Clifford	No one here? She can never be in his room with him! Opens the door. Oh! Mr. Waterfield! You’re here⁠—are you?
Waterfield	Coming to the door. Mrs. Clifford! This is indeed an unexpected pleasure!
Mrs. Clifford	Have you got Constance with you there?
Waterfield	I’ve no such good fortune.
Mrs. Clifford	Where is she, then?
Waterfield	At home, I presume.
Mrs. Clifford	Indeed she is not. I must speak to Arthur.
Waterfield	He’s not here.
Mrs. Clifford	Where’s my⁠—his man, then?
Waterfield	Taken himself off to the public-house, I suppose. There’s nobody about. Odd⁠—ain’t it?
Mrs. Clifford	I’ll go and see. Exit into the house.
Waterfield	What can be the row! there is some row. Exit into the room.
	Enter Gervaise, supported by Col. Gervaise.
Col. Gervaise	Thank God! Thank God!
Gervaise	But where is she? I shall go mad if you’ve told me a lie.
Col. Gervaise	I saw her, and sent a messenger after her. We shall have news of her presently. Do have a little patience, sir.
Gervaise	How can I have patience? I’m a brute⁠—a mean, selfish devil! If that fellow Waterfield was to horsewhip me⁠—I should let him.
Thomas	Coming forward. Theer wur that yung chap yere a while agoo, and he said aw wur to say to Maister William⁠—what wur it aw’re to say?⁠—Yigh⁠—it wur⁠—“Bill’s been. O’reet.”
Col. Gervaise	There, sir! I told you so. Do sit down. I’ll go after her.
Gervaise	I will. I will. Only make haste. Stands staring at the Psyche.
Thomas	Th’ boy said he’d be yere direckly.
Col. Gervaise	You sit down. I’ll be with you presently.
Thomas	Retiring behind the Psyche. Aw’re noan likely to goo, maister.
	Enter Mrs. Clifford* Crosses to room door. Enter Waterfield. They talk.*
Gervaise	William! I don’t want them. Retreats towards the Psyche.
Col. Gervaise	Sit here one moment, sir. Leads him to the dais. Advances to Mrs. Clifford.
Mrs. Clifford	Trying to pass him. Arthur, what can⁠—?
Col. Gervaise	Intercepting her. Let him rest a bit, ma’am, if you please. He’s been out for the first time.
Mrs. Clifford	At night! and in a fog! A pretty nurse you are! Poor boy!
Col. Gervaise	Mr. Waterfield, sir, would you mind stepping into the room again for a moment? Exit Waterfield. Mrs. Clifford, ma’am, would you please get a glass of wine for master? Exit Mrs. Clifford* into the house.*
Gervaise	William! William!
Col. Gervaise	Yes, sir.
Gervaise	Send him away. Don’t let him stop there. I have nothing to say to him.
Col. Gervaise	He shan’t trouble you, sir. I’ll take care of that. Goes behind the Psyche to Thomas, but keeps watching the door of the room.⁠—Did you see the man that went in there just now?
Thomas	With anxiety. He winnot joomp eawt ov th’ window, dosto thenk, lad?
	Reenter Mrs. Clifford* with wine. Gervaise drinks.*
Col. Gervaise	Why should he do that? Do you know anything about him?
Thomas	Aw do.
Col. Gervaise	Has he seen you here?
Thomas	No. Aw’re afeard he’d roon away, and aw keepet snoog.
Col. Gervaise	I needn’t ask who it is, then?
Thomas	Yo needn’t, lad.
	Enter Waterfield.
Thomas	Mo conscience! he’ll pike eawt afoor aw geet howd on him! Rushes out and seizes Waterfield.
	Enter Mattie* and Bill.*
Thomas	Thae’rt a domned villain! Wheer’s mo Mattie?
	Waterfield knocks Thomas down.
Bill	O Lord! the swell’s murdered old daddy!
	All but Gervaise* rush together. Colonel Gervaise seizes Waterfield. Mattie throws herself on her knees beside Thomas and lifts his head.*
Mattie	Father! father! Look at me! It’s Mattie!⁠—your own wicked Mattie! Look at her once, father dear! Lays down his head in despair, and rises. Who struck the good old man?
Bill	He did⁠—the swell as give me the gold sov.
Mattie	Mr. Watkins!⁠—
Waterfield	I haven’t the honour of the gentleman’s acquaintance. I’m not Mr. Watkins. Am I now? To Col. Gervaise. Ha! ha!⁠—Let go, I say. I’m not the man. It’s all a mistake, you see.
Col. Gervaise	In good time. I might make a worse. Watkins mayn’t be your name, but Watkins is your nature.
Waterfield	Damn your insolence! Let me go, I tell you! Struggles threatening.
Col. Gervaise	Gently, gently, young man!⁠—If I give your neckcloth a twist now⁠—!
Mattie	Yes, there is a mistake⁠—and a sad one for me! A wretch that would strike an old man! Indeed you are not what I took you for.
Waterfield	You hear the young woman! She says it’s all a mistake.⁠—My good girl, I’m sorry for the old gentleman; but he oughtn’t to behave like a ruffian. Really, now, you know, a fellow can’t stand that sort of thing! A downright assault! I’m sorry I struck him, though⁠—devilish sorry! I’ll pay the damage with pleasure. Puts his hand in his pocket.
Mattie	Turning away. And not a gentleman! Kneels by Thomas* and weeps.*
Thomas	Feebly. Dunnot greight, Mattie, mo chylt. Aw’m o’ reet. Let th’ mon goo. What’s he to tho or mo?⁠—By th’ mass! aw’m strung enough to lick him yet trying to rise, but falling back. Eigh! eigh! mo owd boans ’ud rayther not. It’s noan blame sure to an owd mon to fo’ tired o’ feightin!
Mattie	Taking’ his head on her lap. Father! father! forgive me! I’m all yours.⁠—I’ll go home with you, and work for you till I drop. O father! how could I leave you for him? I don’t care one bit for him now⁠—I don’t indeed. You’ll forgive me⁠—won’t you, father? Sobs.
Thomas	Aw wull, aw do, mo Mattie. Coom whoam⁠—coom whoam.
Mattie	Will mother forgive me, father?
Thomas	Thi mother, chylt? Hoo’s forgiven tho lung afoor⁠—ivver so lung agoo, chylt! Thi mother may talk leawd, but her heart is as soft as parritch.⁠—Thae knows it, Mattie.
Waterfield	All this is very interesting⁠—only you see it’s the wrong man, and I can’t say he enjoys it. Take your hand off my collar⁠—will you? I’m not the man, I tell you!
Bill	All I says is⁠—it’s the same swell as guv me the skid to find her. I’ll kiss the book on that!
Gervaise	Coming forward. Mr. Waterfield, on your honour, do you know this girl?
Waterfield	Come! you ain’t goin’ to put me to my catechism!
Gervaise	You must allow appearances are against you.
Waterfield	Damn your appearances! What do I care?
Gervaise	If you will not answer my question, I must beg you to leave the place.
Waterfield	My own desire! Will you oblige me by ordering this bulldog of yours to take his paws off me? What the devil is he keeping me here for?
Col. Gervaise	I’ve a great mind to give you in charge.
Waterfield	The old codger assaulted me first.
Col. Gervaise	True; but the whole affair would come to light. That’s what I would have. Miss Pearson, what am I to do with this man?
	Enter Susan* at the back door. Behind her, Constance peeps in.*
Mattie	Let him go.⁠—Father! Father! Kisses him.
Susan	That can never be Mattie’s gentleman, sure‑ly! Hm! I don’t think much of him. I knew he had ugly eyes! I told you so, Mattie! I wouldn’t break my heart for him⁠—no, nor for twenty of him⁠—I wouldn’t! He looks like a drowned cat.
Waterfield	What the devil have you got to do with it?
Susan	Nothing. You shut up.
Waterfield	Well, I’m damned if I know whether I’m on my head or my heels.
Susan	’Tain’t no count which.
Bill	Aside to Col. Gervaise. She’s at the back door, Mr. William.
Col. Gervaise	Who is, Bill? Miss Lacordère?
Bill	Right you air!
	Col. Gervaise hastens to the door. Constance peeps in and draws back. Col. Gervaise follows her. Waterfield approaches Mattie.
Waterfield	Miss Pearson, if that’s⁠—
Mattie	I don’t know you⁠—don’t even know your name.
Waterfield	Looking round. You hear her say it! She don’t know me!
Mattie	Could you try and rise, father? I want to get out of this. There’s a lady here says I’m a thief!
Thomas	Nea, that she connot say, Mattie! Thae cooms ov honest folk. Aw’ll geet oop direckly. Attempts to rise. Eigh! eigh! aw connot! aw connot!
Mrs. Clifford	If I have been unjust to you, Miss Pearson, I shall not fail to make amends.
Susan	It’s time you did then, ma’am. You’ve murdered her, and all but murdered me. That’s how your little bill stands.
Gervaise	To Waterfield. Leave the place, Mr. Waterfield.
Waterfield	You shall answer for this, Gervaise.
Gervaise	Leave the study at once.
Waterfield	Tut! tut! I’ll make it up to them. A bank note’s a good plaster.
Bill	Pleasir, shall I run and fetch a bobby? I likes to see a swell wanted.
Gervaise	You hold your tongue. Retires to the dais and sits down. Mrs. Clifford* follows him.*
Waterfield	Taking out his pocketbook, and approaching Mattie. I didn’t think you’d have served me so, Mattie! Indeed I didn’t! It’s not kind after what’s been between you and me. Mattie rises and stands staring at him. You’ve ruined my prospects⁠—you have! But I don’t want to bear malice: take that.⁠—Old times, you know!⁠—Take it. You’re welcome. Forces the note on her. She steps back. It drops.
Mattie	This is a humiliation! Will nobody take him away?
Susan	Rushing at him. You be off! An’ them goggle eyes o’ yours, or I’ll goggle ’em! I can’t bear the sight on ’em. I should never ha’ taken you for a gentleman. You don’t look it. You slope, I say! Hustles him.
	Waterfield picks up the note, and exit.
Mattie	Bursting into tears. Father! father! don’t hate me; don’t despise me.
	Thomas tries to get up, but falls back.
Bill	Don’t be in no hurry, Daddy. There’s none but friends here now⁠—’cep’ the old lady;⁠—she do look glum.
Susan	I’ll soon settle her hash!
Mattie	Susie! Susie! Don’t⁠—there’s a dear!
Susan	What business has she here then! She’s not a doin’ of nothink.
Mattie	Don’t you see she’s looking after the poor gentleman there?
Gervaise	William!⁠—William!⁠—Gone again! What a fellow he is! The best servant in the world, but always vanishing! Call your James⁠—will you, aunt? We must have the old man put to bed. But the poor girl looks the worse of the two! She can have the spare room, and William can sleep on the sofa in mine.
Mrs. Clifford	I’ll see to it.
	Exit. Gervaise* goes towards Thomas.*
Thomas	Coom whoam⁠—coom whoam, Mattie! Thi mother, hoo’s cryin’ her eighes eawt to whoam.
Mattie	I’ll run for a doctor first, father.
Thomas	No, no, chylt! Aw’re only a bit stonned, like. Aw’ll be o’ reet in a smo’ bit. Aw dunnot want no doctor. Aw’m a coomin’ reawnd.
Gervaise	Neither of you shall stir tonight. Your rooms will be ready in a few minutes.
Mattie	Thank you, sir! I don’t know what I should have done with him.⁠—Susan, you wouldn’t mind going home without me? You know Miss Lacordère⁠—
Gervaise	Miss Lacordère! What do you know of her?
Mattie	Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I oughtn’t to have mentioned her. But my poor head!⁠—
Gervaise	What of Miss Lacordère? For God’s sake, tell me.
	Enter Mrs. Clifford* with James.*
Susan	Oh, nothing, sir! nothing at all! Only Miss Lacordère has been good to us⁠—which it’s more than can be said for everybody! Scowls at Mrs. Clifford* James proceeds to lift Thomas. She flies at him.* Put the old gentleman down, you sneakin’ reptile! How many doors have you been a hearkenin’ at since mornin’⁠—eh, putty-lump? You touch the old man again, and I’ll mark you! Here, Bill! I’ll take his head⁠—you take his feet. We’ll carry him between us like a feather.
Mattie	O Susan! do hold your tongue.
Susan	It’s my only weapon, my dear. If I was a man⁠—see if I’d talk then.
James	It’s a providence you ain’t a man, young woman!
Susan	Right you are! Them’s my werry motives. I ain’t a makin’ of no complaint on that score, young Plush! I wouldn’t be a man for⁠—no, not for⁠—not even for sich a pair o’ calves as yourn!
	Susan and Bill carry Thomas out. Mattie follows. Gervaise is going after them.
Mrs. Clifford	Don’t you go, Arthur. They can manage quite well. I will go if you like.
Gervaise	They know something about Constance.
Mrs. Clifford	Pray give yourself no anxiety about her.
Gervaise	What do you mean, aunt?
Mrs. Clifford	I will be responsible for her.
Gervaise	Where is she then? Exit Mrs. Clifford. William!⁠—If he doesn’t come in one minute more, I’ll go after her myself. Those girls know where she is. I am as strong as a giant.⁠—O God! All but married to that infamous fellow!⁠—That he should ever have touched the tip of one of her fingers! What a sunrise of hope! Psyche may yet fold her wings to my prayer! William! William!⁠—Where can the fellow be?
	Enter Col. Gervaise* in uniform and star, leading Constance.*
Gervaise	Hurrying to meet them. Constance! Constance! forgive me. Oh my God! You will when you know all.
Col. Gervaise	She knows enough for that already, my boy, or she wouldn’t be here. Take her⁠—and me for her sake.
Gervaise	What! who⁠—? Constance!⁠—What does it all mean?⁠—It must be⁠—can it be⁠—my father?⁠—William⁠—It is William!⁠—William my father!⁠—O father! father! Throwing his arms about him. it was you all the time then!
Col. Gervaise	My boy! my boy! There!⁠—take Constance, and let me go. I did want to do something for you⁠—but⁠—There! I’m too much ashamed to look at you in my own person.
Gervaise	Kneeling. Father! father! don’t talk like that! O father! my father!
Col. Gervaise	Raising him. My boy! my boy! I wanted to do something for you⁠—tried hard⁠—and was foiled.⁠—I doubly deserved it. I doubted as well as neglected you. But God is good. He has shamed me, and saved you.
Gervaise	By your hand, father.
Col. Gervaise	No⁠—by his own. It would all have come right without me. I was unworthy of the honour, my boy. But I was allowed to try; and for that I am grateful.⁠—Arthur, I come to you empty-handed⁠—a beggar for your love.
Gervaise	How dare you say that, father?⁠—Empty-handed⁠—bringing me her and yourself⁠—all I ever longed for!⁠—my father and my Psyche! Father, thank you. The poor word must do its best. I thank you with my very soul.⁠—How shall I bear my happiness!⁠—Constance, it was my father all the time! Did you know it? Serving me like a slave!⁠—humouring all my whims!⁠—watching me night and day!⁠—and then bringing me⁠—
Constance	Your own little girl, Arthur. But why did you not tell me?
Gervaise	Tell you what, darling?
Constance	That⁠—that⁠—that you⁠—Oh! you know what, Arthur!
Gervaise	How could I, my child, with that⁠—!⁠—Shall I tell you now?
Constance	No, no! I am too happy to listen⁠—even to you, Arthur! But he should never have⁠—I did find him out at last. If I had but known you did not like him! Hiding her face.
Gervaise	Embracing his father. Father! father! I cannot hold my happiness! And it is all your doing!
Col. Gervaise	No, I tell you, my boy! I was but a straw on the tide of things. I will serve you yet though. I will be your father yet.
Bill	Aside. Fathers ain’t all bad coves! Here’s two on ’em⁠—good sort of old Jacobs⁠—both on ’em. Shouldn’t mind much if I had a father o’ my own arter all!
	Gervaise turns to Constance⁠—then glances at the Psyche. Col. Gervaise removes the sheet. Gervaise leads Constance to the chair on the dais⁠—turns from her to the Psyche, and begins to work on the clay, glancing from the one to the other⁠—the next moment leaves the Psyche, and seats himself on the dais at Constance’s feet, looking up in her face. Col. Gervaise stands regarding them fixedly. Slow distant music. Bill is stealing away.
	Curtain falls.

Colophon

If I Had a Father
was published in 1882 by
George MacDonald.

This ebook was produced for
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A Painter’s Studio,
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