University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

The Bridge, and Road before the Inn. Enter Reuben, reading from a slip of paper.
Reuben.
[Exit.

Enter Spanker, coming from the Inn.
Spanker.
If she be not quite struck with me, it's strange!
A very pleasant place, and good ale too.
I'll come here often. Amidst all those louts,
How she mark'd out the gentleman! Her eye
Cast on them sharp reproof: it flooded me
Like April with a shower of rainy light.
And this before we had exchanged one word,
More than—“A glass of so and so,” and—“Yes, sir.”
When we drew near each other and remark'd
Upon the day, the weather, and the crops—
Although in truth I know not wheat from oats:
Let's see, yes, oats grow bristles on their top,
And wheat's that other thing—she was so pleased,
I ventured nearer home, look'd round the bar,
And, seeing all so shiny-like, remark'd,
“Whoever has the management of this,
Will make a rare wife to some lucky wight.”—
“You think so, do you?”—After that, I saw
From out the corner of mine eye, that she—
Ay, more than once—scann'd me from head to foot;
And as I left, she from a vase of flowers
Took this, and placed it in my button-hole.
It is a pink. I wonder what it means.
I'll write to one of those cheap papers; they
Give shrewd replies, and sometimes good advice.—
'Tis lucky I went in, yet merest chance!
I've pass'd here many a time—seen her, no doubt;
Not with my now illuminated eyes,
But as the settlers saw for many years
The golden clods, yet knew them not as gold.—
I'll keep this Australasia to myself,
And work it at my leisure.

[Exit.
Enter Bradbury, going to the Inn.
Bradbury.
I am old;
That is, compared with her; but from the hints
I got in conversation with her mother,
That seems all in my favour. So it should.
To mate her portion to a spendthrift youth,
Were heartbreak to her parents; and the thought
That their hard raked-up gains were being spent
In madcap thriftlessness, would haunt their graves,
And rob their aged bones of death's sweet rest.
Great fears that plague the spirit in this life
Do hang about it long time after death,
Withholding it from bliss. But she herself
Affects not lack-brain'd youth, and leans, I know,
To large experience and the stable mind
That age alone matures. I could invest
Her money to advantage; could extend
My present business, which, truth to say,
Must have some capital to float it o'er
The bars and banks of trade—ay—banks indeed!—
Or if she'd have me landlord of this house—
This jolly ringing hostelry—why then,
To that I've no objection. Let me see;
My draught is deep enough;—a landlord's paunch,
Like to a tithebarn in the olden time,
Should give reception to all kinds of goods,
And stow them mixty-maxty. So could mine.
I am no mewling milksop, but, though small,
Season'd and tough. Then, I have wit to give
A ready answer that will turn the mirth
As 'twere against myself, the while I wink
Within myself, and chuckle in my sleeve:
And, when appeal'd to in disputes, I could
Give artful judgment, favouring both sides,
Drawing them on to bets and double gills.
Then, there's the ready laugh to the lame joke;
The affected interest in the maudlin talk,
With, Yes—no—certainly—indeed!
Thrown in to suit the drift of him that speaks:
The sharp eye to anticipate the pipe
That wants a light; the quick officious hand:
The ready-reckoning thumb that counts out change
Without the head's assistance. These have I.—
Some one approaches! I will stand within
The shade of this abutment till they pass. (Cock crows.)

I like not that! I like not that! A cock
Crowing at night, under a waning moon,
Across a wooer's path, bodeth no good;
And that's the big black cock with glossy wings—
A pet of Marg'ret's—I fear some ill.

(Crows again.)
Enter Juniper and Friend going to the Inn.
Juniper.
Crow up my gallant bird, use all your nights;
Your days are almost counted; they are few.

Friend.
You know the bird, then?

Juniper.
Know him! deuced well:
They've only one, and he is Marg'ret's pet,
The which I supersede. I've seen her waste
More precious love on that black Spanish Don
Than suited well my stomach; and he struts
So rakishly about her petticoats—

Friend.
Lord! what privilege to give the Don.

Juniper.
He will be superseded: he is doomed.
The other day, whilst lolling in the bar,
Smoking my pipe, she knitting by my side,
In bounced her father—“Margaret,” quoth he,
“That cock has been at his old tricks again:
A bed of radish seed! Not one seed left!
'Twill never do; we'll have him killed straight off.”
“Yes, father, very well; but—not to-day.”
Then, blandly smiling, “William,” whispered she,
“We'll have him to the wedding breakfast—cold.”

Bradbury.
(aside)
Ah, yes! I do but sleep, and dream all this.

Friend.
You're a lucky dog, Will. 'Tis a large house this;
And all their own, too. Eh?

Juniper.
Yes, all our own,
And a deal of land besides, man—quite a farm.
You'll come and stay a month or two. Let's in—
See how you like our ale.

[Exeunt.
Bradbury.
(coming forward)
Our ale! the snipe!
The wedding breakfast too! What means the rogue?
Have I a rival, then? He might be more!
She would not play me false, and make the while
A paction with an empty kite like that!
No. There are men who whip into the past
Much-wished for, barely possible events,
And trot them out as facts before our eyes,
Merely to be admired. Yet I have seen
These overweening fools make that to be,
By the mere assuming it already was:
For if they work in metal soft enough,
It cannot choose but run into their mould.
That knave may damage me. I'll to her straight
And damage him. I'll nick the hoops that gird
His hollow cause: when next he moves his suit,
'Twill fall, like an old cask, into a heap
Of rotten staves, beyond all setting up.

Enter Car, half-drunk, coming from the Inn.
Car.

There need not be no bother. The owd folk may stay with us, or build themsel's a cottage. (Looks back, and surveys the house.)
The same sign will do—at least very near—

Bradbury.
(striking him)

You lie, 'twill not do. My name's John Bradbury; that is Richard Riccard.

Car.

Thou dasht owd foo'—if thee strikes me agean, I'll pic thee o'er the brig. What has thee to do wi' it? Didn't Merget tell me hoo was baun' to wed me in a week?

Bradbury.
Ah! this confirms me that I am asleep,
And do but dream it all. I'll wake, and laugh
To think what monstrous things are born in dreams;
How that my pretty Margaret engaged
To marry this rude clown; how that—

Car.

Call me a clown? Thou dash't owd foo', I'll punch thy heod. (Makes up to Bradbury, who runs off, and Car returns.)
He said he was asleep! The owd foo's drunk. And call'd her his pretty Merget! Na, na, owd lad; I've spent more brass in the house than ever thee was worth; and I haven't spent it for nowt, naither. But I needn't spend no more now—hoo's safe enough. (Surveys the sign again.)
It'll welley do as it is. His name is Richard; so is mine; Richard can stand. Then there's R-I-C-C-A-R—stop now,— C-A-R!—good lad, Dick, thy name's there already! A little peant and a brush to peant out R-I-C—and leave C-A-R-D—No, dang it, that would be Card! D must come down. I'm a trump; yet my name's not Card. Ha! ha! ha!—I had welley given her up when hoo gave in. Well, it's a long loan as never has a turn. I always said soa.—How goes?

Enter Wheeler, going to the Inn.
Wheeler.

Good night, good night. [Exit. CAR.]
A most unfortunate thing! I've kick'd myself ever since for my own stupidity. Why, it was like throwing herself at me; as much as to say, “Here, Jack, take me and all my undertakings; you've been a most persevering wooer, now comes your reward.”—I can read it no other way; 'tis plainer than plain. Her married cousin gets a child: while I sit drinking beside her on

Saturday night, she claps into my hand a letter asking her to come to the christ'ning on Sunday and stand godmother: “And John,” says she, “you'll go with me and be godfather!” And then, John, she might have added, the next child we stand father and mother to will be our own. She meant as much, that's certain. —The time of starting was agreed on. At seven in the morning she would meet me at the town-end with the gig and black Dobbin, and then we would drive over together.—On the strength of this, I drink me ten glasses more of her best old ale, hand running, and leave her between twelve and one, promising, without fail, to be waiting her at seven. I bundle home, stumble into bed before I have time to take off my clothes, fall dead asleep, and wake at—nine! I then take double time to dress, having first to undress; and come running in blazing haste to the place appointed, without breakfast, and buttoning my waistcoat. No Margaret there, and two hours and three-quarters past the time! What a relief to find that she also had overslept herself! I begin to frame some gentle impeachment, and adjust my shirt collar, and re-tie my neckerchief, when an idle-looking vagabond in fustian comes touching his cap to me: “Are you the gent,” quoth he, “that the lady and conveyance waited so long for?”—“Waited! where are they?”— “Gone, two hours ago.” “Gone! and alone?”—“No, a gentleman with her.”—I kicked the villain out of my way, and rushed to the railway station. A train that stops within a mile of her cousin's house had left a minute and a half before, and there would be another in the evening. Hang your trains!—Sought a horse through all the town; not even a donkey to be had. Twelve o'clock!—too late now, even with a horse. Passed an afternoon of deep and remorseful dejection. Came down to her house here, at night, determined to await her return. Kept the old ale plying on the fire of my remorse, and had well nigh quenched it; when, as the clock struck ten, in she came, closely followed by a fellow I have seen hanging about her of late. Smirking, radiant, flushed, she came prancing in; but when she saw me she looked like a thunder-cloud, and her eyes fired into me a volley of black anger. She passed by me, and went up stairs, followed by her gentleman, to some private room, as I suspect. I have not seen her since.—Thus have I again laid the case plainly before myself, and it looks a very bad case—a devilish bad case. How should I do? I wish I had some friend to advise with.—Who comes? He must be somewhat tipsy; he speaks to himself. Why, so do I, yet am I not tipsy. I will hear what he has got to say. (Stands back, and enter Greene, coming from the Inn.)
It's he that was with her on Sunday!

Greene.
A draw-well has a bottom; the deep sea
Is not so deep but that it may be sounded.
Nothing is bottomless, unless it be
A tailor's thimble and a woman's mind.
But yet, a tailor's thimble can be seen through;
Not so a woman's mind—

Wheeler
(aside.)
He's but a tailor; yet he speaks good sense.

Greene.
This black-eyed witch—
Forgive me, stars! I say this black-eyed queen,
So much my own, and yet not all my own,
So much revealing, yet withholding that
One little word which would elect me king!
Have we not stood before a man of God,
And taken on our consciences joint vows
Anent her cousin's child; thus making me,
As 'twere, one of themselves? And did we not
On our long Sunday drive unfold our hearts,
And lay them side by side, like man and wife,
And seem'd they not as one? Yet here to-night
I work'd her heart up with most winning speech,
Until I thought, Now is my kingdom come,
Then put the final question. 'Sblood, it fell
Like a man's money overboard at sea,
And bought no answer. My bewilder'd ear
Heard but a splash, then all was as before!

Wheeler
(coming forward.)
With him that lost the money?

Greene.
No, my friend,
With me. I got no answer; gain'd no point.
I put it plainly, “Wilt thou be my wife?”
My question, like a pearl into the sea,
Dropt, and was no more valued than a stone.

Wheeler.
Such questions are as common to some women
As pearls are to the sea. You should have laid
A pearl, or some such trinket, in her hand,
Long, long before that perilous question came.

Greene.
Ah, well, here is this ring—an emerald;
With this I did intend to seal her troth—
After 'twas plighted.

Wheeler.
Did she see the ring?

Greene.
I put it on my finger to that end;
She saw it and admired it very much.

Wheeler.

You know not yet the wooer's A B C. Why, man, she asked you for the ring, and you refused it. Without some guarantee of your sincerity, 'twere mere simplicity in her to yield that point which you complain of losing. I've told her often not to be so foolish. But, for your sake, since you have thus confided in me, I'll make the matter right. I'll scold her into it, and talk father and mother into your favour.

Greene.

What! are you old Riccard's son? I understood that Margaret had no brother.

Wheeler.

How could old Riccard have a son and she no brother? Give me the ring. With it I'll recover lost ground, and gain the point that you unwisely missed. Come down to-morrow night. I'll back you out.

Greene.

Give me your hand, friend—brother. You know who I am, do you? I was with her you know at the christening.

Wheeler.
Ay, ay, I know. I'll work the thing.

Greene.
She said herself it would be all right.

Wheeler.
Come down to-morrow. Good night.

Greene.

Of course, you'll not tell her what has passed between us. Do it gently; draw it mild, as they say.

Wheeler.
Ay, ay; good night, good night.

[Going.
Greene.
Well, good night; but here—

Wheeler.
Yes, yes, I know, I know.

[Exit.
Greene.

Yes, yes, but you don't know.—I've acted unwisely now. I should have seen this sooner. I've loved her chiefly because she was an only child, and old Riccard rich. But now I find she has a brother, anxious, apparently, to get her married and out of the way, that he might talk father and mother, as he calls them, not into my favour, but into his own. Scissors! but this is cloth of another colour. I do not want her. She would not make a suitable partner for one of my disposition, and could only be tolerated on account of that which I erroneously supposed she would inherit. I could not put up with her temper. Some say she is pretty. For my part, I could never see it. Nothing but coarse red and black; cheeks like Newton pippins at a penny a dozen, and eyes like black beetles in the sun. Not my style of beauty, by any means. What a goose I was to give that young dog the ring! I see no way of getting it back without making a fool of myself. What with drink and it together, she has been a dear morsel to me already. But first cost is the least, they say; so I'll let by-gones be by-gones, and have no more to do with her.

[Exit.