University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene.—Picture Gallery in Ruddigore Castle. The walls are covered with full-length portraits of the Baronets of Ruddigore from the time of James I.—the first being that of Sir Rupert, alluded to in the legend; the last, that of the last deceased Baronet, Sir Roderic.
Enter Robin and Adam, melodramatically. They are greatly altered in appearance, Robin wearing the haggard aspect of a guilty roué; Adam, that of the wicked steward to such a man.
Rob.

This is a painful state of things, Old Adam!

Adam.

Painful, indeed! Ah, my poor master, when I swore
that, come what would, I would serve you in all things for ever,
I little thought to what a pass it would bring me! The confidential
adviser to the greatest villain unhung! Now, sir, to
business. What crime do you propose to commit to-day?

Rob.

How should I know? As my confidential adviser, it's
your duty to suggest something.

Adam.

Sir, I loathe the life you are leading, but a good old
man's oath is paramount, and I obey. Richard Dauntless is
here with pretty Rose Maybud, to ask your consent to their
marriage. Poison their beer.

Rob.

No—not that—I know I'm a bad Bart., but I'm not as
bad a Bart. as all that.

Adam.

Well, there you are, you see! It's no use my making
suggestions if you don't adopt them.

Rob.
(melodramatically).

How would it be, do you think,
were I to lure him here with cunning wile—bind him with good
stout rope to yonder post—and then, by making hideous faces
at him, curdle the heart-blood in his arteries, and freeze the very
marrow in his bones? How say you, Adam, is not the scheme
well planned?

Adam.

It would be simply rude—nothing more. But soft—
they come!

Adam and Robin retire up as Richard and Rose enter, preceded by Chorus of Bridesmaids.
Duet.—Richard and Rose.
Rich.
Happily coupled are we,
You see—
I am a jolly Jack Tar,
My star,
And you are the fairest,
The richest and rarest
Of innocent lasses, you are,
By far—
Of innocent lasses, you are!
Fanned by a favouring gale,
You'll sail
Over life's treacherous sea
With me,
And as for bad weather,
We'll brave it together,
And you shall creep under my lee,
My wee!
And you shall creep under my lee!
For you are such a smart little craft—
Such a neat little, sweet little craft.
Such a bright little, tight little,
Slight little, light little,
Trim little, prim little craft!

Chorus.
For she is such, etc.

Rose.
My hopes will be blighted, I fear,
My dear;
In a month you'll be going to sea,
Quite free,
And all of my wishes
You'll throw to the fishes
As though they were never to be;
Poor me!
As though they were never to be,
And I shall be left all alone
To moan,
And weep at your cruel deceit,
Complete;
While you'll be asserting
Your freedom by flirting
With every woman you meet,
You cheat—
With every woman you meet!
Though I am such a smart little craft—
Such a neat little, sweet little craft.
Such a bright little, tight little,
Slight little, light little,
Trim little, prim little craft!

Chorus.
Though she is such, etc.

Enter Robin.
Rob.

Soho! pretty one—in my power at last, eh? Know ye
not that I have those within my call who, at my lightest bidding,
would immure ye in an uncomfortable dungeon? (Calling.)

What ho! within there!

Rich.

Hold—we are prepared for this. (Producing a Union Jack.)

Here is a flag that none dare defy (all kneel)
, and while
this glorious rag floats over Rose Maybud's head, the man does
not live who would dare to lay unlicensed hand upon her!

Rob.

Foiled—and by a Union Jack! But a time will come,
and then—

Rose.

Nay, let me plead with him. (To Robin.)
Sir Ruthven,
have pity. In my book of etiquette the case of a maiden about
to be wedded to one who unexpectedly turns out to be a baronet
with a curse on him, is not considered. Time was when you
loved me madly. Prove that this was no selfish love by according
your consent to my marriage with one who, if he be not
you yourself, is the next best thing—your dearest friend!

Ballad.—Rose.
In bygone days I had thy love,
Thou hadst my heart.
But Fate, all human vows above,
Our lives did part!
By the old love thou hadst for me,
By the fond heart that beat for thee—
By joys that never now can be,
Grant thou my prayer!

All.
(kneeling).
Grant thou her prayer!

Rob.
(recit.).
Take her—I yield.

All.
(recit.).
Oh, rapture!

Chorus.
Away to the parson we go—
Say we're solicitous very
That he will turn two into one—
Singing hey, derry down derry!

Rich.
For she is such a smart little craft.

Rose.
Such a neat little, sweet little craft—

Rich.
Such a bright little—

Rose.
Tight little—

Rich.
Slight little—

Rose.
Light little—

Both.
Trim little, slim little craft!

Chorus.
For she is such a smart little craft, etc.

[Exeunt all but Robin.
Rob.

For a week I have fulfilled my accursed doom! I have
duly committed a crime a-day! Not a great crime, I trust, but
still in the eyes of one as strictly regulated as I used to be, a
crime. But will my ghostly ancestors be satisfied with what
I have done, or will they regard it as an unworthy subterfuge?
(Addressing Pictures.)
Oh, my forefathers, wallowers in blood,
there came at last a day when, sick of crime, you, each and
every, vowed to sin no more, and so, in agony, called welcome
Death to free you from your cloying guiltiness. Let the sweet
psalm of that repentant hour soften your long-dead hearts, and
tune your souls to mercy on your poor posterity! (Kneeling.)

[The stage darkens for a moment. It becomes light again, and the Pictures are seen to have become animated.
Chorus of Family Portraits.
Painted emblems of a race,
All accurst in days of yore,
Each from his accustomed place
Steps into the world once more.
[The Pictures step from their frames and march round the stage.
Baronet of Ruddigore,
Last of our accursèd line,
Down upon the oaken floor—
Down upon those knees of thine.
Coward, poltroon, shaker, squeamer,
Blockhead, sluggard, dullard, dreamer,
Shirker, shuffler, crawler, creeper,
Sniffler, snuffler, wailer, weeper,
Earthworm, maggot, tadpole, weevil!
Set upon thy course of evil
Lest the King of Spectre-Land
Set on thee his grisly hand!

[The spectre of Sir Roderic descends from his frame.
Sir Rod.
By the curse upon our race—

Chorus.
Dead and hearsèd
All accursèd!

Sir Rod.
Each inheriting this place—

Chorus.
Sorrows shake it!
Devil take it!

Sir Rod.
Must, perforce, or yea or nay—

Chorus.
Yea or naying
Be obeying!

Sir Rod.
Do a deadly crime each day!

Chorus.
Fire and Thunder,
We knocked under—
Some atrocious crime committed
Daily ere the world we quitted!

Sir Rod.
Beware! beware! beware!

Rob.
Gaunt vision, who art thou,
That thus, with icy glare
And stern relentless brow,
Appearest, who knows how?

Sir Rod.
I am the spectre of the late
Sir Roderic Murgatroyd,
Who comes to warn thee that thy fate
Thou canst not now avoid.

Rob.
Alas, poor ghost!

Sir Rod.
The pity you
Express, for nothing goes
We spectres are a jollier crew
Than you, perhaps, suppose!

Chorus.
Yes! yes!
We spectres are a jollier crew
Than you, perhaps, suppose!
Ha! ha!

Song.—Sir Roderic.
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies—
When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay the moon,
Then is the spectre's holiday—then is the ghosts' high-noon!

Chorus.
Ha! ha!
Then is the ghosts' high-noon!
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen,
From grey tomb-stones are gathered the bones that once were women and men.
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon!

Chorus.
Ha! ha!
The dead of the night's high-noon!
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take flight.
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim “good-night;”
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune,
And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon!

Chorus.
Ha! ha!
The dead of the night's high-noon!

Rob.

I recognize you now—you are the picture that hangs at
the end of the gallery.

Sir Rod.

In a bad light. I am.

Rob.

Are you considered a good likeness?

Sir Rod.

Pretty well. Flattering.

Rob.

Because, as a work of art you are poor.

Sir Rod.

I am crude in colour, but I have only been painted
ten years. In a couple of centuries I shall be an Old Master,
and then you will be sorry you spoke lightly of me.

Rob.

And may I ask why you have left your frames?

Sir Rod.

It is our duty to see that our successors commit
their daily crimes in a conscientious and workmanlike fashion.
It is our duty to remind you that you are evading the conditions
under which you are permitted to exist.

Rob.

Really I don't know what you'd have. I've only been
a bad baronet a week, and I've committed a crime punctually
every day.

Sir Rod.

Let us inquire into this. Monday?

Rob.

Monday was a Bank Holiday.

Sir Rod.

True. Tuesday?

Rob.

On Tuesday I made a false income-tax return.

All.

Ha! ha!

1st Ghost.

That's nothing.

2nd Ghost.

Nothing at all.

3rd Ghost.

Everybody does that.

4th Ghost.

It's expected of you.

Sir Rod.

Wednesday?

Rob.
(melodramatically).

On Wednesday I forged a will.

Sir Rod.

Whose will?

Rob.

My own.

Sir Rod.

My good sir, you can't forge your own will!

Rob.

Can't I, though! I like that! I did! Besides, if a
man can't forge his own will, whose will can he forge?

1st Ghost.

There's something in that.

2nd Ghost.

Yes; it seems reasonable.

3rd Ghost.

At first sight it does.

4th Ghost.

Fallacy somewhere, I fancy!

Rob.

A man can do what he likes with his own?

Sir Rod.

I suppose he can.

Rob.

Well, then, he can forge his own will, stoopid! On
Thursday I shot a fox.

1st Ghost.

Hear, hear!

Sir Rod.

That's better. (Addressing Ghosts.)
Pass the
fox, I think? (They assent.)
Yes, pass the fox. Friday?

Rob.

On Friday I forged a cheque.

Sir Rod.

Whose cheque?

Rob.

Old Adam's.

Sir Rod.

But old Adam hasn't a banker.

Rob.

I didn't say I forged his banker—I said I forged his
cheque. On Saturday I disinherited my only son.

Sir Rod.

But you haven't got a son.

Rob.

No—not yet. I disinherited him in advance, to save
time. You see—by this arrangement—he'll be born ready
disinherited.

Sir Rod.

I see. But I don't think you can do that.

Rob.

My good sir, if I can't disinherit my own unborn son,
whose unborn son can I disinherit?

Sir Rod.

Humph! These arguments sound very well, but
I can't help thinking that, if they were reduced to syllogistic
form, they wouldn't hold water. Now quite understand us.
We are foggy, but we don't permit our fogginess to be presumed
upon. Unless you undertake to—well, suppose we say, carry
off a lady? (Addressing Ghosts.)
Those who are in favour of
his carrying off a lady— (All hold up their hands except a Bishop.)

Those of the contrary opinion? (Bishop holds up his hands.)

Oh, you're never satisfied! Yes, unless you undertake
to carry off a lady at once—I don't care what lady—
any lady—choose your lady—you perish in inconceivable
agonies.

Rob.

Carry off a lady? Certainly not, on any account. I've
the greatest respect for ladies, and I wouldn't do anything of
the kind for worlds! No, no. I'm not that kind of baronet
I assure you! If that's all you've got to say, you'd better go
back to your frames.

Sir Rod.

Very good—then let the agonies commence.

[Ghosts make passes. Robin begins to writhe in agony.
Rob.

Oh! Oh! Don't do that! I can't stand it!

Sir Rod.

Painful, isn't it? It gets worse by degrees.

Rob.

Oh! Oh! Stop a bit! Stop it, will you? I want to
speak.

[Sir Roderic makes signs to Ghosts, who resume their attitudes.
Sir Rod.

Better?

Rob.

Yes—better now! Whew!

Sir Rod.

Well, do you consent?

Rob.

But it's such an ungentlemanly thing to do!

Str Rod.

As you please. (To Ghosts.)
Carry on!

Rob.

Stop—I can't stand it! I agree! I promise! It shall
be done!

Sir Rod.

To-day?

Rob.

To-day!

Sir Rod.

At once?

Rob.

At once! I retract! I apologize! I had no idea it
was anything like that!

Chorus.
He yields! He answers to our call!
We do not ask for more.
A sturdy fellow, after all,
This latest Ruddigore!
All perish in unheard-of woe
Who dare our wills defy;
We want your pardon, ere we go,
For having agonized you so—
So pardon us—
So pardon us—
So pardon us—
Or die!

Rob.
I pardon you!
I pardon you!

All.
He pardons us—
Hurrah!

[The Ghosts return to their frames.
Chorus.
Painted emblems of a race,
All accurst in days of yore,
Each to his accustomed place
Steps unwillingly, once more!

[By this time the Ghosts have changed to pictures again. Robin is overcome by emotion.
Enter Adam.
Adam.

My poor master, you are not well—

Rob.

Gideon Crawle, it won't do—I've seen 'em—all my
ancestors—they're just gone. They say that I must do something

desperate at once, or perish in horrible agonies. Go—go
to yonder village—carry off a maiden—bring her here at once—
any one—I don't care which—

Adam.

But—

Rob.

Not a word, but obey! Fly!

[Exit Adam.
Recitative and Song.—Robin.
[Exit Robin.

Enter Sir Despard and Margaret. They are both dressed in sober black of formal cut, and present a strong contrast to their appearance in Act I.
Duet.
Des.
I once was a very abandoned person—

Mar.
Making the most of evil chances.

Des.
Nobody could conceive a worse 'un—

Mar.
Even in all the old romances.

Des.
I blush for my wild extravagances,
But be so kind
To bear in mind,

Mar.
We were the victims of circumstances!
[Dance.
That is one of our blameless dances.

Mar.
I was an exceedingly odd young lady—

Des.
Suffering much from spleen and vapours.

Mar.
Clergymen thought my conduct shady—

Des.
She didn't spend much upon linen-drapers.

Mar.
It certainly entertained the gapers.
My ways were strange
Beyond all range—

Des.
And paragraphs got into all the papers.

[Dance.
Des.
We only cut respectable capers.

Des.
I've given up all my wild proceedings.

Mar.
My taste for a wandering life is waning.

Des.
Now I'm a dab at penny-readings.

Mar.
They are not remarkably entertaining.

Des.
A moderate livelihood we're gaining.

Mar.
In fact we rule
A National School.

Des.
The duties are dull, but I'm not complaining,
[Dance.
This sort of thing takes a deal of training!

Des.

We have been married a week.

Mar.

One happy, happy week!

Des.

Our new life—

Mar.

Is delightful indeed!

Des.

So calm!

Mar.

So unimpassioned! (Wildly.)
Master, all this I owe
to you! See, I am no longer wild and untidy. My hair is
combed. My face is washed. My boots fit!

Des.

Margaret, don't. Pray restrain yourself. Remember,
you are now a district visitor.

Mar.

A gentle district visitor!

Des.

You are orderly, methodical, neat; you have your
emotions well under control.

Mar.

I have! (Wildly.)
Master, when I think of all you
have done for me, I fall at your feet. I embrace your ankles.
I hug your knees! (Doing so.)

Des.

Hush. This is not well. This is calculated to provoke
remark. Be composed, I beg!

Mar.

Ah! you are angry with poor little Mad Margaret!

Des.

No, not angry; but a district visitor should learn to
eschew melodrama. Visit the poor, by all means, and give
them tea and barley-water, but don't do it as if you were administering
a bowl of deadly nightshade. It upsets them.
Then, when you nurse sick people, and find them not as well as
could be expected, why go into hysterics?

Mar.

Why not?

Des.

Because it's too jumpy for a sick-room.

Mar.

How strange! Oh, Master! Master!—how shall I
express the all-absorbing gratitude that— (About to throw herself at his feet.)

Des.

Now! (Warningly.)

Mar.

Yes, I know, dear—it shan't occur again. (He is seated —she sits on the ground by him.)

Shall I tell you one of poor
Mad Margaret's odd thoughts? Well, then, when I am lying
awake at night, and the pale moonlight streams through the
latticed casement, strange fancies crowd upon my poor mad
brain, and I sometimes think that if we could hit upon some
word for you to use whenever I am about to relapse—some
word that teems with hidden meaning—like “Basingstoke” it
might recall me to my saner self. For, after all, I am only
Mad Margaret! Daft Meg! Poor Meg! He! he! he!

Des.

Poor child, she wanders! But soft—some one comes.
Margaret, pray recollect yourself—Basingstoke, I beg! Margaret,
if you don't Basingstoke at once, I shall be seriously
angry.

Mar.
(recovering herself).

Basingstoke it is!

Des.

Then make it so.

Enter Robin. He starts on seeing them.
Rob.

Despard! And his young wife! This visit is unexpected.

Mar.

Shall I fly at him? Shall I tear him limb from limb?
Shall I rend him asunder? Say but the word, and—

Des.

Basingstoke!

Mar.
(suddenly demure).

Basingstoke it is!

Des.
(aside).

Then make it so. (Aloud.)
My brother—I
call you brother still, despite your horrible profligacy—we
have come to urge you to abandon the evil courses to which
you have committed yourself, and at any cost to become a pure
and blameless ratepayer.

Rob.

But I've done no wrong yet.

Mar.
(wildly).

No wrong! He has done no wrong! Did
you hear that!

Des.

Basingstoke.

Mar.
(recovering herself).

Basingstoke it is.

Des.

My brother—I still call you brother, you observe—you
forget that you have been, in the eye of the law, a Bad Baronet
of Ruddigore for ten years—and you are therefore responsible
—in the eye of the law—for all the misdeeds committed by the
unhappy gentleman who occupied your place.

Rob.

I see! Bless my heart, I never thought of that! Was
I very bad?

Des.

Awful. Wasn't he? (To Margaret.)

Rob.

And I've been going on like this for how long?

Des.

Ten years! Think of all the atrocities you have committed
—by attorney as it were—during that period. Remember
how you trifled with this poor child's affections—how you raised
her hopes on high (don't cry, my love—Basingstoke, you know),
only to trample them in the dust when they were at the very
zenith of their fulness. Oh, fie, sir, fie—she trusted you!

Rob.

Did she? What a scoundrel I must have been! There,
there—don't cry, my dear (to Margaret, who is sobbing on Robin's breast)
,
it's all right now. Birmingham you know—
Birmingham—

Mar.
(sobbing).

It's Ba—Ba—Basingstoke!

Rob.

Basingstoke! of course it is—Basingstoke.

Mar.

Then make it so!

Rob.

There, there—it's all right—he's married you now—
that is, I've married you. (Turning to Despard.)
I say, which
of us has married her?

Des.

Oh, I've married her.

Rob.
(aside).

Oh, I'm glad of that. (To Margaret.)
Yes, he's
married you now (passing her over to Despard)
, and anything
more disreputable than my conduct seems to have been I've
never even heard of. But my mind is made up—I will defy
my ancestors. I will refuse to obey their behests, thus, by
courting death, atone in some degree for the infamy of my
career!

Mar.

I knew it—I knew it. God bless you. (Hysterically.)

Des.

Basingstoke!

Mar.

Basingstoke it is! (Recovers herself.)

Patter-Trio.
Robin, Despard and Margaret.
Rob.
My eyes are fully open to my awful situation—
I shall go at once to Roderic and make him an oration.
I shall tell him I've recovered my forgotten moral senses,
And I don't care twopence halfpenny for any consequences.
Now, I do not want to perish by the sword or by the dagger,
But a martyr may indulge a little pardonable swagger,
And a word or two of compliment my vanity would flatter,
But I've got to die to-morrow, so it really doesn't matter!

Des.
So it really doesn't matter—

Mar.
So it really doesn't matter—

All.
So it really doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!

Mar.
If I were not a little mad and generally silly,
I should give you my advice upon the subject, willy nilly;
I should show you in a moment how to grapple with the question,
And you'd really be astonished at the force of my suggestion.
On the subject I shall write you a most valuable letter,
Full of excellent suggestions when I feel a little better,
But at present I'm afraid I am as mad as any hatter,
So I'll keep 'em to myself, for my opinion doesn't matter!

Des.
Her opinion doesn't matter—

Rob.
Her opinion doesn't matter—

All.
Her opinion doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!

Des.
If I had been so lucky as to have a steady brother
Who could talk to me as we are talking now to one another—
Who could give me good advice when he discovered I was erring,
(Which is just the very favour which on you I am conferring).
My story would have made a rather interesting idyll,
And I might have lived and died a very decent indiwiddle.
This particularly rapid, unintelligible patter
Isn't generally heard, and if it is it doesn't matter!

Rob.
If it is it doesn't matter—

Mar.
If it ain't it doesn't matter—

All.
If it is it doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!

[Exeunt Despard and Margaret.
Enter Adam.
Adam
(guiltily).

Master—the deed is done!

Rob.

What deed?

Adam.

She is here—alone, unprotected.

Rob.

Who?

Adam.

The maiden. I've carried her off—I had a hard task,
for she fought like a tiger-cat!

Rob.

Great Heaven, I had forgotten her! I had hoped to
have died unspotted by crime, but I am foiled again—and by a
tiger-cat! Produce her—and leave us!

[Adam introduces Old Hannah, very much excited, and exit.
Rob.

Dame Hannah! This is—this is not what I expected.

Han.

Well, sir, and what would you with me? Oh, you
have begun bravely—bravely indeed! Unappalled by the calm

dignity of blameless womanhood, your minion has torn me
from my spotless home, and dragged me, blindfold and shrieking,
through hedges, over stiles, and across a very difficult country,
and left me, helpless and trembling, at your mercy! Yet not
helpless, coward sir, for, approach one step—nay, but the
twentieth part of one poor inch—and this poniard (produces a very small dagger)

shall teach ye what it is to lay unholy
hands on old Stephen Trusty's daughter!

Rob.

Madam, I am extremely sorry for this. It is not at all
what I intended—anything more correct—more deeply respectful
than my intentions towards you, it would be impossible for
any one—however particular—to desire.

Han.

Bah, I am not to be tricked by smooth words,
hypocrite! But be warned in time, for there are without, a
hundred gallant hearts whose trusty blades would hack him
limb from limb who dared to lay unholy hands on old Stephen
Trusty's daughter!

Rob.

And this is what it is to embark upon a career of unlicensed
pleasure!

[Hannah, who has taken a formidable dagger from one of the armed figures, throws her small dagger to Robin.
Han.

Harkye, miscreant, you have secured me, and I am
your poor prisoner; but if you think I cannot take care of
myself you are very much mistaken. Now then, it's one to
one, and let the best man win! (Making for him.)

Rob.
(in an agony of terror).

Don't! don't look at me like
that! I can't bear it! Roderic! Uncle! Save me!

Roderic enters, up trap in centre of stage. He is visible only as far as the waist.
Rod.

What is the matter? Have you carried her off?

Rob.

I have—she is there—look at her—she terrifies me
Come quite up and save me!

Rod.
(looking at Hannah).

Little Nannikin!

Han.
(amazed).

Roddy-doddy!

Rod.

My own old love! (Comes completely through trap.)

Why, how came you here?

Han.

This brute—he carried me off! Bodily! But I'll
show him! (About to rush at Robin.)

Rod.

Stop! (To Rob.)
What do you mean by carrying off
this lady? Are you aware that, once upon a time she was
engaged to be married to me? I'm very angry—very angry
indeed.

Rob.

Now, I hope this will be a lesson to you in future, not
to—

Rod.

Hold your tongue, sir.

Rob.

Yes, uncle.

Rod.

Have you given him any encouragement?

Han.
(to Rob).

Have I given you any encouragement?
Frankly now, have I?

Rob.

No. Frankly, you have not. Anything more scrupulously
correct than your conduct it would be impossible to
desire.

Rod.

You go away.

Rob.

Yes, uncle.

[Exit Robin.

Rod.

This is a strange meeting after so many years!

Han.

Very. I thought you were dead.

Rod.

I am. I died ten years ago.

Han.

And are you pretty comfortable?

Rod.

Pretty well—that is—yes, pretty well.

Han.

You don't deserve to be, for I loved you all the while,
dear; and it made me dreadfully unhappy to hear of all your
goings on, you bad, bad boy!

Ballad.—Hannah.
There grew a little flower
'Neath a great oak tree:
When the tempest 'gan to lower
Little heeded she:
No need had she to cower,
For she dreaded not its power—
She was happy in the bower
Of her great oak tree!
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

Both.

[Falls weeping on Roderic's bosom.
Enter Robin, excitedly, followed by all the characters and Chorus of Bridesmaids.
Rob.

Stop a bit—both of you.

Rod.

This intrusion is unmannerly.

Han.

I'm surprised at you.

Rob.

I can't stop to apologize—an idea has just occurred to
me. A Baronet of Ruddigore can only die through refusing to
commit his daily crime.

Rod.

No doubt.

Rob.

Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount
to suicide!

Rod.

It would seem so.

Rob.

But suicide is, itself, a crime—and so, by your own
showing, you ought never to have died at all!

Rod.

I see—I understand! Then I'm practically alive!

Rob.

Undoubtedly! (Sir Roderic embraces Hannah.)
Rose,
when you believed that I was a simple farmer, I believe you
loved me?

Rose.

Madly, passionately!

Rob.

But when I became a bad baronet, you very properly
loved Richard instead?

Rose.

Passionately, madly!

Rob.

But if I should turn out not to be a bad baronet after
all, how would you love me then?

Rose.

Madly, passionately!

Rob.

As before?

Rose.

Why, of course!

Rob.

My darling! (They embrace.)

Rich.

Here, I say, belay.

Rose.

Oh, sir, belay, if it's absolutely necessary.

Rob.

Belay? Certainly not!

Finale.
Rob.
Having been a wicked baronet a week,
Once again a modest livelihood I seek,
Agricultural employment
Is to me a keen enjoyment,
For I'm naturally diffident and meek!

Rose.
When a man has been a naughty baronet,
And expresses his repentance and regret,
You should help him if you're able,
Like the mousie in the fable.
That's the teaching of my Book of Etiquette.

Rich.
If you ask me why I do not pipe my eye,
Like an honest British sailor, I reply,
That with Zorah for my missis,
There'll be bread and cheese and kisses,
Which is just the sort of ration I enjye!

Des. and Mar.
Prompted by a keen desire to evoke,
All the blessed calm of matrimony's yoke,
We shall toddle off to-morrow,
From this scene of sin and sorrow,
For to settle in the town of Basingstoke!

All.
For happy the lily
That's kissed by the bee;
And, sipping tranquilly,
Quite happy is he;
And happy the filly
That neighs in her pride;
But happier than any,
A pound to a penny,
A lover is, when he
Embraces his bride!

Curtain.