First Performed at the Royal Olympic Theatre; on Monday, May 2nd, 1853.
Time in Representation—Two Hours.
MODERN COSTUMES.
When one's in love one is always doing stupid things. There, now—if I haven't put the salt
into the milk jug—and then I dream such stupid things. Last night, now, I dreamt that Robin
Grist, master's head man—who's for ever making love to me, quite against my inclination—was
absolutely turned into a white donkey, and that I gave him a lapful of thistles to eat, which
pricked his mouth, poor fellow! Ha! ha! Oh, dear! I've nearly upset the sugar into the
mustard. It's all Robin's fault—first with the cream, then the sugar, and Robin—
Is the breakfast ready, Patty?
Oh, yes, miss! all quite ready, if you just put the tea into the teapot. I'll run and bring
the kettle—I think I hear it boiling over.
Because, miss, I had such a curious dream about our new lodger, Mr. Lister.
I dreamt—I dreamt. Now I'll punish her.
How weak I am! What can her dreams, or Mr. Lister either, be to me? 'Tis true he's a
handsome young man—very amiable—very superior to the young men here about; and after having
received so many polite attentions from him, one can't help feeling interested about him. Then
he has become so attached to my father, and my father so attached to him—I can't help liking
him on my father's account. He insists on my father calling him
La, miss! why you have not put the tea into the pot.
Dear me! what could I have been thinking about?
Love, miss, no doubt.
Love! I? What folly!
Oh, bless you, yes—that's the thing! When once it gets into a girl's head it's like a bee in a bottle—the more you shakes it, the more it buzzes.
Where's Mr. Lister?
On the lake, fishing. He went out before it was dawn in the boat. I think it was scarcely dawn.
In the boat—you saw him then? You rose early this morning, Mercy?
You forgot to give me the money for old blind Martha, last night—didn't you, miss? and so you see, master, as I was going a milking, just past the poor old woman's house, I tapped at missus's window, and so—
Prate-a-pace! I, that don't speak a word by the hour together? For the future I'll be dumb as a dormouse. I was merely going to say—but I shan't say it now. Just as I was going a milking, Mr. Lister was a looking up at missus's window—I mean, I was looking up at Miss Mercy's room, when Mr. Lister— no—I—
Well, I'm sure! If some people's sweet tempers don't turn some people's cream sour, I shall
be astonished.
Ah! here is Mr. Lister.
Good morning, sir. You are just in time for breakfast.
I hope I've not kept you waiting, sir—nor you, Miss Ambroise.
And so you determine to punish me by pouring the tea into my boots instead of into my teacup. Why, what the deuce are you dreaming of, child?
Dear father, forgive me—I was thinking about—
The cream, miss—here it is.
I am happy to find you take such a liking to our poor country, Mr. Lister.
Liking is no name for it, sir.
La!
Figuratively, sir—I was speaking figuratively! I call yonder round patches of blue water, the eyes of nature; and yonder crimson streaks of morning, the lips of—
Well, sir; then I am quite enchanted with your green hills, and your beautiful Derwent Water—your lovely lake; and the fortnight I have passed amongst them seems—
A fortnight, sir? I was just reckoning it—It's now two months since you first arrived and talked of staying only a week.
It seems impossible—and during all that time, I really forgot to pay—
Don't mention pay, if you would not hurt our feelings.
I hope he'll give me something, though—my feelings arn't quite so cute, though I must say I likes powetry.
But, my dear sir, you who only know me by name—
I know you to be a gentleman; and when you came to the mill and enquired if I could recommend you to a lodging, it was late at night. You had been sketching, you said, and looked fatigued—I offered you a bed, I took a liking to you, and here—
Thanks to your hospitality, I have remained ever since, making—
Your house my home. How can I ever requite your generosity?
Abuse your confidence, sir? In what way? It is impossible.
Everything is possible, though not probable. But how did you sleep last night?
Capitally, sir—and you?
As a man should do with sound health and sound conscience. Ha! ha! ha! Industry too, and competence—all these ingredients form a good recipe for a calm night's rest, sir. But how did you find the fish in the lake?
Shy, sir—as you may perceive by my empty creel there. I did not find them at all. Good fish are like good women—not easily caught.
(R.)But when caught, amply repay us for the trouble of catching them.
(L. C.)Bravo! bravo! Well said, master—bravo!
Will you hold your tongue, and speak when you are spoken to?
If I wait till I am spoken to, I shan't speak at all.
So much the better—go mind your work.
Oh, by the way, Miss Ambrose, I heard you express a wish for some water lilies—here are two
fine specimens from the centre of the lake.
Oh! thank you. Are they not lovely, father?
Very, child. So, sir—this was the fish you were catching?
I can well reiterate your sentiments, sir—I that have been living in my kind old grandfather's mill, man and boy, now fifty years. I went to London once: I was choked with the smoke—deafened by the noise—hardened as my sense of hearing was by the click of my own mill—it sounded to me, carriage after carriage rolling through the vast streets, like the warning of a perpetual earthquake. How happy was I when I found myself once again on the roof of the coach, which, conducted me to my old peaceful dwelling, and the unmatched comfort of its fireside. My wife, my child—even the dog and cat seemed like old blessings restored to me, as the one licked my hands, the other sat purring in the chimney corner. Ha! ha!
What a delightful picture of domestic happiness! Oh! for a wife and child in such a chimney corner—aye, and even such a dog and cat.
(L.)But like all earthly dreams, such happiness is not to last in this world. My poor wife was taken from me— suddenly too. I was too content. It was a warning—I felt it such. She sleeps there, in the old churchyard, by the side of my father and mother, where I hope one day to sleep as calmly myself.
(R.)Dear, dear father!
That is, Mercy, when you are married to some honest young miller, perhaps, who will carry on
the old place, and be as happy with you as I was with her whom you so much resemble— your
dear, dear mother!
But, Miss Ambroise might not perhaps fancy, or
Oh sir, you must not make use of such fine poetry notions or you will turn poor Mercy's head. Girls are vain enough of themselves, although I must do my girl the credit to say, that her first thought is to see her old father, who doats upon her (perhaps a little too foolishly) happy. Here, Patty, clear away the breakfast things.
(L.)Here be a rich bankrupt come'd all the way from Lunnun, arter master
Lister!
After me?
A rich what?
Bankrupt.
fail to grow rich. How do you know that he is a bankrupt?
Why, becays I axed the servant to take a drink and he told me all about it. He's a fine old
fellow that ere bankrupt is, only not so young looking as his son—nor so good looking as his
son, nather. If he'd only take the advice I've often guved him, and wear a dandy smock frock
like I does.
You know the banker's son, then?
I!
You! he, he, he! it's all out! I've discovered the secret! you, as pretended to be a picture
drawer! maybe you arn't the rich bankrupt's son at all, you arn't? ho, ho! he, he,
he!
Heavens! my father!
The son of wealthy parents—one might have guessed that.
This way, old gentleman. Patty, mind how you makes your manners.
Dear Sir Marcus, this unlooked for—
There, no rhapsodies, Harry; give me time to recover this confounded hill.
How quare: I thought as how they'd a beginning hugging each other, didn't you?
Not at all—gintry knows better; and the next time you begins a hugging a me afore folks I'll
box your ears—so take notice o'that ere.
Only let me catch you in the mill, that's
all.
Now then to business—dispatch is my way. Is this the Miller of Derwent Water?
This is Mr. Ambroise, sir.
Oh! this is the proprietor of this mill, eh! decent for a miller. Well, sir, have you concluded the negociation?
Why, Sir Marcus, to confess the truth, I have not had the courage to commence it.
Oh! what you think the terms would be too exorbitant? Never mind that; not hearing from you I apprehended you had neglected the business, and luckily resolved to come and negociate the affair myself.
But, sir, Mr. Ambroise and his daughter—
Yes, sir, this is Miss Ambroise.
Um! I begin to comprehend—
No, sir, you do not comprehend.
Not comprehend! Mr. Lister, what do you mean by my not comprehending? I, who always comprehend everything. Who comprehend you, sir! Leave me, sir! Your respected mamma, Lady Lister, is at the beggarly inn on the borders of the lake yonder, and no doubt weak enough to be anticipating your arrival to pay your respects, sir—your respects, sir!
My mother, too!
Oh! you comprehend that! go at once, sir!
Sir, I obey.
Now, Mr. What's-your-name, a few words alone, if you please.
I say he's a banker!
I say he's a bankrupt!
Now, Mr. What's-your-name.
My name is Ambroise, sir.
Well then, Ambroise, you can take a seat.
Thank you, sir.
My son has doubtless communicated something of the commission on which I, his father, sent him from town hither?
Not a word, Sir Marcus!
I am a very rich man.
I am very happy to hear it. I hope you'll subscribe largely to our Charity School.—We are building a new Sunday schoolroom!
I can afford to pay largely for what I purchase!
That's fortunate for those with whom you deal.
I intend to purchase your mill!
My mill!
Yes, I intend to purchase your mill—I like coming to the point at once.
So do I—I shan't sell it!
Name the amount.
I have not the slightest intention of selling it.
Oh, as to that—I am a man of business, I never heard of one man proposing to purchase, that the proprietor did not object to sell—I understand all that sort of thing perfectly well. Name your own terms.
I have said it—No terms.
Not sell for money? You are a strange man!
Perhaps you'll think me stranger, Sir Marcus: you who are such a man of the world; when I tell you I would not part with my mill, in exchange for all you may possess! no, not for a principality.
Are you sane?
Perfectly so, but we all have our peculiarities—you pride yourself on the length of your purse—I on the number of years I, and my kindred have dwelt beneath those rafters. I was born there, so was my father before me, and so was my grandfather before him; there is not a doorway, a timber, a nail, that is not sanctified to me by sweet memories, and it would break my heart to quit the place.
My dear sir, with such ridiculous notions you'll be ruined—absolutely ruined.
Ruined—How? I owe no man a shilling—that I cannot pay, and I live by industry, as you do by your fortune.
Industry! That's all very well for your journeyman; but for yourself—I tell you once again, if you do not sell your mill you will be ruined. In short, I am an army contractor for flour. You people in the provinces, know nothing of metropolitan speculations —I hear the water is excellent here for machinery—if you remain obstinate, I shall build a mill—as I should rebuild yours; with my vast capital, I shall undersell you, overwhelm you, in short ruin you! But that's no fault of mine, if you are so positively bent on retaining a mass of crazy old timbers, because they serve as a sort of pedigree to your great grandfathers and grandmothers! —How much will you take to retire?
Money will not purchase my estate, nor threats frighten me away, so Sir Marcus, your servant.
You then brave the consequences?
Most decidedly! Robin, open the gate for Sir Marcus Lister!
Hostilities then are to commence between us!
As you please, sir.
You'll be ruined!
Open the gate, Robin!
This way, generous sir. Arn't you a rich bankrupt?
Bah!
Bah! Anybody may see he's a Lunnuner, acause my face is white,—he takes me for a sheep!—ha! ha! ha!
Sell my mill, ha! ha! ha!
After my long illness I'm well again—strong;—and yet I know not how it is with me, for my
mind cometh and goeth like the embers of a burnt-out fire—fanned by each passing gust, —now
bright—now black again! I comprehend the past—and, yet forget it! A poor weed, that stricken
by the night storm, springs i'the fresh morning up—then falleth down again—at last it
clingeth—and clingeth—and clingeth to memory's reed, and so climbs up, and leaf by leaf
expands into its old glory. I now remember all!—that purse-proud man, threatening with his
golden pestilence to sweep off me and mine—vain boaster! these worldly-minded sons of Mammon
know all things that man proposes, but forget that Heaven alone disposes!
Mercy—tell me—how long have I been ill, Mercy?
Four months, dear father!
Oh, no! dear father. Everything has gone on with the utmost punctuality in the mill; and your books—you'll be surprised to see how well they have been kept.
Yes, dear father: and sometimes—
Well, sometimes—
Summed up the account—eh?
Yes, father!
He never considered it a trouble, father!
Perhaps not, child! He is a very good young man— that is I think—
What, father?
Why you see, Mercy, the only thing which troubles me is—
The doctor, master.
Well, that does trouble me. He's like a perpetual blister! Desire him to walk in, and you
child retire.
Come in, Doctor, I hope you scraped your feet.
What's that, child? Isn't your tooth-ache gone yet? Luckily, I've got my instruments in my
pocket!
Ugh!
What will you take a draught of, after your ride this morning, Doctor?
Good! very good! excellent! I didn't swallow the joke at first—why, friend Ambroise, you'll
live to write a Jest Book yet —all my doing, ha, ha, ha! Egad, I'm glad to find you in such
capital spirits. I was a leetle afraid—
Of a relapse?
Knowing the effect of a shock upon the nervous system, after a fever of any kind, I was merely apprehensive that—
What?
Well then, as your medical adviser, let me gently recommend you not to take it—that is, lay it—too much to heart— this opposition set-up against you by the rich and powerful banker, Sir Marcus Lister, my new patient.
Oh! then yon didn't know? They haven't told you? quite right—quite right! left it to your
medical adviser to communicate the disagreeable intelligence—quite right and correct! Such
Purchased the paper mill—Is he then going to manufacture paper?
Oh, dear no, flour! positively flour! I'm sorry for you, friend Ambroise, but you'll be done up! I'd better tell you of it thus cautiously, as your medical adviser, lest you should get your feelings wounded by people who have no feeling for any but themselves.
Is he going to grind corn in a paper mill?
Corn, oh, bless you, that's all soon settled now-a-day Magic and machinery—telegraph works—down comes a wheel from Manchester, and a grindstone from Liverpool. Hocus pocus— wheugh! and a paper mill is a corn mill in a twinkling—as a cork flies out of a bottle of a soda water—piff—puff—the banker-miller sets up!—the flour-wheel is in motion!
Except for those who get their limbs broken.
Casualties! Casualties, you know!—falls for some, windfalls for others!—no rogues, no lawyers!—no casualties, no doctors! ha, ha, ha!
But if so easy to convert a paper manufactory into a mill, why did Sir Marcus seek to purchase mine?
Monopoly! monopoly! Nothing like the reins in your own hands—shake up the bottle yourself, say I. Sir Marcus will be a blessing to the neighbourhood; he means to lose twenty thousand pounds in underselling—
Those whose stock consists of persevering industry! Can such be the right use of money?
Customers, you know, don't trouble their heads on that score! Every man, however he may wish to show his friendship, likes to buy at the cheapest market, especially when it happens to be the best.
And, if an honest tradesman who has little capital to resist such a powerful opponent cannot pay his way, what then?
What then! He must go to jail!
Had you not better feel my heart, or put some feeling into your own?
What do you mean by that, sir? If you did not think proper to make the most of your mill, when you had the opportunity, who's to blame but yourself? But you are excited!—I'll go home and send you a composing draught!
Nostrums! nostrums! I will send in my bill, sir, as you say, while you are able to pay it.
Here, I merely called in kindly to amuse you with the chat of the day, and you were as peppery
as a bottle of cayenne! But I understand and commiserate your feelings—a losing
gamester!—well, well! I'll go and send in my bill, seeing how things are going; I made it out
yesterday— It's a pretty long one; but for this visit, remember, I make no charge.
Nostrums!
The ungrateful scoundrel! because he thinks ruin stares me in the face, he quarrels with me
on purpose to have an opportunity of getting his own bill paid! Oh, world! Oh, world! of what
sordid, selfish materials art thou composed!
It's a band of music, master, and a procession of workmen perceeding to the new mill! The works be all finished, there's to be a dance upon the green! Oh, such a caperin'! Plenty o' cider!
A dance to which, by your appearance, you are going.
Yes, master. Work's slack at home, and so I thought you'd have no objection! eh—if you pleases?
Well, well!—go, go!
And Patty, if you pleases?
Yes, master, everybody will be there as merry as grigs; Miss Mercy said I might go, and so—
Blind Harry, the fiddler, is to be there! and he knows all them new stepses.
Double shuffle, and cross back! so does I!
Will they go? Poor creatures!—why should I be angry with them? they know nothing of my
feelings, and if they did, would depriving them of a natural pleasure afford me the slightest
relief?
Did you call, father?
No, child, no! I was intent on my accounts.
Father!
What's the matter, Mr. Ambroise? Are you ill again?
Sir!
Yes, sir. The villagers are dancing on the green; I thought Miss Ambroise might like to witness it, and—
Oh, I should very much!
Dear father, don't speak to me so harshly. You never spoke so unkindly before—I'll stay at
home if you—
No, dear father—no—I—
But I say yes! You'll vex me else! I shall think you are displeased, because your poor old father spoke harshly.
I displeased with you! Oh, father!
There, there—bless you, go! Set open the window, and I can then look at you—I can see all
that passes—hear the joyful music. Get you gone.
Not go to the dance?
No, Patty, I have changed my mind.
And pray why?
Why? Becays, I seed Miss Mercy go out wi' Mister Lister; and I do know by that, old master be left quite alone.
Well, the rats won't eat'n, I suppose!
As to that ere, I knows nothing about the rats nor the cats neither; but this I know, that measter looked very unhappy when we comed away, and it's not the duty of a good servant to go junketting about to dances, while his master's a grieving and breaking his poor old heart at home, so I shall go back and keep him company.
Oh, you will! And pray, what's to grieve about?
Bless your simple pate! Can't you see?
May be I does! I arn't blind! What about that?
I wishes 'twas a fire un burnt down!
On fire! Why, you don't know what you're a talking about!
Yes, but I does though, and that fine Mister Lister, that you think so much on, and the old bankrupt—I wishes they'd all been hanged at York sizes, wi' their money bags about their necks, afore they'd ever any one on 'em comed into this country.
Why, you're a going mad! I'm quite afraid on ye— how your eyes roll, I'll shriek out if—
No, no, no! I arn't a going mad! but don't you see we're a losing all our business, and what remains will be swamped by this tarnation new mill, and this tarnation bankrupt! Master will be ruinated, and Miss Mercy—
Will she be ruinated also? And shall I be ruinated?
On the contrary, it almost sets me a crying; so if you've a mind to shuffle with John
Ploughshare, why do, and I wishes you luck to dance out the soles of your new shoes; I'm going
back to measter.
No, will you though? Well, that's a good Patty! I never knew afore, that you were such a good gal! You've gotten the right side of my heart, and I swears I'll marry you!
Oh! When?
Arter Michaelmas if I saves money enough to buy the ring! or maybe, on Michaelmas day! Then you don't know what you'll have for dinner!
Oh, don't I! I shall have a goose and a husband both together! ha, ha,
ha!
I've chipp'd a bit off my finger with the plaguey steel.
You—you can't do anything properly! Just look here,
He! he! That's what I call striking a light.
And that's what I call striking a blockhead.
Patty! Patty!
Here I is, miss, striking a light!
Yes, and a mistaking my ear for the tinder box.
Mercy!
But you were weeping, my child?
Weeping! I, father? No—no—
Your eyes are red?
Ah, yes—a grain of dust.
Father!
That is, alone—nor be with him alone, as you were this night. He has told you that he loved
you—oh, I know it! It is written in that deep blush upon your cheek. Recollect the old adage,
my girl, “The weakest go to the wall” His condition is far beyond yours—his family wealthy,
proud, insolent! He loves you, I doubt not, and if permitted to follow the dictates of
The world's scandal, father?
Yes, child! the world's scandal; which, like a small pebble thrown on yonder lake, produces at first but a single circle— but this circle so multiplies itself, that at length the calm blue surface of the lake becomes so deformed, that heaven, which looks down, can no longer recognise its own face therein: and such is scandal—beware of it!
Father, dear, it is impossible!
Impossible, child! What is impossible? There was I a few brief months ago a happy inheritor almost of this valley— every day was like the last, tranquil—industry alone was needed to supply our wants, and add something more for you, and the winter of your old father's years: people looked on from the summit of the hill—they contemplated the peaceful scene, and said, “Truly, the miller who dwells there is a happy man; while yon stream flows on, nothing can disturb his competence, or o'ershadow his happiness.” Alas, alas! even while they spoke, the serpent, Monopoly, lay hidden, as it were, beneath the very waters which glittered in their eyes, and only waited the moment to spring up and crush the object of their envy in its annihilating coil.
Well, dear father, well, if you wish it, I will see Mr. Lister no more.
Wish it, child, I command it. However innocent our intentions, without our knowing it, peace
of mind is much sooner lost than won. It is but a speck in the apple which leads to its
falling from the parent bough, and when fallen, who can hang up what heaven hath shaken down?
Oh, my child, be warned by your poor old father.
Father, I will—I will!
I told myself! But mind, now, I was a whistling all the while—I never put my lips to the jug!
No; but you put the jug to your lips, I'll be
sworn.
You two are for ever wrangling: don't you hear a knock at the door?
Again!
Harry! at this moment!
Mr. Lister—sir, this—
I'm glad I have found you, Mr. Ambroise: can I speak a word with you alone?
Oh, certainly, sir. Leave us, my child.
What is this mystery?
Going to pop the question to master at last.
You have a bill due on Wednesday for £50, payable to Montague &Co.
Well, sir, I need no reminding of that.
The bill is renewable.
With its present holder, probably; but, knowing your punctuality, that bill I have just ascertained by a letter to my father, will be transmitted, by to-morrow's post, to him. Your stay here annoys him: if you are not prepared—I dread—
To stop the bill where it is, is that possible?
Yes; Montague is an old friend of mine—a word will do it; but that word must be spoken, and
by me.
Yes, master.
Going out, father, at this hour—you who have been so ill? Oh, don't think of it.
Business of urgent necessity enforces it, child—give me my coat and my hat, I shall go inside to Welford. I shall be back to breakfast; sleep soundly—you'll scarcely miss me.
Shall I light you to the coach, master, wi' lantern?
Lantern! Why it's clear moonlight!
I'll see you off, sir, with the greatest pleasure.
No—no doubt. I wonder whether—whether he's coming to talk under her window.
Good night, Mercy! Don't frighten yourself, it's only money business.
La! Don't I wish I were going by the Royal Blue to Lunnun. Why, do you know, miss, Bill Oats the carrier told me as I should make my fortin' there, and offered to give me a lift all the way in his cart for nothing!
You are much better where you are.
Yes, miss. Coach come past?
You would have opened it!
No.
Not to me?
No, not to you! Why did you return? They'll say that you have sent away my father on some pretence, to come back in his absence to hold a clandestine meeting with his daughter.
Mercy, you never said such things before, who will dare to say this? What have I done to offend you?
Oh, nothing—nothing! But my father has spoken of the world's scorn! He has enjoined me not to see you again alone, I feel doubly culpable. Now leave me I beg of you. I implore you, Harry. Mr. Lister go!
If you wish it, certainly. I came to tell you he had gone, but why should your father prejudice you against me—I have done him no injury, whatever my father may have done. I love you, Mercy, I told you so this very day, and now—
Oh, for pity's speak of it no more! My father says truly, that the rich banker's son, and
the poor miller's daughter
No, Mercy! I will not go! At least till at your feet I have sworn solemnly before heaven, that much as I honour and love my parents, I love and honour you still more!
Oh, Harry, Harry! I require no such protestation to incline my heart to believe in your affection. I am but a poor simple single-minded village maiden. But he, my own dear devoted father, tells me that the best of men, Harry—the very best—despite of themselves are led away by the world's influence to worldly ends. Go then, go! What am I that a weak foolish vanity should lead me to think that even you should be different from others, for my sake?—mine! No, I dare not believe it, forgive me—forgive me—I have obeyed my father's commands; he shall never know that which will be for ever buried beneath a heart willing to sacrifice itself for others' happiness—For yours! Farewell!
Oh, I dare not. Alas! think of the hour.
One more word.
Beg pardon, never mind me! Only the doctor!
He here! How unfortunate.
Nothing. I simply wanted Mr. Ambroise's man to hold my horse, while I attend an old cottager, who has been impertinent enough to be taken ill in the middle of the night, and seeing the miller's door open I walked in—of course I had no idea of what was going on.
Going on, sir!
A case of affection of the heart, oh, I'll not disclose—
Disclose what, sir? You are quite welcome to disclose whatever you please, there is nothing to be told that either I or Miss Ambroise need be ashamed of.
Here's Mr. Ambroise's man, sir—now you can attend to your patient, who, no doubt, wants your immediate attention.
Um! Toney! Your master in bed, eh?
My name bean't Toney—nor my master bean't gone to bed—he's gone to Welford, now, as it happens. He! he! he!
Gone to Welford, eh?
You are an impertinent brute!
So he is!
A what?
An impertinent brute! And if you don't retract the insinuation you have made use of, I'll throw you out of the window!
Oh, do!
Retract? I will do no such thing, sir! and since you provoke me—a brute! I can tell you, I smell a rat.
La! where? They must come out o' the mill.
A rat, sir—take care you are not trapped, drawn in, caught. A respectable young man like you—your father a rich banker. This old miller isn't what he pretends to be. Talk of brutes—why, sir, though he's all sanctity to you, this very day he called me a nostrum-monger, sir—a nostrum-monger!
I shall split!
I'll let him see if I can't administer a dose to him. Out of the way, eh?
You are an old scoundrel!
'Tis well for you, sir, you are Sir Marcus Lister's son— or do you see this
whip?—
I do, sir!
Murder! Assault! Damages!
Now, sir—do you retract?
No, sir, I don't—and what's more, I'll be off directly to your honoured father—and I—
Oh! you don't retract? Then out of the window you go!
Hurra!
Scandalizing scoundrel! I'll teach you to insinuate infamous inuendoes about honourable
people! Now tell my father what you please, but against her, and this is only an earnest of
what you'll receive from me next time.
There, take away the chocolate and see whose horse that is coming up the avenue—if it is Mr.
Lister—my son—tell him that I desire to speak to him.
Dr. Prussic, Sir Marcus.
Oh that quack, eh! he's a bore, however show him in.
Servant, Sir Marcus.
I believe so—haven't thought.
And my lady, is she quite well?
I believe so—haven't enquired.
Mr. Lister is I know.
You've seen him then this morning, 'tis more than his father has.
Yes, I have felt him also!
Where was he?
Excuse me, Sir Marcus, but we medical men can't communicate everything we witness.
Why certainly, Sir Marcus! I feel conscientiously that you ought to know it, and if I was not afraid of being thought over officious as your medical adviser, I certainly would say—
Curse your rigmarole! I insist on an explanation.
Well then, Sir Marcus, since you insist on an explanation, —I saw him at the miller's, Mr. Ambroise's.
Is that any thing very extraordinary?
Yes, at one o'clock this morning, that's a little extraordinary, I think.
Perhaps not, looking at it on the surface, Sir Marcus, but as your medical adviser, interested as I am in your family— not, that for the world I would make the slightest mischief—but I saw inserted in the Morning Post, that it was expected that H. Lister, son of Sir Marcus Lister, Bart, was shortly to lead to the hymeneal altar, Miss Prudence Pelf.
Only daughter of Sir Jacob Pelf, with a dowry of a hundred thousand pound—think of that Mr. Prussic!
A hundred thousand pounds is a large sum to relinquish for a miller's daughter.
I don't see how a little flirtation with old Ambroise's girl, is to prevent my son allying himself with Miss Pelf.
A flirtation do you call it, Sir Marcus?
An intrigue, eh? A little annuity in the usual way might settle that affair—it's an every-day occurrence.
An annuity! My dear Sir Marcus, allow me as a medical man who knows human nature, to speak a
little more anatomically on that subject—this is an affair of the heart: I've felt your son's
pulse—he's in love. I say I have felt your son's pulse—and his horsewhip, too!
In love? Ridiculous! The march of intellect has long since exploded that aboriginal superanuation.
I wish you may find it so, Sir Marcus—but your son does desperate things under the influence of passion.
So do I!
To marry the girl?
Don't speak so loud. I simply speak to put you on your guard. I hear, I know, I see
everything—keep what I have said a secret. Dear Sir Marcus, if old Ambroise knew that I had
ventured a word, just to put you on your guard, as I feel honestly bound to do, I would not
trust the old ruffian to thrust me in the wheels of his mill, and grind me to death—but be
upon your guard I say. How is your pulse this morning?
Very quick just now.
Really, Sir Marcus, I didn't expect—but you are really so munificent.
Mr. Ambroise, Sir Marcus.
Your servant, Sir Marcus, good morning.
Oh, good morning, miller—your business?
My business, Sir Marcus, is respecting two bills of exchange, which I find on application to Montague & Co., have been already transferred to you.
My clerk, sir, will receive the amount. I never—
Come, come, Mr. Ambroise, no acting with me. I'm a man of business—a man of the world—don't think to tamper with me: you were out of your house all last night?
I was—I have not yet returned.
I do not comprehend.
My son was seen in your house at one o'clock this morning, shut up with your daughter.
It cannot be possible.
Oh, it was very possible; and I simply take this opportunity of asking you: what you or your daughter can possibly expect by such conduct? Many a father would have shut his eyes to this. Young men will be young men, and there is no gainsaying their intrigues; but I have still sufficient respect for a man who has hitherto held here so upright a character, to warn you (as I did about selling your mill, and you see how true my words have come to pass,) that any design you or your daughter may have upon the son of Sir Marcus Lister, can only terminate in your own disgrace and infamy.
Design upon your son? She—I—It is a base slander—a malignant falsehood: a cruel reflection
on myself—on my pure-minded child. Show me the wretch who has dared to utter it—I insist upon
knowing it.
As to insist, that is a high word here. You do not deny being out last night—you cannot deny it. My son lodged at your house two months before my arrival: what was the fascination? your daughter, doubtless: they became intimate friends—lovers.
Sir!
Yesterday my son, (who, ten months ago on his coming of age, consented to marry a lady of fortune), yesterday, I say, peremptorily refused to ratify the treaty by which one hundred thousand pounds will be lost to him and his family. I see it all now. My son shall never marry your daughter: his sole dependance is upon me—I'll disinherit him—cut him off with a shilling.
But will you hear me?
No, I will not, you are in my power: those bills you— you cannot meet them—tremble!
Tremble, for what?—because you frown?—because you menace? No! nor even because I am unfortunate enough to stand within the bar of your threats. I have been a well-doing man; I now am poor, but in my better days I never wrung my gains from the hard earnings of the oppressed. I never monopolised to the ruin of others; and a clear conscience tells me that it is still better to be a poor man enriched by honest recollections, than a rich and powerful man with an unfeeling heart.
If you mean that I am an unfeeling man, I refute the charge by making you this generous offer.
You speak as if it were possible for the monopolist to spin out his life on the thread of
other men's hopes.
Resign your mill, and promise me that your daughter shall never see my son again, and I forgive you the amount of your bills, and agree to settle on her an annuity of one hundred pounds a-year.
Insolent purse-proud man, this to me? I despise your offer! No, take all I have—every stick and stone—pay yourself every farthing that is your due; but, do you think I will compromise the name of my child by a base suspicion which your bounty and your annuity as you call it, would warrant; rather will I take her pure hand in mine and be prouder with her in my poverty than you, Sir Marcus, with your millions of gold!
Well, well, you shall hear from me!
I expect it.
He defies me, does he?—poverty's a blessing, is it? I'll soon teach him what a blessing it
is!
Is he gone, Sir Marcus?
Who?
The miller.
Did you want him?
Oh, dear no!
Ah! he comes that way again.
Does he?—then I'll go this.
Does my love, love me?—don't my love, love me?—yes, no, yes, no! Oh, the nasty little
ungrateful viper! here, I knitted him
Oh, Patty, what dost think?
Oh, I don't know! I thought you were dead and that you sent your ghost to tell me. What's happen'd, is old master run over?
No, but Miss Mercy's run'd away!
Run'd away wi' whom?
Mister Lister. I wur in the top room of the mill, which overlooks the high road, a trying to lay hold of them confounded sparrows what comes a-yelping me up on a morning at sunrise, when what does I spy in the lane but a po-chay!
Lor, a po-chay!
Yes—and presently arter I sees Mr. Lister a talking to Miss Mercy as if he were a persuading
her to take a ride along wi' him in the po-chay. At first she holders back, and puts her
handkerchief to her eyes, so—
At her?
No, no; at himself—then she gives a shriek like—lays hold of his hand, and jumps wi' him into the po chay, and away they gallopses for dear life!
Why, this is what they calls an elopement. Fancy you and me in a po-chay eloping!
I can't, Patty—I can't fancy who would pay the turnpikes.
Good gracious! that's old master's voice!
Mercy! Mercy!
He's calling his daughter.
What shall we say?
You tell him—I can't.
I? Lor love you!
Yes, master. Oh! lord! I am like a wasp in a vinegar bottle. Yes,
master—coming!
Arn't I sorry for this here! Poor master will be so cast down. If Mr. Lister run'd away wi'
me or Patty it would not have much matter'd—it would soon be blowed over, and nobody cared
much about it. It's an old saying and true, when once a man has a sack of misfortune thrust
into his cart, what a lot on 'em does follow, till the very wheels of life breaks under
him.
My—my mistress, sir? Oh—oh! she is gone out.
Gone out when she expected me home? Whither? Why don't you look at me? What's the matter?
I'm sure I don't know, but—but—
But what? I hate all equivocation—speak out.
La, master! you quite frightens me. Miss Mercy went out afore breakfast. Rob—Rob—Robin knows
where.
No, no,—I don't know nothing!
In—in—in a—po-chay.
In a post-chaise—with whom?
Bankrupt's son—Mr. Lister.
No, I arn't a liar!—I se'ed her in the garden crying—he was a 'suading on her to go, and the
more she cried, the more he 'suaded her—at last, more dead than alive, he lifted her into
po-chay and away they galloped.
Dear—dear master!—he be dying!
Dying!—poor measter—I said how 'twould be—you made me tell—and you've gone and killed him—I'll have you afore the justices, see if I won't.
Oh! dear master, don't take on so—she'll soon come back again—
Back again! no, no—shut the door—don't let her come in—I can never forgive her, no,
no—never—never!—to forsake her old father thus,—in his sorrows—in his old age!—when a few more
years—a few weeks, perhaps might have laid him at peace— unconscious of her shame—by her
poor mother's side! Shut the door I say. You will not—then I will do it myself. I cannot.
Oh! luckily here's the doctor.
Oh! sir, you are just in time, poor master's so ill, can't you give him nothing?
Yes, I'm come on purpose to give him something—my bill. How do you do? Let me feel your
pulse.
Where's my daughter?
Your daughter, Mr. Ambroise? Isn't she—Confusion —here is the
execution.
Execution.
A bum-bailey, oh, master, only say the word I'll call the two millers and won't we toss him into the mill-pond.
Do, Robin, do—I'll lend a hand.
Be quiet, I command you, my good fellow!
And I've thirty shillings I've saved if—and grandmother's real silver buckles.
A moment—'tis not too late! I come in a friendly spirit to renew the conditions which I proposed! What say you?
Friendly spirit! Spirit of evil that you have been to me!—Let me escape your presence!—the fatal words of your lips have come to pass! The blight has fallen on me!—my child has fled to shame—to infamy!
Gone? Fled?
Yes, as you foretold, the poor miller's daughter has become the victim of
the rich banker's son! Laugh, monopoliser! Laugh man of the world!—your triumph is
complete! I have nothing now to ask of you—but leave to die! You'll not refuse me
that, surely?
I said she'd come back—didn't I?
No, no, shut the door!—bolt it—chain it! I'll not speak to her—except to curse
her!
No,—no,—listen to my direst malediction! My bitterest—
Hold—hold—Mr. Ambroise! Your daughter is my wife.
His wife!
His wife?—Surely you have not disgraced your family by absolutely marrying the girl?
You are under age.
No, sir, I am not, I was of age last Thursday, which it seemed you—buried in your vast speculations—forgot!—nay, more on that day I became entitled to my late aunt's settlements, five thousand per annum, with which, despite your unjust displeasure, I hope to be very happy with the Miller's Daughter.
Well, since you have made yourself such an idiot, and blighted the golden speculations I had
made for you of an hundred thousand pounds on your wedding-day, why 'tis enough to break any
father's heart—but, however, as you have made the girl one of us, not to be laughed
at by the world for a blind old fool, I'll affect to approve your choice—she's pretty—very
pretty—and as she is actually Mrs. Lister—daughter-in-law to Sir Marcus Lister— I forgive
you—and congratulate you—fool!
Well, dang me! if Bankrupt arn't a nice old fellow after all! Happy to shake hands with you, sir.
Mr. Ambroise, I hope this speculation has terminated to your satisfaction.
What can I reply but that heaven is above speculations.
There are your bills back again, since you belong to our
firm.
Thank you. Thank you all, but before everything, thanks to him who brings me back my child—let them speculate, let them monopolize as they please; the world may look on and laugh, but, after all, your poor integrity is still more sustaining to the heart than the rich man's proudest fallacy; the one with golden chains, 'tis true links us to the world, the other on holy wing lifts us up to heaven.