O, ho! the Southampton packet! Who does she bring to-day, I wonder?—any one in my way?

Yes, yes; a very respectable party. Oh, the town's filling—money will be spent here—my scheme must succeed. Yes, after rambling all my days in order to effect my great object, here I rest at last in the Island of Jersey—Jersey, which I mean to render the model of watering places. Brighton was too hot for me; a positive oven—with the sea always serving as a block-tin reflector;—Hastings too high again; people climbing all day there like rats in a cistern;—but here is the very thing; a beautiful country—a magnificent sea—all the elements at hand, wanting only the creative mind to bring their charms to a focus—and here is the focus. (takes out a copy book and reads) “Prospectus of assembly rooms to be built in St. Helier's by shares and subscriptions; limited liability”—nothing like that! “and opened under the direction of Charles Claude Prong, Esq., M.C.A.H.M.S.,” which, of course, is to say—Master of Ceremonies, at Her Majesty's Service. There's my grand plan;— “The St. Helier's Assembly Room Company, Limited”—not, by the bye, that I want the company limited—and here's my list of subscribers, consisting at present of one—my friend Lascelles; but then everything must have a beginning, and— Bitaube comes from his shop, R.

Good morning, Monsieur Prong.

Ah, Bitaube, my boy, how are you to-day? What's   for dinner?

Dinner, sare?—nosing, sare, nosing.

Ah, you mean to say nothing to astonish me;— merely a bit of salmon, or chicken, or—

No, sare, dere is no shicken; dere is nosing here but an old goose, and him you have live on long enough.

What do you mean?

Moi, sare—myself—you have been wis me six weeks, and pay me nosing but compliment.

But haven't I ensured you? haven't I recommended you to some of my first friends in London—a mass of rank and fashion who will come over and patronize you.

Oh, bah, bah!

Bah, bah, sir!—that's the language of a sheep not a goose. I say that actuated by a spirit of the purest philanthropy,—I have worked night and day to benefit you and your island—to build a decoy-duck, in the shape of assembly-rooms.

Oh, yase; you build beautiful room, but he is all in de cloud, sare—he is all in de air!

So is oxygen in the air, sir, but we contrive to get hold of it! My scheme may be vapory, may be only floating at present; but here's its condenser, here's my prospectus. And what's a prospectus? Why the talisman of commerce—the great charm of the stock market, with which we conjure up   capital faster than a witch could do spirits; with a few waves of this, and up go my rooms, and once they are up, not a fashionable bird of passage, but will perch on this island.

Or perhaps, de bird of prey. Here is my bill, sare, will you pay him if you please?

Fifteen pounds odd.

Certainment, if you, please.

Very good, then I'll tell you what we'll do—I won't pay you this money. I'll do a better thing than that—I'll invest it for you, and then you know it will give you an income. I'll put you down for a couple of shares.

A couple of share?

That will be twenty pounds, and as you'll then owe me five, you can hand me the difference.

Why, I am putrified.

Now, then, to look round and find some of my acquaintance—Bitaube!

Duparc!

Old friend, give me your hand. (C.)

Serait il possible, mon bon ami, est ce vous. (R.)

Who's this I wonder? (L.)

Yes, my friend, it is I, after a long three years' absence.

Quel bonheur! Why, mon brave, we all thought you were dead.

  And really with some reason considering the climate I've been in—that of a land where disease and peril were my hourly companions—but it pleased heaven to preserve me, and to repay my hard labours. I am happy to say, I have returned, not only with enough for all my own wants, but to spare to an old friend, should I find one less fortunate.

What a noble-hearted fellow. I see a subscriber!

Quel bonheur—I'm so glad—I—I must tell my poor wife, Madame Bitaube.

No, no, you must first delight me; you know how many here are dear to me, and one above all, Marie—she is well?

Oh, oui, quite well.

Thank heaven! I have not heard from her for a year past, and I almost feared to ask the question.

Oho, a wife in view—a double subscription!

She's still with her kind protector?

Oh, yase, with Major Audley, and he love her more than ever.

Bless my soul, sir, is the lady you allude to,— that very charming person I've seen with Major Audley?

Yes, sir, his adopted daughter.

Then, I must say a real one couldn't have been worthier of his taste.

  Say, rather, sir, his heart.—She was the orphan of a fisherman, whom he gave a home to in infancy, but he was soon well rewarded,—the grave had made him solitary, and she became more than child to him, she proved his friend and his staff.

Oui, and his pair of spectacles, for since he have got blind—

Blind!

Yase, have you not hear?

Not a word.

Oh, yase—tres malheureux—he nevare go out now, but Marie have to lead him.

And so charmingly she does it, sir, you'd really imagine that to lose your sight was the true way to enjoy walking.

Poor Mr. Audley!—but Bitaube, this is a sad life for Marie.

Oh, vare sad—vare—

Sad, sir, I say it's horrible—you don't know how I've pitied her—a girl so young and lovely, shut out from all amusements, not even an assembly-room to go to—such an evil must be remedied. We must build rooms—we must build them and I trust, sir, that in a purpose so purely philanthropical, I may count on your assistance.

Of course, you may heartily.

  Of course, I may heartily; I was sure you would say that, sir—so allow me with great pleasure to put you down for a ten pound share, one pound deposit.

Diable take de share, is dis a time for business? Come in, my friend, and sit down; Madame Bitaube, voici mon vieux ami Henri Duparc—entrez, mon cher—entrez.

Come, my book's improving, just now I had but one name—now I've got a couple—a couple—I see the approach of a whole army of subscribers; this Duparc suggests a host. The first step is the difficulty, it is to set the machine going, once off it goes by itself, goes freely and goes rapidly; especially if its progress should happen to be down hill.

Vive, Monsieur, Vive, l'Anglaise!

Eh, my friend, Lascelles, landing from his yacht. Now, shall I stay and get his deposit or—what are they doing in the shop, there? actually attacking a leg of pork!—their raptures over they go to dinner—they seek to give increased foundation to the pleasure of this meeting. Well, that really seems very sensible as well as very genial, so I'll just step in and show them that my nature on this point is as open as their own. (enters the shop)

Monsieur, Monsieur, will you buy, if you please?

Will I buy you, little angels! What fruit to compare with these lips and cheeks?

Buy mine, sir.

Buy mine.

Now, was ever a man so distressingly circumstanced? when to select from one basket is to disparage another—when to take from the fair Louise is to insult the sweet Cecile. I see, ladies, but one way to escape this dilemma, and since justice forbids my preferring one stock—to try to balance matters by purchasing all.

All!

Every pippin. Turn your fruit into my cutter, and there's three Napoleons to divide amongst you.

Oh, merci—merci!

(L.) Well, it's really wonderful what a man feels after a little philanthropy.

(R.) Wonderful indeed.

There's a something so dignified in encouraging industry—a sense of such duty—and when its objects of course, are of the tenderer sex—

A sphere so all-embracing—I'm really very sorry to throw a chill on such emotions, but do you know that to-day is the twenty-eighth, and that on the first of the month you're expected in London?

Now, now, my dear fellow, if you must be an almanac, don't always predict storm. Can't we run across in a day?

Not with this wind;—we may be blown out to sea.

  Well, then, we'll go to sea.

As you please; but you'll remember I haven't failed to warn you.

When did I ever deny your friendship? Though a little acid at times, haven't I imbibed it like sound claret all the year round?

Then I wish 'twere as beneficial. It seems to me you must be mad—when you know your uncle's temper, and twice already have enraged him by breaking your word. Is your conduct even honest—when having agreed to marry your cousin on condition he paid your debts, and being allowed by him very generously this preliminary trip, you happen to meet in Jersey with a trumpery French peasant—

Come, come, Rawdon, civil terms, if you please; I have told you that I love the girl.

Love her, indeed.

Yes, sir, I love her, and that so sincerely, I can't allow her even to be sneered at. You do not know or you'd not defame her; you judge her only by the girls about here—these minxes of the island, who would sell themselves as readily as the fruit they bring to market. Ah! if you had but talked to her; if you had but passed as I have done but one evening by her side—you would not wonder at her influence; you would believe me when I tell you that she has made me feel myself a humbler and a better man.

  But what's it all to end in, you can't marry her?

Of course not.

And would not wrong her?

Rawdon!

Then it's plain you must desert her, and after you have won the girl's affections—leaving her I admit to the usual remedy—self-destruction.

Gracious powers!

From which there lies but one escape,—but one course which would either satisfy her scruples, or your wishes —to marry her by a priest, and when you get to England—

Tell her 'twas illegal! Rawdon—are you a man?

Yes, and a considerate one—if deceit is to be practised, I propose that which would inflict on her the least amount of suffering.

Say no more, I'd perish first.

Oh, Lascelles, my boy—how are you? have you seen the Major to-day?

The Major, why do you ask?

For a very pleasant reason; my old friend, Duparc has just returned home to Jersey, and he's going to marry his daughter.

What do you say?

Oh, yes, they were engaged long ago, but family misfortunes compelled him to emigrate—obliged him to leave   her, poor fellow—till having got himself round, here he's come home again to reward her for waiting.

It cannot be, sir.

But I tell you it is—they are about to go into a matrimonial joint stock—he had paid a deposit, he had pledged her his word, and now he's come home to pay up in full—and talking of his spec reminds me of mine, did you say one share or six?

A dozen, only answer me.

A dozen! bless my soul. (booking it) Mr. Lascelles, 12 shares.

Answer me, I say, sir—is his passion returned?

Returned, why she doats on him, she has sent him epistles so burning, they have almost turned to tinder before they arrived.

D---n---

So, she'll not be broken-hearted.

Can she, dare she have so trifled with me.

This is the nymph so unlike the minxes of the market!

But she has yet to learn he is here, and as she always brings her father into town on market day to buy a nosegay or some fruit—I told my old friend, I'd see if she was coming.

Bon jour, Marie, bon jour, Monsieur.

  Eh! by Venus, there she is—Duparc.

Stay, stay a moment, Rawdon, oblige me by removing him, I can't rest till I have seen her. (crosses to L.)

Though she's now another man's—your respect for her increases. Prong, my boy, a word with you. (crosses, C.)

With pleasure, let me tell him first—

No, no, my time's precious, this way,

I see, he's going to pay me my deposit; did you say one, or—

One or twenty, come along.

I can't believe it!—she may have been betrothed to him, may have loved him years ago, but not now; why, haven't I for a whole month walked and talked and sat with her— watching her cheeks kindle under the breathings of my passion or looking through her eyes, into the very fountains of her soul! but what of that? is she not a French woman? and is not coquetry the main-spring of such a creature's being. I see it all—I have been played with, laughed at, led to dangle at her heels—believing that she loved me, whilst all the while—well, well, I'll see her again—yes, once again, if it be only but to tell her—but—she comes.

Marie—I must speak with you— you'll find me here.

Here! Yes, yes, I will lead my father to a seat and then return.    Lascelles goes off, L. U. E.

  And you're sure she'll be in town to day?

Certainment—quite sure.

Or otherwise, I would run down to the house.

No, no—she always comes on market-day—so restez tranquille, mon ami—and you will see her in a moment. I must go out to my boat, but I shall be back soon—ver soon, ver—so you will sit down, you will restez, and you will see votre cher Marie.

Good friend—you have not a lover's heart, and know not that its wishes are to be stayed but with its beatings —perhaps she's here already—yonder is the market place, and (looking off, L.) can it be! it is herself!—She has led her father to a seat, and now leaving him—she turns and flies this way— yes, love lends her wings—she sees me—Marie! Marie!     (Marie returns hastily, R. U. E., and looking round as she advances confronts Duparc, and starts back) Dearest—Do we meet again?

Henri!

Yes, your own—your faithful Henri,—Ah! how well repaid for all his sufferings—all his fears.

And when—when did you return?

This hour, by the packet—and should have hastened to you at once, but that I heard you'd be in town to-day.—Well, love, you're not much altered, or if changed—as the spring changes the bud—into a fuller, richer beauty: the climate, you'll say, has done its work with me—but what matters that? 'tis the heart that makes us young, and that is   all your own. Oh, Marie to-day I feel as when a boy! Let me tell you, I've returned with ample means, and now can fearlessly demand your hand.

My—my hand!

Of course; agreeably to our compact.

Vierge bénite!—yes, yes.

But what's this coldness—this reserve?

Oh, nothing, nothing—but you forget there is my father, and he is blind.

Well, dearest, you need not leave him; I can buy a house near his, and you can see him daily.

But then he'd be unhappy—he would have me always by his side.

Well then, he shall live with us; one roof shall shelter all.

You are very good, Henri, and generous, but still I fear—

That you would be unhappy? tell me if it is so.

I!

Yes, what else means this manner? You've not smiled upon me once; have scarcely touched my hand—

Oh, Henri, I am sure I am very glad to see you —you are an old friend—and—

Friend! I am your betrothed—your husband, by your vow—and nothing could have caused this change, but   that my rights have been invaded—say, is it so?

Ah, no! you are quite wrong—I love no one but my father, and—

(L.) Marie, dearest, are you there?

(C.) Ah!

(R.) So, then, all's explained!

Who is this, pray?

One, sir, that has a right to question, rather than to answer—this girl's betrothed.

Duparc!

You know my name—you must have also known my rights!

Not till this hour!

I must have proof of that.

Proof!

It—it is true, Henri—he did not know we were betrothed!

Yes, yes, of course you must protect him.

Protect him!

I repeat it!

At your peril, then.

No, no, you will not quarrel—I am sure you will not, for my sake—I conjure you—

Marie, your father calls you.

Go to your father—he, you have not deceived.

  But tell me you are friends.

Marie! Marie!

Leave us!   (she returns slowly—her eyes fixed on them, and goes off, R. U. E.) Now, sir, we need few words—you have robbed me of all that made life dear to me—all, that for three years has cheered the shadows of my exile—you must feel what I demand.

When, and where you please.

On the sands then of the bay in half an hour.

I'll meet you there.

Henri!—Edward! (the scene closes in) >/

What could Rawdon mean by sending me a mile along the bay to such a skin-flint for a subscriber? a miserable wretch, who has come here to live cheap—who swallows herrings and cyder, and calls it subsistence. Well, let me see my book. (opens it and reads) Edward Lascelles, Esq., thirteen shares; Henry Duparc, Esq., five shares; John Rawdon, Esq., one share. Come, that's not so bad for one day's work, at this rate my rooms will be up in a month. To be sure, they've not paid their deposits—but I'll make my first call to-morrow— the only sort of call that I care to make at present—a call which gets money—a call in which a notice replaces a card— and instead of idle compliments or a poor P. P. C., I draw attention to those stronger letters—L. S. D.

I thought he followed me, but now—

Ah, my dear friend, good day to you again.

You here?

Well, you've seen your amiable and lovely bride?

Yes, sir—I have seen her.

And of course she was enraptured.

Of course.

My dear sir, what's the matter? I hope nothing has occurred?

Nothing surprising—she is a woman!

And therefore—

  She has deceived me.

Deceived you, bless my soul, well I'm really very sorry, though do you know—to confess the truth—I—I had always some misgivings, always thought there was about her— something of a—a—bubble concern.

Let her pass—enough that I can be revenged on her misleader.

Revenged! Why, my dear friend—you—you are not going to fight, I hope?

Immediately.

Impossible! you can't surely be so rash! (aside) He hasn't paid his deposit.

Rash! why if I fall—I lose but what has become a burthen to me.

But, my dear sir, have you no compunction—no moral compunction in the matter? do you forget the crime you are about to commit? the great sinfulness of duelling—simply looking at your own share in the business—your own share, I say. (aside) And my five shares!

Peace, sir, I'm resolved.

But—but, if you knew how much I regarded you— if you could but see into my heart, sir, when I tell you there's but one man in the world I've as great a respect for as yourself,— and that's Mr. Lascelles—

And 'tis he I'm going to meet.

  What do you say?

He is my wronger.

Why, I'm ruined! here's all my building sinking in a quicksand. Shoot Lascelles! a gentleman who holds thirteen shares in my new company and hasn't paid up; why, hang it, sir, you had better shoot me. If either of you are shot, down goes my capital, never to get up again.

'Tis your time, I believe—I have come without a friend, though I see you have not.

A friend! (crosses, R.) I hope I am the friend of both of you. My dear sirs, can't this matter be arranged in some way?

No, sir; you will leave us.

But—but gentlemen—my dear friends—if you knew how much I valued you—if you could only conceive the loss— the great loss you will become to me.

We waste time. (crosses, C.) If your pistols are loaded, we'll at once exchange—and—

And can nothing prevail on you?

Leave us, I say, sir!

Edward! Henri!

Ah! 'tis Marie—she has guessed our object, and flies to intercept it.

There are rocks yonder, which will screen us from her.

  Follow me.    They go off, R.

There, there, it's all over with me. Was ever such a miserable, unhung wretch as I am? this moment with wealth before me—with a fortune in my grasp—and now, nothing but a gaping copy book—but they shall be prevented, I'm resolved. I'll alarm the town, I'll run to the governor—I'll—

Pas ici! ciel! Monsieur, have you seen two gentlemen pass this way?

Oh, don't pester me, madame, with your gentlemen, I'm a ruined man!

No, no, tell me—have you seen them?

Yes, the last of them—five shares shooting at thirteen, and making two deposits in each other's skulls!    Exit, R.

Henri! Edward! (two shots are heard, R.) Ah! (standing transfixed) Gracious heaven! dead! dead! I shall see him then no more! him, whom I loved—so dearly loved, better than life! Never again shall I listen to him; shall I look upon his face! Oh, it will crush my heart! death! death! come to me now, and I will thank thee.

Marie! (she shrieks, turns and embraces him)

He is alive!

Yes, dearest, calm yourself. I am with you and am uninjured; Duparc, I regret to say, is wounded, though not seriously; so go to him, Marie, whilst I run to the town for aid.

Ah, what is that?

  Some fishermen, who are running to him from a boat.

Edward, you're in danger. (looking off, R.)

In danger?

Yes, they surround him, and they draw their knives; they swear to be revenged—fly, Edward, for your life!

Impossible! that would be to own that I've done that which I think a crime!

You must, you must go—for they love their countryman, and they will kill you. (voices are heard again, R.)

A bas les Anglaise—a la mort!

Do you hear?—do you not see them?

But where am I to fly? What house would shelter me?

My father's.

Your father's?

Yes, there you will be safe. Pass behind that rock, climb the bank, and lie down till they pass.

Marie, if I consent to this—'tis that you demand it of me.

Yes, yes, blessed virgin—he gains the rocks, he passes them, and now, the bank —he climbs it; pause not, for they come—pause not, for your life, Edward!

Marie!

Quoi?

  L' assassin passoit par ici—quelle route allait il.

Cette route la—par la roche—

Allons, mes amis—he shall not escape.

(watching them) They follow him—they pass the rocks—and now, they view the bank—they mount it—no, they pass on—he is safe!—blessed virgin, take my thanks.    Music.—She follows them, L.

Not returned, you say?

No, sare, not yet.

And merely went out to our neighbour's to procure some drawings.—Well, well, she can't be long. You may go, Fanchette, you may go.

Yes, sare.

I grow too querulous: the clinging thought that sight will be restored to me makes every day more bitter at its close, since met with hope, instead of resignation. And yet ought I not to be thankful? I might have been deserted in my need—left to the selfish care of strangers, who would have watched me only for the pittance that I paid them. When, now I have a friend who mingles all the feeling of a mother with a child; who anticipates my wants, dispels my cares, and brings back with her freshness and her soft kind voice—the sunshine and the air of the fair world I am shut out from.

I must be cautious.

'Twas nothing. My ear has grown keener since my sight has failed; 'tis a law by which heaven adjusts its dispensations—and yet, what increased power can compensate that loss which buries us as 'twere within a living prison—which makes the being gifted to command the world—the prey of the meanest reptile—the dependant on a child.

  Marie!

My father. I am afraid I have been long.

Oh, no; not actually, but you know we measure time by our sensations, and thus, whilst you are near me, the day is only wintry in its shortness,—as when you are gone, it has nothing of summer but its length.

I assure you I have not loitered, I made all the haste I could.

Dearest, never mind it. Were you successful in your errand?

No, I was not—that is—yes; oh, yes, my errand was successful. (looking at Lascelles)

Well, Marie, if you like you may sit down and read me the conclusion of that story you began last night.

Oh, yes, with pleasure; here is the book, and here the place I stopped at; but let me close the shutters for the air is cold.   (she closes the shulters, placing a chair for Lascelles near the table, L., at which she motions him to sit—then returns, L. at table, and sits opposite her father, and by Lascelles) Now I am ready; I will begin— (she reads) “And thus, gentle reader, did Honore de Valmy, expiate her falsehood; bound to St. Marc in early life by the first ties of her heart, she forgot them as she grew up in favor of another—and you have seen the end—when she had given all to her false idol, she was herself betrayed—”

I read your thoughts—can you believe this crime of me?

  My child!

Oh! I beg pardon—I— (Bitaube knocks at the door, C.)

Monsieur Audley—Monsieur Audley, are you up, sare, if you please?

Ah, ciel!

Who is that, love?

I—I know not, really. Who is there?

Michael Bitaube!

Bitaube—our old friend; let him in of course!

You are not in bed, sare, no—I am ver glad; and you will pardon dis liberte, for I am come in great distress.

I am very sorry; what has happened?

Oh, Monsieur Audley, shocking business, wicked ting, sare, my poor friend, Henri Duparc—

Duparc! is he returned?

Yes, sare, to-day—and he have been killed!

Killed!

Almost—and the villain have escape, he was seen to run towards your house—so I have come to know if you have hear of him.

No, Bitaube;—have you, Marie?

Oh, no—not I, nothing.

Yet now I think of it, I did hear a noise before you returned, love—as of some one entering.

Ah, then, no doubt 'twas him; you would not see   him and he have hide here.

I beg your pardon, it is not so; I know—that—

(lowering his voice) Traitress—you conceal him— but you shall not save him. (aloud) Well, if he is not here, I will go; I am sorry I disturb you, sare.

I am sorry only that your visit has been fruitless.

Good night, sare, bon soir, mademoiselle. (turning to go out, he kicks against Lascelles' cap) Eh, bien—que vois —je. (picks it up, and recognizes it) Son bonnet!

Ciel!

C'est bien, ma'amselle—je retournerai.

My child.

Yes, father.

My walk to-day has tired me; I'll go to rest.

Si vous voulez, Fanchette—la chandelle s' il vous plait; I hope you are not ill? my father.

No, no, but I am old, remember; I have that last complaint which the grave only can relieve.

Monsieur—je suis ici.

Good night, my father.

Good night, my child; may the heaven that prompts you in your daily duties—guard you in your repose.

Edward! Lascelles comes from the closet, L. Now, now—away; you are discovered.

  One moment first, you have saved my life; you must hear the resolution it has led to—to devote it to your happiness—Marie, I leave this house, only, but as your companion.

Mine! oh, never!

I have to-day deprived you of your betrothed; a few years will rob you of your father—you will then be alone, without a home, perhaps without a friend,—'tis my duty to defend you from these dangers, and by the holiest right—a husband's—

Edward, no, no; I cannot follow you.

My yacht will carry us to St. Malo; where, in a few hours we can obtain a priest—consent then, to partake my fate if you would have me value it.

No, no; go Edward, save yourself.

I have told you my decision, I wait for yours.

Lascelles, run for your life—the townspeople are roused, and are hurrying here to seize you.

You hear?

But our cutter's at the beach, and in six pulls you're on board.

Decide, Marie, in another moment—

You are lost!

And you—are my destroyer!

No, no—not I, not I; who would die to save you!

Quick, quick, they see us; nothing but a shot   can keep them off.

Come, then, dearest, come.

Marie, Marie!    (she shrieks and breaks from him, flying to her father's door, R.; Lascelles seizes her hand, and as she stands trembling between her contending feelings, the curtain descends)

Well, this is a great day for us; this regatta was just the thing to set matters going; it has brought every one to the banks of Southampton Water—thanks to Mr. Lascelles, who is something like his own boat—just as well stored and buoyant, and as capable of carrying blessings all round the world.

Bon jour, madame.

Good morning, sir; want a bath, if you please?

No, madame, no.

Water's very pleasant, sir.

C'est bien—and so is de land; I have bath every day for nothing. Will you tell me, if you please, which is de house of Mr. Lascelles?

Mr. Lascelles, sir, Elm Lodge, close by.

C'est bien, I have letters for him.

Oh, but you can't see him yet—he is now on board his yacht, sailing for the cup.

Well, den, his wife.

His wife—what, the French lady?

C'est vrai.

And a perfect lady she is—she bathes every morning.

Aha!

Every one likes her, though she's been here but a fortnight; she's so affable and condescending, and so exceedingly   genteel; really, to see the style with which she'll give the poor a penny—it's enough to make you take to begging, in order to keep in her hand.

Sans doute.

By the bye, is it true, sir, that Mr. and Mrs. Lascelles were a runaway match?—

Oh, yase.

And that her father, poor gentleman, is afflicted with blindness?

C'est vrai—he is blind; and she run away and leave him in de dark.

But she ran away with her husband; and a woman, you know, must leave all and cleave to him.

C'est vrai—and she do cleave to him—like blister.

And I was told, in addition, by Mr. Prong—

Monsieur Prong?

Yes—my lodger, who came here with Mr. Lascelles.

De rascal—den I've caught him!

And who is going to do everything for our village— going to make it a great place, sir—a place that, he says, will leave everything behind it.

Sans doute—and how generous; for when he go away, he leave noting behind him. He is great ge-noose; he build great room; hang him up in de air, and how you tink he climb to him? dere is his ladder. (he draws out a long bill) Ah   le scelerat, la voleur, I cash him at last. I will first go to Marie, den go to him and take all he got, if he have not one shelling. Bon jour, madame;—which way to dis rascal—no, no; I mean Monsieur Lascelles?

Ah, I'll shew you, sir;—you leave the beach on the left, turn up Elm Lane, and then, sir, you see—

(R.) Now, Mr. Rawdon, we're alone, relieve me from my suspense. Since the receipt of your letter, I've not had a moment's rest. My nephew writes to me a fortnight since to say he's ill, at Cherbourg. When you inform me I'm imposed on—that he's here, plunging in every gaiety, and connected with a French woman—

(L.) It's the truth, sir, though you've yet to know it all. The female in question, he met at Jersey; and I regret to say, that such was her fascination—

He seduced her.

You must prepare yourself for worse news.

Great heaven, sir, speak out.

In a word, then, he has married her.

Married her?

Even so, sir—three weeks since, in France—from whence he brought his partner here.

You must be jesting.

I knew what a blow 'twould be to you, and so feared to reveal it suddenly; but he has certainly this excuse,   that in the whole business he has been mad—the girl has all the arts peculiar to a Frenchwoman—and she has robbed him of his reason.

The monstrous villain! after all his vows, his oaths to his poor cousin—

I assure you, sir, I urged every warning I could think of.

I had borne enough before—had forgiven enough; led on by the daily hope that however reckless hitherto, he had still some heart, some gratitude—but this exceeds all, ends all— yes, now I've done with him, he's no longer kin of mine, I disown, I renounce him utterly.

That will not do either.

From this day he's a beggar, he shall starve, sir, starve! that little corrective may bring to his senses; if the lavish waste of wealth has dried up all his feeling, want may set them flowing—want may teach this profligate, that there are principles and duties not to be outraged with impunity.

Whilst all this while I believe, sir, his cousin is deeply attached to him.

Attached to him, she adores him; I shouldn't at all wonder if this news were to break her heart.

Then, as that's the case, sir, do you think it politic to renounce him?

Politic!

  Since, as I'm certain that his passion for this girl is only temporary—that indeed it's too thorough an infatuation to be lasting.

But he is married!

Well he is, sir, and at the same time he is not; he was united to her by a French priest—but as the ceremony has not been repeated by a clergyman—

It's illegal.

It's illegal!

Well, if I were inclined to pardon him, 'twould be only for that poor child's sake.

Then for her sake, sir, let me persuade you to be lenient on this occasion—his present error may be a warning to amend him for the future—and—

Where is he now?

Why, at present, sir, he's engaged in this regatta.

There—there's a fellow, ruin hanging over him, and yet joining in a sailing-match; it is as you say, he must be mad, sir, he must be mad!

(C.) Oh, Mr. Rawdon, it's all over, and who do you think has won? Mr. Lascelles, sir, Mr. Lascelles!

Indeed, I'd advise him when he lands, to take care he doesn't lose.

Beg pardon, sir, would you like a bath to-day?

No, I thank you.

  Water's very pleasant, sir.

But I am not;—if I were in it, 'twould be boiling.

If you'll wait here, sir, I'll go down to the beach and send him to you.

Would you like the glass, sir? I'm sure you'll admire Mr. Lascelles' craft.

Mr. Lascelles' craft! Oh, I do admire it greatly!

Victory! victory! victory!

(L. C.) Mr. Lascelles has won, sir!

Won!—won is not the word—he has triumphed Mrs. Pipes—from this day forth your village is immortalized;— such a contest and such spectators never before adorned the sylvan shores of Hampshire. After such a spectacle, set your mind at rest: our rooms must rise!

Must they really, Monsieur Prong? (aside) and also, I hope, my charges.

At the party he gives to-night, I count at least on fifty subscribers.

The party he gives to-night! Why, was ever such a scapegrace?

Who's that?—a visitor?

Yes, sir; new to-day.

(aside) He must be rich—he looks so surly; the very man to be attacked. (crosses to C.) Good morning to you,   sir. Well, sir, and what do you think of our regatta?

As of any other nonsense, sir, in which one fool wastes his money, and a hundred more their time.

Oh, I see you're not aquatic; you prefer the safer sports of land, the pleasures of an assembly room—precisely my own tastes, sir, so as I project one in this locality—I trust you will allow me to put you down for a dozen shares!

One word first—you spoke of Mr. Lascelles.

My friend Lascelles, of course,—a very superior fellow, sir! and would be twice as good as he is, if it wasn't for an old hunks of an uncle.

Indeed!

Yes, sir—a miserable skinflint, that stints him of common necessaries—screws him down to a single shilling,— however, we shall be even with him some day—he'll give a guinea to some hospital, and die of apoplexy, at the thought of it, and then we shall screw him down.

Bless my soul!

Not, but what I should like to meet him first, I must say—to punish such a fellow is to offer atonement to society— I certainly should like to see whether this old crab could endure forcing.

And forcing—to what end, sir?

First let me ask, sir, what are your views in regard to watering places?

  Watering places?

Yes sir,—are you not of opinion that in our present state of civilization—in the high-wrought, and over-worked condition of the British mind—these retreats along our shores are necessary outlets for that super-abundant steam which might otherwise expand, and burst the national boiler.

Well, sir—it's just possible.

Very good—then you must know, sir, that solely with a view to prevent such a catastrophe, I've been trying all my life to open such a safety valve, and have fixed on begining here; a lovely country, a glorious sea, offering every scope to philanthropic views—wanting only the presiding mind to give their elements cohesion, and therefore, sir, feeling as I do assured— that all this great moral and intellectual good can only be accomplished by means of an assembly room,—I trust you'll support me in the one I mean to build, and allow me to put you down for a dozen shares—one pound deposit.

Sir.

No second call to be made till the first one is spent.

No, sir.

Or perhaps you'd prefer to become a donor to the scheme.

Nothing of the kind.

Well, my lads, you worked the boat bravely; so come up to my house to-night, and make yourselves welcome.

  Aye, aye, sir.

(advancing, C.) Now then, for this stranger who Rawdon says is enquiring for me. (recognizing him) Good heavens—my uncle!

(R.) Yes, sir, it is I!

(aside, L.) Phew! old save-all! lost a shareholder I'm afraid, well, can't be helped; Lascelles, my boy, I see you've business, so I'll leave you. (aside) Very awkward really to insult the man so grossly as to tell him his own character.   (he goes off at back through R., Lascelles stands paralyzed)

Well, sir, you are silent?

Yes, sir, I feel—I—

Are you not a precious reprobate?

I own it.

A cheat! a knave! a villain!

All, sir.

An accomplished hypocrite! a calculating deceiver, whom no oath can bind, and no benefits make grateful!

I admit it—every word.

What have I not done to advance your welfare?— what not forgiven to awake affection?—but all in vain, sir—all in vain; you now stand before me as the perpetrator of an act—

Which, if I cannot justify, I still may palliate. Oh, sir, if ever the end could justify the means, be assured, guilty as I have been, I am not without excuse; that I do possess a   plea, which even you might own the force of. Do not suppose, sir, I would have broken faith with you and challenged your displeasure, had I not believed that the being to whom I bound myself, was worthy of your esteem—and so dared hope that, however angered with me for a time, a day would come, when—

Have you finished?

Yes, sir.

Then, hear my answer.—Were I to consult my own feelings, we should part this very instant; but for the sake of one, whose happiness is almost as dear to me as existence, I'll make one more concession;—you possess your cousin's heart, who believes you to be faithful to her—and she, I am assured, is the only person who will ever make you a reputable man;— now, sir, on condition that you return to town with me to-night, and fulfil your word to her—I'll once more forgive you.

And desert my wife?

Your mistress!

Mr. Bulkley!

What else, sir—you've married her only by a priest?

True, sir; but I intended—

To obtain a clergyman if I consented—to cast her off if I did not?

You are my uncle, sir,—and have the power to wound me as you please. But you will admit at least, that I am bound   to her in honour?

And you to talk of honour?

Well then, by a higher tie—humanity!—she believes herself my wife—in that belief has left her home with me—and now that she is here—in a strange land—and without friends —I ask you in all honesty, would it be a human act to leave her?

I'm not, sir, to be made answerable for your misdeeds —her sufferings must fall on your head, and if they should fill you with remorse, 'twill perhaps make you more considerate how you inflict them for the future—now hear my final words. I'm going to the Inn—where I shall order my chaise to be got ready; and if within one hour you are not there to accompany me—live for the future as you please—to me you are a stranger.

But, sir, for the love of heaven—

Not a word. I give you now one hour to reflect— decide as you think proper.

Am I living—breathing—thinking?

Well, Lascelles, as I feared—he has found you out —and what does he say? (L.)

(R.) Why, would you think it? he'd have me sacrifice my poor confiding Marie, merely because I have not yet complied with a certain form in England;—he despises— calls her my mistress—she, who is in thought as pure as heaven—and to me the truest wife.

Then, I suppose you'll not resign her.

  Resign her! I'd beg—dig—starve first.

I'm afraid in those pursuits you'll find a deal of competition.

Well, come what will—you know my resolution.

And such being the case—may I ask, how you intend to live?

To live!

Virtue, you know, must eat,—however pure, it has an appetite,—do you know any way of earning a subsistence?

Not at present—but I could do something—

What?

Why, my education has been good—I could go to London, which is always a great market for the intellectual— and—write.

Write! what—at the impulse of your wants,— when hundreds there are starving on the products of their genius—the public pays for talent, not necessity—you're a likely man, certainly, to be contented with a garret—scribble your fingers off for bread—and bear rags, hunger, and insult, without the love of fame,—you, the spoilt child of luxury— who've never known a want.

And yet, in a good cause, sir, I could endure the worst.

Well, if you could, would you doom your wife to it?—this girl that you pretend to love,—would you have her sit   by your side in some back attic—sharing your bad dinner, and your worse temper?—and wasting, like the light you scribbled by, before your very eyes!

This is an extreme case.

Whereas, if you left her, as your uncle wishes— you could provide for her in comfort, and—

I'd die, before I'd leave her.

Very well, then the matter's settled—don't blame me, however, if I advise what I think the best, and— (going to the door, he stops) Eh! why Lascelles, who's that upon the beach?—isn't it our old friend, Samuels?

Who?

Of Fetter Lane—it is. Why, who can he be after? any friend of yours?

Very likely.

You're sure, it's not yourself!

Me?

Yes—for now I remember—there were those bills of yours for a thousand, due on the tenth.

But my uncle paid them.

Are you sure of that? What was your agreement? He said he'd take them up if you were in London on the first, but as you thought fit to break your word, why might not he?

And till this moment never was this thought of.

  However, he may have been more generous; and—

Have you seen Mr. Lascelles this way?

Eh! he's asking for you.

I am lost then; lost!

Unless indeed—a certain person at the inn—

He give me his aid—yes, yes; on one condition.

I don't know that; perhaps he'd settle this affair as a sort of parting present.

Ah! if he would.

We can but try it; so I'll take the Jew down to him.

Rawdon—you're my only friend.

But remember, if he consents, you'll thank him for his kindness.

I'll fall down at his feet.

Very well. Then expect me at your house in half an hour.

From what a dream do I awake. What can I say to Marie—how tell her, as I soon must, that I have bound her to a beggar? Will it not crush her hopes—her happiness; will it not fill her heart with shadows deep as those of death itself?

Edward, Edward!

Ah! 'tis she.

Where are you?

  Can I meet her—can I look into her eyes, with this grim secret at my heart, and know I dare not tell her?

Edward, Edward! Oh, what joy! une lettre de mon peré.

From your father?

And would you think it—he is here.

Here!

At Southampton—Bitaube, that good man, has brought him.

And he has come to—

To assure me of his pardon—he thought I should not feel I was forgiven till he embraced me.

Then, he too, must be told.

He will be with us to-night, he says, at eight. Oh, Edward! a week ago I thought my heart was full, that it could not hold more joy; but now it seems a thousand times as large —it swells with such felicity; I think each pulse must be its last.

Whilst mine—

(looking at letter) At eight; yes, he says, at eight— 'tis two hours only, yet—oh! how long it seems till then; how every moment creeps as if time indeed, were old, when my wish is so young—so strong. (crosses, R.) Oh, Edward! I'm sorry now your friends will come to-night, I would be alone; I would not move or speak; but sit between you both, holding your   hands upon my breast, and saying now—'tis joy enough to live.

Yes, love, yes.

Forgiven—by his side—one roof to hold us all—all that my poor heart has learnt to treasure upon earth; oh, can I sustain so great a weight of joy? By his side, and by yours to see our days glide by; bright and tranquil as the waters that flow before our door. Like them to pass in sunshine, and like them—when time is spent, to melt into the great ocean that welcomes us to rest.

Torture!

Edward, what is this? you are ill!

No, no, 'tis nothing; a momentary pain that—

Let me lead you to the air, you'll be better there; come, love, lean on me, come. (leads him out at back) Scene II. —Garden Wall of a Villa. Prong enters, R., dressed for a party.

Awkward certainly, my losing the uncle; if I could only have got the old boy into my building, I'd have made him put on the roof. Well, I suppose I shall succeed to-night—especially if I take time and attack them after supper;—wonderful how defenceless people become after supper. In protecting their stomachs they lay bare their pockets—like the action of a pump—they fill in to pour out. But if I should fail, then I have but one more resource; I must adopt the domestic method of arriving at capital—there's Mrs. Lascelles' waiting-maid, daughter of a farmer, close by—I hear will have five hundred pounds on the day of her marriage—why, that's a fortune—an absolute fortune; I must try my luck there, and try it to-night —I must propose to that young woman a superior investment, to advance the amount for my rooms, and take me as security. (loud knocking, L.) Eh! they are arriving, so I'll enter and who knows if I should meet my good angel, but I may hear her exclaim. (going off, L.) Bitaube enters, R.

Coquin—villain—rascal of de world!

Is it possible, Bitaube, my dear boy!

Yes, sare, it is me; but not dear boy to you, sare, ver sheep, sare, ver sheep.

How delighted I am to see you, and how are all my friends in Jersey? do you know I was very sorry I had to   give up that place; I really liked it on many accounts.

Well, nevare mind your many account; here is my account, sare—will you pay him if you please?

Pay what?

My bill, sare—fifteen pound, six shilling, and six pance.

Why, it is paid.

It is pay?—how, sare, how?

How? why, in the most honourable spirit of exchange. Didn't you agree to board me gratuitously, on condition that I recommended to you a dozen people of fashion?

But dey nevare come.

Well, that's their fault, not mine.

You owe him, Monsieur Prong, and 'tis your duty to pay him.

My duty?—that's a good joke!—you to talk about duties, who live by evading them! If I do owe you anything, I oughtn't to pay you for—constitutional reasons.

What, sare?

No, sir, and I'll prove it: ain't you a smuggler, a defrauder of the revenue? and what's living on you for nothing but avenging the cause of morality?

Good heaven!

Yes, sir; visiting on you the indignation of the law!

But you eat my bread, and you drink my brandy.

  But 'twas contraband brandy—and all I did was to confiscate it.

De world is at an end!

However, to shew you I'm not ill-natured, I'll settle my account with you, and I'll tell you the way. You must know, I haven't given up my assembly rooms—by the bye, did you ever pay your deposit?—Yes, I mean to build them here; but as money's rather scarce, here's a bill of a friend of mine for eighty pounds—which, if you'd like to cash—you can deduct your fifteen, and hand me the difference.

What, sare?

You can give me, I say, the sixty-five difference, and—

Why, you joke!

Or if that's not convenient could you manage fifty?

Sare, I want my bill.

Well, then, would twenty-five suit you?

My bill, sare, if you please.

Well, then, I don't wish to be hard upon you—will you lend me a pound?

Oh, go to the diable!

He is not returned yet; and till I know my uncle's answer, those doors I dare not enter. But, oh, what pain I had to disguise my fears from Marie—to escape even her suspicions! —every look seemed to lay open the inmost chambers of my soul!

  Lascelles!

Ah! 'tis he. Now, life or death—of which is he the bearer? Rawdon enters, R. Speak at once—for this suspense is worse even than despair!

He has paid it.

Indeed!

And what's more—willingly.

Why, you amaze me!

Well, I was surprised myself, but the truth is, his rage was over—and when he came to think it was the last time he should see you.

Yes—

I give you my word the tears were in his eyes, Lascelles—that old man loves you dearly.

I know it—and I doubt not, I shall live to be reminded of it bitterly.

Well, I said you'd come and thank him, so let's return.

Not this moment; my friends, you hear, are coming, and—

And is he not your friend?

Of course; but the truth is—now I could not meet him—I want composure.

But in half an hour he'll be off to town.

In half that time I'll be prepared; you forget what   our meeting is to be—that I'm to take leave of a man who has reared me from my cradle—who has been to me more than father.

Well, I know 'twill be sad enough, (crosses, L.) so come in doors and fortify your spirits with a little brandy.

Yes, Rawdon, I want that; nothing but a strange fire—a false courage, can strengthen my heart now, where all is weakness—cowardice—despair!    He goes off, L., followed by Rawdon. Scene III. —The Parlours of the Villa, lit up for the party; a French window at the back, opens on the lawn; doors open into rooms, R. and L.; the apartments are elegantly furnished, with piano and card tables, bust, music, and flower stands; a chandelier in the centre. John enters from the lawn with a nosegay; Susan comes from L. door.

Well, John, have you brought the nosegay? Bless me, what a beauty! why it's fit for a wedding; it will stand so nicely on our mantel-piece, and help the gentlemen to pay compliments, when they've done talking of the weather.

Ees.

Well, you mustn't stop, for there's a lot of people come, and you know what you've got to do—to take their hats and umbrellas, and put tickets on 'em; and I dare say some of 'em will give you something for your trouble.

Now do 'ee?

Yes—there's Mr. Markland; he's always very generous; I shouldn't at all wonder if he was to give you a shilling.

Well, if he does, he shan't be out of pocket; for when he goes away, I'll give him the best hat in the passage.

Susan! Susan!

Oh, there's missus! dear lady, how happy she is, to be sure; though, no wonder, when her father's coming—her poor father, that she ran away from, but who has forgiven and has blessed her; and in proof of his affection, is now coming to spend his last days by her side.

Ah! quel charmant! les busts—les dessins—la musique—tout est beau—tout est parfait—and you have brought my bouquet—Ah, quel jolie! these flowers look to me like faces of old friends, each red leaf seems a lip, which breathes   out the sweet hopes of my youth! Where shall I place them? Ah! cette vase!

Yes, ma'am—I declare if her face isn't like a weather-glass—fixed at fair.

Susan—see, what a lovely present your master gave me this morning.

Lovely indeed, madam.

Is not this gem like his own spirit—just as brilliant, and as spotless.

And because like his own spirit—it's in such worthy keeping.

I told you of my father, that he will be with us at eight, (looks at her watch) and 'tis now long past seven—so the instant you hear a carriage you will tell me, Susan—will you? (whips crack) Ah! those sounds, 'tis he! (she runs to the back through R. flat) Enter Markland, and two Ladies of the company, through R., Susan goes off by L. door.

Good evening, Mrs. Lascelles,—you see we're old-fashioned, and come early—well, and how's my friend after his triumph? never was success better deserved—the neighbourhood is still ringing with admiration at his skill.

He will be with us presently; he was late when he returned, and—may I request you to take some coffee? Susan and Footman enter with trays, C.,—the Company assist themselves. He must be dressed; yet how he delays—I'll go to him, for he was ill when he came in; very ill. Lascelles is heard inside, through L.

Ha, ha! Rawdon. Do you remember that?

Well, we can hear Lascelles, if we can't see him—   he is clearly in a victor's spirits.

Ah, our friends are here! Ladies, this is most kind of you, you make my rooms look lustrous. Markland, your hand. Well, Marie; what do we begin with? music, cards, or dancing. I say a valse, a valse—that magic circle in which earth—poor earth's forgotten and we wake to fairy life.

Remember, in five minutes.

(L.) Some tea, sir.

Tea! give it to children—champagne, there, or some brandy—brandy, that's the drink of men. (crosses, L.) Who can dance unless the brain whirls with the limbs, (sits, L.) and the lightened heart marks each bound with a pulsation.

Why, Edward, what is this?—you look and speak so wildly—

Wildly!—have I not cause? does not this evening crown our happiness? is it not to-night that brings to us your father—your good, your worthy father, to forgive the past, and share our future—our happy, happy future?

Vierge Benite! What is this mystery—this secret he conceals!

Wine, I say!

No, no, Edward, you must not drink;—you're not well—I'm sure of it.

Ha, ha!—not well! Rawdon, do you hear this?

Try not to disguise it; your hand is burning.

  'Tis with joy then, girl—with joy!

(L.) Lascelles, he is here.

Who?

Your uncle. (he starts, crossing to L.) Rather than not see you, he begs a meeting at your gate.

Son oncle!

You will come to him, of course?

But what to say? (crosses, C.) that I am a wretch, who to expiate my guilt must bury in one grave a father and his child! (the Company all rise and some advance)

Lascelles, what's the matter!

No, no, do not mind him —he is slightly indisposed; but he will be well soon—quite well.

My friends—a turn in the garden.

Now, Edward, what is this? this secret that you hide from me, tell me—tell me, or my heart will break!

Why, I think he's fainting; have you no essences or salts that will revive him?

Ah, yes, plenty in my room; I'll fly for some.

Now, Lascelles, rouse yourself.

(rises) No, no, it is too monstrous. (crosses to L.) Too fiendish for a man. (crosses to R.)

What, to thank him for having saved you from a jail!

No; to repay him for that aid—seek not to conceal your aim; you would tear me from her.

  That's as you please—to see him you are bound.

And once we meet—

Use your own will, but do your duty now (aside) —this will tell Marie everything; (he throws a letter on the table and crosses up, L.) Will you come?

To misery! to despair!

More raving! must he wait for ever?

Marie, where are you now?

Madman! driveller!

Marie, Marie; you are lost for ever!

Why, bless my soul, what has happened? Master taken ill, and—Eh—a letter for my misses. (she takes it up, and looks off) Why, what's that? a chaise at the gate—the door open, and master standing at it. Marie returns with an essence, and the Company then return from the lawn, and advance, R.; Susan and John, who enter from door, L., standing in front, L.

Now, Edward, here is something that—Gone!

Yes, ma'am, to a gentleman in a chaise—

Son oncle!

And see—he's got in—

Ah! arretez!

And it drives off.

Edward! Edward!

But perhaps, ma'am, if you read this letter—

Une lettre!

Marie!   (the curtain slowly descends)

Dear, dear, what a life people lead who've got to work for the public—to be servant of everyone, and mistress of nobody. I thought when this place was building, I was going to be a lady—that I should have nothing to do but to wear a nice dress, and give orders all day; I never supposed I was going to order myself—I was to be head of the establishment, but such a one as this is just like a canal boat—it's head and tail are both the same; and it will be worse when the rooms open—then I shall have to help fill 'em, as well as keep 'em clean—sell the tickets, and make the tea; well, there's certainly one comfort, I shan't have to drink it.

Good evening, young woman—do you know if there's a boat about here going to France, to-night?

To France, sir?

Yes, I wished to be there by the morning, and— why, it must be—didn't you live with Mr. Lascelles?

To be sure I did, sir.

Three months ago?

Yes, sir; but I've been married since then, to one of Mr. Lascelles' friends.

Indeed! Who was that?

Mr. Prong, sir; proprietor of this assembly room.

Why, you surprise me!

Well, of course, sir, I know he's much above me—he   being a gentleman, and I only a farmer's daughter; but the fact is, sir, I had a little money, and he wishing to build—

He wanted a partner, and so took you in?

Exactly so, sir.

Well, Mrs. Prong, this was a sad business, your master's running off?

Sad, sir? it was very infamous—to desert my poor misses only a month after her marriage—and that, too, on the very day her old father came to see her!

I grant it.

To leave her—poor lady!—in a strange country, scarcely able to speak English—and all, merely because he'd got a rich cousin.

'Twas a hard fate, certainly. And what became of her? I suppose her father took her home with him?

He took her to Southampton, sir, but there, after a bit, he fell ill and died; and as my misses was then destitute and had no home to go to—I did not think it too much to take her into mine.

Into yours?

Yes, sir—I couldn't see her want—besides she was so ill—she no sooner crossed our door, than she was forced to take to her bed; and for six weeks or more, I never thought she'd quit it—and though it's true, she was able yesterday to crawl abroad for half-an-hour, yet—ah! sir, I wouldn't be the   man who has caused all this misery—he may have gained all he wished—he may have got a rich wife—and be living in grandeur —but I can't think he's happy—after the wrong he has done,— such people may have their carriages—their wine, and fine dresses —but, unless they can stop thinking—they can't but fear the time will come, when they themselves will get served—just as they have treated others.

Susan—Susan.

Ah! that's my husband—you'll excuse me, if you please, sir.

She spoke home—I could have almost sworn she knew my history—I was the chief means of that girl's desertion, and now, what is the result—I am myself discarded—yes, Marie, yes—you have not gone unrevenged—blighted as you are—the weapon that was raised against you, has recoiled on its employer. And to be renounced by the man I had served— that I had saved, even from ruin;—whatever my conduct was to her, to him, at least 'twas friendly—yet, now to be compelled to fly from England, almost for my life—because he refuses to advance a sum that— Prong enters in a cap and apron, with brush, C.

Good evening, sir, a thousand apologies for this dishabille, but on the eve of opening a great establishment you konw the confusion. The fact is, I had employed an artist to decorate my exterior, but found him so deficient in that delicacy of touch as well as breadth of expression that forms so nice   a point of art—in the department of white-washing—I was obliged to dismiss him; and, however awkwardly it may sound, sir, to white-wash myself.

Old friend, do you forget me?

Is it possible, Rawdon! Well, I'm vastly glad to see you,—so here I am you see, fixed at last; the great object of my life accomplished—my assembly rooms erected.

So—I perceive.

And with every arrangement to ensure their prosperity. Here is my supper room—there my card room—and yonder is my orchestra, capable of holding ten instruments besides the big drum—on that point I am strong. My band, especially in its brasses, is wholly unequalled; I believe that my brass, sir, is not to be matched—and as to our strings— you hear of musical chords that pull in the public; put my strings together, and they are as strong as a rope, sir.

Well, I am sorry I can't stay to hear them.

Oh, but you must stay, if its only in justice to me. I'm not only manager and musical conductor, I'm also composer. Great occasions, you know, develope great powers: the opening of my rooms required to be marked by a new overture—so I walked about for half an hour, and whistled a grand one.

Whistled it?

Whistled it—to Stoggings, my leader, and he says it's a masterpiece. Its particular merit lies in its power of description,   and on this head I don't think music has ever gone further. As, for instance, I call it “The Fall of Algiers,” and I commence with the sailing of the fleet—a pizzicato movement for the hoisting of the sails—and a solo on the trumpet to suggest the bosn's whistle. In part three, I describe the old admiral—an adagio movement to depict the moral qualities of a nautical commander—and I wind it all up with a modern imitation of a terrible bombardment—the whistling of bullets—the bawling of sailors—the neighing of horses—the crowiug of cocks—the downfall of the Turks—and the triumph of British principles.

An expressive composition, certainly.

Then allow me to put you down for a front seat.

Why, I must be off to-night—and therefore—

You'll prefer taking tickets—very good—four shillings each—or a family packet—six for a guinea.

Well, really, Prong, I should not object, but—

You think I ought to put you on my free list—well, as you're an old friend, I don't object—but I must tell you one thing—it's suspended for the season.

No, thank you, I'll step in.

Eh! who's coming? Ah! it's Markland.

Markland!

Yes; and by the bye, that reminds me he has a dinner-party to-day, and I have promised that the band shall play my overture to the company.

  Well, I must delay no longer; my friend, I must tell you I am in haste to get to France;—is there a boat about here, going off to-night?

I dare say there is. Come through this room—it opens on my garden. And so you are going to France, eh? Well, now, how very odd—for, do you know, you've never paid up your two shares; so, whilst I send a boy down to the beach to enquire, you can hand me the difference.

Well, Susan, and how is your poor friend to-day?

Why, thank you, sir, I think she's a little stronger.

Then, in a week or so; we may hope to see her reestablished?

No, sir,—I don't say that.

But I say it—and with reason. Susan, I bring her news, that would almost raise her from the grave. I know, and cannot condemn your indignation at your late master. His treachery fully justified the abhorence you've expressed, but still he had excuses—it was not pride as you suppose, but want that caused his treachery. He loved your mistress deeply, but if he could only prove his truth to her at the hazard of a prison —must not some excuse be found for him in his dismay and his despair?

Why, certainly, sir.

Be assured, Susan, that from the day he left her he has not known a moment's peace; his life has been but a protracted torture—hourly she has been before him, in all her   desolation; and she not only—but the seared look of her poor deserted father. His one prayer has been to atone to her, and at length that prayer is granted—he had told his story to his cousin, a good and generous girl, and she had released him from his contract—but still his uncle was unyielding and resolved on its completion. For three months that girl entreated him, and entreated him in vain—but love like hers was not to be defeated, within this week she has prevailed—Lascelles is pardoned—and is free to maintain his vows to Marie. (Rawdon opens the R. door returning, and seeing them, pauses)

And—and is he coming, sir?

He is here; now at the Inn—where I had the greatest labour to detain him—whilst I went in search of you to prepare her for the meeting.

Why, I really don't know whether I'm asleep or awake?

Now, lose no time, but run to her immediately, and mind you are discreet—do not tell her all—say merely, he is returned, and begs to see her.

I will, sir.

Be speedy, then, or perhaps this meeting which promises such good, may become but the parent of augmented suffering.

Mr. Lascelles come back! come back to my poor misses to make her his true and lawful wife! I must be dreaming—yet—no Mr Markland says so—and I know he wouldn't   deceive me, ha! ha! oh! isn't this delightful! I'm so happy —I—I—should like to cry, only I haven't time—and yet here I stand idling, when I ought to run and tell her—never mind the rooms—if they don't open for a month—I've got to wash the floor—but my husband can do that—and then go home, and fry some sausages—but he can do that too.—Dear, dear—only let me see her once more happy—and I don't think I should be wretched, if I was to bury Mr. Prong.

So, then, Lascelles is free—and has returned to requite his victim. Are there not two here he should requite? Why should I leave England, seeking beggary abroad to avoid punishment at home—when he, who was the cause of my imprudence—can save me from its consequence? What made me use his name, but his own breach of faith to me? And with a hundred pounds I could regain the bill—he is now as rich as ever, and must assist me, eh—is not that he approaching? Yes; he has broken away from Markland, and hurries here half mad with joy, to clasp the feet of his forsaken—well, be it so—let hers be the first meeting—mine shall be the second.

She is not at home—I had forgot that—and also— heaven keep me—I was so surprised and overjoyed, I totally forgot to tell Mr. Markland, the state of my poor misses' mind—I have kept it secret, hoping every day she'd mend— but now, Mr. Lascelles is come, I must tell him, and yet how can I tell him, what will he say, or do, when he discovers that— Lascelles is heard without, C.

  Marie! Marie!

Gracious powers! he's at the door.

Marie—are you here?

Yes, sir, I suppose so.

And does not know my voice?

Well, perhaps, sir,—she is not within—she may have left the house.

And which way—tell me—that I may reach her side at once.

Which—which way, sir?

Why, what's this? Markland's not deceived me— she is well.

Oh, yes, sir—she is well.

Then, why do you hesitate?—why hold back from me some news? which I can see, but too plainly shadowed in your face—when you know all that's past—when you know too why I am here—is she alive?

Oh, yes, sir, and as I said well, but do be composed, sir, do now—you—you heard she's been very ill—for six weeks we gave her over—and though it's true she's now about again, of course she's very weak.

Of course.

And if so in her body—she must be in her mind.

Her mind?

Yes, sir, you know what a shock it was—the night   you went away—she was so happy at her father's coming—and you appeared so kind—and—and—altogether it was so sudden —and so terrible, that—

You,—you do not mean to say, that—that her mind has given way?

It has indeed, sir.

Almighty heaven!

For a time, I thought it was only brought on by her fever, and I hoped, when her strength returned, her reason would come with it.

No, no, you cannot—dare not—blast me with a thought so horrible!

Indeed, sir, it's the truth.

It cannot be—a momentary weakness—a casual word or action has deceived you.

Oh, sir, I wish it were so, but haven't I watched her a week? Why, sir, she believes, that the evening on which you left her is still passing—that your friends are all assembled —and that you, whom she saw enter a carriage at the gate— will speedily return to them.

What say you?

Yesterday, when she went abroad, she passed the whole day by the roadside, looking for your approach—and as she came back disappointed, she rose this morning, believing that you'd come to-day.

  Then it's plain if she beheld me—my presence would restore her.

Why, sure enough, it might, sir—I never thought of that.

It must, Susan—where is she now?

Sitting by the road, sir, I'll run for her directly—wait here only a moment, and—Eh! as I live, she is here.

Susan! Susan!—he is not come. And now, he will not return to-night, I am sure—I'm sorry—for our friends will look for him—and my father too, how sad he'll be—well—well never mind, he'll be sure to return to-morrow, so we must prepare —are the rooms ready—the music, and the lights. (looks round) Yes—yes, tout est beau! all is charming!—so now I'll go, and dress—come, Susan, come—   (she turns and goes to L. door—Lascelles, advancing R.)

Now, now, sir—speak to her.

Marie!

Sir!

Do you not know me?—'tis Edward!

Edward! I beg your pardon, he is not returned— he left me an hour ago to fulfil some errand at Southampton; but he will be back soon—very soon, long before the evening's over.

Marie!—do you not know me yet? What! not me—your own—your dearest—your espoused!

Susan!

  Marie, though your mind may be estranged, is there no chord within your soul to vibrate to my voice—to thrill at the name of Edward?

Edward!—you know him, sir? Ah! is he not worthy of your esteem? so generous, so good—if I could say how much he loves me. How assured I am that to save me from one hour's pain, he would sacrifice his life!

Misery!

But a thousand pardons, you must be waiting for a dance, the music's come, and here are enough friends for a quadrille; will you take a partner? (crosses to C.) (Music.—Turning from him, she goes round the room, bowing to imaginary couples, and pointing them to their places, then curtseys, as to a partner, who has asked her to dance) With much pleasure. (then waving her hand as to the music, she adds) Begin.   (she then advances in the first figure of the First Set, returns to her place, pousettes, and advancing again for the ladies' chain, she hears a noise, and stops suddenly) Pardon! ces son la—a carriage! 'tis he—Edward!    She rushes out at back.

Lost, lost, for ever!

Mr. Lascelles—

And I have wrought this ruin! I, that professed to love, to honor, and protect her!

You'll now, I suppose, sir, go to Mr. Markland's?

Certainly.

To meet his friends at dinner?

Of course.

And when will you set out, sir?

To-morrow.

To-morrow, why, bless my soul, I'm afraid he's   going crazy too—Mr. Lascelles, do speak to me—do, sir.

Well, Susan, what alarms you?

'Twill be getting dark, and as you must cross the fields to Mr. Markland's, hadn't I better show you the way? Since you were here, some chalk pits have been dug, and the path runs very near them, so I'll put you in the road. Now, you must not be disheartened, sir, because she didn't know you at once; when she sees you frequently, and hears you speak, and speak so kindly,—her reason must return, it must, indeed, sir!

Yes, when he that has bereaved it, is resting in his grave!

This is fortunate, he means to cross the fields, the place of all others for our meeting; there we should have privacy, and time to talk. Yes, Lascelles, little as you look for me to-night—our difference bids fair to be adjusted!    He goes after him. Scene II. —The Chalk Pits at dusk. The fields stretch away in the distance, through which runs the high road; the pits lie at the back, edged by a low bank, and crossed by a plank, running off, R. U. E.; a pathway runs up a bank, L. U. E. Music.—Marie discovered on the bank, looking off towards the road.

Non, non, il n'est pas arrivé; Susan, he will not come to-night, I'm sure not. Ah! is it not sad, when all our friends are here, when my father desires so much to see him, well—well, it can't be helped; he'll come to-morrow, yes—he's sure to come to-morrow, so we must go on; is all ready, the music, and the flowers, and Susan—Susan—

Here are the chalk pits, sir, you cross them by that plank, it's quite safe, sir—and when you are through the field, you'll see your old house hiding behind that clump of trees.

Thank you, Susan, thank you.

Good night, sir, we shall see you again to-morrow, then? keep up your spirits, sir—now, do, I'm sure my misses will recover—she's certain to do that; she needs but to see you frequently.

To detect a mind and spirit, as broken as her own.

This is the spot.

Marie, Marie! is not this at least atonement—ever to be by your side, yet ever to be unknown to you—ever to implore your pardon, yet win from you no reply—to meet nothing but your sad smile and your trust—the deeper condemnation of your own unchanged affection.

Lascelles, good evening.

Who's this?

A friend, who can say he is present to you when   you're most alone.

Rawdon!

Even he!

And why have we met again?

Why owing perhaps, to a law in physics—that bodies of a like kind exercise attraction.

Be plainer, sir, if you'd be listened to; you know, that between us all is at an end.

Then briefly as you wish; your banker holds a bill of mine, which you are pleased to call a forgery.

Well, sir.

When it is simply this—your name appended to a scrap of paper, to obtain a sum which you were pledged to lend me.

But a sum, as I told you, that I was not possessed of.

At any rate, you led me into the error, and 'tis your duty to repair it, I can't return to town—I want money to take me elsewhere, you are now rich again, and can lend me a hundred pounds.

And you beg this of me?

Beg this! I demand it. You ask me to speak plainly—and why not, when I'm injured?

Injured! villain! Who, but you tore me from the arms of Marie?—do you know that she is now a maniac?

And if so—

  Then, in that blow—know that you crushed two minds—so, if you rob men of their reason, beware how you provoke them.

You refuse, then, to assist me?

Assist you? There's not a reptile, venomous and loathsome, that could crawl across my path, I would not sooner stoop to succour.

Beware, Lascelles!—you know that men are not exposed to want, without the power to overcome it.

So, then, you're now grown honest?—you would at last rob openly?

Beware, I say again!—tempt not a man's despair!

Ruffian! be you discreet—know that I am armed!

And I; so you see we're still even, in everything but need. Again, I ask you—

Then take this for my answer: be found here by to-morrow, and the prison you have fled from shall not forego its due.

Indeed! then I strike now for my life. That plank will bear but one of us, so guard yourself.

Susan—Susan!—yonder a carriage stops, and I think he has got down!—see if he is coming!

Help! help!

Ah, quel voix est cela?

My arm was the strongest—but a tree has broken   his fall, and if he climbs up the bank—'tis useless to pause now; I must return.

Stay. What would you do?

Marie!

Who is it you would kill?—my husband?

No, your betrayer!—your enemy, and mine!

No, no; you must not harm him, for he loves me.

Ah! by heaven he has struggled to the plank, and in a moment will be on it!

No, no!—kill me first!

Give way, I say! (struggling to disengage himself, he throws her round to his left) Yes, by heaven, he is mounting it! Off! or if not—why perish with him! (lifting his knife to strike her, a shot comes from R., he totters and falls) Lascelles enters from R. path.

Marie! my preserver!    She surveys him with a gleam of recollection, utters a low scream, and falls into his arms—Susan descends the path, L.—Scene closes in. Scene III. —An Apartment at Markland's. Prong enters, L., with a roll of music, followed by a Servant.

Mr. Markland at home?

Yes, sir.

Then will you tell him, if you please, that the band has arrived?

Yes, sir.

And, moreover, that on this occasion, Mr. Prong will conduct the overture.

Very good, sir.

And if that doesn't slide off a few “family packets” I am no judge of music. The fact is, I have found out in regard to music, that the conducting's everything; for what would the public know of it, if the conductor didn't explain it to them? A conductor in an orchestra, like one on the roof of a house—is an instrument to catch the electric fluid and transmit it to its recipients; I've studied in a good school; I've seen all the modern bands in London and in Paris, and I know all their evolutions—you always begin in this way. (he flourishes his roll, a la Jullien) With three good broad-sword slashes for a grand crash, in order to rouse attention—and then a series of gentle flutterings, like a sea gull going to dive—to waft the wind away into luxurious repose—presently a sudden burst, to create a slight perplexity—a hurry skurry of the fiddles, to make them ask, what's coming now—followed by a boom of the trombones, and a shriek of the French horns, as though you were going to   charge them with a whole jungle of wild elephants—and then when you are well at work—booming, screaming, thundering, till the audience begin to stare like a lot of delighted bedlamites; you calm the storm, and soothe all down till you look as if you were sinking in a warm sea bath. (a loud knocking, L.) Ah! the company to dinner. I've a great mind to bring that knocker into my overture, it would do a bit of the bombarding capitally. Servant crosses from L. hurriedly. Told your master, John?

Yes, sir; but I must go now to my mistress, for here's Mr. Lascelles at the door with a lady that's fainted.

A lady that's fainted?

Yes, sir; Mr. Lascelles has been attacked, sir; just escaped with his life, so he's brought the lady here, and— you'll excuse me, if you please, sir?

Lascelles been attacked?—how very unfortunate! this will keep back the dinner half an hour—perhaps, too, spoil my music. My band must be in the way: I'll call them in. Gentlemen, will you step here, if you please? Enter three Villagers, with a fiddle, drum, and trumpet, L. 1 E. Gentlemen, I'm sorry to say, that owing to a little discord abroad, our harmony is likely to be interfered with within. However, we'll take our places on the lawn, and ascertain the distance at which we ought to stand. Distance, you know, has much to do with music—some we like near, some far off—and I wish to see, from your peculiar style of playing, whether yours would be most enjoyed near, or very far off. So follow   me to the lawn—and allow me to say—that as I'm your conductor, I allow of no stoppages.    They go off, R. 1 E. Enter Markland and Lascelles, L. 1 E.

Why, Lascelles, this story of your attack, and your rescue at the hands of Marie, sounds like a romance.—Let me trust, however, that the only fiction, is your belief—that her mind is diseased.

Have I not told you her delusion—that the evening on which I left her is still passing—that my friends are still assembling—and I, that she saw leave her in a carriage, am not returning to rejoin them.

I see—'twas the scene on which her senses closed— and it has burnt into her brain—and oddly enough—to-night, that you bring her here—I have some friends to dinner, and a dance—and—Lascelles—a thought—what if we tested this delusion—what if we realized the scene—which she imagines to be passing.

Realized it.

Aye—place her in that room once more, where her reason left her—and there surround her with the same images, and forms—and voices—

And then—?

Do you not think that such a pressure on her senses, would recall them.—And fortunately, as this is still your old house—the attempt could be made to-night—the room is still the same—or here is Susan, who remembers how 'twas furnished—and   will help us to re-arrange it.

But still—

Nay, nay—if the scheme holds out the slightest ground of hope—'tis our duty to attempt it—be the issue what it may.

I feel it is—but pardon me if struggle as I may, the thought will come—

That after all her suffering—some joy is yet in store for her.

There—I've placed the band in a capital position— on the bank of the pond—so if they happen to slip in, their notes will be more liquid—and I think this is a good distance, two hundred yards—so here I shall try the effect of my production. I hope they'll play it with expression—particularly the bit about the admiral—the ten bars that describe the moral qualities of a good commander—by the bye—I was thinking, whether I couldn't improve that, by making the Admiral a Renegade—and then I could have some music to describe a man going into a foreign country—and changing his religion— well—they can see me here—so I'll give them the signal—now, gentlemen—begin.   (he stands looking off, R., and flourishes; a bray of discords follow from the band) Hallo! what's that?—stop, stop!   (their noise goes on increasing; he alternately flourishes and stops his ears, and at last rushes off to silence them) Scene IV. —The Parlours of the Villa (as in Scene III., Act II., furnished and lit in the same manner) Susan runs in from the lawn, smartly dressed, (as in Act II.)

Gracious me! what a thought of Mr. Markland's, to try to recover missus, by making her believe that the scene she is always thinking of is actually going on; it's not at all a bad notion, and should it succeed, she'll never know what she has suffered, or remember it only as a dream—and sure enough we can try it, for here we are in our old house, and the rooms just as they were—not a chair changed, that I can see—everything looks the same;—I wonder whether I look the same! (goes to a glass) Well, pretty much, though to be sure, a girl's face is not so good for that matter, as a bit of mahogany—mahogany we know, improves by hard rubs—in fact it gets polished; but I can't say adversity has done as much good for me. Markland comes from R. door.

Now, Susan is, all in order?

Yes, sir; perhaps this table stood a little more here, and our flower stand, I think, was opposite.

Prepare, then—for whilst lying in her stupor, my wife succeeded in transforming her; in a few moments she will be here; you know your lesson—but be cautious.

Be cautious! that's easy advice to give, but not so easy to take, when a body is so flustered;—I'm sure I shall make some blunder—I shall try to do it so well—I shall be able to do nothing—I shouldn't at all wonder if I wasn't able to speak at all! Enter Marie, R., dressed as in last scene of Act II., and advances in a reverie. Ahem!—Madam!—Mrs. Lascelles!

  Yes, Susan.

You are dressed in time, I see—and—and—how charmingly you look to-night! Well, I am sure I hope Mr. Lascelles will win many sailing matches, when he makes you a present of such a beautiful dress as that—and oh! what a lovely bracelet—is that another gift to-day, ma'am? Why, the stone glitters like a star! (aside) I declare the stone has struck her! And that lace looks very splendid, ma'am.

The lace?

And that has struck her too!—I'm almost choked—but never mind, it will be only for a moment—and— and—how do you like the room, ma'am? don't the lamps burn nicely?

The room!

I have placed the flowers where you told me, in the vase.   (a loud knocking at back, R.) Ah! just in time, ma'am—here are your friends arriving!   (Marie runs to the lawn, and looking off a moment returns to the foreground, and stands rivetted) Eh! bless my soul—I'm afraid it won't do either; she is as fixed as ever, ma'am—Mrs. Lascelles.   (more knocking, R.) Markland enters from the lawn, with two Ladies. Mr. Markland, ma'am!

Good evening, Mrs. Lascelles—well, is our friend back from Southampton?

Southampton?

I hear he went there on business, but promised to be home before your friends assembled.

  I am sure he will.

Whilst your rooms, I see, as usual, have every resource to make them welcome—even the music you have provided.

The music!

The band from the Isle of Wight, which has arrived so unfortunately to rival that of Mr. Prong,

My friend, tell me, what is this? my brain aches as if it were on fire.

Dear me, ma'am, does it?

But where's Lascelles? his friends here, and no host to receive them. Eh! isn't that a carriage coming up the road? it is.

A carriage!

Good evening, Mrs. Lascelles.

I—I—beg your pardon, but my husband, he is not returned—through I hope, indeed, I know that—

Yes, ma'am, he is here.

Marie! Marie!

Edward!

My wife! my wife! (she shrieks and falls on his bosom) —restored to consciousness—to happiness once more! (a group is formed around. Tableau). Curtain.