Scene First — Drawing Room of Mr. Trevor's house— the Grange—a lawn and part of the grounds are
seen through the window, which opens upon a conservatory at back of stage—doors, R. and L. 2
E.
Mr. Trevor, seated, R. C., reading a newspaper aloud, and pronouncing many of
the words incorrectly, and with hesitation.
Trevor.
“In brief, the magnificence of the late flower show at Upingham was without par-are-lel
(parallel), whether we regard the exquisite specimens of hor-ti-cul-tu-ral science themselves,
or the unrivalled display of fashion and a-ris-tocracy congregated from all quarters
of the—vi-nis-i-ty (vicinity).” Ah, that's something like style; that's real elegant language,
just to my taste! “Hor-ti-cul-tu-ral” is a capital word; so is “par-are-lel;” so is
“vi-nis-i-ty;” I must make a note of 'em. (he takes out tablets—shouts of laughter are
heard, R. U. E., from the grounds—he looks through window) What's that? Reuben and Amy
again! Why, I declare he's letting her chase him up and down just as if he was a child like
herself! He's as much a boy as when his poor father died and left him to my care.
Reuben
bursts in through the window, C. from R.—Amy following and catches him.
Amy.
(laughing)Caught! caught! I'm out of breath, Reuben, I'm out of breath! My
side aches so!
Reuben.
Yes, lassie, I think that will do for one turn.
Amy.
Grandpapa, it wasn't fair; he let himself be caught just to please me.
Trevor.
Reuben, I'm amazed! If any of the gentry in the vi-nis-i-ty had seen you!
Reuben.
What then?—They would have seen me making fun for a dear little girl, who wanted a
playmate.
Trevor.
My good fellow, this will never do. I know you've many good points. You've helped me to
manage the farm, excellently. There's not an acre but what's made the most of, not a shed on
the estate out of repair. But really you must give up these strange concentric habits.
Remember, that my daughter Lilian, whom I sent to Madeira for her health, comes back to us
next month.
Reuben.
Ay, and well, thank heaven!
Trevor.
That you're engaged to her, and that you'll soon be married.
Reuben.
Do you think I'm likely to forget that, sir?
Trevor.
Why hardly; as you've been betrothed since you were boy and girl together. Consider that
though I was at first a small farmer, we're now rising people, entitled to move in a
super-incumbent sphere. You must get rid of your shyness, go into company, learn how to
converse, sir. Look at me! I never meet with a gentlemanly word in a newspaper or pamphlet,
but I instantly make a note of it, and add it to my concatenation.
Reuben.
(cheerfully)Talk's not in my line, sir; I'm not glib at words.
Trevor.
Don't say glib, there's a dear boy. You should follow gentlemanly sports—carry your
rod and line, for instance.
Reuben.
What! to cheat silly fishes out of their lives with mock flies?
Trevor.
Pooh! shoot, then!
Reuben.
No; powder and shot have so much the best of a bird, there's no fair play in that.
Trevor.
Well, you can hunt.
Reuben.
Hunt! What, when poor Reynard hasn't a chance? for if he gets to cover one time, he's sure
to be killed the next. Hunt! Why, if it was a tiger in a jungle, and I saw death in his
glaring eyes; or if it was to stalk down a desert lion—I here, he there—a strong man against a
strong beast—a life against a life—why, perhaps, I might take to it. But to scour after a
helpless brute, doomed before he starts—no, thank you, sir, there's no sport for me where
there's no danger! (Amy steals up to Reuben, and places her hand in his)
Trevor.
Well, you can talk when you've a mind; but it's very rough, very rough! You must
really inform when you're married to Lilian. However, I must abscond now. Old Stocks wants me
to take his son as groom, and I've promised him an
auditory. He takes his hat, and goes out by
window, C.
Amy.
(playfully imitating Trevor)Promised him an auditory.
Reuben.
Stop, Amy! Never mimic your grandpapa, he was your mother's father.
Amy.
(earnestly)I'm very sorry; forgive me.
Reuben.
Yes, pet; but don't do it again. (kisses her)
Amy.
Indeed I won't.
Reuben.
That creeper's loose, Amy. (takes up a hammer) Just give me the list and the
nails; we must have all tidy for aunt Lily. (he nails up a creeper by the entrance of
conservatory) There, it's come down. I've broken it off. Clumsy fellow! What have such
hands as mine to do with flowers?
Amy.
You're not clumsy, although, you choose to say so. Now, Reuben, shall I tell you what you
always put me in mind of?
Reuben.
(laughing, and throwing himself into a chair)Why, a great furze-bush, that
can touch nothing without tearing it.
Amy.
You know better, sir. You're like the great elm-tree yonder; when I try to clasp its broad
trunk, I say, “Elm-tree, how strong you are!—just like Reuben.” And when I look up at its
green leaves, and see the sun come through them, not fierce, but soft and gentle, I say,
“Elm-tree, how kind you are!”—that's like Reuben again.
Reuben.
Nonsense, chatterbox! (she jumps on his knee)
Amy.
Hush! It's of no use playing at hide-and-seek with me. I know who's gentle and good. I know
who took the poor poacher-lad for a servant, and made him honest by kindness. I know who rode
twenty miles through a snow storm to get news of poor Lucy Thompson's sailor boy. I know who
has been brother and father to somebody who loves him as if he were
both. (kisses him)
Reuben.
Silence, prater! All that's rough about me is my own. (in an undertone as to
himself) If there's anything better, it's the work of another.
Amy.
(hearing him)And if she made you good, she ought to be pleased with her
work. And so she will be. Oh, Reuben, to think of your being married! And yet, I can't tell
why, it sometimes makes me a little sad—I know that's naughty. What joy to think that aunt
Lilian's coming home—coming home well, though we thought she would die, like my own dear
mother.
Reuben.
Hush, hush, dear!
Amy.
Oh, if there could be a little window before your heart, that she could see through! For
although she loves you so, still I should like her to know how very good you've grown since
she went. Oh, if you would only talk to people, that they might know what you really are!
Reuben.
They won't know by my talking, then. I leave fine speeches to folks who write plays and
stories, and such like trash.
Amy.
(drawing from his coat pocket a rather worn volume)And so, sir, you hide
your trash there! How often have I caught you reading it? It's the very story aunt Lilian used
to tell me. I never quite liked it, though. The people were so naughty to each other at last,
though they'd been little man and wife from children, just like you and aunt Lilian. O, see!
here's the postman coming up the walk. Let me run and see what he's got.
Reuben.
Off she goes, then. (he kisses her—Amy runs out, C. to, L.—he takes up book, and
gazes on title page) “Lilian Trevor!”—Her own dear name, written by herself —so light,
so delicate, it seems like looking at her. I wonder at times that she could ever love a
coarse, awkward fellow like me. I suppose it was being used to me. We lived in this house
together when we wore pinafores. To think that next month she'll be here!
Amy.
(bursting into the room, L. C. door, with a letter)It's for you; guess from
whom. It ought to have been here before. See, it's marked “too late!” (Reuben takes the
letter, and remains looking at the address)
Amy.
(clapping her hands impatiently)Do open it, there's a dear!
Reuben.
From her! why, she ought now to be at sea. If it should be to say that she's not
coming—that she's again ill! (he compares the direction with the handwriting in the
book) See how trembling the handwriting looks beside this. She is ill! (he
opens the letter with an effort, and reads)—“Southampton, Tuesday.“My very dear
Reuben,—This date will surprise you; I myself can hardly believe that I am once more in
England. I met with an unlooked-for chance of leaving Madeira; and I know that neither my dear
father, yourself, nor my little Amy will be sorry to see me sooner than you expected.“I am a
little tired with my journey; but do not suppose I am ill. To-morrow I take the rail home, and
shall be with you by noon. Bless you all.“Your ever affectionate Lilian Trevor.”What can it
mean? “Southampton, Tuesday!”—the words ring like bells in my ears; but I can't catch the
sense. (glancing again over the letter) “Southampton— Tuesday—an unlooked-for
chance of leaving Madeira— the rail home—be with you by noon!” (he stands silent; then
turns suddenly, and catches Amy's arm) This is you, Amy?
Amy.
Of course it is, dear. How happy we shall be.
Reuben.
That's right. I ask; you answer. There's the hammer on the floor, and the list I was nailing
round the plants. It's all real! And so she's—(pausing)
Amy.
Coming home.
Reuben.
When?
Amy.
She wrote on Tuesday—yesterday. Why, it must be to-day!
Reuben.
Coming home to-day! Bless you for saying it! I know it now; but till you said so I couldn't
take it in. And by noon! (looks at the letter, then at his watch) Why, it's
near noon already.
Amy.
Well, let's tell grandpapa, and go to the station to meet her.
Reuben.
Yes, yes; let me tell him, though. Run and get your hat.
Exit Amy, L. 2 E. At noon to-day! O,
shame on me; I'm almost afraid to see her! It will be the old tale when she comes back; I
shan't have a word to say for myself.Enter Mr. Trevor, with a letter, door, C. from
R.
Trevor.
Reuben, I must beg your attention. I've just received a most consequential letter.
Reuben.
So have I, sir.
Trevor.
We'll talk of yours, by and by. Mine is about the family pedagogue, and therefore the most
important.
Reuben.
Ha, ha! You think so?
Trevor.
Yes; it's on matters connected with our family.
Reuben.
So is mine.
Trevor.
Reuben, I mean the old family tree.
Reuben.
Well, I mean a branch of it.
Trevor.
Indeed; I've distinct information as to two of my missing pro—pro—What's the word?
(refers to the letter) Oh, about two of my missing progenitors.
Reuben.
And I've distinct information as to one of your missing progeny.
Trevor.
Progenitors, sir; they write it so at the Heralds' College.
Reuben.
Confound the Heralds' College! Forgive me, sir; I speak of the living, not of the
dead.
Trevor.
Calm yourself; a gentleman should never be incitable.
Reuben.
A man may be, though. Mr. Trevor, father —ay, let me say, father,—she's coming! she's in
England.
Trevor.
She! Who?
Reuben.
Read—read! (he thrusts Lilian's letter into Mr. Trevor's hand)
Trevor.
(reading)What, from Lilian! Lilian back again—at noon! Why, that means noon,
to-day. What, my own precious girl! Thou'rt right, lad; thy news was best; worth a bushel of
mine. Hang the Heralds' College! (casts his own letter away, slaps Reuben heartily on
the shoulder) Come, look alive; let's be off to the station! Thou can ride the bay
cob, and I'll drive the mare. Dang it, come along, come along! I'm not safe i' the house, I
tell thee; I shall go up to the ceiling like a champagne cork. (whirling Reuben to the
window)
Reuben.
(laughing)O, but you know a gentleman's never excited.
Trevor.
Why, here's Amy ready. Enter Amy, attired for a drive, door L. 2 E. And what
do I see? Why, Reuben, we're too late! Here comes a fly bowling up the drive—a fly with
luggage on the roof.
Reuben.
(retreating a few steps)So soon!
Trevor.
Why, man, what art thou skulking to the rear for in that way? Come out and welcome her.
Hark! the fly's stopped. Lily, my own Lily! He
rushes out, C. to L.
Amy.
Come Reuben. (attempts to drag him out)
Reuben.
Leave me to myself a bit.
Amy.
No, I shan't.Re-enter Mr. Trevor, with Lilian, C. from L.
Trevor.
Here she is, here she is—blessings on her! (embracing her)
Lilian.
Dear, dear father! Reuben! (Reuben takes her hand between both of his and kisses
it)
Trevor.
Her lips, her lips, boy! Thou won't?
Lilian.
Then Amy must give me a double one.
Amy.
That she will, dear aunt Lily. Now I'm mistress; sit down. (she takes Lilian's shawl
and bonnet)
Reuben.
(placing a footstool)And thou'rt well—quite well, Lilian?
Trevor.
Well! to be sure she is. Now, if we only had her brother back from America.
Lilian.
What news of Fred?
Trevor.
All right and hearty. Fred will be here by winter. But I did expect, lass, thou would have
brought back a pair of rosier cheeks.
Lilian.
(after a short pause, and speaking with sudden animation)Rosy cheeks,
indeed! What does my father take me for, Amy? What does he expect of a young lady after a long
sea voyage, a night made sleepless by the thought of seeing you all, and eighty miles
travelling by express? Isn't it hard, that when I thought to surprise him by my strength, he
should scold me for not blooming like a peony? (she rises, seizes Mr. Trevor's hands,
and playfully swings them together; then turns to Reuben with a sort of impetuous
gaiety) And what do you think of me, Reuben?
Reuben.
What do I think of you? Why, you must know pretty well by this time. No; perhaps you don't;
(getting confused) that is, nobody knows—I mean—pshaw!
Trevor.
Well, and our kind friends at Madeira, who took charge of thee—the Maxwells? Thou left 'em
all tidy, eh? And the young surgeon, Fergus Graham, who attended thee on the passage out, when
thou caught the fever with the rest? A brave fellow that; he seems to have cared neither for
his sleep nor his life.
Reuben.
Ay, tell us of Fergus Graham. (Lilian sinks
into a chair)
Trevor.
Why, what ails thee?
Reuben.
(alarmed)Lilian!
Lilian.
(rallying, with a forced laugh)You make me quite ashamed. It was but a
thought.
Trevor.
Ay, of her past danger. What an old fool I was to put her in mind of it! Why, Amy, we're all
forgetting that your aunty's nearly famished. Run and order
luncheon. Exit Amy, door, L. 2 E.
Lilian.
No—indeed I'm not hungry; only a little tired.
Trevor.
Come, then, Reuben; let's leave her to herself for half an hour: she'll have her little
knick-knacks to settle, and such like. (with a return to his pompous nanner)
Remain here, love, while I send your maid to conduct you to your own apartment. She's an
excellent, well-meaning sort of young woman; but I mean to engage for you a regular ed-u-cated
French feminine-de-chamber straight from Paris—a Frenchwoman who talks French. By-bye,
love—by-bye, love. Kisses his hand to her, and
exit, door, R. 2 E.
Reuben.
Don't tire yourself, Lilian—please don't. Don't come down to lunch if it's too much for
you.
Lilian.
Thoughtful for me as ever, dear Reuben. (she holds out her hand—Reuben again kisses
it.
Reuben.
(aside)I'm not good enough for her—I know I'm not. (he hastily
follows Mr. Trevor out, door R. 2 E.)
Lilian.
(who looks fixedly after them, then catches at a chair as if for
support)They are gone—gone at last! O that I should ever feel it a relief, for my
father, for Reuben, to leave me: so good, so loving as they are! (a pause) O,
if I could be already old and torpid! If the hours would but pass over me as over yon dial,
that tells, but does not feel, the flight of time! Or if my own mother had lived, and I could
have told her my struggle! O, shame, shame! is this my firmness? Let me reflect that I am
Reuben's betrothed—that I became so by my own will—that I had strength to fly from those fatal
shores while there was yet time. Yes, heaven help me, and I shall conquer.Enter Susan,
door L.
Susan.
A gentleman has called, ma'am. I think he be a stranger in these parts; but he's very
pressing to see you.
Lilian.
Indeed.
Susan.
It's most likely some one from the railway station; for all your luggage arn't up yet, and
he asked particlar if you was come home.
Lilian.
I dare say you're right. Let him come in.
Susan.
Yes, ma'am. (Exit, door L., and immediately returns) The gentleman,
ma'am. Exit, door L.Enter Fergus
Graham, door L.
Fergus.
An old friend.
Lilian.
Fergus! Mr. Graham?
Fergus.
My presence here is indeed sudden, perhaps abrupt, dear Miss Trevor, but, let me hope not
quite unwelcome. (taking her hand)
Lilian.
(commanding herself)A friend to whom I owe so much can never be unwelcome.
(she motions him to a chair, and takes one herself) But I was, as you may
judge, unprepared for this pleasure.
Fergus.
It was only a few days since that I heard in Paris of your sudden departure from Madeira. I
had looked forward, as you know, to find you still there on my return. Thinking that you had
by this time probably reached England, I could not resist the impulse to see you—to see you in
your home.
Lilian.
It was a kind and friendly impulse.
Fergus.
Friendly! Yes. And yet that word poorly describes it. Friendly applies to acts that
consult the happiness of another; mine involved my own—all, all, Lilian, that I have at
stake in life.
Lilian.
Nay, life has so many stakes—at least for men.
Fergus.
(drawing his chair towards her)Can you misinterpret me? You know that in
Madeira I was privileged to enter the house where you dwelt, as if I had been of the family.
You have not forgotten those morning walks, when our common love of nature was a tie between
us; when I bent over you as you sketched some bold headland, or caught some rare effect of sea
and sky; or the nights when you were my scholar, and we read together some poet of our dear
England, or some lay of Italy?
Lilian.
No, Fergus, I have not forgotten how kindly you taught me—how you enriched the life that you
had first saved.
Fergus.
Our tastes were one, our sympathies one. At times I dared to hope our hearts also. Yet I
trembled to speak. Then business called me from Madeira to France. She shall know all, I
thought, on my return. You quitted Madeira suddenly. When I heard of it—heard that you might
already be in England, I left Paris at once. And now I am here—here to say—ah, do you not
divine what? Lilian, I love you!
Lilian.
Fergus, you have spoken! I have ever, must ever, honour and value you; but those words
part us.
Fergus.
Part us? Has hope, then, so deceived me? May not a time come?
Lilian.
Never! If, indeed, you care for me, leave— leave me at once.
Fergus.
Pause, Lilian; those brief words of yours strike at a life's dream. Weigh them well. If it
must
be, I accept my fate. You do not, then, cannot love me?
Lilian.
(rising)Go, go! I—can never—be yours.
Fergus.
Because you do not love me? (a pause) Ah, you do not say that!
Lilian.
Leave me, I say, at once; unless you would bring a curse upon the life that you
preserved.
Fergus.
One word first. You tremble; this vehemence is not indifference. Say either, that you cannot
love me, or if there be any barrier that you may not yet speak of, —one that time, however
long, may remove,—tell me, and I will wait—wait, even till years have blanched my hair and
sapped my strength, changed me in all except what cannot change, my abiding, quenchless love!
(he throws himself at her feet, and seizes her hand—here Amy appears at the entrance of
the conservatory, C.)
Lilian.
(almost fiercely)Begone, sir! I am not at a confession. When a woman does
not admit her love, I presume that she denies it. Release my hand! leave me, I command you!
(breaking away from him. Amy retires, C.)
Fergus.
(rising, and speaking with mournful dignity) I obey you. You have
spoken now. The friend, Lilian, may still think of you, though the lover dares not. Bless you!
(aside, as she stands with her face averted) What! not even a look? Farewell!
farewell! (he takes up a light travelling coat, and goes out slowly, door,
L.)
Lilian.
He goes—goes without one kind word! Repulsed so fiercely, how heartless must he think me! He
will return to the scenes where we were happy friends. We shall meet no more. That might be
borne—should be. But that I should never cross his memory, except as an image of pain and
ingratitude, that I should lose all place in his esteem—O, 'tis bitter—bitter! He will never
know what I stifle here. Years will roll on, death will come, and even then, he will
never—never—(she totters, and is on the point of falling)
Enter Reuben,
by the window, C.—with a cry, she throws herself into his arms.
Reuben.
Lilian! dear Lilian! Why, what is this? Speak to me, my own, my darling! She has fainted;
she must have air. Help! help! (he bears her
out, door C.)
Enter Mr. Trevor, door, R. 2 E., meeting Amy, who emerges from the
conservatory, C.
Trevor.
What cry was that? It threw me into a state of positive conjuration.
Amy.
Don't be frightened, grandpapa. I hope aunty will soon be better.
Trevor.
Better?
Amy.
Something happened to her. I saw it by chance, and—
Trevor.
Where is she? Where is Reuben?
Amy.
With her; he took her into the garden. Oh, pray don't go, dear grandpapa; the sight of you
might be too much for her.
Trevor.
Why, how you cling to me, child—and you're shaking like a leaf. What has happened?
Amy.
Oh, nothing very bad; nothing that I quite understand.
Trevor.
What did you see?
Amy.
Aunt Lilian will tell you; but not now, dear grandpapa; don't ask her now.
Trevor.
You'll drive me out of my senses. Let me go!
Amy.
Nay, look, here is Reuben!Re-enter Reuben, door C.
Reuben.
Lilian's better now, sir, the air did her good. I left her with Susan, who will take her to
her room. She begged me to tell you that she was but over-tired, and should soon be
herself.
Trevor.
That's well. She's had enough to overset her. But Amy spoke of some accident. What did you
see, Amy?
Amy.
It was so strange. I'm afraid to say.
Reuben.
(patting her head encouragingly)Amy will tell me, if she ever loved
Reuben.
Amy.
Then, I think aunty has had a fright.
Reuben.
A fright!
Amy.
I was in the conservatory, and had pulled a nosegay for her. I was just coming into the
room, when—
Reuben.
Yes; go on, love.
Amy.
I saw a gentleman—a stranger. Aunt Lilian was ordering him to leave the house; so, I suppose
he had done something wrong.
Reuben.
(repressing Mr. Trevor, who attempts to speak)So—well?
Amy.
But he wouldn't go—not then. He threw himself on his knees, and grasped her hand—Oh, so
tight! I suppose it was that, that hurt her. I went back again, for I didn't like her to see
me; but I just saw her look very angry, and tear herself away from him. She again ordered him
to leave her, and spoke so!—Oh, I never heard her angry before. Then I heard him go up the
walk, and your voice, Reuben, and what you said when you came in; and that's all that I
know.
Reuben.
He dared to insult her?
Amy.
I'm afraid so; else, why did she speak so loud?
Trevor.
The pertinacious rascal!
Reuben.
Leave him to me, sir. This man, Amy, what did he look like?
Amy.
Why like a young man. He didn't look wicked, though I'm afraid he was.
Reuben.
Young, you say?
Amy.
Yes.
Reuben.
What height?
Amy.
About yours, but slenderer.
Reuben.
What did he wear?
Amy.
Nothing particular. Oh, I saw his light overcoat on a chair.
Reuben.
The very man I met in the avenue; he had such a coat on his arm. That's enough!
(seizes his hat and riding whip)
Amy.
Stay, Reuben! You'll not hurt him?
Reuben.
Let me but catch him.
Amy.
(intercepting him)You know how often, when I was naughty, you said “Treat
her gently, and she'll mend.” Ah, treat him gently! Besides, Aunt Lilian's better.
Reuben.
(muttering to himself)He dared to insult her!
Trevor.
(seizing Reuben's arm)Yes; Lilian's better. Don't thrash him, Reuben: that's
low. What if he should be one of those dashing young sparks from London, on a visit in the
neighbourhood? If so, you might call him out, my boy. A duel would set the family on its legs.
It's perfectly gentlemanly, quite illegitimate, and not at all dangerous.
Reuben.
(disregarding him)He turned to the right. He would get out through the copse
by the oat-field into the Uppingham road. Aye, that's the scent; now for the chase!
(he breaks from Mr. Trevor, and darts out, full speed, door L.)
Trevor.
(disconsolately)Come, Amy! Let's hear Susan's news of your aunt. (to
himself) As for that boy, he has no grand sentiments; he suffers from a complete
vac—vaccination of gentlemanly ideas, and will do nothing to extirpate the family honour! But,
he has a good heart—a good heart; so I suppose I must be intolerable to him. Come Amy!
(he leads her out at door, R. 2 E.)
Scene Second. —Room in the Old Swan at Uppingham,
1st grooves.—Set door, L. 1 E.—An open bay window, L. C., looks upon the
road.
Enter Fergus Graham and Landlady, door L. 1 E.
Fergus.
That will do, landlady; that will do. Have the goodness to order the fly at once.
Landlady.
(aside)Why, he don't ask for his change; and there's two shillings back out
of his half-sovereign for the fly. I wonder whether it's good? (testing the
half-sovereign) Yes, it is. Your change, sir.
Fergus.
Give it to your servant, my good woman; but do order the fly.
Landlady.
Why, you'll be at the station an hour before the train, sir.
Fergus.
No matter; I wish to start at once.
Landlady.
(nettled)Oh, of course, sir, if you prefer the station waiting-room to the
parlour of the Swan. Every gentleman has a right to his
taste. Exit, R. 1 E.
Fergus.
(walking up and down)Motion! Action! I cannot bear to think. If it had only
been that I mistook her feelings, and that she refused me, why, that would have been a shock;
but I could have endured it. I could still have honoured her, trusted in her. But to be
ordered from her presence so disdainfully—even fiercely—as if the best homage of my heart were
an insult to her! (a pause) And yet, she was once so gentle—so fearful of
giving pain! Is it possible that she can be so utterly transformed? Was it indeed disdain, or
was it misery, that I read in her face? What if there should be some dark mystery over her
fate that she dares not even hint at? I would believe that—anything—rather than that she could
be capricious and cruel. (walking to the window, L. F., he observes Reuben without,
gazing on him with a stern and fixed expression) Who's that? (after a pause
Reuben moves away) That man's face quite rivetted me. (he turns and perceives
Reuben, who has entered and stands, with a menacing look, at the door of the apartment, L. 1
E., then locks it, takes the key, and walking steadily up to the table, confronts Fergus in
silence—after a pause, with haughty calmness) You mistake a house of public
entertainment for your private dwelling. Why have you locked that door?
Reuben.
(speaking in a deep whisper)That you may not go out without my leave.
Fergus.
(aside)The man must be insane. I'll deal with him firmly, but quietly. My
friend, I must trouble you for that key.
Reuben.
Not yet. You're the young man who left Mr. Trevor's house a while back?
Fergus.
The same, sir.
Reuben.
You own it—the coward, who broke into a lady's presence, insulted her, shocked her by his
violence.
Fergus.
Have a care. At first I thought you a madman, and you have been safe; but there is coherence
even in your falsehood. Do you dare—
Reuben.
(breaking in)Do you dare—you who stole in upon a woman alone, who
laid hands on her till her cries of anger and fear were heard! Is it for you to say—
dare?
Fergus.
What do you mean?
Reuben.
(brandishing his whip)Mean! To give you a lesson.
Fergus.
Stand back! stand back! or you shall rue to your last hour that you ever raised your hand to
Fergus Graham.
Reuben.
(who drops the horsewhip, and stands arrested)Who? who? Fergus—Fergus
Graham?
Fergus.
Leave the room.
Reuben.
(going to the door, unlocking it, and returning)Stay! you're not—not the
young doctor who saved Lilian's life at sea?
Fergus.
My name is Fergus Graham; you should have asked it before.
Reuben.
Sir, I humbly, humbly entreat your pardon. You could not have insulted her. Yet she
fainted in my arms as you went. How came that?
Fergus.
By what right do you ask?
Reuben.
By the right of one, who has been bred up under the same roof with her; her playmate in
childhood, her protector now—one who has the right of a brother.
Fergus.
Her brother! She has often spoken of you; but I thought you were abroad.
Reuben.
No, no; you mistake. I'm not Fred.
Fergus.
(courteously)Pardon me; I was not aware that Miss Trevor had a second
brother.
Reuben.
(aside, half-amused)Why, I can't blab my heart's secrets to a stranger, and
say—I'm her lover. Let him call me what he likes.
Fergus.
Be seated, sir. And so she complained to you of my intrusion?
Reuben.
She—Oh, never! But she was heard bidding you from the house. You were seen to force
her hand.
Fergus.
To take it. I will be frank with you. I sought your sister's hand for my own.
Heaven knows with what reverence.
Reuben.
(aside)He loved her, then—he loved her! Poor fellow, how could he help
it?—Mr. Graham, I feel for you. Take my hand—that is, if you can really forgive me.
Fergus.
(shaking his hand warmly)Freely.
Reuben.
Yet I can't make it out. There could be no offence in an offer like yours. Yet why did she
bid you begone? why sink fainting into my arms?
Fergus.
Did it cost her so much, then? (moves his chair nearer to Reuben's, and continues in
a low, earnest voice) Do not think me presumptuous; but I have dared to think—
Reuben.
(authoritatively)Stop! I'll hear no more. I've no right to—
Fergus.
(persisting)To think, that after all, Lilian may still love me.
Reuben.
(compassionately)No, my dear fellow, you mustn't think that; you mustn't,
indeed.
Fergus.
I will never breathe that hope without warrant; but still—
Reuben.
No more, I beg. Sure, Lilian refused you?
Fergus.
Ay, but her agitation; her trembling form; her look of wretchedness, that I at first took
for anger—
Reuben.
Again, I say, I've no right to your secrets.
Fergus.
Nay, you shall hear me. What if there should be some mystery?
Reuben.
(laying his hand soothingly on Graham's shoulder)You mustn't give way to
this. What mystery can there be?
Fergus.
Fathers, before now, have forced children to marry against their will.
Reuben.
Ah, that's not her case.
Fergus.
Or, there have been—forgive the hope that would clutch at a straw—there have been such
things as childish engagements,—engagements made before the young heart knew what love meant;
yet which a cruel, a false honour bound it to keep. Ah, that's a bitter wrong to both!
Reuben.
(sharply)What's that to do with Lilian?
Fergus.
I can't say; very likely nothing. But she had lived long in retirement. It was only in
Madeira— she told me so—that she first seemed to live. It is not only for myself I care. Put
me out of the question—but, oh, if any chance should bind her to one who could not understand
her refined, gentle nature,—to one with whom she would suffer, die, uncomplainingly!
Reuben.
Silence, man! What d'ye take us for, us rough country folk? We mayn't know much of books; we
may be out of place in drawing-rooms,—we wi' the sun's tan on our faces, and the ploughed land
on our heels; but when joy comes,—when grief comes,—we've hearts that bound, or burst. We've
that which makes man, man,—love to God and each other!
Fergus.
Right, right. I was selfish and unjust. You must forgive now.
Reuben.
Enough, enough! I don't care for soft phrases. (walks away, seizes his gloves, and
confusedly attempts to draw the left one on his right hand; then speaks aside) What if
I should seem a mere rude loon to her, now she's seen the world and fine people! Oh,
no, no!
Fergus.
I have one more request—
Reuben.
Whist, whist; my head's too full for talk. (aside) I uttered his name this
morning; she turned ashy pale. I thought she would have dropped. Why was that?
Fergus.
(looking at his watch)I've but a short time now.
Reuben.
(still aside)Dolt that I am! She was overdone by seeing us. What more
natural? (turning cheerfully to Fergus) I tell you what, Mr. Graham, you must
forget this folly. Work hard; root it out. Come back to us in a year or so. Who knows but
she'll be married then, and you'll meet her as her friend,—her husband's friend? We'll mount
you well, give you a morning gallop over hill and moor, find you a seat at night by the winter
fire. We shall be as merry as the day's long. Come, come; you'll forget all else!
Fergus.
If she forgets. Yet—
Reuben.
(again walking away, and aside)If! He doubts it still. And I,—do I
doubt too? How, if it should be true? What did she tell him?—That till she got to Madeira she
had never lived. What threw her into that state when he left her? It couldn't be hate. He was
her dear friend,—saved her life. If not hate, what was it, then? (walks a step
or two, then resumes) Suppose she had gone in love with him, and felt bound by duty to
me—ah, that would explain it!
Fergus.
(approaching him)One parting word.
Reuben.
(fiercely)You've said too much! You've put a thought into my heart that
burns and rankles; and when I would tug it out, it goes deeper and deeper!
Fergus.
I?
Reuben.
You!
Fergus.
I'm sorry to part with you so. (Reuben waves him off—Fergus silently takes up his
travelling coat)
Reuben.
(suddenly seizing his arm)Stay! You said there was some mystery here. You
shall not go till it's cleared up. I will know why Lilian bade you from the
house.
Fergus.
(with quiet dignity)Remove your hand! I shall not shrink from inquiry. I
will change my plans, and wait your return here.
Reuben.
You will go back with me?
Fergus.
If you wish it.
Reuben.
I will speak to her first alone. If I find— your fly's at the door. You had better go and
countermand it.
Fergus.
I will do so. Exit, door L. 1 E.
Reuben.
He's deceived himself. Yes, yes; all will be well! But—but—(he stops short, greatly
agitated) I won't be mastered! I will look it in the face! But if not—if not—why, then
I shall have cut out doubt for ever from my
heart. Rushes out door, L. 1
E.—Drawing Room in Mr. Trevor's House. Same as First Scene.Enter
Mr. Trevor and Lilian, door R. 2 E.
Trevor.
But thou shouldn't have come down, Lily; thou really shouldn't.
Lilian.
Indeed, dear father, I am better. (aside) Oh, for strength for one brave
effort! (he places a chair for her)
Trevor.
Well, thou must get up thy good looks, dear; for thou'lt be queen of the neighbourhood, now
thou'rt back again. (sitting by her) Thou knows thy promise that thou'lt never
leave thy father, even when thou'rt married. It's mostly for thy sake that I've tried to raise
the family. I gave a breakfast last winter to the members of the Roxbury Hunt. Sir Richard was
here himself, and I never saw a man so abstemious; he devoured everything that came within his
reach. He grew quite urbane, and showed, in fact, the greatest animosity. “Dam'me, you're a
trump, Trevor!” said he; and he positively slapped me on the back! (with great
complacency)
Lilian.
(forcing a show of interest)And did he ask you to Roxbury, dear father?
Trevor.
Why, not in so many words. But the truth is, all was confusion. He had a great conflux of
the aristocracy at his house that winter, and—hem—in fact—I believe there was no beds. But
he's coming from London soon, and then—
Lilian.
Indeed, dear father, I desire no grand acquaintances. Your Lily's content with you and
with dear, dear Reuben.
Trevor.
Ay, ay! Reuben's a good lad, though he wants polishing up. Anyhow, he deserves well of Lily.
You should have seen how he rushed off to punish the fellow whose impertinence alarmed
you—
Lilian.
(starting up)Punish! Whom?
Trevor.
Why, the person who obtruded on you this morning.
Lilian.
(excitedly)You are jesting!—oh, say that you are jesting! Send after them!
part them—part them, as you value my peace—my life!
Trevor.
(soothingly)Nay, here comes Reuben to speak for himself.Reuben, his
eyes fixed on the ground, is seen approaching the open window, C.
Lilian.
(darting towards the window)Speak before you enter! Is he safe? You have
not—
Reuben.
(coming in)Not hurt a hair of his head. (Lilian throws her arms round
her father)
Enter Amy, R.
Trevor.
(to her)There, I told thee all would be well. Sit down, love; sit down.
(he leads her apart to a couch)
Reuben.
(aside)Is he safe? She asked but for him. Well, she would see that
I was safe. There was no need to ask about me.
Amy.
Do speak to me, Reuben. If you could guess how glad I am to have you again—to know that
you've not done wrong!
Reuben.
(takes a chair, places her on his knee, and gazes earnestly into her face)
Amy, I've a question for you. (she regards him with wondering attention)
Suppose, Amy, some one was to steal your love from me?
Amy.
Reuben!
Reuben.
I say, suppose so?
Amy.
(trembling)Oh, what have I done? You know that could never be—never!
Reuben.
Well, let's put it another way—Suppose any one was to steal my love from you?
Amy.
Oh, don't! don't!
Reuben.
Nay, it's not likely; but suppose I was to choose another pet—to find some other little face
that would make me happier to look on than my Amy's?
Amy.
That would make you happier?
Reuben.
Suppose so.
Amy.
If it did make you happier—
Reuben.
Well, go on, darling.
Amy.
Oh, that would hurt me!—but—but—
Reuben.
Yes, yes!
Amy.
(stifling her sobs)I should pray to God; I should try to think how good you
had been to me, how you ought to be happy. And if—if another pet made you so, I should give
you up, and try—to love her for your sake. (she weeps silently, and covers her face
with her hands.)
Reuben.
(kissing her fervently)Bless you, darling! No fear! no fear! Now go, play; I
must have some talk with aunt Lily. (leads her to the door—Amy goes out, door
L.—Reuben then approaches Lilian) Are you well enough, Lilian, to have a short talk
with me alone?
Trevor.
(sharply)No, she's not. (comes up to Reuben, and speaks to him
apart) Forgive me, Reuben; but she's really ill. For all she's so kind and does her
best, it's plain she takes no interest in anything.
Lilian.
(rising, and coming to them)Father, I am well enough to talk with
Reuben. I wish it; I must.
Trevor.
Well, thou knows best, Lily; but I maun't have thee overset or flurried.
(aside) She droops just as she did before she went abroad. And such grand
things as I was planning for her! Ah, perhaps that's it. I've been proud and foolish. What if
this should be for—for a punishment! (to Reuben) Be very tender of her; she's
all that reminds me of her mother! Exit, door
L.
Lilian.
Now, Reuben, you must tell me all. There has been no quarrel?
Reuben.
No, Lilian; rest content about that. But you mustn't stand (he places a chair and
footstool for her); there's a breeze getting up. (envelopes her in her shawl;
then seats himself by her side) Lily. I've something to say to you.
Lilian.
Yes, Reuben.
Reuben.
There have been a good many changes in this year or more, since you left us. You're
changed a bit yourself. The girl's look is gone from you, Lily.
Lilian.
Yes; I'm a woman.
Reuben.
We're always changing, I suppose. The games we played at when children don't amuse us now.
Our tastes change; our likings change—
Lilian.
As we grow older.
Reuben.
It's what we must look for. You wouldn't wonder, then, if I was changed too?
Lilian.
(after a pause)You would never change from being good. (gives him her
hand)
Reuben.
Do you know I've often thought of that book you were so fond of! (draws forth the
book produced in first scene, and shows it to her) I often think of those young folks
in the story who were engaged to each other, like you and me. Don't tremble so, or I can't go
on.
Lilian.
(in a whisper)What about them?
Reuben.
Well, you see, they didn't know their own minds until they got separated. Then they both
found that what they thought love, was—a mistake.
Lilian.
Oh, Reuben! what do you mean? (he remains silent) Have pity on me—you don't
know what hangs on it. You don't—you can't mean that you're changed to me?
Reuben.
(springing from the chair, throwing up his hands, and speaking aside)She's
afraid of it! she's afraid of it! She loves me still! (returning to her) And
would Lilian find it hard if Reuben was changed to her?
Lilian.
(after a short pause, and turning away her face)Very hard, if he thought ill
of her.
Reuben.
That's no answer. Would it cost you much to think I was changed?
Lilian.
I cannot bear this!
Reuben.
(smiling)You can't bear to think so, eh? Is that it? Silent? Nay, a word
will do—a smile. (in an altered tone, and laying his hand on her shoulder)
Lily, I've been honest with you all my life. You'll speak to me truly? What can't you
bear?
Lilian.
To give you pain. I would rather die.
Reuben.
Do you know anything, then, that would give me pain if I knew it too?
Lilian.
Reuben! Reuben! this is torture!
Reuben.
Be calm. It's only a word, and it must come. When we two kneel together in the
church—when you take the vow that can't be unsaid—the vow of heart's love till death and
after—
Lilian.
(starting up)Spare me, spare me! I'm very wretched! (she is about to
sink at his knees; but he prevents her)
Reuben.
My poor child!
Lilian.
Reuben, I must speak now. I was so young —I had seen no one but you. I had not dreamed that
there was another feeling—a master feeling, different from a sister's love—one that is not
merely affection, but part of one's self. And it came so unperceived; it dawned on me so
softly, rose so gradually, that it was high up, quickening every pulse, mingling every breath,
steeping all life in brightness, before I knew its power, before I felt that when
that light was blotted out the whole world would be darkness.
Reuben.
Well, and then?
Lilian.
Then came misery. I had not been willingly guilty; but the thought of your great goodness
haunted me like remorse. I strove to break the spell, and fled. But I could not fly from
myself. And now, Reuben, that you have made me see the truth, I must go on. Spite of all, the
fatal power still conquers. And oh, if I once sinned in yielding my love to another, I shrink
from a sin yet darker! I cannot, dare not, take a false vow to heaven, and betray the trust of
your noble heart. (she sinks at his feet)
Reuben.
(raising her)Poor child! poor child!
Lilian.
What! Can you forgive me?
Reuben.
Forgive thee! forgive thee! (pressing his lips tenderly on her forehead) I
partly guessed it. You see, by my calmness, I was prepared for it. (a pause)
And you! can you bear a surprise?
Lilian.
What can I not bear, after this?
Reuben.
Then leave me a little while; take a turn in the garden; take the left path, to the
shrubbery. Don't ask why; I may, perhaps, join you soon. (folds shawl round her
head) The path to the shrubbery, remember!
Lilian.
(kissing his hand reverently)Bless you! (he leads her to window, C.,
and watches her in silence till she disappears in the walk towards R.)
Reuben.
(advancing slowly to front)I know the worst! (sinks into a
chair) This is no longer a home for me. Soon, as she passed just now from me down the
walk, she'll pass from me for ever. I shall see her no more. Not see her? Oh, yes; see her
always. In strange lands she'll flit before my eyes—my own little playmate, with her straw hat
and bright curls, her white frock, and the blue sash that I used to tie for her. I shall see
her pattering by me as when we plucked the spring primroses. I shall see the young girl, with
the warm flush on her cheek, as when I rode beside her pony. I shall see her as to-day, with
her graceful movements, and her soft, sad face, and I shall see—ah, there's comfort! —I shall
see for ever the smile with which she blessed me! Yes; while I live, the day will never come
that I shall not see Lilian. (he burst into tears; then leans back quietly in the
chair)
Enter Amy bounding in, C.
Amy.
Oh, you're here, Reuben! You promised me a walk, sir. Not a word! Oh, some bad magician has
put him to sleep, and I shall be a good fairy to rouse him! Wake, sleeper, wake! (she
playfully raises his arm, which falls listlessly to his side) Reuben, what's the
matter? It's Amy; your pet, Amy.
Reuben.
(holds her at arm's length, gazes on her wistfully, then strains her to
him)Yes, Amy's still mine.
Amy.
She'll never leave you; and Aunt Lilian—
Reuben.
Aunt Lilian! (after a short struggle) I've learned Amy's lesson. Aunt Lilian
goes away from us —goes, where she'll be happy.
Amy.
What! And leaves you—
Reuben.
Not wretched. Amy, I might have been a villain, and broken her heart. I've done right; I've
saved her. (rises) No, not wretched!
Enter Lilian and Fergus, C. from
R.—Mr. Trevor, R.
Lilian.
Reuben, what does this mean?
Reuben.
(takes the hand of Fergus, places it in Lilian's, and addresses Mr.
Trevor)This is Fergus Graham, Lilian's preserver. He loves her. Your blessing for
them. That alone will cure her.
Trevor.
Fergus Graham! He loves her! I see. Reuben, you're a noble fellow. (Fergus silently
clasps Reuben's hand—Reuben walks apart—Lilian follows them)
Lilian.
(laying her hand softly on his arm)My own brother! (Mr. Trevor,
Fergus, and Amy approach them)
Reuben.
You're all very kind to me. I shall think of you often when I'm far away. For I go to a land
that asks for a man's pith and sinew; where there are broad forests to be cleared, wide
prairies to roam.
Trevor.
No, my lad, I can't lose you.
Reuben.
Thank you; but my mind's made up.
Lilian.
(imploringly)For my sake!
Fergus.
For our sake!
Reuben.
I shall think always that you wished it; but—(shakes his head in dissent)
Amy.
(rushing forward, and grasping the skirts of his coat)Reuben, Reuben! will
you leave your own Amy?
Reuben.
(much moved, and regarding her fixedly)Amy, Amy! pet, darling, comfort! Oh!
I didn't guess till now the hold she had on me. Leave her? Heaven, that denies me a wife's
love, has perhaps given me its next blessing in the pure love of a child. It's a hard
struggle; but with a clear conscience and her dear help, I shall get through—I shall get
through. (cheerfully) Yes, Amy; I stay for thee! (he sinks into
a chair, and embraces her fondly)
Trevor. Amy, kneeling. Reuben, in chair. Lilian, Fergus.
Curtain