Birmingham, April 16th, 1866.
Characters.
(A lapse of Fifteen Years is supposed to take place.)
Fifteen years elapse between the Prologue and the First Act.
It's all right; there's nobody here. Come along, Poynter.
Just you go and hunt over that room.
There's nothing there; no letter nor nothing.
People don't write to one another, Tom, about such matters as we are hunting up. And 'tain't likely as Mrs. Rutherford would write, I think, 'cause she has never learnt how to do it.
We've got a tough job in hand.
Yes, Tom; she's as cunnin' as a fly, and we spiders shan't easy coax her into our web.
Here's an empty cradle.
That proves nothing. Mrs. Rutherford would tell you that the cradle belongs to her own baby, which is at nurse, which is true, Tom, and that she expects every day to have the infant home again.
Come in, sir; don't be afraid.
I am seeking a Mrs. Rutherford, and was told-
You're quite right. This is her place.
You are acquainted, then, with Mrs. Rutherford?
We were children together.
Then I hope that you have growed up a more moral member of society than she has.
What do you mean?
We suspect her of child-stealing. That's what we means.
Suspect her! Jane!
I don't know how many children have been stolen within the last few months. The poor babies are sold to the street tumblers or to beggars, or goodness knows what becomes of them.
It is impossible that Jane would be guilty of so atrocious a crime, and you can have no proof.
No, not yet. I wish we had. But she's guilty. In the first place, she's on intimate terms with a notorious thief that I want to get hold of-one Joe Simpson; and in the next place, them as has once started on the wrong road don't seem to fancy turning back again.
That's a good sound bit of morality, Jonathan.
Yes, I think it is, Thomas. And I can give a case in p'int. I've got a nevey, my sister's son, about four years old. His father's name is Nibble-a very unfortnit name to be born to; and my nevey, being such a fine child, was christened Nobby; and I would ask anybody as knows what human nature is, if any boy could ever come to good as was called Nobby Nibble?
I'm afraid as it's a unpossibility, Mr. Poynter.
It is, Tom; for, in consequence of having such a name, my nevey, when he was only two years old stole his nuss's night cap, right off her head. He did, indeed!
It's a awful beginning of life, Jonathan.
Yes, Tom, my nevey is percocious in crime; for when only two years and a half old he prigged a lobster off a costermonger's barrer.
Wuss and wuss!
Yes; and we should never have found that robbery out if eating o' the lobster hadn't made him poorly.
Perhaps it wasn't a very good un?
No, Tom; it was rather gone-as a judgment on him.
It's a hard case, Jonathan.
Yes; it's a blue look out for a proud-spirited policeman, ain't it, Tom.
Perhaps he may reform as he grows older.
I hope he may, but I'm afraid he won't; but I do all I can to encourage him to lead a
virtuous life. There ain't a day passes that I don't give him a jolly good walloping.
What is that?
Ah, wretches.
What's the matter, Mrs. Rutherford.
How should I know what is the matter with the screeching idiots? I think you had better see
that people are not insulted in the streets instead of coming to their houses to rummage their
drawers and turn all the things topsy-turvy.
I don't choose to answer that question, so I shall wish you good morning, Mrs. Rutherford. Come along. Tom.
Why, I declare, 'tis John Seymour! What a long time since I have seen you.
Yes; but having to come to London to-day, I made up my mind to give you a call, and so obtained your address from your child's nurse.
Yes, and found her in most excellent health.
The woman who has the care of her is a distant relation of my own, or else I shouldn't have let my little Jessie go from me all the way to Southsea Common-she is just fifteen months old now, and she was only six when she went away from me, and had such great black eyes, and beautiful light hair-the darling-but soon now I shall have her back with me again, never more to leave me, oh, no-oh, no!
I have brought you a lock of her hair, Jane.
No.
Pardon me for repeating it to you, but they accuse you of having stolen poor little children, and of having sold them to wretches who make hideous profit of their helpless childishness.
Swear to me that that they have spoken falsely!
Because there are already plenty of angels in heaven, and I wish to keep my Jessie to myself.
Unhappy woman! they spoke truly then.
Why should such a fuss be made about it? One would think that I had killed somebody-had committed a murder!
But, to rob parents of their children.
I know nothing of the parents! I will speak truth-fully to you, John, because we have known each other almost since we were born, and I am certain that you will not betray me! Well, I want to grow rich, not for myself, but for Jessie! I don't mean that she should walk barefoot in the snow, as I had to do in my childhood. I don't mean that she should be compelled to beg of passers-by, as was the case with me; and having myself known in my young days what it was to be hungry and athirst, I am resolved to shield her from such misery; what care I for others' children! Let mothers weep and go mad, what matters it to me! my daughter is the whole world to me-it is my daughter's happiness that I desire, and to secure that, I would give my life, my soul-do you conprehend? Well! surely I may purchase it with the tears of other mothers.
Think how your husband will suffer when he shall know? I heard yesterday, at Portsmouth, that the arrival of his vessel was almost hourly expected.
Well?
He is but a common sailor, and I have already obtained far more money for my Jessie than he will bring home with him.
But your money is accursed.
Well, let me be myself accursed, if I can make my daughter rich.
You are going to denounce me?
No, no, the memory of past days will not let me do that.
Yes, money-I have some here-here.
I am here to offer money to you.
Who are you? what would you with me? Money! you bring me money?
Yes; but you must earn it.
In what way?
So much the worse! for if an hour hence, I should quit London carrying with me a little girl about a year old, there would be a fortune for you.
A fortune?
Two thousand pounds.
In an hour my carriage will be before your door—I will return, whatever comes of it.
Good morning, Mrs. Rutherford!
Good morning!
Yes.
In an hour.
Yes, in an hour.
Who may that individual happen to be? I didn't know that people walked about now-a-days in that fashion. What's up, Mrs. Rutherford?
What is that to you?
Oh, now, I say, my dear friend, don't be cranky.
Your friend!
Well, my partner, if you like that better. The firm of Rutherford & Co. the Co. kept
carefully out of sight.
Naturally I am an aristocrat. I was born to be the proprietor of a palace, never to walk on
anything but the finest Turkey carpets, and, in short, to revel in all the luxuries of life.
Everything; and especially, and with the least possible delay, a new pair of boots, unless I
can have my present crab-shells repaired and made to look better than new.
Well?
What did that man in the cloak want with you? I think I know him.
You know him?
Yes, I'm sure I've seen him before, on a certain occasion, that I'll tell you about some other time. Have you got a drop of gin in the house?
No.
Well, here's luck, then.
I should think it a very pleasant road to travel.
You see Poynter and the others are watching me so closely that I can't myself—
Oh! that's it! A kinchen to prig, eh?
Yes, a child about a year old.
For our friend in the cloak?
Yes.
The gentleman will return here in three quarters of an hour.
I know where to get what we want.
Indeed?
Yes; a few doors off I just now saw a bit of a girl nursing a fine little child—on a doorstep and the girl told me the baby's mother was gone out washing, and wouldn't be home till late.
Good, good!
I'll just send the little nursemaid on an errand, and then
Ah, true. But, I forgot—is it to be a girl or a boy?
A girl.
Quite necessary to know that, eh? and how old, did you say?
About a twelvemonth.
All right. In about ten minutes I shall have procured the article in question, and earned my
thirty pounds.
I know not. A sudden, and as though a warning pang at my heart.
What a rummy idea! Come along, Mrs. R.
It's got dark, but I know this is the house. Has anybody got a match?
I have.
Then see if you can't light the gas.
That was a capital notion of yours, Daniel.
Wasn't it. No sooner ashore at Portsmouth than I I am off to Southsea Common. I take little Jessie away from the nurse and bring her up to London with me, so that my return may not be the only agreeable surprise to Jane.
I reckon your wife will be fine and pleased.
I rather expect so.
Hush, Daniel! I think I hear somebody coming.
Jane, as a matter of course. Here, I say; we'll leave baby here, all alone, and let my missus find her there. Won't that be prime?
Yes, to be sure that's it.
And here's a bottle of some sort of tipple. We can amuse ourselves with that for a few
minutes; come along, boys.
What a miserable night, and bitterly cold!
Well?
We have succeeded.
And ain't you going to give me a buss?
Oh, yes.
Yes, here I am, Jane. But I thought you should see her first, just for a minute or two, because—
See who first, Daniel?
Why—but where is she? where have you put her?
Of whom, or what, are you talking, Daniel?
Why of our little Jessie. I just now laid her there—in that cradle.
What is the matter with you?
Oh! I have sold her —I have sold her— I have sold her!
What do you say?
Yes, a whole fortune was offered to me, by a man—two thousand pounds if if I would give to
him a child; then, I sent Joe Simpson, and— and I thought the infant sleeping there was the
child that he had stolen, and then, when the man returned, it was but this moment —
Miserable wretch!
Let me recover her first, Daniel, and you shall kill me after.
But that man, who was he?
I know not—I know not! I saw not his face. He was masked, but he spoke to me, and I should
recognize his voice. Yes, yes! Rest easy. I shall find little Jessie again! Yes, I shall find
her!
Jane Rutherford, you are my prisoner!
I! What for?
You will soon know.
This fellow was taken at the very moment he had possessed himself of a poor woman's child, and he has confessed, Mrs. Rutherford, that you were his accomplice.
No, no! My daughter! I must find my daughter! Let me pass—let me pass!
So, I have found you here again, have I! Oh, you depraved monster! you serpent of abomination!
I tell you what, nevey, you are a shame and disgrace to your sex.
What a nuisance uncles are! They are never satisfied.
Satisfied! Satisfied with such a—such a-
I say, uncle, you're getting red in the gills. If you don't mind you'll break a
blood-vessel.
Do you try to earn an honest living?
You are nothing better than a thief—a pick-pocket!
Mind what you're saying, uncle, or else I'll bring an action against you. It's your
profession, I suppose, that makes you think everybody is a thief. Certainly I know how to use
my fingers, but, 'pon my honour, I never steals nothing.
I know better; and I only wish I could catch you at it, wouldn't I lock you up, that's all.
Quod your nephew? What an unnatural uncle!
What a disgrace for an honest policeman to have for a nephew one of the biggest rogues in London.
'Tis rather comical, ain't it? Here, uncle, take a pinch of snuff to settle your nerves.
Why that's my snuff box! where did you find it?
In your pocket.
Here's your handkerchief then.
Oh, you rascal!
You should mind your pockets, uncle. You, as a policeman, ought to know there's a great many thieves about.
Certainly not. I know I am a bad lot, because while a fellow is young he must amuse himself
somehow or other; but I'm a dutiful nephew, and I should like to see anybody try on any tricks
with my respectable uncle while I am by.
Yes, uncle, so I am. I suppose you're going to stand a drop of something, ain't you, uncle?
Well, I don't mind, Nobby.
I knew you would.
And so am I.
But could not you have found a more quiet house?
Whatever is the matter with you, Sydney? what makes you look so wretched? Have you been gambling and lost all your money? if so my purse is at your service.
Or are you troubled with the rheumatism?
Or are you in love?
Pooh, that's nothing; I have been in love a hundred and fifty times.
I have never been out of love myself.
Charity, in the name of heaven, charity!
Go away—don't bother!
If I was the landlord, I wouldn't have a parcel of cadgers coming to my bar.
Oh, here's a woman a—going to faint—give her some brandy.
Don't do anything of the sort! I recollect her now; she's had fifteen years' penal
servitude—a policeman
Brutes!
Holloa! I say——
But I ain't—I'll soon take the conceit out of him.
No, not you—I shall!
No, you leave him to me, I'm a better man than you are I can fight a bit, I can. Here, I say, you Mr. Sailor—officer!
Well, rascal?
Oh, am I?
If you're not quiet, I'll take you into custody.
You keep quiet, and I'll show you how I handle my fists.
That serves you right, you vagabond.
Ain't he strong? Where is he?
He's gone, you rascal.
That damaged organ may be of great service to him—in a moral point of view.
My name! you know me?
And have you forgotten me?
Mr. Poynter!
You seem to have had a hard fifteen years of it.
Yes I have been very guilty, and very terrible has been my punishment. Released yesterday, all last night I wandered about the streets of London.
You have heard nothing of your daughter?
No; I have lived only that I might recover her—but for that sustaining hope long since I should have killed myself.
You know, of course, that your husband is dead?
Yes—poor Daniel.
And that Joe Simpson—
What of him?
Well, he had ten years, and when his time was out, went off to America, and I should hope that the Yankees have hanged him long before this.
Mrs. Rutherford the stranger that took your child away was masked, if I remember right.
Yes.
Well, then, how do you—
He spoke to me.
A horse had run away but he's arrested now.
It's me that ought to have arrested him, considering that I am a policeman.
Poor young lady!
'"Tis nothing—she is reviving. I seized the horse's bridle, and received Lady Marian in my arms.
Marian!
I know not what it was that frightened my horse, but how wildly he galloped. I turned my
head to call my father, but he was far behind me; then I believed that I was lost, and but for
you, Sydney—oh! I am so happy to owe you my life.
Pray, do not mind, young lady—it can do you no harm that I look at you, while it is to me a consolation.
A mother who, beholding you, cannot forbear to think upon her daughter.
Alas! I no longer possess her. They have deprived me of her; she has been stolen from me.
Yes; but I will seek her, and it shall go hard—
Poor woman!
And I will pray to heaven for you.
Yes,
What a mad girl you are, to terrify me in such a way!
Ah!
You shall not again ride that unruly beast. He shall be sold within an hour for anything
that he will bring.
Come, let us quit this tavern.
But, father, you have not yet thanked my preserver.
Your preserver?
Your thanks are due to Mr. Sydney Weston that your daughter now is living.
What man? which man?
He, whom that young girl called father.
Oh, that is Lord Chesterton.
Lord Chesterton? Indeed!
Yes. I must go and see what my nephew is doing with his nose all this time.
Ah, 'tis in vain that he calls her Marian! she is Jessie—she is my daughter!
Your father will, no doubt, presently rejoin you here —I have but a few moments, Marian, to converse with you, and you will not drive me from you?
Oh, Sydney, what have I done that you should speak thus cruelly to me? Am I responsible for the wrongs you have suffered from my father? If he has banished you from his hearth, have I not still preserved for you your place within my heart?
Forgive me, Marian; but entering this house so full of remembrances, in which my youth
revelled in such happy dreams—breathing the air of that sweet and joyous past! Oh, I feel as
though my heart would break!
Poor Sydney!
To—day, I could not forbear to follow you—an invincible force urged me to enter here as for a last farewell, for it seems to me that I am about to lose you—and I have but you in all the world.
And am I not also entirely alone? Have I not to suffer my father's indifference? and by my mother's death was I not rendered doubly an orphan? Sydney, I have sworn to you that I would be your wife—and that oath I have not forgotten. Let us love each other, and wait and hope—heaven is with those who truly love.
This very day—immediately, I will speak to my father, he cannot wish to see me miserable,
and will consent; besides, have you not this very morning, saved my life? Oh, I know not
wherefore, but an almost infinite hope is at my heart, and it seems to me that our trials are
approaching their termination. Hark!
Oh, if thus it should be!
Away! my father is here!
That will do; you have received my orders.
Yes, my lord; but I beg your ladyship's pardon—
Has she any testimonials as to character?
No, my lord; but she appears honest and unfortunate.
This situation, she says, is her only resource—her only hope.
Poor woman.
Pah! if one was obliged to give shelter to every mendicant——
Well, see this woman, and if she suits you, I shall not interfere.
Thank you, father.
You look as if something had vexed you, father.
I am delighted to hear it, for I have this evening an entreaty and an avowal to make to you.
An avowal?
You would long since have received it, but that your severity and coldness sealed my tongue.
Is that intended for a reproach?
No, father, it is an excuse.
Well, what is the question? let me hear.
It is a matter on which depends the happiness of my life.
Yes, father.
Yes, I understand—hunting an heiress.
You wrong him, my lord. No soul more noble—no heart more generous—and to—day, in saving me, has he not proved—
Briefly, you would ask of me—
To ratify my heart's choice to consent to our marriage.
Was he not my mother's only relative? Besides, I am rich enough for two. Shall I not have for dowry the fortune that was left to me by Lady Chesterton?
You have not answered me, father.
Some other time, but now I—
Come along, my good woman.
What now? What is it you want?
'Tis the woman of whom James just now told us.
Yes, my lady.
Pray, forgive me, I am so troubled. The emotion, you understand, on thus, for the first time—
Yes, at that tavern.
Seeing that you were so good and charitable, I, after your departure, thought to myself how
happily I could pass my days beside you; then I made inquiries and learned that you required
a waiting—woman. With the money you had given me I purchased more suitable attire, and am
come to
Now, father, if you please, we will take a walk together in the garden.
Yes, I comprehend; you would speak to me again of Sydney Weston.
You hope to gain the cause you are soliciting?
Why refuse a consent which would render me so happy?
I do not exactly refuse, but I require time for reflection, and then we shall see.
My daughter! my beautiful Jessie! my adored child!
Sorry to intrude, my lord.
You have desired to speak with me?
Yes, my lord, and on a very important matter.
Oh, it isn't a question of what I am, but of what I wish to be.
Pray, allow me to proceed. I have resolved to clothe myself with a new skin. I am
ambitious, my lord; aspire to honour and consideration at no time of life are we without our
little weaknesses.
Exactly! I have not properly explained myself;
Proof! You?
One of your estates—I did a little poaching in those days—what could I do—a man must live you know! and besides, I was always fond of game. Well, that night, I was on the hunt for a few of your hares was lying in ambush, when, suddenly, I heard steps in the park; lest I should be discovered, I squatted behind a bush, and then I saw a man approach who was carrying something beneath his cloak. With a spade, he dug a hole in the ground, and there deposited the object that he had brought, a sort of coffer. The moon was shining brilliantly at that moment, and I was able to distinguish that man's features; it was you, my lord.
Yourself; no sort of mistake about it, my lord. Having finished your work, away you went. Then, by a very natural curiosity, I wished to know what that mysterious coffer contained. I imagined it was gold. I easily removed the earth which you had so recently stirred. I raised the lid, and to my great surprise, I found—is it necessary, my lord, that I should tell you what I found?
I reclosed the coffer, and replaced it in the hole, which you had dug for it, and, a precaution which you had neglected, I cut a mark on the tree at the foot of which it was buried, so that, even now, I could easily find that grave, a thing which, probably, to you, would be impossible.
That secret, I had a presentiment, would some day be of service to me; and I was not
mistaken, for on the following day I saw in Jane Rutherford's house a man, cloaked and
masked, but whose gait and manner it appeared to me that I knew; and when I had learned that
that gentleman had come to purchase a child, I had no longer a single doubt. It needed no
great intelligence to comprehend that you wished to replace the child which death had
removed. I sought for information and learned that Lord Chesterton had dissipated at the
gaming table almost every shilling of his personal fortune, and his wife's large dowry would,
at her
Your lordship would make a great fool of yourself.
Sir!
Should you refuse, on leaving here I conduct a couple of police officers to your park, I cause the ground to be stirred, and there, at the foot of the tree which I alone know, would be found the skeleton of a little girl the veritable Lady Marian; and if my testimony should be found insufficient, it could be assisted by that of Jane Rutherford.
That woman has been condemned to penal servitude—is perhaps dead.
Oh, no; she has served her time—has returned, and is now, as I know, in London.
And a long term of penal servitude would be your lot, my lord, if you should make me now your foe; and judging from my own experience, I don't think, my lord, that penal servitude would particularly well agree with you.
I think it's about the best thing you could do.
I shall obtain a licence, and this very evening the marriage must take place.
But her heart is not free—there is one whom she loves.
Yes, I know—her cousin, Sydney Weston. But I am not of a jealous disposition. Ta—ta, for
the present, my lord.
How dare you speak thus to me?
Because I am her mother.
Yes; look at me well—ah! you recognise me, my lord. I had resigned myself never to hear the
sweet name of mother uttered by her lips—to see her rich and happy, could have been to her
but as a servant, but you would sacrifice her to an infamous wretch—would tear her from him
whom she loves—would coolly consummate her misery and her shame. Oh! I will speak! You know
not then what kind of man is he who has just quitted you? He is a thief, a returned convict.
Well, hark ye! I confess it! You are Jane Rutherford, and Marian is indeed your daughter; but what proof can you furnish of that?
What proof?
You would not be believed.
Oh! she would believe me she would believe me!
Of what weight would be the testimony of a woman whom justice had degraded?
In a struggle with me you would be utterly crushed. Beware, Jane Rutherford! you sold that child to me, sold to me your daughter.
Yes, I am a miserable wretch—have touched the accursed gold—even still it burns in my hand.
I have been punished by men—have been chastised by heaven, but by expiation I have earned the
right to walk again erect before men—by repentance have gained courage once more to raise my
head towards heaven. Jessie, my daughter, that treasure of beauty and of innocence become the
wife of a returned convict!
Begone! I defy you—quit my house.
Yes, but I will not go alone.
Thrust that mad woman forth!
Mad, am I!
Obey me, I say—thrust her forth!
Ah! coward!
Marian! call to your aid all your submission—all your courage.
Oh, you terrify me! What is it, my lord, you are about to tell me?
Reasons more powerful than my will compel me to dispose of you—of your hand.
A marriage on which depends the honour of our family!
Oh!
Your refusal would be my destruction; and I have so strongly relied on your devotion that I have engaged my word.
This very evening your union it must be so!
Oh! unhappy girl! unhappy girl!
Marian!
Heavens!
Do not overwhelm me, Sydney; deprive me not of all courage! Go—forget me!
And you consent?
The— the honour of — of our family—
But your oath! that oath which but now and here you swore to me!
Forget it! It must be so!
Oh, now I comprehend—and I was mad to believe in your promises or your love!
Obey him, then.
Sydney!
Farewell, Lady Marian—and for ever!
Stay, Sydney, stay!
Jessie! Jessie! Senseless! inanimate! They would kill her, but they shall not! She is
mine—my treasure—and I will bear her from them!
Oh, nothing, mother—nothing.
No, you do not complain, because you are an angel—you endure all—privation, misery, with
saint—like resignation. 'Tis now a month since I I brought you and have concealed you in this
wretched garret, and not one complaining word have your lips yet murmured; and 'tis that
which fills me with
Reproaches to you? Oh, mother!
It relieves me to complain.
But, I assure you, mother—
Poor child!
Do not despair, mother, heaven will have pity on us.
But in the meantime?
Our landlady will not, I daresay, refuse a little longer credit.
Oh, heaven!
What will soon become of us? Oh, if only for myself how little should I care! I am so
accustomed to misery; but you, who have been reared amidst wealth and luxury—who have lacked
nothing, and who now
To do what, mother?
Well, to—to return to that lord from whom I have wrested you, and to say to him, "Take her back—I restore her to you, that she may live—that she may live—"
Oh, I loved you before I knew I was your daughter—from the first moment that I beheld you, have felt my heart melting with an undefinable tenderness—love you!
And you have thought to return me to him who would constrain my heart! to a man, who, for fifteen years, has kept me from you for he did steal me from you, did he. not, mother—you have told me so?
You quit me? Where are you going, mother?
To see our landlady to entreat from her a few days delay, and then again to a warehouse where I have been partly promised employment. I shall not be long away, darling.
Poor mother! I affect calmness and resignation that I may not afflict her, and I conceal
from her a portion of my sorrow—poor Sydney! what has become of him?
I've got you, you rascal!
Oh, it's you, is it! How are you, uncle?
Hush!
No, I've been giving. Look on that table.
Good—bye, uncle.
Don't be afraid; I'm not a thief. I take 'em up, being a persevering member of the police force.
But what are you doing here?
Looking after my nephew, a dreadful thief, who has left that money for you.
Eh, what! Jane Rutherford!
No, not me. Let me render to Nobby Nibble what is due to Nobby Nibble. No, 'tis my rogue of
a nephew that—but stop, though, perhaps he has picked my pocket of
Oh! Mr. Poynter, are you really so good to one who—
An uncle can't submit to be outdone in generosity by his nephew, particularly when the uncle is a sergeant of police and the nephew is the prince of pickpockets.
Oh, thank you, thank you!
But who is that young girl?
'Tis Jessie, my daughter.
Your daughter! Go along.
Yes, whom I have recovered from the man by whom she was stolen from me.
I have no orders, consequently I know nothing...
Nobody complains, so I know nothing—haven't got no proof.
You see mother, we should never despair.
Did I not tell you that better days would soon arrive? and now, you see—
Now then, I won't wait any longer. Can you pay?
Well, then, you shall turn out, as sure as my name is Snapper.
I have been patient too long. Come, turn out!
You are paid—go!
It did not belong to us, since—
But you grow pale you totter.
Oh, mother!
"Hopes to see you this evening, at eight o'clock, at Cremorne Gardens." Who can it be that?
Yes, you are right. It must be he, who still loves you, and who desires to aid us.
Dear Sydney! Oh, go, mother, go!
Quit you at such a moment? leave you alone? But what can I do here for you? It is not tears
you need, but bread, for since yesterday you have not tasted food. And I will not be long
gone,—soon I will bring you life, happiness, perhaps.
Go, mother, go!
Yes, yes. Patience and courage, Jessie.
The music and the lights, and the liquors and the pretty women, altogether make up a
combination which produces on me a most extraordinary sensation; and if I wasn't in uniform
and on duty, I—I—'pon my soul, I don't know what I shouldn't do; I feel so exhilarated, so
desperately frisky, that really—but stop a minute. Jonathan Poynter, remember you are
policeman, and as such, the public expects to find you a moral and virtuous member of
society. But for all that, a policeman is human nature; and just now, when a little angel in
a pork—pie hat and a turn—up nose winked her eye at me, I declare—oh! why am I in uniform and
on duty, and why did that turn—up nose take it in its head to wink at a policeman?
Now, don't be cross—it's no use coming all the way to Cremorne only to be miserable.
Don't talk to me; I hate you, and I am ashamed of you.
Well! I must say, Miss Tittilinda Touchemup, that you have very little respect for my feelings.
You are such a mean young man.
I should like to know what you mean by that, Tittilinda! What more could I do? You said you
must come in a cab, and I called a shoffel directly; the fare wasn't more than
eighteen pence, but to prove I ain't stingy, I gave cabby half a crown.
bokay, and I got you a
bokay—then you wanted a pair of gloves, and I got you a pair of gloves, ain't that
being liberal?
Come, I say, just look here, Tittilinda—
And I am such a nervous creature—so sensitive, that the least annoyance or disappointment always causes me to swoon—oh! and I—I do believe I—oh! I'm going—I'm going—
No, don't go, we've only just come.
Oh! salts! vinegar!
Oh, how vulgar—and how mean!
Well, since you decline taking any refreshment, let's go and have a dance.
No I won't, until you have promised that I shall have a gold watch and chain.
A watch and chain?
Pick it up? yes, I should think so, at any jeweller's shop.
Um; you risk being done there.
Ugh! mean young man! you are afraid they'd charge—
Yes, I am, and it would be a very heavy charge too if—
You are always ready with some paltry excuse; but I must have them, or else I have done with you for ever.
You shall have them, angelic Tittilinda! I give you my word and honour, tantalizing Touchemup!
Perhaps this evening.
After we leave the gardens? But the shops will be all shut up.
That doesn't matter to me, for I mean that you should have them before we leave the gardens.
Ah, I know, you have got them in your pocket.
No, they are not in my pocket; but presently perhaps
His nephew?
Holloa, uncle. How are you, uncle?
Your uncle? a common policeman—how mean!
He's a serjeant, bless you! Uncle, allow me to introduce you two to one another. Mr. Jonathan Poynter—Miss Tittilinda Touchemup, a young lady of good family. You've heard of Venus, I dare say? well, this is her daughter—sorry I can't give you any information concerning the young lady's father—that's a subject on which she ain't herself very well informed, I believe.
She's a beautiful young creetur!
For a policeman!
Now, lovely Tittilinda.
Come here a minute, you rascal!
What an insult. I got them on credit, that's all.
Well, I can't interfere, because I have no proof.
They're just going to begin another dance—come along, Nobby.
All right. Keep your bull's eye open.
Oh, dear!
We'll go and have some refreshment. Come along, uncle; I'll stand
treat—
He's got a noble heart after all.
I was dancing with Tittilinda when suddenly I caught his great eyes boring a hole right through me. He recognized his togs—no doubt about that.
He'll have me taken up, and he'll tear the clothes off me before Tittilinda and all these people, and he'll say, Where's my dummy? for when I took the clothes away from his shop door I bolted with dummy and all!
I'd better be off at once.
I was so hot, so I thought I'd just steal away for a little—
Only a little fresh air, uncle.
It attracts the ladies' attention.
I was always considered good—looking, and if, just now, I was handsomely dressed as a civilian—as you are, for instance——
How so?
You know I'm a good—natured fellow, and to oblige you, I'll lend you my suit of clothes.
But what would you do?
I would put yours on.
My wig!
Come along, then, uncle.
And the watch and chain? I've seen nothing of them yet.
We'll see about that presently. Come along, uncle.
What, are you off again?
Shan't be a minute. Come along, uncle.
No, no—stop!—come back
I have arrived! A tradesman whom formerly I knew was good enough to lend me these clothes for an hour or so, and I—
Oh, this noise and gaiety! how they torture me! I am craving to return to my poor Jessie,
to carry her the aid of which I have received a promise. I must plunge amidst the crowd in
order that I may find
I was awaiting you. Have you not written to me, asking me to come hither?
I? Certainly not.
What matters; 'tis heaven sends you!
Pardon me, but I cannot recall to my mind—
I am that woman whom, a month ago, you so generously defended.
Ah, yes; at the tavern—I recognize you now. You here!—and thus!
Oh, the question is not now of me, but of her.
Yes; of Lady Marian.
Oh, pronounce not that name, which reminds me of a treachery that almost killed me, and which in noise and so—called pleasure, I am striving to forget.
You accuse the poor child, when for your sake she has sacrificed everything.
How say you?
That she might preserve to you her love, that she might continue faithful to you, Marian has quitted Lord Chesterton's house.
Yes, free; and fled to escape a hateful marriage, and since that time has lain concealed with me, her companion—the confidant of her sorrows—in a miserable dwelling, enduring all the horrors of the lowest and most abject poverty.
And I, wretch that I am, have been cursing her! Come, come—conduct me to her.
Pray excuse me, young gentleman, but you cannot go hence with this lady, for she has promised to depart with me.
My rival—he! Come, sir, stand aside and let us pass!
How, and when you please.
Now, on the instant!
No thank you; I have no desire to find myself within the clutches of the police.
I should know you for a coward should you fail to your promise.
Oh, they will kill him! Simpson would be rid of a rival! I understand his infamous purpose,
and shall I suffer them brutally to slaughter the man who loves my daughter? No, no—he slain,
Jessie too would die! But what can I do? Jessie now awaits my return to her —her anguish and
her sufferings are increasing every moment—oh, what can I do—on what can I resolve?
My nephew didn't look half as well in these clothes as I do!
I have not time now to explain to you anything—but you can render me a great service.
What's that?
Take this purse and, without losing a moment, hasten with it to my lodging, to my daughter, who is suffering, famishing—
Mercy on us!
Her salvation—her life is at stake!
How shall I contrive to prevent him?
Oh, thanks, thanks!
If I could find some one dependable instead of going myself, for I don't fancy having put on these clothes for nothing.
There he is that's the thief!
Me?
He can't deny it.
Oh, gracious!
But I assure you—
Hold the villain tight! I know him well!
You rascal! would you dare—
And do you dare to—
I call upon everybody, in the queen's name, to assist me. Take him to the station house.
Holloa, pretty night—birds! my beautiful bats! you set of screech owls, that haven't got a feather to fly with!
Come, I say, Mr. Nobby, what's the matter with you?
I have promised my young woman a watch and chain and haven't been able to put my hand on
'em.
No such luck.
Have you lately tumbled out of the moon, that you don't know?
I never was in this place afore to—night.
He's a friend of mine; I interdoosed him.
Oh! Well, my unenlightened friend, I'll explain all about the noise under your feet. It's the Thames a—rising.
Does all the Thames pass under this cellar?
No, you idiot! But look here.
And when the tide is out a fellow can hide down there, if any of the gentlemen in blue should be arter him.
Here, my friend, just come and stand on the trap a minute, and I'll give you an opportunity of judging for yourself what it's like down there at the present moment.
He goes rattle and pat,
Holloa, missus, who are you?
Who am I?
Here, Nobby; here's your young woman come after the watch and chain.
No, thank you; my young woman isn't an old 'un, and she hasn't got golden locks.
Here, I say, who are you? You can't come here without being properly introduced. We're genteel and select, we are.
I'm a friend of Mrs. O'Leary's; she'll be here presently and she'll pay my footing for me.
Oh, if you're a friend of Mother O'Leary's, that's all right enough.
Good evening, Mr. Simpson.
Hush! here comes my man. Ladies and gentlemen, your fashionable style of dress might rather
astonish him; so here,
Good luck to you, Mr. Simpson.
Now, sir, I am here.
Glad to find you are punctual.
It was not likely I should fail to our appointment, for you are my rival—you have intervened to thwart my happiness. To you does Lady Marian owe the misery she has had to endure, and that thought excites my rage—inspires me with a desire to kill you.
Do not be too impatient.
Say that you renounce the thoughts you have dared to cherish respecting Lady Marian! Swear that you will cease to persecute her!
I swear that Lady Marian shall become my wife.
Never, villain, never!
Ah! coward, coward!
There you are mistaken, my friend.
Yes; I have seen all, and though unable to save your victim, shall at least find a way to avenge him!
I have no fear of that, for, hark ye, Mrs. Rutherford, your daughter is here, in one of these cellars, and guarded by a man to whom my will is law, and should you utter one cry, or speak one word to denounce me—she dies!
No, no, impossible—it cannot be—Jessie in your power!
Yes; it was not Poynter, but I, myself, who hurried to your lodgings—exhausted by hunger and fatigue, your daughter was asleep, and I was prepared with means to render her slumber more profound.
You shall not stay me, villain! you shall not stay me!
Ah! 'tis her voice. Jessie! Jessie!
Mother! mother!
Oh, how came I here, in this dreadful place? But you will save me, mother! you will save me!
Yes, yes. Do not fear. Come, darling, come.
I am here to demand my daughter, whom you, Jane Rutherford, have forcibly carried from me.
No, my lord, no! Of my own free will I followed her, for she is my mother.
You hear her—I am her mother! And you shall not tear her from me. No! you shall not. Dare you repeat, dare you say again, to her, that I am not her mother?
Well—
Speak quickly.
What say you?
That—that I have deceived you. No, I am not your mother! Pardon me, Lady Marian. Pardon!
pardon!
Am I to take Jane Rutherford into custody, my lord?
No, she has confessed, and I shall not prosecute her.
Now, Marian, let us go.
You have done well to renounce your claims to Jessie, and when she is my wife, I shall allow you, now and then, to stand at a respectful distance and have a look at her.
Beware, Jane Rutherford, beware!
Oh, mercy! let me live. To kill a mother that you marry with her daughter! oh, think how horrible that would be! Spare me! now that I have seen, have embraced my Jessie—I am afraid to die! Oh, have mercy on me! pity and spare me?
Swear, then, you will be silent, and you shall live.
No, no. I would rather pray beside my Jessie's coffin—would see her dead—than wedded to a robber and an assassin!
You have reminded me that should I suffer you to live you might bring me to the scaffold.
No, my good friend; I took hold of his watch—chain, and fished him out!
Ah, here's proof enough now—lock him up.
I have played a bold game, and luck has gone against me, that's all. Don't be uneasy, my
lord; it wouldn't do me any good to tell all I know, so I shall hold my tongue, and let them
quietly finish me off.
You are a good fellow at heart, Nobby, and I shall make something of you yet!
I'll never do another rascally trick as long as I live, and you shall soon have proof of
that, uncle!
Oh, she is saved, she is saved!
It is nothing—heaven in its mercy, will permit that I shall live.
Yes, Marian, yes.
No, you shall never quit us, for I know, am certain, that you are my ——