First performed at the Royal Holborn Theatre (under the management of Miss Fanny Josephs), on Wednesday,m February 17th, 1869 (under the title of "Fettered") A New Original Drama, of great interest, in Threo Acts, entitled A GOLDEN FETTER !
Phew! what a storm! and so sudden too! Well, it's an ill wind that blows no one any good.
Beg pardon, Mr. Mooney, but business before pleasure,
Here I be!
That boy must have been born with a caul, he answers one so readily. Dick, attend to Mr.
Mooney. "His 'prentice hand he tried on man"—ahem! There yon are, Mr. Bulb, done and
That be a queer fancy o' yourn, Measter Nootkins, aboot the bumps.
Still this cursed rain ! As my partner, the sun,
Whoi, they do say oop at th' manor house, as Lady Heron lia' made a match vor her son wi' her ward, Miss Lottie Warrener.
Then's mother had best stop un hanging about the old hunting lodge. The young squoire be moighty taken wi' the stranger lady, I can tell 'ee.
But I do. I ha' spotted 'em often; he a reading poetry books and such loike, and she a
angling,
She be goin' to leave Graythorpe to-morrow, so there be an end on it.
She be off all o' a suddent too, an' farfit's half a year's rent by it.
She must have lots o' money.
Oceans on't. When she were payin' me this marnin' for some gardening jobs, I see a roll o' bank notes in her desk, an' a drawer full o' goold an' silver.
And only one female servant to protect her—bump of cautiousness frightfully deficient.
She be a ra'al beauty anyhow.
Too much beauty. I don't like it.
That's just what we want to know. I should like to examine her head—secretiveness
largely developed.
No one knows who she be, or where she coom fro.'
What's her name ?
Fortescue. She's a widder.
Another bad sign.
But a young widder. She can't be more nor twenty, or twenty-two.
Ah, but you don't know his mother, Lady Heron; she allows nobody to arrange such matters
but herself. Pray sit still, Mr. Wurzel, you've turned the edge of my razor; you've
destructiveness very large. If I'd such a bump as that I'd use a poultice.
Gentleman ! Why, Mr. Bulb, where are your bumps ? he's no more a gentleman than you are.
Gentlemen don't go about taking people's heads off in carts,
He be the stoopidest feller as iver I coom nigh.
And that's saying a good deal in this village.
Followed by a parcel o' boys o' course,
Get along wi' yer ! I'm 'shamed on yer, I am !— can't let a poor leetle bird alone !
Come in, Tom, come in out of the wet!
Coom in, stoopid!
Coom in !
'Umanity! I vos a peerin' into the 'edges as I kem along, h'admirin' the providence o'
nature as shown in blackberries, ven wot should I see a sittin' ker-vite disconsolate on its
ve' nest, but this leetle bird—
Sixpence!
Cage included.
Dear! vy it's a loss
I vill.
A fright only—when my pony started at the lightning, I kept my seat, but jumped out before the chaise overturned.
How fortunate I was there !
It's impossible for you to return in the same chaise— one of the shafts is broken. Can't I persuade you to accept my mother's hospitality for a few hours until––
Go, my good boy, and tell them to get it ready at once.
Yes 'um.
Mine!
Florence!
Our friendship was a folly! never be fulfilled, hopes that in very
charity to you I must destroy.
You forbid me even to hope.
I cannot!
Florence!
last meeting.
Our last?
My arrangements are already made. To-morrow I quit Graythorpe to return no more. It's the last favour I ask you—aid me to forget!
Before I leave this place for ever, it's but just you should know something of my sad story, so that you may know how hopeless the gulf that separates us.
Confide in my love, Florence—my friendship—I implore you !
I'll call at the Lodge. You'll see me ?
Not farewell!
It must be—farewell for ever!
For ever!—She cannot mean it!—Can she have heard of my mother's wish respecting my cousin,
Lottie Warrener?—My mother!
Hullo !—What are you doing here ?
Get off my sixpence ! The lady give it me.
And this is the way you takes care on it ! I'm 'shamed on yer, I am! Vy don't yer tie it up
in yer handkercher, or put it in yer boot ? You can't be too cautious with money— stop,
Stand there! and bad luck to you, for you've brought bitter bad luck to me!—Of all the
infernal machines that man's folly has invented, you're about the worst:—As if Nature's own
handiwork wasn't bad enough, but she must be called upon to repeat her blunders,
Be off with yer! yer nasty h'avaricious boy!—to make all this noise about a sixpence!—I
never saw yer money!—You must have lost it playing at marbles,
I vonder vether there's anythink inside?—Anythink as a chap might
Young Simplicity!—The devil!
Oh, don't!—don't call names! it ain't perlite, and
Well, what's been your little game since we parted ?
h'onest dodge.
Honest!
Vell, honesty don't pay as it oughter, for all they writes it up !
And of convictions!
I've a bottle of something in the cupboard: it will open your heart—
Professor o' what ?
It's been a come down indeed, as far as profit's concerned,
Do it gently, then—the least think turns me.
I've only been six months in England,
Go on.
Returned, to find all my relations dead—my –
I can't—not ven you talks o' fathers an' mothers, and sich like luxuries: I'm too
susceptible !
Bah!
P'raps.
How?
Stop a bit!—you're so timpestious!—sure there ain't no one behind that curting ?
I will—
It's a chronic infirmity with most of us.
What do you say to a young 'oman as is vurth a lot o' tin!
Fortescue!
The business is a safe one—plenty of profit and no danger.
No danger ?
If this thing's to be done at all it must be done at once. She leaves Graythorpe to-morrow. You get admission to the Lodge this evening.
Me!
Upon a pretence I've already invented. I've a disguise ready for you.
For me ? what is it ?
Why in such a hurry ? The disguise is here.
Why yer see, there's a little arrand as I've promised to do, and—and—honour, yer know—
honour before everything. You needn't lock up the bottle, I'll be back in the twinkling of a
bedpost,
A leetle wagabone not vorth a sixpence.
There's no one that I can see.
Thank'ee, I never could abear boys, they're so selfish.
I wanted to know, ma'am, if I'm to go on with the packing ?
I said so; but of all the pertinacious
Yes, ma'am. He's such a 'umble, nice spoken body, one couldn't say no to him.
It's something on a charity, ma'am; an appeal for the unfortunate.
Oh, I'll see him then. Shew him in here, and remain with him till I come.
Mrs. Fortescue will see you directly. Take a chair.
Thank'ee, mim; ven I've viped my shoes,
outside the door.
Miss! well I'm sure! how old may you take me to be?
Twenty-three,
Think o' that now ?
Aint you well, sir ?
I suffer,
Mrs. Fortescue's bell!
Dont 'urry yourself, Miss—on my account.
What a nice old gentleman.
Gone at last! Old women are like plasters, ven vunce they takes they sticks for ever,
I am sorry to keep you waiting, but—
'Ow beautiful is the voice o' natur in this sylivian spot!
Your business ?
Vait a minit, mum, and I'm at your service—there
What do you mean.
My means is limited, mum—werry limited! Hact accordin' to your conshins! that's my maximum,
Yes, mim, it is charity as has brought me here.' you.
For me.
Do you recognise this envelope ?
My letter! Give it me!
Yes, mim;
Fifty; it's a fleabite to you.
Enough; I see you have no conscience !
Villain ! give me my letter!
The letter!
You ! you ! Jasper Blythe!—come back at last !
Do not touch me, Jasper ! do not dare to touch me! or I alarm the house!
The house!
Florence, Florence, fear nothing ! I will protect you!
Really you'd better ask the lady,
When will this persecution cease, Jasper Blythe ? You have had all the money you demanded and more—much more—on your solemn promise that our meeting at Graythorpe was our last.
The meeting you speak of took place a year ago.
Just a year. I'm not likely to forget its date.
Many things may take place in twelve months to change a former resolve. I changed mine, and
so
Always the same demand.
It'll be the last I shall make. In return I promise that you shall be rid of me for ever; I emphasize the word— for ever !
You are not to be believed; and even if you were, I have no money.
No ready money, that's possible; but you've jewels, which if––
Jasper Blythe, have you forgotten the past ? Shall I recall it to your memory ?
Quite useless; I make a point of never looking backwards.
You must and shall ! Poor and an orphan, you were taken into my father's, your uncle's, house—and treated as a son; you repaid him by secretly winning the affections of his daughter, a mere school girl, and––
We eloped and were married. Your father, not being of the flinty-hearted sort, forgave us;
placed me in a position of trust in his counting house, of which trust—
Most unworthy. For years, as it was proved, you had been living a life of dissipation, a life of fraud, and your marriage with me was but a heartless plan to screen yourself from my father's anger.
You wrong the power of your own attractions.
For my sake, my father would have forgiven you all, when you added another crime to the catalogue—a bill for a heavy amount was forged upon one of my father's clients. He had no longer the power to protect you.
Enough ! let me have no more of this idle talk—granted the crime, I paid the penalty. The law satisfied, I returned to find that your father, keeping true to his old hate of me, had left the bulk of his fortune to a distant relative, leaving you an ample allowance, clogged with the condition that, however, you resumed his name and renounced mine for ever.
I have done so.
I have renounced it also;
I cannot.
You must help me.
I will not.
Take care!
Oh! I have no fear, my misery is too great for that.
Bah!
I came here when I left Graythorpe.
And the young baronet—Does he visit you often ?
I am a woman and defenceless; none but a coward would insult me.
Well, well, you have heard of him—from him?
His letters were returned unopened. My seclusion here has been unbroken—till now—and I will take measures that it shall not be broken in upon again,
What do you mean ?
That I will remove from this place, to fly I know not—I care not where, so that
you cannot find me.
You will find hide-and-seek a losing game to play with me, Florence.
Then will I pray that, when we do meet, the barrier of death may arise between us !
Well, there's no teaching a woman reason. It was your last chance, Floy—your last! You
stand between me and a great fortune—between me and a woman I love—yes, love! A woman who'd
place a fortune at my command, with whom I might begin a new life in a new world, who,
ignorant of the past, cannot reproach me with it. Between that woman and myself there is but
one obstacle—but one!
Ah! would yer! Is them your French manners ? Snapping at things as don't belong to ye ! If
half the pains had been took with my edication as they've took with yourn, I might have been
a member of Parliament or some such notoriety,
This must be the shop where I am to enquire about Miss Warrener's dog.
Cuss me! if it isn't that friendly illogical barber !
Ahem !—I say!—here—he don't hear !— Are you deaf?
Slightually.
And suffering with toothache
Wot can't be ?
Ha! ha! I thought it was. I'd have sworn to your bumps anywhere—you've such a peculiar set
of them. But
Minding my own bis'ness.
Your business ! Where did the money come from ?
From my father,
A father! you !
Why not ? ain't I as much right to a father as h'anybody else ? fathers are common enough, I s'pose!
They must be.
What's your business here ?
A dog ?
I ain't seed one.
Then I must have made a mistake,
You don't mean a kind of a sort of a French poodle?
Of course I do; Miss Warrener, Lady Heron's niece, lost it yesterday in Regent Street.
Lady Eron ! what have you to do with her ?
She couldn't do without me. Her ladyship, you see had quarrelled with Sir Gilbert, but she
got frightened when she heard of his wild doings in London, and set me to find news of him.
She knew I shared her anxiety.
Wot's he got to do with you?
Why, you see, he twined himself round my heart by his hair! I curled him for his first
party and cut him regularly for years, Such links ain't easily broken !
Oh ! stow that! wot about the daug?
Her ladyship and Miss W. are drivin' here themselves; she will be astonished at seein'
you—astonished and pleased !
Pleased! her a bird ! I'll try to sell her somehow ! h'onor to see you here,
What a queer creature ! for sale, I suppose.
A child in heart, Miss Lottie, a child in heart!
Ha, I think I remember you ! You're the man that interested yourself about Sir Gilbert.
Yes, ma'am—your ladyship ! I felt for him as a son.
You did your duty, and will have your reward––
Eh!
In a good conscience.
He requires no more.
Certainly— certainly; a good conscience is a sweet thing I It's like grease to boots—that's
wot it is, your ladyship, it softens the huppers, and makes the road of life come easy,
Hadn't we better come to business, Aunty ?
That's it, Miss, let's come to business.
Yesterday, a rascal stole my poodle.
What's the price the thief demands ?
Price !—Um !
Nonsense !
Five fiddlesticks,
Oh, mum! think o' the trouble he had in stealin' it.
What!
Don't!—Oh, please don't, yer la'ship. The way that 'ardened ruffian talked this mornin', have shaken my narves to pieces.
What did he say ?
He said as how a French poodle was a most useful cretur',—when you're tired of him
as a dog, you've only to cut off his legs and scoop out his inside to make a muff of him.
Save him! save him!
Ven you touches my 'art, I can't say no to nothink.
Have you found out Mrs. Fortescue's address ?
Yes, your ladyship.
Eh!
I saw her by accident in Brompton, and knowing your ladyship's wish, followed her.
We wish to be alone for a few minutes.
But the shop?
You can mind it as well outside as in—go!
Directly, your ladyship, your 'ouse long !
And Nutkins,
Your ladyship ?
Go home.
Yes, your ladyship.
I 'ates such meanness !
"Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. " Oh, I'm so glad! I always loved old Floy as a sister—a good, kind,
duck and darling of a sister,
My dear Miss Warrener, I really must trouble you not to offend my ears with slang expressions. I can assure you when I was a girl––
More extracts from Ancient History!
There again! shutting you up.
Well, pulling me up short! you never give me my head a minute, that I will!
I confess that I was more than astonished to find by the portrait you have so carefully preserved, of your schoolfellow, that Florence Fortescue, the lady of the Lodge, was the daughter of your father's old friend and London agent, John Fortescue, the banker.
Was cousin Gilbert very spoons on her?
Spoons! Good gracious!
Oh,—in love then?
Enough to ruin himself, and break his mother's heart! What at that time I thought of
Florence Fortescue, I said—I said it harshly, perhaps too harshly ; but was that any reason
he should leave my house, and refuse to re-enter it ?
I think it was for my sake he kept away. You insisted we should make a match of it, and cousin Gilbert didn't see it; and I didn't see it either.
See it! In my time young people allowed their elders to see for them.
Money's not everything, aunty; I don't care for it.
P'raps not. At your age you're not expected to know its value. To-morrow I will see Mrs. Fortescue.
And I to-night, for poor old Gilbert's sake.
Miss Warrener ! This is an unexpected pleasure!
Oh ! I'm so glad to see you—
Graham ! Captain Graham!!! Oh! what a 'ead! what a 'ead he's got!!
Oh! yes, I remember. Captain Graham performed some slight service, which I believe, he was thanked for.
Slight service ! Why, when the boat overturned he saved me from drowning at the risk of his
life—I shall never forget it! You must come and see us, Captain ; my aunt will be
delighted—won't you, aunty?
And this honest fellow, with whom I am in treaty for some sporting dogs, has promised to
get it back for you—you can depend upon him.
Have you any foreign birds ?
Furrin—lots ! If your ladyship will step into the back shop, I'll shew you some Java
sparrers— beauties!
Lottie, have you forgotten the promise you made me at Homberg?
Promise ! What promise ? I'm sure, sir, I don't remember anything about it.
Oh ! don't trifle with me, darling—you know I love you, and––
Hush—you must get my aunt's consent.
But you are of age, and your own mistress! Lady Heron would secure your fortune for Sir Gilbert—she
Stop now! I won't have you speak against aunty. You must overcome her dislike to you—it s the only obstacle.
And Sir Gilbert—what of him ?
Avoids his mother's house—avoids me.
I will take the birds on your recommendation.
Oh, I'll warrant the colours to stand—I mean, I'll warrant the health of the leetle creeturs—bless 'em t
Good bye, Captain Graham, we shall expect your visit—
Permit me to conduct your ladyship to the carriage.
Well, this beats everything! It's enough to turn a feller's hair preema-toorarloora-ly grey to see him a-doing of it!
You dislike me, my Lady Heron ; but I will remove that obstacle, as I will remove every
other that stands between me and Lottie Warrener !
'Ow should I know, I can't read !
Mrs. Fortescue, Cheyne Walk, Chelsea!
Confess what ? that prying barber brought the paper, and they'd the imperence to turn me out while they read it.
Should Lady Heron and Florence meet, all's over with me. It's a desperate game I'm
playing—yet—but for her
Why, you can't be in love, Captain ?
Madly.
In love !
Oh! she's rich enough! but I should have loved her even without a penny. She believes me everything that's good and noble.
You don't say so! Well, women believe anything! Does she know anything of the leetle obstacle ?
No.
Phew! but should she know ?
That is my business,
Sure! He's backing a dawg of his for the rattin'.
Tony's the
Shut up an' come after you! Thank'ee! I'm much obleeged !
I'd give a bullfinch now—and a pair of finches to to know what game Swell Jasper's up to!
Something nasty I'll be bound,
To think of that fool Gripper, losing sight of them after all, in that drunken scuffle at
the door. What on earth are they up to with those false keys ? We can do nothing till we get
the telegram from the police at Homburg; a terrible loss of time, for when Blythe's taken a
thing in hand, he's not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. If I can throw this
bird fancying-fellow
It's sure to be a good thing—if he puts his hand to it. am rasped !
My good mon !
Oh ! blow you and your good man! Wot do yer mean by creepin' up to a feller that way?
I'm quite a stranger in London. Is this Great St. Andrew's Street ?
Well, it ain't Regent Street, if that's any help to yer!
I want a Mr. Thomas Tit.
What for ?
He's strongly recommended to my notice.
By who ?
Mr. Mauley of the Hand and Glove.
Sorry to say Mr. Tit's not at 'ome—at present!—but I'll introduce' him to
yer—
Sixpence! you're joking!
If sixpence is a joke, take it serious and make it a shillin'—
To buy some dogs,
Price no object? Do you happen to want a French poodle?
That's my name,
I'll do yer the pleasure,
I shall have the telegram from Homburg by that time,
Straight on, and fust to your left.
You'll not forget—early to-morrow !
I'll bring the poodle, he's a beauty ! all right. The cretur' wil never suspec' me—never. Now what's in the
'andkerchief !
Keep the cab there, I'll be back in a minute.
It's the bumptious barber !
Lady Heron has a grand pic-nic coming off to-morrow—
What for?
To help unpack the hampers and look after the plate.
I'm your man!
It's a sovereign a day, with unlimited victuals.
That's me!
I knew you'd be grateful.
I ham.
Oh, I am so awfully glad to see you again, yon dear, dear, dear old Floy. I waited till auntie was off to the opera with that horrible bore, Lady Frumpleigh, then I whisked on my hat, and out I bolted.
And you're sure Lady Heron won't be angry ?
Oh, no! and if she is, I on talk her over; she's not a bad sort if you know how to manage
her. But to think of your being a widow, Floy! Why, it seems only the other
I'm caught!
Caught! What do you mean ?
In love you know! You mustn't mind my funny way of talking. When I left our fashionable
boarding-school I went down to my uncle's at Melton Mowbray, and ran about wild with George
and Harry, my cousins you know, so I picked up some of their talk—it does bother aunt
so—she's so stuck up!
With your Cousin, Sir Gilbert, of course ?
Of course not! Gilbert couldn't be more indifferent to me than if we were really
man and wife and had been married these five years. Besides, Floy, aunty's told me all about
it, and I know Cousin Gilbert is breaking his heart for you; and now auntie has no objection
to the match you'll both get married—and—so shall I—and it'll be such capital fun! and—
What you say is impossible! I can never marry Gilbert Heron!
Oh, Floy! he's wild I know, but he wasn't so before you rejected him. Lady Heron's in despair. The life he leads is killing him.
Hush ! hush! I implore you, Lottie, do not speak any more of this to me, I cannot bear it!
Oh! if you don't like him there's an end of the matter—and I'm only sorry for poor Gilbert.
There—there, Lottie, there's no harm done. Speak to me about yourself—about your own love—where you first met—his name, and all about it.
Well! it's quite a chapter for a sensation novel. Scene, Lake of Geneva—maiden in boat,
young and lovely, (me of course). Sudden squall from the mountains upsets boat, producing
another sudden squall (from the maiden). Squall No. 2, is responded to by hero on
rock, fishing, who immediately takes to the water like a Newfoundland dog, seizes maiden in
his mouth—no—I mean with his hand—and swims back to shore amidst frantic applause of
spectators. That's chapter No. 1.
Hero came next morning, of course, to enquire after
Nothing of the kind. A cruel dragon in the shape of an aunt, who detests owning obligations
to anybody, bore off the maiden a few hours after the accident, he put dear auntie—who
punts a little at the tables, you must know—up to a dodge or two, which gave him an
opportunity of—of —Oh ! you can guess all the rest. He popped the question, and I gave him
permission to hope—and —and—that's all.
And Lady Heron—did she give him permission also ?
That's the fun of the thing. She knows nothing about it!
Oh, Lottie, Lottie!
Why, you see, Captain Graham, though of a very good family, is dee-lightfully poor, while
I—as my Lancashire cousins would say—have heaps of "coin." Somebody else must enlighten the
ancient and honorable, and, as I know she's sure to grow awfully fond of you, you
must break it to her—
I ? No !
You're so sensible and clever—she'll listen to you, while she'll only storm at me. Come, you must do it, you dear old Floy—you know at school, whatever it was, you always won by a head, and came in first favourite.
I cannot meet Lady Heron.
Then I'll run away with the captain, and ask her consent afterwards,
Do nothing rash, Lottie, if you'd have me still your friend,
Oh, Floy, don't be such a prophet of evil; if you did but know him—stay! here is his
portrait—a photograph taken at Homburg.
I'm afraid you're a silly little child, Lottie —one mustn't always judge by the face,
She'll like him—she must like him for my sake !
Jasper!!!
Are you ill, dear? What's the matter?
Nothing ! nothing !
How pale you are! I'll ring for Martha.
No, no; I'm better now—I'm sorry I frightened you; but— but—it came so sudden !
Oh! but you are ill—very ill! I won't leave you to night; now don't ask me to do
so, Floy, because I won t! I'll write a note to aunty and send it by Martha—Don't mind about
me, I like to rough it, and shall be quite jolly here in the arm chair.
Yes, I shall be better soon,
Lie down you must and shall! Oh! I'm a splendid nurse! and Martha will take a cab, and make
everything all right with aunty,
She is asleep. I saw the old servant go out a minute ago—it's now or never, Jasper
Blythe—
What's the matter?
Nothing, darling, nothing ! A terrible dream—a most terrible dream ; that's all—that's all
!
Is it! then it's your fault, always a comin' upon me unawares,
What, that stupid, blundering fellow ? I know him.
I'm afraid, Mr. Flitter, that you're on a wrong scent.
ti-nental friend, Captain Graham, is no other than the man
that's wanted—wanted you understand, at head quarters.
This will be a terrible shock to Lady Heron, and my cousin Miss Warrener.
Of course, baronet, of course ! Therefore when I got the telegram this morning from the banker who cashed the forged letter of credit, I made it my business to communicate the facts to you. That Blythe's up to some desperate game I'm sure, or he wouldn't be in England. He's not the man to thrust his head into the lion's mouth for nothing.
Why do you fancy he's in this neighbourhood ?
Fancy! Beg pardon, baronet, but Bob Flitter—me of course—is not one of the fancying sort. I'm sure he's in hiding somewheres near Marlow. He was tracked from his lodgings to within a few miles of here—and he's business here, or he wouldn't be here; and whatever that business may be, if we don't cut in beforehand, he'll do it, good or bad—and bad it's sure to be—knowin' Jasper Blythe.
Indeed, I fear so.
Now, by your leave, baronet, I'll just look after a couple of fellows of mine who are doing duty as supplementary waiters at this here pic-nic.
Officers!
this !
dis-gusting !
Hilloh, Tom! what are you up to? Making curl papers ?
A letter! Who from ?
Your mother? Last time I saw you, 'twas your father as turned up—you don't mean to say you've got a mother too ?
Well, that is a funny idea!
He, I thought you said it was from your mother!
That was t'other—this vun's from my h'uncle.
Yours must be a queer family to write you by piecemeal—
I can't.
Why not ?
Because there's no more.
From a cousin I suppose!
What?
Excuse me, but if you want a reading lesson, I think I can help you.
Netted who?
I can't!—when you touches my feelin's, I . . .
My name's Flitter!—Robert Flitter, of Scotland Yard!
You've stolen this snuff box.
Oh ! you lent it me—you said just now as you lent it me ; Why can't you stick to wot yer says ? If I'd on'y a known it was you, Mister Flitter, I wouldn't even ha' borrer'd it.
I dare say not. Now, I want you.
Don't!—don't say that, Mr. Flitter!
I want your aid—to arrest this Jasper Blythe.
Me ! You don't know him.
Yes I do, and I know where he is
tore it up, and then I picked
it up.
Sir Gilbert! he's in London.
You'll find him with Lady Heron. Deliver that secretly and at once or
This is the vay they all uses me! They h'xplaims nothink and expects me to do everything.
Cus the snuff box ! arter what I've done for them, they might ha' presented me vith one. I
'ates sich meanness!
This is the only way we could have met, Lottie. I am surrounded by enemies, to escape from whose pursuit I must do what the negroes do, when chased by dogs,— put running water between us. If I would escape a prison I must be on board ship to-night.
To-night?
Oh, please don't talk like that, you frighten me. Suppose these horrible creditors, who are always making people so miserable, are paid, why, then there's no necessity for you to leave England at all, is there ?
There still remains the greatest necessity—I must re-make the past.
—Oh! bother the past! I hate people who are always looking over their shoulders, and moping about how bad they've been. What's done is done, and there's an end of the matter.
fatal
shadows that walk by us still."
Don't talk like that, please, or you'll make me as sad as yourself. It's quite enough for me to know that you're brave—you must be brave, for you saved my life, you know! generous, good—I'm sure you're good!
I'm sure I'm very, very fond of you, but, I dare not do as you wish—no, I dare not,
You can leave me thus, Lottie !
Then I'm nothing to you ?
Danger?
What a storm! And the lightning! Yes—yes— take me away from here!
Fly! Fly at once, Jasper Blythe! the pursuers are close upon your track !
Don't touch her! Do not dare to touch her! but go . . . . your secret is safe with me ; for
her sake I'll never divulge it, never!
There again! the very sound of that man's voice is like a taste of blood in my mouth ! Ah!
he is crossing by the ferry-rope! The fool! it is rushing on his death ! Let go my hand!
Lady Heron, you love your neice; let anyone attempt to cross in that boat, and I plunge with her into the water.
He dare not!
Mine ! I have both the power and the right.
You !
In mercy to yourself!
In mercy to myself? Sir Gilbert Heron, I would refuse even freedom at your hands!
We will never be parted again, Florence!