First produced at the Theatre Royal Adelphi (under the management of Mr. Benjamin Webster), June 29th, 1865.
Time—Present Day.
Stitch, stitch, stitch! Work, work, work! That's all a woman's fit for; and if I
didn't do all the housework, who is I should like to know? Brother Joe's duties as
fireman leave him neither time nor strength, poor fellow; and Ruth always seems to me as if
she were born to better things than roughing her pretty little hands. No, slave away, Honor,
my girl, slave away. That's your lot in life.
"I've been roaming–I've been roaming."
Then go and roam again, I'm very busy–I can't afford to be idle.
Why, if he isn't actually sitting on the window! Get up, sir.
I'm so dead beat, I can't stir.
Well then, sit as long as you like, I shan't take the slightest notice of you.
You won't? Thank ye–that's just what I wanted.
What are you doing now ?
Pray don't take the slightest notice of me.
Of course they might: so I'll get out of their sight.
Was there ever such a tiresome, persevering, never-to-be-put downer? Once for all–Mr. Coventry–it's no use your coming a-courting me; making me lose my time all day long in this way.
So much the better. You are an angel, and love always goes by contraries.
Secondly: who, and what are you?
An artist.
Yes, a fiddler at a theatre !
And a music copyist. One of these days I mean to be a composer!
Thirdly: because I can't leave my brother Joe's house. Ruth, you know, is no relation of ours, only brought up as a child in the house, promiscuous–as I may say, and if I go away, what's to become of the poor girl?
Then let's live all together; a band of brothers–and sisters too.
Plague take the man–he has an answer for everything. Well, then, fourthly and lastly, because I won't– there then.
Miss Honor: I am an honest fellow, although I may appear a careless good-for-naught, and all your snubbing will never put down my love, now it has fixed itself on a good honest worthy girl like you.
Well, certainly, I do believe you are sincere, Mr. Coventry.
Call me "Kit."
Such a familiarity–never! Christopher.
My name isn't Christopher–
Then how comes it to be Kit?
Oh! that's a funny story. Don't you know? I was found, when quite a little fellow, sitting
at early dawn, on the
Bless me! Why then you are nothing at all, you see?
Something very like nothing. However, my good foster parents soon found out my taste for music, and got me a good schooling in that line, and I've kept the little broken fiddle to this very day, along with another relic.
What is that?
The half of a child's picture book–'twas found in the pocket of my little coatee, which was all I had on over my night––
Well, you know, I still keep it. I fancy it may bring me good luck. Sometimes it reminds me of another little child, a struggle for possession of the book, which was torn in half; a good cry–and then–
Upon my word, I'm ashamed of myself listening to all your chatterations. What are you to me? Or your childhood–or your what-you-may-call-'ems–relics?
I only wish you would come and see them and me.
I may take you at your word one of these days.
Never! You monster–and you, too, housing that horrible Mike Biddles, my brother Joe's old comrade in the fire brigade–a sneaking fellow whom I can't abide.
Justice! Miss Honor Bright; he mayn't have done much good for himself, but I never heard that he did any harm to others. And when he came back from Australia, with never a sixpence in his pocket (although he seems to have picked up a little money, somehow, lately), I thought, in giving him a hole to sleep in, I was doing you a service.
Me! indeed!
Why, he's your brother's friend.
Friend, indeed! A Brumagem friend, that rings like a bad shilling!
Well, I thought to do for the best.
Well, the best thing you can do is to be off at once!
Now, here's Ruth. What will she say?
Never mind her, Mr. Kit, she'd never think of plaguing you if she didn't care for you.
You are as bad as he is, every bit.
At all events, true love ought to meet with a better reward. I'm sure I shouldn't do as you do, if anybody loved me; or–or–I loved anybody; except, of course, you and–– and Joe.
Yes, Joe, of course: has he not been all the world to me? He saved my life–protected
me–gave me a home– brought me up. I shall always love Joe,
He's rather young for that! As a dutiful child– then I wish you would tell him a
piece of my mind. I know no good will ever come.of his fresh intimacy with that Mike Biddles.
An old comrade!
Yes, who led him into a pack of troubles formerly. Ah, there was a time when Joe was very different from what he is now!
Not for evil, Honor.
Well–never mind–we won't talk about that now. A good riddance, I thought, when Mike went away to Australia. And now, when I see him come back again, always after Joe. I can't help feeling–
What?
Nervous for that knock at the door has given me quite a turn–Come in.
I will. The fair sex commands, and Mike Biddles obeys.
Gallantry to the sex might lead me to say–it's only for the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Honor Bright. But truth afore all–so it isn't that, ma'am?
Then what may it be? If I'm not too presumptive.
Well, I want's to see Joe.
My time's my own. I'll wait till he comes back.
Not with a dirty pipe in your mouth, and your hat on your head, I should hope!
We diggers ain't used to much ceremony, my gal. But
Mr. Biddles! Sir, may I ask what you want always to be confabulating with my brother about?
Certainly, ma'am, you may ask, but I ain't obliged to tell you.
And you ain't any longer, for here comes the master. That's his hannouncement.
We've had a tough job of it, I can tell you. Five hours' hard work–a regular roaster–but
no lives lost, thank Heaven; but a narrow escape for them. However, here I am.
Well, I do feel sometimes as if I was a frizzling all over, like a rasher on a gridiron.
I want a word or two with you in private, Joe.
All right, my boy, but you must let a fellow get a mouthful of breath first.
Stuff and nonsense! Tired? I'm never tired.
Yes, and in such a heat, too.
My good little Ruth.
No, Mike, my boy, no! None of that sort of thing for me now.
Ah! you were a jolly fellow once.
I was a confounded hass once–that's what I was once. I've learned to be ashamed of those days now. How you look, Ruth! Well, I can confess now, there was a time when I used to take a glass too much–that is, occasionally.
Come, don't talk of that now.
Well, I was a ruffianly brute; I was! Now it's out. But, somehow, the thought gave me a turn one fine day– and–I didn't take the pledge–No–I didn't want that; but I took a "davy" to myself, all alone, that I'd never touch a drop of strong drink again. Yes; and for all these years I've kept my word–my word to Joe Bright, as a father, a brother, and a Briton.
Well, at all events, brother Joe always did his duty as a fireman; look at his wellum testimonials, and his medals, and–
Gewgaws! my gal, gewgaws!
I'm sure Joe was always the best of men. Didn't he save my life, I may say, through fire and water?
Well, you mustn't think too much of that. I was a youngster then–a mere slip of a chap; and, as a young hand, I wanted to show off a bit. All vanity, you see..
All vanity! Don't say so, Joe, –your courage on that occasion, I've been told, was the talk of all London.
My good–kind Joe.
Then let Mike tell it, he was my mate then, and with me at that very fire. You recollect, don't you, Mike?
Why, old boy, have you been and gone and buried all your brains in the diggings? I'm talking of the fire, when I saved this identical blessed little gal. You were in the brigade then; before you went out. You must recollect!
Out with it–your father–that's what I am.
You have indeed been a father to me.
No such great merit in that. I couldn't help it. What was to be done? You had arrived,
with the poor woman who perished, in that lodging house, in Soho, only the night before.
Nobody could tell nothing about you. The poor soul couldn't say nothing, you know, because
she was dead, and at that time you wasn't so forward in your edication as we could expect to
get much out of you. Howsomedever you did make a sort of a sound, as sounded like
And a happy home it has been to me.
Oh! We took no end of trouble to find out your belongings, I can tell you; but it was all
no go, and we was forced to keep you, willy–nilly. I've kept all the little thingumonies that
may lead to your iddenti-ti-ittity–confound the word!–––carefully locked up in my drawer
here.
I never let anybody touch 'em or look at 'em, not even Honor–so I may contrive to get rid of you one of these fine days–eh! Ruth.
I never wish to leave you, Joe–
A burden! You're a blessing.
Yes, to be sure. What are gals made for, but to pick up sweethearts? I don't want to tell tales, but I've seen a likely young fellow, of my acquaintance, hanging about the house lately.
A young fellow hanging about the house. What does this mean, Ruth?
Mr. Mike is mistaken, if he is alluding to me.
It's that rascal Kit. Won't I trounce him for making mischief in this manner!
Ruth, you're my child, and I feels towards you as a father—as a father, you understand, and
as a parent. When I think of you marrying, and going away, and leaving us—why, as a parent,
of course, I–I–can't bear to think of it. It would break my heart.
My dear Joe, I'm sure I don't want to marry. No, never!
But you wouldn't stand in the way of a gal's settling in life, if so be as she had a good chance?
Of course he wouldn't.
Now, what do you want, ma'am, putting your finger in the pie? You've had a good many tries, you know. Settling in life, indeed! that's all you women seem to think about. You're a set of selfish creatures!
And pray who is selfish now—standing in the way of a girl's happiness?
I stand in the way of her happiness! Never!
But all my happiness is here.
No! I'm a selfish brute to think of tying you down here for ever, along with us. Beat me, Ruth, you ought to beat me!
I should like to do it.
I dare say you would; but you won't; that's quite another pair of scissors!
I say, Joe, old fellow
All right! Come, gals, haven't you got any household duties to look after ?
That's as much as to say you want to get rid of us.
Don't huff yourself, my lambkin, but just go and see if the Lord Mayor's a-doing his duty.
Well, talk of women and their mysteriousness, you men beat us hollow. Why can't you speak out honestly before us?
We will one of these days, when you've learned to hold your tongue—but that won't be yet
awhile.
Well, I'm going; don't suppose that I'm turned out. No, I happen to have a lot of shopping
to do.
And I've got sewing to do. Good bye, Joe, good bye, Mr. Mike.
Well, now you've got rid of us, I hope you'll be happy, you two.
Poor fellow, poor fellow!
Who's a poor fellow ?
Well, never mind, it slipped out. Let's drop the subject. Good bye, Joe.
Good bye! Why, didn't you say you wanted to speak to me particular?
I've changed my mind.
Stop! What is it you mean?—for you do mean something, I see it in your looks. Speak out like an honest man, come!
Well, if you will have it, Joe, my old boy, you can't deceive an old friend—you're unhappy.
Me?
You've something sticking in your gizzard.
Well, it ain't from over-eating anyhow, for I happen to be off my feed.
Yes, that's it.
What's it?
Joe, you're in love.
Me in love? Nonsense!
Yes, you love that girl of yours—Ruth.
Ruth? Don't tell me so. Ruth, my own child! No, it can't be, Mike, you insult me to suppose
that I–I–
Well, if the truth insults you, I'm sorry for it. You see I did wrong to speak out. Good
bye!
Mike! Mike! I fear you've told the truth. I feel I know it's the truth. I wouldn't own it, even to myself, when the thought came across me. I called myself a fool, and I'd a mind to give myself a deuced good thrashing; but, though I tried to blind myself, I couldn't blind you. It's true, Mike, it's true.
Well, old fellow, it's a misfortune,
A misfortune! it's a crime. To love my own child, as it were, whom I've reared since she
was ever so little, and to whom I ought to feel as a father.
I must say there's a vast difference between you, though "twas your own fault for bringing her up so.
And I'd do it again. I'd do all for her—all—and a deuced sight more, too, though it might make her far away more and more my superior. Look at her! Why, she's fit to be a queen or a hempress, and who knows but what she may be? Oh lor! oh lor! to think, if it were possible, which it ain't, that I ever could have married her, and she should have turned out to be a duchess! There's a pretty mess I should have made of it. Married to a duchess! only look at me—fancy me a duke!
Well! you ain't got the cut of one exactly. But it ain't no use to gainsay you, Joe. It's in human natur that the girl should love a likelier–younger fellow.
Love another? another! and yet, why not? She might love another—does love another—perhaps.
I don't want to make mischief, it ain't in my natur, so never mind what I said just now.
Speak out, Mike, speak out! I can bear all now. Speak out.
Well, I may be wrong, you know: but I fancied that young fellow, who has given me a shakedown in his rooms—that Kit Coventry–
The fiddler! Shouldn't I like to smash his fiddle about his head, to a tune of my own.
No—no, why shouldn't she love him? He's a young fellow—and a proper fellow—not that I ever
saw any good looks in him, a whipper-snapper—catgut scraper. But it's the way of the women!
And haven't I sworn to do everything to make her happy, and I will too, if I break my heart
in the doing it.
Come!—what's the use of worriting yourself? Cheer up, old fellow; you'll get over it.
Never, Mike, never. It's all over with me. I can never look her in the face again with any comfort.
Then why not go away from her for a time? You know you had thoughts of giving up the brigade. Why not go to Australia for a year or two? You'd fill your pockets with gold in no time; and then—won't the gal be glad to jump at you!
What, and buy her heart like a huckster? No! no! I'm not such a villain as that. My love hasn't crushed all proper pride out of me, and what's more it never shall.
Well then, we won't talk about that. If I was you I'd turn my back on all this sorry business, and see if salt water wouldn't wash my love out of me.
Leave my home, and all that's dear to me!—all the things that have grown up, and grown old with me– all that takes one back to the recollection of happy days and hours! Oh! Mike, you don't know what a pang shoots through me when you say "Leave your home."You drive me mad.
What's the matter, dear Joe? I heard your voice so loud, and now you look so strange. Oh! what is the matter?
Nothing. Don't touch me, girl, don't come near me.
Joe, something does ail you. I never saw you thus.
Don't, I tell you it's nothing.
What can I get you?
Nothing. Don't stir! I wouldn't have you put yourself out of the way for such a chap as me on no account. 'Tain't worth your while. You've other things to think of.
Joe!
No! No! It's nothing—nothing! I shall be better soon; all I want is air.
Joe! Joe! What can be the matter with him? Have I vexed him? I'm sure I didn't mean it. I
would ask his pardon, though I don't know what for.
Joe's a queer chap, you know, and has his little queer tempers sometimes.
No such thing. I have never seen him like this before.
No man's a hangel, my gal; and 'tain't right he should be; wings is hillconvenient.
Joe has always been the best, the kindest of men, and I never will believe––
Hollo! This 'ere wein of tenderness won't do for my diggings. I must break the ground on
t'other start at once.
If you again allude to Mr. Kit, you are mistaken; between him and me there is nothing.
I know there isn't. That was my joke, you see. No; there's a fine young gentleman—a real
one! with all this 'ere sort of face toggery,
What do you mean? Make the acquaintance of a stranger?
Oh! he means all fair; marriage—parson—clerk, and all that. You can't refuse to hear what he has got to say!
Impossible! Mr. Mike—that is—I beg your pardon, but this must be another of your jokes. We'll laugh about it another time. Good bye!
Stay! Miss Ruth. A stuck-up little fool! But most women gives in at last! My man will be
loafing about, as I told him.
All right, sir; nobody at home but the gal.
Let me see her at once, then.
All in good time.
Well, I admit, up to a certain point your story is credible enough. I was a youngster when my uncle and aunt, the John Dashwoods, went off to Australia to seek their fortunes. I have no doubt the Dashwoods you met were the same, only they had made money then, lucky people!
Lucky, but not happy. They were always a snivelling after their two lost children, whom they had left, almost infants, to the care of Mrs. John Dashwood's mother, and sent for them when they got themselves a comfortable home out there.
So far –so true.
Well, Mrs. John Dashwood's mother being then defunct, the nurse took charge of the two children, and on her way to embark with them for Australia, lodged one night in London, in a house, where a fire broke out.
And nurse and children perished.
The boy was lost, but the other child was saved, the youngest, a little girl.
That's the hazy part of the story, my good fellow.
Not a bit of it, my good fellow. I was in the Fire Brigade then. I saw Joe Bright save the
child. I recollect it well, though a shaky memory may be convenient on occasions. Besides,
haven't I got a copy of the will that John Dashwood
Yes, my uncle leaves all his property to this girl when found—if she be still living.
And the property will come to you, Mr. John Dashwood's next of kin, if she be dead, —only she ain't.
That remains to be proved.
You wasn't so cranky and suspicious at first, when, before visiting my old friend Joe, on my return, I was civil enough to call on you first.
In order to sell your information in the best market.
Well, wasn't that nat'ral; only you wasn't sharp enough to take my offer.
Suppress all knowledge of the girl, and claim the property myself? No, no, my friend; I don't want to shave the Old Bailey so close as that.
So you find it better to look after the girl on the sly, and see whether you can't marry your cousin ?
At any rate, one clause in the will places her within my power.
Which came about through me; 'cos, I insinivated the gal had fallen into low hands. Good; now, I dare say, you think such a slap-up young party as yourself is to walk over the course; but there's another 'oss to be scratched first.
What do you mean?
Why, when I offered to get Joe out of the way–
As the only evidence of the girl's identity. Yes.
I didn't then see the value of my advice. Master Joe may put quite another spoke in your wheel. He's in love with the gal. Then this nasty job of driving Joe out of the country don't come into our bargain. I must have a round hundred for that.
Leech! Cormorant!
Don't worrit yourself. I've got those letters you writ me securely stowed away in a locker, under a stout padlock. They'd tell a pretty tale, and you might find yourself nearer the Old Bailey shaving operation than you thought for, if I was to produce these and blow up the whole affair.
The rascal is right.
I'll give her a call.
Joe returned! I'm so glad!
Stop a bit, my gal, here's a gentleman wishing to speak to you, very pertickler.
Pardon me. I cannot receive strangers in Joe's absence!
Allow me a few words, my dear young lady. My name is Dashwood! I have an independent fortune—I have seen you by chance—your charms have made a deep impression on my heart and —
Indeed, sir, I cannot listen to this. Allow me to pass, my good Mr. Mike.
Don't be alarmed! I mean you well. Let us at least make acquaintance.
I entreat you again to leave me, or let me retire. If Joe, my foster father, were here, you would not dare do this. But you think that I am without defence.
Without defence? No, you're not, Miss Ruth. What's the matter, Mike?
Who is this fellow?
There's no occasion for bluster, my lad. This 'ere gentleman—and he is a gentleman—every inch of him—wanted to say a kind word to Miss Ruth, only she's so deuced squeamish.
You're a good fellow, I believe, Mike; but I won't stand any nonsense to little Ruth, so sheer off,
And who are you, sir, to dare to interfere?
And who are you, sir, if it comes to that? A very fine gentleman you think yourself, I dare
say. But that doesn't give you the privilege to insult a woman!
Be calm, Mr. Kit, perhaps I was foolishly alarmed.
You'd better not play any more of your cards now, you'd only spoil your game: but I can see
how to win the odd trick. Come away.
You seem to have wholly misunderstood me. Au revoir.
Au fiddlesticks! What did all this mean, Miss Ruth?
Oh, don't let's talk more of it—let's talk of Honor; I think, nay, I'm sure she loves you. Why not speak to Joe?
Well, somehow, I feel delicate; but I shall never forget your kindness, never!
Just in the nick of time.
Joe, are you better?
Nothing's the matter with me. How should I be better? I'm all right—jolly as a sandboy, only I don't know why sand boys ought to be particularly jolly—ha, ha, ha!
But just now—
Just now, I was a hass. Never you mind me—you've got company, I see. Don't let me be a hinterference — Mike and me'll be off again.
By no means, Mr. Bright, I only called in to thank Miss Ruth for her good will towards me; and, if you'll allow me to say–
Spare your breath, my lad, I don't want to hear anything—make yourself at home with Miss
Ruth, I beg of you, humbly hoping as I'm not in the way. Pray do me the honour to take a
chair—don't let me keep so distinguished a artist on his legs. Like a little vittles, or a
drop of drink? Don't be shy—pray speak your mind!
But, Mr. Bright—
Go now, Mr. Kit, please, he isn't well.
Oh! whisper away, don't mind me. It ain't manners, perhaps, but what's manners to the likes of us!
My dear sir, we've nothing to say –good bye for the present.
Oh, pray don't go! your society is such a pleasure here. There'll be no jollity without you, and we mean to be so jolly—ha, ha, ha!
Another time, —I must be off now.
"As you was going down the street." You may as well stop when you get there.
Joe, I fear you don't like Mr. Coventry?
Not like him? Why what makes you think that? Wasn't I civil to him? Didn't I treat him like a lord? Didn't I do the honours in prime style? What more do you want?
Still you seemed vexed at his presence here?
Oh! You've a right to see whom you like. You're your own missus, you know. Nobody never
attempts to circumvent you, I'm sure.
Don't say a word. You'll only make matters worse; He ain't in the humour, you see.
Well, Joe, I am sorry if I have offended you.
Offended! Nonsense! Ha! ha!
Who's crying?
Nothing! Nothing!
Don't tell me. You are not one of the sort that cries for nothing.
How should I know? Don't you come any of your worritings, if you please, my lady. I feel uncommon jolly just now–and I don't want none of your hinterference.
Hollo! Our Tommy has got his back up.
Mike Biddles is my friend, Honor, and I don't want any of your insinivations. You are a well-meaning gal, I know–but–
Never mind about me! I can take care of myself, but I won't have my little Ruth fretted.
And who frets Ruth?–don't go and say I do. I wouldn't fret her for the world! So none of that nonsense.
Ruth, dear, look up! As the gentlemen don't seem inclined to be mighty pleasant, suppose
you and I go and amuse ourselves?
Ruth! she's gone, and thinks I've ill-treated her! Oh! what a miserable brute I am–and what
a fool, too–eating my heart out for a girl that doesn't care for me!
No, no!–better take my advice and go away at once.
Go away–go away!
I've friends in the shipping business. Your passage shall cost you nothing; there's a vessel ready to sail, I know. Say "yes," and it's done.
Yes!
Spoken like a man of spirit! I'll manage to keep you out of the way until you can sail; then, hurrah for the new country! You'll see how soon you'll forget!
Forget! aye, that's what I want. Why, have I any brains? – I should like to drown them all.
Come along with me, my hearty, and we'll soon drown them for you.
You mean drink! Curse you!
Only just enough to make you the jolly fellow you used to be once more.
Yes, yes; I'll be jolly–we'll have a drain. Come! drink, drink!
Bravo! the trick's done. In his present state of mind a drop of brandy will soon turn him
up.
"We'll be free," ee." &c.
You seem in a better temper now, Joe. I want a word with you, alone.
Then you'll please to wait; I've business–glorious business. Ha! ha! ha!
But I must speak with you.
Must is for a Queen, and you haven't arrived at that elevation in society yet, Miss Honor.
Come.
Gone!
Yes, carried off neck and crop by that Mike. There's evidently something wrong going on. But what?
Can we not discover?
What's a woman to do? She can't go running after those animals of men. Oh! why was I born
to wear petticoats? I might put that Kit Coventry on the track, he's always coming here
jabbering about his wish to serve me; and, when he might make himself useful, of course he's
out of the way.
But you said just now––
Hush !
I saw your brother go out with Mike, Miss Honor, and I thought I might venture for the last time.
What are you standing there for–keeping the door open?
On which side am I to be when I shut it?
Why, on this to be sure! Mr. Kit, you have said you'd do anything to serve me–
Send me to the world's end.
Nonsense! There's something going on here, nearer home:–some harm, I'll take my oath, is meant Joe, by that fellow Mike. Find out what it is, and–and–
And what?
Never mind now.
I'll do all this for the love of you, Honor.
Well then, go about it at once!
Joe!
Oh! there he is again–he's a fixture now–goes at a valuation, and is valued very high here, very. He's a pretty sort of fellow–he's not a bit like me–he's the sort of man for the gals to love. I wish you joy of him, ha, ha!
Oh, heaven! in this state!
Just what I might have expected.
By Jove! he's screwed to a pretty peg.
'Tain't nothing to me I'm jolly now–We'll all be jolly! Give us a buss, Honor.
Go along, do! Ain't you ashamed of yourself?
No, I'm proud of myself. I'm proud of my re-so-lu-tion. I've drunk three glasses of brandy right off, and I've made myself jolly. Ruth won't say I fret her now, will you, my lass?
Oh! Joe, Joe!
What's the matter? Can't I please you no how?–that's hard, that's hard.
Happy! you miserable fellow, you ought to go down on your knees and ask pardon!
Pardon! What for, my beauty?
Why, for getting so dreadfully drunk,
Drunk! Lor', you don't say so!
No, I don't no one's drunk here, sir.
Manners, miss–manners! You are rude.
Or if anybody is tipsy, it's only this young profligate of a fellow.
But, Miss Honor, now, upon my word––
Hold your tongue.
You will?
Go away directly, sir!
Good day, company assembled–all so jolly, oh!
He, too!
Now, sir, if you'll have the kindness to leave us––you can't speak to Joe now, he's busy.
Busy?–Who says I'm busy? Hang business! I'm jolly, my boy Mike–let's have another drain.
You shan't go, Joe, if it's only for the credit of the family.
As you love me, Joe–my friend.
What do I know about love? What's family to me? I've no family! What's friends? I've no
friends–yes, I've one friend–only one–only one–and here he is!
He your friend! Come away, Joe–come away!
Let go! Honor. Don't hexasperate me, Honor. The devil is in me again–and–and–let go! I say.
You won't? then–
So, here you are last, Mr. Biddles!
I'm not so much behind time; I've been to see after Joe's passage. All right!
I feared you wouldn't come, I had written to you, but the scrawl is useless now.
Pshaw!
Don't fret yourself–they are all safe enough here–
Now, what's your price for them? Of course you have a price?
I don't want to sell my fruit till it's ripe, and it ain't ripe yet. Shares may rise in value by-and-bye, and then's my time to say, "Here's my goods! What will you give for 'em now?"
Don't think I'm to be ridden over, now! I must find other means.
No you won't!
They never will be but for me; I alone can drive Joe from his home, and–hush! Didn't I hear
a noise?
I had assured myself already of his absence; but, now, do you consent to my proposal?
We'll see about it–Do you go now. I'll meet you at the Chequers in half-an-hour. I must look after Joe.
What a pleasure it is, to be sure, to bully that young spark; but pleasures is transient,
so I'd better give it up and take a good round sum down at once.
Kit! What the dickens are you doing there?
Coming through the roof, you mean.
All right! He's still in liquor.
Not I; there was too much noise in the streets for that.
I'll take my oath he never did! Come away, you'll break the lock.
No, I shan't, for it's open!
Not I! I was thinking I might incommode you, keeping this lock-up all to myself.
Incommode me? Bless you! I've no treasures to stow away; none at all–except my little
godfather here–my kit,
Well, if I'm not in your way, I'll use your locker as long as I'm here.
Just as you please.
Mike!
Don't go, Mr. Bright. You're the very person I wished most to see.
You wished to see me? You? I'm a beautiful object to look at, certainly. Well! What do you
want? To jeer me? To snap your fingers in my face? To crow over me?
Only a few words, Mr. Bright.
What do you mean? What cause have you for anger?
Oh! perhaps you know and disapprove my affection.
Disapprove! Hark at him. What mighty pretty words. Disapprove! ha! ha!
But, for heaven's sake, let us waive all consideration of such feelings now.
Mighty fine! A man is to have his heart torn out and trampled on; and then to waive all–all, curse the words. You're a beauty–you are.
For the life of me, I can't understand you,
Not that name, not that name. I can't bear it now, all –all but that.
But listen to reason.
Reason! ha! ha! ha! I'm to be talked over by you, am I? By you, the cause of all my misery.
I? You must be mad.
Mad! yes, just what I am.
Joe Bright! for your own sake, for that of Ruth.
No, you don't, Joe.
Yes. Honor, your own sister, whom in your blind
No! no! I'm a brute.
You may thank your stars I found out where you were, and came in time.
Oh! Miss Honor, you don't know how grateful I am for this proof of your affection.
My affection for you, nonsense. Knock that idea out of your head. What I did was solely to serve my brother –who thought of you? Now you just leave us together, that's the best thing you can do.
But, Miss Honor. I must just speak a word or two to you before I'm warned off my own premises. It's not about my love that I–
I should think not, indeed.
It concerns a discovery of importance.
The cause of all this to do?
Your brother won't hear a word, but to make all sure, come in here, and let me speak to
you.
Oh! I forgot! well, then here on the landing, come.
I must know all, but if this should be a trick, Mr. Kit, I'll never forgive you, never.
Now, then, I will know all!
Madman! What are you doing there?
Give me back those letters.
I shall not! You're doing something you'll be ashamed of when you're in your better senses.
You shall not have those letters.
Ruth's! My poor Joe, you're worse in the head than I thought for. Letters from Ruth! folly. Who to?
To that fiddling chap, who's been sneaking about the house.
To Kit Coventry? A pack of nonsense.
She loves him.
Joe, you're a fool, a perfect idiot.
I am, I am! for I– I love her.
Don't jeer me, Honor, don't, don't!
As if I could help it, you blessed ignoramus. Yes, Ruth does love somebody–and with all her
heart, too. She has told me all in her trouble.
I knew it, I knew it!
No you didn't. But she ought to be ashamed of herself, for the man she loves is a wicked good–for-nothing fellow, who doesn't deserve anybody's love–though I love him, too.
Honor!
Yes, and the naughty fellow's name is Joe Bright, That's who she loves.
Trifle with you! It's you've been trifling with yourself, and the happiness of us all.
Oh! fire away, I'm not looking!
Holloa!
My fortune?
Stop a bit.
Birth and parentage–what are you a-talking about?
Oh, yes! we are on the clue at last. That Kit Coventry told me he had found out there was a plot, or a conspiration, or something bad of the kind, against our Ruth, about some fortune left her by her parents. Oh, dear! here we are again!
My parents?
Then why didn't you say so at once, you stupid girl?
As if I could when you was a-raving, and a-tearing, and a-going on so–a pretty time to think of sense or reason. But now it seems Kit's suspicions were right after all. They are addressed to Mr. Biddles.
What, Mike?
Now do be quiet!–and signed Philip Dashwood.
Dashwood? the gentleman who came this morning.
A gentleman came to see you, Ruth?
There don't bother about that now. But look here, look here! Mike knows who are Ruth's parents–he has told the writer–he has bargained for money. Oh! it's quite clear–they want to swindle the girl out of the money that's been left her.
Say? That I love you more than ever.
Did you ever see such a gal?
Ah! Still here?
Speak out! of course you may. You don't want to be earwigging me in that fashion.
Mr. Kit Coventry, –sir, I behaved very ill to you, just now. I humbly axes your pardon.
Oh, that's all forgot. Never mind me.
No, never mind him.
Intruding in my own room.
Let 'em come. We're ready for 'em. Here's the letters. They tell all about Ruth, and her parents and her fortune.
Yes, we know all; so, you see, we don't want you––you're no good!
We'll be down on them now!
There's no trusting you alone, Joe–you'll get into another fit of violence. I don't intend to leave you; you want a governess, my child! Here! Mr. Kit shall go; he's fit for nothing else but to fetch and carry.
Oh! very well, then; do you run to our house, open the drawer under the clock, and bring here all you find in it.
Here's the key! Bless the man, he's going without the key!
Anything to do you service, Miss Honor. But, Mr. Joe, you said just now you saved Miss Ruth, as a baby, from a fire.
For further particulars inquire another time. Now do make haste! They may come before we are fully prepared for them.
But, Miss Honor
Go along with you.
Hark! I hear steps on the stairs below! I know Mike's tread! They're coming!
Now for it! I say, you gals must get out of the way, but be within ear-shot–if you like.
Here! here!
Gammon! I'm master now for once in a way.
Only just in time!
What, home again, Mike? Ah! you've business, I see. Well, don't mind me. I was just going out.
Not in the least–you couldn't have looked in at a better moment. You'll excuse me, I've got
business to attend to.
Now, Mr. Philip Dashwood, since we've come to an understanding, let's play out our game
fair and honourable, like gentlemen. As you gives me the notes with one hand, I hands you the
letters with another. 'T'ain't as I mistrusts you, in course, but fair play's a jewel. Well,
is the notes ready? Here, you have the letters.
The letters gone? This is some subterfuge.
Begging you pardon, Mr. Mike Biddles, Esquire, that's a lie, for here they are!
Yes, Joe, the fireman–with hose in hand, ready to extinguish you, Mr. Mike Biddles,
Esquire, and t'other chap too, whoever he may be with curly plantations.
Joe, you know your'e drunk; give up the letters and I'll forgive you.
I'm as sober as a judge. I shan't give up the letters, and as to your forgiveness, that be– No, I won't be violent.
Not much to me, as Joe Bright, the fireman, but a good deal to me as Ruth's foster father.
Yes, I know all; I know that she's a heiress to property. I know that you would sell her birthright–I know that you are a couple of swindlers and thieves! It ain't polite, perhaps, to say so; but as you are fond of smoking, Mr. Mike Biddles, Esquire, you may put that in your pipe and smoke it!
The game is up!
There is but one chance left.
You have evidently obtained those letters in a way which I will not attempt to qualify.
Qualify away, guv'nor.
You have misjudged me; and only on the faintest evidence.
Pretty strong evidence, Plantations.
I own that I have discovered, in the young lady you call Ruth, a relation–my own lost cousin, Mary Dashwood!
I have always intended to deal with her honourably and honestly.
If you could make an appeal to her own right feeling, I'm sure she would appreciate my motives. Let me but see her, and–
Oh, you don't want to be kept long a-waiting for that.
And you, Ruth, fix your eye on the prisoner at the bar, him with the curlies, I mean. He says he is your cousin, and wants to speak a word with you. Now then, Plantations, fire away!
Yes, your cousin Philip Dashwood, your only surviving male relation. It is but lately I made the discovery of your birth. I sought you out, and saw you at first unknown. The tenderness of a kindred tie was soon augmented by my admiration, my respect, my love. I love you, cousin! Will you accept my hand and fortune? Will you be my wife?
Cousin, since such you are, I will strive to give you that friendship due to our
position–but my heart is not mine to give. My hand is promised to another–
Did you ever see such a gal?
I admit that you, madam, are entitled to property left by the will of your late father, my uncle, Mr. John Dashwood; but, by that will, the property comes to you hampered with one condition
The express condition that you marry only with the consent of your next of kin, who happens
to be myself, Philip Dashwood. Your parents feared you might have fallen into low hands, and
they were right.
You hear him, Ruth? "low fellow!" But he's right–he's –he's right!
Yes, I hear him! And were my fortune millions, I would joyfully sacrifice all–that's to say, if you will take me penniless, Joe.
Take you? Why, wouldn't I think myself prouder than a king, if you were only to come to me
as you did on the night of the fire, with nothing on but –
Well and good, madam! The property, then–
That Ruth's next of kin gives his free consent to the young woman marrying whom she pleases.
What is the meaning of this impertinent inter-ference? What do you want here, sir?
That's a funny question to put to a man in his own room! Miss Ruth–Mary, or whatever your
name may be–for the first time I've learned, just now, that eighteen years ago this staunch,
plucky fellow –
Saved you from a fire! These things belong to you.
And so I'll swear! I kept them as proof of her iden-ti-ti-ittity–confound the word! That's her little coral necklace, and them's her little socks
Marked "M. D." On this little toy of my childhood
Wait a bit. My earliest recollections of just eighteen years ago are of a fire, too. The
night before it happened–it has often come before me like a dream–I remember a struggle with
a little child, almost an infant then for the possession of a picture book she had clutched
in her little hands: one half of such a picture book I found among the treasured relics in
Joe's drawer, the other half I have preserved through all these years. See, here it is!
Bless the boy, how should she? She could only lisp one word.
One word. Yes, yes, it comes back to me now. The child I fondled–yes, it lisped to me, "Donny," " Donny."
That's it! he's got it all right, "Donny." I'll be blessed if you won't turn out to be
"Donny" yourself!
Concerted plot! That's very kind of you, very flattering. But our heads are not clear enough for that line of business. We leaves plots and swindles for the likes of you, and him there, to think of.
But the law will require clearer proofs
Don't you be too sure that they would be proud of the relationship. Take care of them curly whiskers, as you go down stairs.
Though I'm a 'cute player at most games, I own I've lost the trick. But I don't bear malice.
And you'd better take all your valuable property with you, for you won't have a chance of coming here to fetch it, I can tell you.
How I wish I'd had hose and pumps in good working order. I'd have helped those chaps down stairs, rather. St. Swithin would have been a joke compared to me.
And now, Miss Honor, with Joe's permission, I'll claim your promise.
Little enough, I know. But I have found you here in my room, and you know what you once said. So now I claim the forfeit.
Well then
I do, but to give it back again for life, and of my own free will.
Come that's jolly! Shan't we make a lively family party for a dance? Giving hands across and back again, no not back again. What a proud chap I do feel to be sure. The public have given me medals and testimonials, and all sorts of praise for one deed or another. And I'm sure you, Ruth, and you Honor, and you master Kit, as well as many friends around me, know that it is only to say the word to Joe Bright, and to serve one and all he is always ready to go "Through Fire And Water."