On Guard
First produced at the Royal Court Theatre (under the management of Miss M. Litton), on Saturday, 28 October, 1872.
Time occupied in Representation – Two Hours.
Dear me, what a while those men waste over their wine!
Do you know, I often wonder what they talk about.
Ah! my dear, we had better not attempt to penetrate
So do they – perhaps!
And horses, I daresay.
Yes; the women that wear the dresses, and the women that break the horses.
I daresay they are pulling us to pieces at this moment. I wish it was lady-like to listen! Why do ladies always retire after dinner, and leave the gentlemen alone?
My dear, during dinner many elevating and ennobling reflections occur to them, that we shouldn’t understand, so we mercifully leave them that they may give utterance to their magnificent conceptions, or their teeming brains would burst.
Would Baby Boodle’s teeming brain burst?
No, Baby Boodle’s brain has plenty of turning room. Whenever he shakes his head, I always expect to hear it rattle!
How can you speak like that of a man you like?
Do you remember how you snubbed Guy at dinner?
Yes, I did it on purpose.
How can you speak like that
That’s a very different thing. I love Guy very much, but he must be kept in order. Besides, you snub Baby Boodle!
Yes, but Baby Boodle don’t know it. That’s Baby Boodle’s principal charm.
But Baby Boodle is in love with you.
You’re too clever for him, dear. You pay him back in his own coin, and he don’t like it. He wants a rose from you, and you give him a thistle. Now that frightens clever men.
And fascinates donkeys. Perhaps you’re right. At all events it points my moral – never snub a clever man, if you care two pins about him.
Ah, Mrs. Fitzosborne, when will you practise what you preach?
By flirting, for instance.
Oh, Mrs. Fitzosborne!
Look at Denis Grant, for instance.
Oh, I never flirted with Mr. Grant! During the week that he has been in England I have seen a great deal of his society, and I like him immensely – he’s such a brave, rough, rugged, manly man – but flirt! why he was Guy’s schoolfellow, and his very dearest friend! Oh, Mrs. Fitzosborne! flirt with Mr. Grant!
Ah, remember, Jessie, you are the first white woman he has seen for six years. Be merciful,
dear.
No, Jessie. it’s because I’ve done so much of it. I’m an old hand, and I can tell in
half-an-hour how much a man can hear. When I embark on a flirtation I do so with my fingers on
his pulse, and I stop when I find he’s had as much as is good for him. And talking of people
who have had as much as is good for them; here come the gentlemen at last!
Yes, it was dress. Baby Boodle and I have been discussing a very nice point. Having regard to the conformation of Baby Boodle’s face and figure, ought Baby Boodle to wear a tall hat with a narrow brim, and a long beard, or a low hat with a broad brim, and a short beard? That’s the question, and we have agreed to refer it to you.
Nothing of the kind, Mrs. Fitz. We were talking about –
Well, perhaps you’re right.
Captain Boodle has devoted about forty years’ study to the outside of his head. I think it would be only fair if he began to think about giving its inside a turn.
Oh, no – I can assure you that – the inside of Baby Boodle’s head –
That at present Reason don’t see it; so he’s going to lay it on thicker than ever. Wasn’t that it, Mr. Kavanagh?
I thay, Mrs. Fitz, I wish you’d let the inthide of my head alone.
Bravo, Baby, so you do.
Not a bit – if you can!
Just tho; I alwayth like to come to the point.
My dear Baby, make this a rule – if there is ever any point in any of your remarks, come to it as soon as possible.
Just tho. Well, then, I wish you wouldn’t call me Baby!
Why?
Becauthe I’ve only known you about three hourth, and ith a liberty.
Come, Mr. Kavanagh, it’s cowardly to attack poor Baby. Attack
Poor Boodle! he hasn’t cultivated the art of
No, I haven’t; but then, you thee, I am a well-bred man.
Isn’t Mr. Kavanagh delightful? Do ask him to join the yachting party!
Shall I? But Captain Boodle!
Oh, Baby don’t care. He and I understand one another. Now, do.
Mr. Kavanagh, I’ve a great favour to ask of you!
Indeed! Command me in anything.
In anything that is within my poor powers.
Ah, that’s a terrible come-down!
I don’t pretend to universality, Mrs. Fitzosborne. Incomprehensible as it may appear to you, I am only mortal.
And do you really believe that it is necessary to assure society that you are
Oh! I know I don’t look my age. Who does, now-a-days?
Mr. Kavanagh, what a rude thing to have said.
Oh! Mr. Kavanagh didn’t mean it rudely; did you, Mr. Kavanagh? You thought in your innocence that you were paying me a compliment. Now didn’t you?
I had no intention to be severe. You deserve that I should be, Mrs. Fitzosborne – but when I fight with ladies, my weapon is the sword of mercy.
Which has no point!
Angry? Nonsense! he’s delicious.
His temper is a very bad one, and he’ll soon lose it.
My dear, if it’s a very bad one, the sooner he loses it the better.
We sail for the Mediterranean in about six weeks. We shall have a spare berth on board, and we shall be so glad if you’ll join us.
Oh! uncle doesn’t know that I – I mean I have not told him, but I am sure he will be delighted to see you on board.
An inducement! It decides me! Miss Blake, I’ll go with pleasure.
Druce!
Is everything packed?
All right.
When do you start, Mr. Guy?
We leave Beauclere in half-an-hour! It’s awfully hard lines on a man. What’s the use of garrisoning a great barren worthless rock, like Gibraltar? There’s nothing whatever in it.
That is a defect that you are sent out to repair.
Don’t go, Mrs. Fitzosborne.
Yes, we must. We are going to rehearse a series of
I don’t meditate
No, I’m sure you don’t; quite sure.
Well!
In half-an-hour I must go. I shan’t see you again for –
Two months.
And then only for a week.
That’s all? Dreadful, isn’t it?
It
Oh, I’m sorry to lose you! You’re so – so – so useful.
Useful!
Yes, it’s pleasant to have someone always at one’s beck and call, and now that you’re going, it may be weeks before I’m able to replace you.
Replace me!
Yes. I really don’t know what I shall do, unless Mr. Kavanagh –
Jessie, dear old Jessie, you don’t mean that – you’re saying it to tease me – Kavanagh’s a snob, and you know it, dear; I’ve no fear of him.
Mr. Kavanagh takes great pains to say pleasant things to me, and if he has a good memory and
is quick at executing commissions, he’ll do very well. Besides,
Have I been rude?
Very!
What have I done?
All sorts of things.
Tell me one thing.
I won’t, I’m too generous.
Then you’ll forgive me!
Oh, yes.
And, as soon as I arrive at Gibraltar, I’ll – I’ll send you over the greatest curiosity I
can buy as a
Oh, do!
What shall I send you? A pretty little green monkey?
A green monkey! Oh, that will be delightful. How kind of you; and whenever I look at it, I shall always think of you.
So short and so long.
So long before we meet again. Dear Jessie, I don’t put it well, I know.
No, you don’t.
I’ve never loved anybody but you. If I had been a devil of a fellow and done this sort of thing very often, I should know what to say and how to say it, and I shouldn’t mean it; but I haven’t and I don’t – and I do – and – and –
You must practise with the garrison ladies at Gibraltar, and when you come back, dear, you’ll know how to express yourself coherently.
Jessie, you’re very angry with me for something, and I don’t know what it is; but don’t send
me away without telling me that I am forgiven for what I’ve done – whatever it is. I love you
more than I can ever love anybody else, and – and tell me, dear, that you forgive me.
. My darling Jessie, I must tell the governor of this before I go.
He must have guessed it, dear.
. Yes, but the thing must be done officially.
And you had just thrown out a pair of tails, and precious proud you were of
No. I’ve lived so long away from what people call the world. During the few years that
intervened between my leaving school and sailing for Africa I only had one idea in my head –
poor little Florence. Ah! well, never mind
Yes.
Quite?
Quite!
True?
Grip!
By Jove! our old school words, when we pledged our honour – I had forgotten them; to think of that cropping up of itself as naturally as if we were still at old Mortiboy’s. They always said of Den Grant that he never went from his grip, and you never did, old boy.
I hope not.
Well, I was going to tell you something – a secret – but not now, I want it to be complete
before I tell you – and – and – it isn’t quite complete; I’ll go and finish it up, it only
depends upon the governor. Whew! It wants making up
Poor little Flo! Benson turned out a scoundrel, I hear, and she’s teaching music now. It’s
strange how easily we get over these things. If any man had told me when she married Benson,
that in six years, I could have brought myself to think of Flo Grannitt without a wet eye I’d
have knocked him down. And now, perhaps, I’m going through it all again. No, no; Jessie is not
playing with me, I won’t think that possible, but I’ll find out to-night.
My friend, are you the butler?
Butler! don’t you see my livery?
Well, what are you?
I’m Mr. Guy Warrington’s regimental servant.
So you know Mr. Kavanagh?
I’ve heard of such a party.
Is he dining here to-night by any accident?
No, he appeared to be doing it on purpose.
Then he is here! Can I see him?
Don’t prevaricate, sir.
Prevaricate! I don’t know what that is; but it don’t sound like the sort of thing I’m likely to do. Seldom do anything over three syllables, sir!
Look here – I’m a lawyer, and I must see Mr. Kavanagh!
What’s this?
I’m a lawyer, sir, and I wish to see Mr. Kavanagh on important business.
A what?
A criminal lawyer, sir. Mr. Kavanagh wouldn’t put his affairs into the hands of a criminal.
No; I should think not! But I say – a criminal?
Yes, sir, a criminal lawyer.
Bai Jove! But I thay, more criminal than other lawyerth.
My practice, sir, is almost exclusively confined to crime.
Bai Jove! But I thay, what have you done, and ain’t you ashamed of it?
Ashamed of it, sir? I glory in it!
Bai Jove! Here’s a hardened thcoundrel, Druth.
Tell Mr. Kavanagh.
Yes, sir – beg pardon – shall I send for a constable, sir?
No; I’ll look after him. It will amuthe me.
Well! I have heard of honest lawyers, but here’s a lawyer honest enough to own that he’s a
thief. He must be a beginner.
Well, Mr. –
Grouse – well known at the Old Bailey and Middlesex Sessions.
Yes, I’ll be bound you are! Well, Mr. Grouse, you puzzle me.
I should say, sir, from the look of you, that you’re the sort of gentleman that is easily puzzled.
Bai Jove, you’re right. I am! you’re quite right. Thath doothid good. He thaw it at a glance. Now, hereth a fellow with a power of observation much above the average, and talenth that I dare thay would do honour to any respectable calling he might thoothe to adopt, wandering at liberty about a gentlemanth groundth at ten o’clock at night, proclaiming to everybody he comes acroth that he’th a criminal and glorieth in it.
Why, Boodle, he’s read you off like a book.
What?
Fact!
I’ll hear what you have to say here.
But not before him.
Oh, I’ll go –
Now then, what is it?
My name is Grouse, sir, of Grouse and Cookit, Thavie’s Inn. I’ve come, sir, on a very melancholy errand, sir! Poor Miss Blake, sir, orphan, sir!
Well, what of that?
I feel for an orphan, sir.
Your parents are in luck.
Well, what is this about Miss Blake?
Well, sir, she inherited her fortune of twelve thousand pounds through her father dying
intestate at Cadiz, where he was in practice as an English solicitor.
Well?
Well, her father ain’t her father. He adopted her when she was twelve months old, and having brought her up as his daughter, never had the heart to undeceive the pretty little gal – and when he died, suddenly two years ago, she succeeded to his fortune as a matter of course. Bear up, sir, it’s a blow, and it’s coming, but bear up.
But if Jessie Blake is not Blake’s daughter, his estate should go to his next of kin, and that is –
You, sir!
Why did you not mention this at the time of Mr. Blake’s death?
Why should I, sir. The pretty little girl was an orphan, and I didn’t know that Mr. Blake
had any relations. I held my peace. Well, I learnt only last week that he had a nephew alive.
Well,
You’ll want to be paid I suppose? Besides your costs out of pocket, what do you want?
The orphan, sir, has twelve thousand pounds. I don’t believe I could bring myself to disinherit her on any terms short of snacks.
Snacks?
Half-and-half.
By searching the registers throughout the country till I find out all about her.
That would be a capital plan if you knew the young lady’s name, sir; but you don’t.
And if you fail to prove all this?
I shall be satisfied with the consciousness that the scattering of these here shiners, will be in the hands of an orphan whichever way it goes.
Well, I’ll agree, provided that my liability is contingent on the recovery of the property. But what shall I have to do?
I’m off to Cadiz, to-morrow. You must join me there in six weeks to establish your claim
before the local courts. But in the first place, you must go to town and see my partner –
there’s his card
All right. I’ll see to it.
Good evening, sir.
Mind, you take your chance!
Yes, sir, the satisfaction of feeling –
Exactly – of course. Virtue’s its own reward.
Indeed, sir! how do
How do I know? Because, you scoundrel, vice requires to be so devilish well paid for its dirty work, that it swops up all the profit.
So it does, sir. We divide the profits. Good evening.
Jessie Blake not old Blake’s daughter. Oh, it’s a lie! But what object could that fellow
have in coming all the way down here if his story is false? Twelve thousand pounds to share
with him! Poor Jessie! Well, I want it more than she does. I eat more – I drink more, a good
deal more. I do everything more that costs money!
I say Mr. –
Kavanagh!
Kavanagh, why do you say such rude things to me?
Rude? That’s not rudeness, my boy, that’s chaff –
The art of –
The art of saying out loud what well-bred people only think!
Well, that’s
And on that account particularly adapted to the use of a beginner, like myself.
Exactly. But if I say, when you approach me, “Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind,” and you reply –
That the person who calls a man an Indian, because he has travelled in Africa, is hardly an authority on the subject of tutorship?
In the meanwhile you won’t quarrel with me if I conduct myself in the simpler and more
obvious form.
Damn the fellow!
What is it, Mr. Kavanagh?
It is this, Miss Blake – I’ve been giving Mr. Grant a lesson in repartee – at present he’s a
beginner, and handles his weapon clumsily.
Well, yes, I couldn’t help it, he brought it on himself.
Oh! I’m so glad. I like to see him taken down. I hope you were very rude to him!
Well, I’m afraid I was.
Oh! I wouldn’t have you polished for worlds.
And do you aspire to take rank as furniture? Does the grand mighty massive living oak aspire to be chopped up into chairs and tables?
If the living oak can serve you better in that form than any other –
But it can’t. It can best serve me by spreading its great boughs over me, and by letting me sit at its foot, and wonder at the folly of those who would plane down its rugged bark, and cover its leaves with a double coat of green paint. Why, what a First Commissioner you’d make!
Nonsense! It’s a primeval forest against a furniture shop! Now, once for all, I won’t have
you chopped up into chairs and tables – you’ll only suffer for it in the long run. Look at
Captain Boodle, he’s as good a fellow as ever lived, but he’s chopped himself up into a chair,
and see how Mrs. Fitzosborne sits on him. Well, have you nothing to say?
But if the beginning should prove to be the end?
Begin again at the end, and try back to the beginning.
You give me courage.
Then you should be ashamed to take it from me, I have so little. Why I’m afraid of a frog! Are you afraid of a frog?
No, but I am of a woman! Are you afraid of a woman?
Not of any woman I ever saw. But you don’t mean to say you’re afraid of
But at whose mercy have you placed such a stake?
Oh! Mr. Grant, I am very sorry for this – very, very sorry. I had no idea of it; I have been
warned that I should bring you to this, but I did not believe it – I am such a child! And this
night of all others! Mr. Grant, forgive me! I have been thoughtless, but not wicked – I liked
you so much more than any of the others – I mean than any of those who were stopping here –
and then you were his schoolfellow, and you have been so good to him! And, oh! Mr. Grant, I
thought you knew – I thought you knew!
Don’t go, Jessie; you must stop; I’ve seen the governor, and it’s all right. I want Den to see how thoroughly swamped with happiness I am; so he must look at you and hear of you at the same time, or he won’t appreciate the full beauty of my position.
Let me go, Guy; you can tell him without me.
Tell him?
I can’t, Guy – indeed, I can’t.
There, my dear old Den! – What do you think of that? Haven’t I done well for a fellow of
eighteen?
Indeed, I wish you a happy life together, Jessie!
Oh, yes.
Jessie, I am happy to think that you will live in the care of so good and true a fellow as
my dear old friend, Guy Warrington. God bless you!
Well, strictly speaking, it’s been going on about sixteen years, but it only began to look like business about six months ago.
Jessie, dear, in five minutes I must be off; tell Mrs. Fitz I should like to say good-bye
to her – I want to speak to Den for one moment.
She means no harm, it’s high spirits and nothing more, but men misunderstand her; and I’m dreadfully absurdly jealous, I know, but I can’t help it. It would keep me awake all night, if I thought there was no one to look after her, and tell her when – when she has gone far enough. Denis, I’m only a boy, but I love her so dearly that I would kill myself if she forgot me! Will you look after her while I am away? Will you keep her straight in my interests? Will you watch over her, and protect her from such dangers as if she were to be your own wife? Promise me this, by our old school friendship.
By our old school friendship I promise it.
Thank you, Den, I shall go away quite happy.
Well, Guy, off at last to fight the Paynim foe?
No, I’m not going to fight any foe! I’m going to
Yes!
And you’ll keep it?
Yes!
True?
Grip!
This yacht-life is awfully jolly.
It’s awfully slow.
Ith the same thing. On thore, the world’th fatht and gets a-head of me. At thea, the world’th thlow and keepth alongside of me. The world and I get on very well in a yacht. I thould be thorry to leave the world in a yacht. I’m afraid my remarkth fail to interetht you?
Yes, they bore me.
You’re very good. They uthed to amuthe you.
They amuse me still when you’re serious. I can laugh at your sentiment, but your jokes are too solemn.
Nothing could be fairer than that.
Oh, Baby Boodle, what a donkey you are!
Yeth, I’ve heard the remark before.
. They may well call you Baby!
Yeth, it’th a pretty name. There’th a very remarkable thircumthtance connected with that
name. Curiouthly enough, I wath firtht called “Baby” when I was quite a little child. It’th
wonderful how they hit off my character even then. It wath me all over. Hullo! what’th thith?
Mr. Kavanagh’s luggage.
The doothe! Then he’th come on board.
He joined last night from Cadiz.
Where ith he?
Below. I wish he’d come on deck.
Tho’ do I. He’th a thnob and you thnub him and I like it. I thnub him too, but you thnub him better than I do.
Thank you.
Not at all. It’th a great lark to thee you and Kavanagh together, and ath we must have him and can’t help ourselves; ith doothid lucky you’re on board to take him down. Here he ith. Now go in at him.
Indeed!
I am indeed. Now that you’ve joined we shall have such fun.
You’re very good to say so.
Oh, no! Indeed I mean it.
Three weeks’ yachting have blunted my faculties. Everybody is so stupid on board, and I’m glad you’ve come, because I want you to sharpen them for me.
Really, Mrs. Fitzosborne, that sounds like a compliment!
Does it? I like a man who’s easily pleased.
It’th coming, I don’t know what it is, but it’th coming!
Well, when you admit that it is in my power to sharpen your blunted faculties –
I credit you with all the brilliant qualities of a knifeboard! There – I’m better after
that!
Ith come! He’th got it! I didn’t know what it wath; but I knew it wath coming.
To impart point and polish to my remarks, you will be only too happy to serve me in that capacity. Wasn’t that what you were going to say, Mr. Kavanagh?
Well – yes.
You’re too hard on him, Mrs. Fitz. Whenever Mr. Kavanagh hath a poor little thquib to dithcharge you alwayth take the bang out of it!
Mr. Kavanagh handles his squibs so awkwardly that he would certainly burn his fingers with them if I didn’t take them out of his hands and finish them for him.
That’s another; nothing could be fairer than that!
Oh, Baby Boodle, do go and get your breakfast while it’s calm.
I was only backing you up.
Thank you, but I’m quite equal to meeting anything Mr. Kavanagh can say without assistance.
He’s getting it all over him.
Now that foolish fellow has gone, let’s begin. Are you fond of yachting?
Sometimes.
In fine weather?
No, in good company. In yachting, one’s enjoyment depends so much less on oneself than on one’s companions.
You are quite right not to depend too much upon yourself.
Yes. I may be hypercritical, but I am tired of myself.
You see you have had so much of yourself.
No doubt.
But there, I won’t be rude any more, I’ll say a pretty thing to you. I’ll admit that if your epigrams and repartees amused you as much as they amuse others, you would never tire of your own society.
But they don’t, do they!
No they don’t, indeed.
You see you’ve heard them so often before!
At all events I may conclude from your admission that they amuse
No, indeed! the society in which I move is so horribly well-bred. I can forgive almost any rudeness if it’s clever.
Then I may conclude that I am forgiven?
Yes, I know which.
I am afraid I shall be rude.
Why not! A surgeon would gladly cut off both of my arms if necessary, but –
But he would expostulate if you were to retaliate, by cutting off both of
Yes, if you had permitted me to finish my sentence.
If you were to cut off both his arms?
Certainly.
After he had cut off both of yours?
Yes, at least – that is –
Don’t apologise for him. Under the circumstances his astonishment would be excusable!
Mrs. Fitzosborne – once for all I must protest –
Why you don’t mean to say that you are getting angry?
I’m very much afraid I am.
Oh, but that won’t do at all. Jessie expressly invited you to relieve the tedium of the voyage.
Did she? Are you quite sure?
Quite sure.
Then I’m very sorry for our young military friend.
They’ve had a row, and they’re making it up. Mrs. Fitz, the letter bag has arrived. Here are
two letters for you, one for me –
Oh, I don’t want any breakfast!
The steward tells me there’s a first-rate devil waiting for us below.
Captain Boodle, I’m quite sure of that.
No, no; when I thay a “devil,” of courth I mean a grill.
Now, here’s a letter from Grouse, eh? Very good! Now, before I open this, let me see how the coast lies. Jessie seems to have taken a violent fancy to me. She invites me of her own free will to join this yachting party; and commissions her friend to let me understand that Jessie is to be had for the asking. Now, if I marry Jessie, I can dispense with Grouse altogether, for her money will, in that case, be mine, or as good as mine. Good-bye, Grouse! The connection is humiliating; I’ll have nothing more to do with him; I’ll return his letter unopened. Stop a bit! The worst of returning a letter unopened is that you never know what’s in it. Steward!
Sir!
Place some boiling water in my cabin.
Yes, sir!
There are ways of returning a letter unopened after you have mastered its contents,
especially when it’s enclosed in an adhesive envelope.
Oh! what a lovely morning, Captain Boodle!
Yeth, pretty well. It wath until you came on deck.
Bai Jove! But no you wouldn’t, becauthe you are alwayth with yourthelf, you thee; you don’t
think of it at the time, but you are. Now, with other fellowth, ith different. If a man wath
alwayth bethide you – if he had the happineth of being alwayth bethide you – he wouldn’t
notith any change.
Then you really mean to say that my bright presence on deck makes everything else dull by contrast!
But there’s Mrs. Fitzosborne – you say all sorts of good things to her, don’t you?
Now, I believe I could talk to you for ever!
Oh! Captain Boodle!
I could – if you would let me.
Oh! I should only be too happy! But what would Mrs. Fitzosborne think?
Oh, thee wouldn’t care; thee’s got Kavanagh to amuthe her. She hates Kavanagh, and she thnubs him; I thnub him too, but I don’t thnub him as well as thee does. Kavanagh acts upon her as a red rag acts upon a bull. I believe she’d toth him for a penny.
Toss him for a penny?
Yeth. I mean she’d gore him. I don’t mean headth and tailth – and yet I
Captain Boodle, Mrs. Fitzosborne wants you below. Don’t go, Jessie.
But I wish to go.
I want to speak to you seriously. Come, give me
I’ll give you
Ah! But this is not a question of taste.
Well, then – it’s the old story. I don’t think you are treating Guy fairly.
Yes; I knew it was that.
Ah! conscience, Jessie!
Conscience? Nonsense – experience!
Experience?
Yes, of you. You never speak to me on any other subject. It’s your invariable theme – my
constant oblivion of Guy.
Nonsense, Jessie, I blame you because you flirt with Captain Boodle.
But I can’t help it. He’s such a goose. Now you must admit that he’s a goose.
By all means, but that doesn’t seem to meet my objection. Put it in this way: would you talk to Captain Boodle as you do if Guy were present?
I don’t know. If Guy were present, I should talk to
You must know that I am only asking you to do what is right.
You must know that I am not likely to do what is wrong.
I know you are likely to do what is thoughtless and giddy, and what is liable to be misrepresented by meddling ill-natured people.
Evidently, Mr. Grant.
It was with the view of discouraging you that I made it.
But I am not to be discouraged. I love that boy very dearly. I have sworn that I will keep watch and ward over his interests, and at the risk of forfeiting your regard, I will keep my word.
Mr. Grant, your want of familiarity with the usages of society may hold you excused up to a
certain point. Let
Jessie, you’re crying!
Am I? Mr. Grant has been lecturing me again.
What a donkey that man is!
No, no; he means well.
Means well! Who doesn’t?
But you mustn’t call him a donkey. He is actuated by the best intentions.
My dear Jessie, the only difference between a donkey with good intentions and a donkey with bad intentions is that one is a good donkey and the other isn’t. What has he been saying to you now?
He says I flirt with Captain Boodle.
Well, so you do.
But not much, and you don’t mind it?
Not a bit, my dear.
And he don’t mind it?
No, he’s quite resigned.
And I don’t mind it, and if you don’t mind it, and he don’t mind it, and I don’t mind it,
what more can he want? What
No; one must be very much at sea to flirt with Baby Boodle.
It’s my duty to make myself agreeable to uncle’s guests.
Of course.
Then why does Mr. Grant interfere? I won’t stand it!
Don’t stand it, Jessie. Let him think what he pleases. Flirt with Baby as much as you like. I won’t interfere, and when Mr. Grant remonstrates, admit it all and glory in it.
I will! It’s only fun after all. The idea of supposing that any one who had seen Guy would think seriously for one moment of such a goose as Captain Boodle! Oh! I beg your pardon, dear!
My dear Jessie, when I first saw Captain Boodle, Guy was about six months old. He was a fine
boy, but a
Yacht it is!
What yacht’s that?
’Pon my life I forget! It’th a devilith pretty name I know – the Thky-something. Thky-thail? Here, Jenkins!
Is Mr. Kavanagh on board?
Oh yeth, he’th on board, bleth him!
Then
It’th the criminal!
It’s the lunatic!
How are you? Didn’t exthpect the pleathure of theeing you here!
I’m stopping in Cadiz.
I with you were! Buthineth?
No, I’m a gentleman at large!
I know you’re a gentleman, becauthe the Act of Parliament thays tho, and I thee you’re at large, becauthe Cadiz ithn’t a penal settlement. You don’t look well.
I’m not well. It’s the motion of the boat. I want Mr. Kavanagh directly.
Fellow to thee you.
All right.
What is your business with me?
Mr. Kavanagh, I ain’t well, and what I say must be taken without prejudice. I ain’t in a business frame of mind. A office floor is one thing and a lopping sea is another.
Be good enough to come to the point.
Mr. Kavanagh, sir, you got a letter from me?
I did – I received it ten minutes ago!
Sir! Mr. Kavanagh! Sir! Mercy! It was a joke, sir. Look over it, sir.
Look over what?
The letter, sir! It was my high spirits, sir! I wrote it at sea – in that boat – and when I’m at sea I’m in such spirits. It’s the fresh air, sir; the motion of the boat. It always excites me. You can’t suppose I meant it; I’m not such a scoundrel as that, notwithstanding looks which are against me.
Yes, you are an unprepossessing person.
Looks ain’t a man’s fault no more than his name is. My looks is bad, but I ain’t a scoundrel. My name’s Grouse, but I ain’t a bird. But look over it.
. Look over you’re not being a bird?
No, sir. Look over my having been tempted in a sprightly moment to write that letter. It was the motion of the boat, sir; it always makes me sprightly. And if you could oblige me with a drink of cold water, sir –
I wonder a knowing attorney like you should indulge in a joke, which, if taken seriously might involve –
Penal servitude, sir. You’re quite right, and perhaps struck off the rolls into the bargain.
But it was all owing to feeling larky on a lopping sea, sir.
Now, Mr. Grouse, attend to me. You ask me to look over something contained in this letter. What you refer to I don’t know –
You don’t know what I refer to?
I don’t know what you refer to, because the letter is still unopened.
Why not?
It ain’t necessary, sir. I’ll tell you what’s in it. Sir, I implore you to return it.
Do you mean to say that you really wish me to return this letter unopened?
Upon my life and soul I do!
. Very good. Now, Mr. Grouse, I will return this letter unopened if you desire it; but if I do, I repudiate you and your schemes altogether.
As to the agreement between us, I require you to destroy it.
Oh, I ain’t got it here, it’s on shore!
Then I will retain the letter until you produce it.
That is my fixed determination! Shall I open the letter?
No – no!
Good.
But dash it, I’ve gone in for your case to such an extent, that I’m a ruined man if I stop now! Think of my time – think of my clients.
The county has already provided for them.
But I shan’t know where to find ’em when I want ’em.
Try Holloway – I mean the prison, not the pills!
Think of my ’elth – broke down in your service.
Try Holloway – I mean the pills, not the prison!
You’re no beauty at sea.
So you’ll work this alone, eh? You’ve sucked my brains, and now you’re going to use my
information, eh? Very good – now mind, Mr. K., you can’t do without me. If
But I am not going to work this alone; I am not going to work this at all.
Not going to work it at all?
No, I propose to leave the orphan in undisputed possession of her property. Now, go.
Well?
Well, Mr. K., I was going to say one thing, you’re either a blazing liar or a blazing fool!
And look here, Mr. K., my only doubt is whether you ain’t both. Good morning.
So much for Mr. Grouse! Whew! I feel all the moral elevation of a man who’s done a good
action with the additional satisfaction of knowing that virtue is in this case the most paying
course.
So you’ve joined at last. That’s capital! We’ve exhausted Captain Boodle, and we were looking for you rather anxiously.
It’s always pleasant to know that one’s arrival has been impatiently awaited.
You said –
Rather anxiously.
Well then, it’s pleasant to think that one’s arrival has been looked for rather anxiously. But may I not say impatiently?
Well –
Oh! never mind the other.
Oh! thank you, Mr. Kavanagh.
Well, I don’t know – it was very rude indeed – but there I forgive you.
And won’t you give me your hand in token of forgiveness?
No! Won’t my word do?
It would in England, but off Cadiz, we must conform to the custom of the country.
And what are the customs of the country?
Well, among other things, recent acquaintance begins by calling one another by their Christian names.
Indeed?
Yes; in these latitudes, I am Corny, and you are Jessie.
To call you Miss Blake in these latitudes would be an impertinence. It would be as monstrous as if I were to call you Jessie in Westmoreland.
I don’t understand you.
In these latitudes, people begin with Christian names and get on to surnames when they are on very intimate terms indeed.
Oh, you are joking!
Oh, no; it’s quite reasonable when you come to think of it.
Reasonable?
Yes, Christian name comes before surname, and new acquaintances begin at the beginning. Its only taking things in their proper order. If we are becalmed here much longer, who knows but that we get on from one thing to another, until I know you well enough to call you Miss Blake.
Never! – I mean always – that is –
Yes, that is?
I hope we shall
And I should be content to be becalmed here for ever – Jessie!
Of course – I mean no – I – Why do you wish to be becalmed here for ever?
Because every knot the yacht makes will bring me nearer and nearer to absolute desolation. Ah, Miss Blake, I know too well why you are going there, and who awaits your arrival. Gibraltar is a rock on which all my fondest hopes must be inevitably shattered.
Then why go to Gibraltar?
Eh?
Is not that rather familiar?
Familiar?
In these latitudes. Her name is Emily Fitzosborne. As a recent acquaintance, shouldn’t you begin at the beginning?
Certainly – of course!
I should not think you are the sort of man to do anything on compulsion.
Nor am I, Mrs. Fitz – Emily!
You don’t mind his calling you Emily? He was just explaining that he couldn’t help it in these latitudes.
Mind it! It’s the only sensible thing he’s said since he came on board.
And he says that you must call him Corny!
Only in these latitudes.
Yes, and he says he should be glad if the yacht were becalmed in these latitudes for ever!
But a perpetual calm would be very monotonous, Corny!
No fear of perpetual calm when
Emily, eh? Nothing could be fairer than that!
Nonsense, Baby, think of the latitude.
Yeth, I
Oh! Baby Boodle, what a donkey you are! |
Hang it! I hope I’m not going to get into a scrape on her account. Confound her!
Here’s another! The deuce you did! And may I ask who the devil are you?
Don’t lose your temper – I mean to keep mine.
It is a matter of supreme indifference to me whether you lose it or keep it. What right have you to demand an explanation?
None whatever. But I mean to have one, nevertheless.
The deuce you do!
Look here, Mr. Kavanagh, I speak on the presumption, that I am addressing a gentleman.
Damn your presumption.
By all means, if it is an erroneous one. But, if you please, we will assume for the sake of
argument that you
Do I? You don’t know me!
Yes, I think, I do; but I am assuming – for the sake of argument – that you are a gentleman.
Assume what you please, but don’t credit me with a magnanimity which is wholly foreign to my nature.
Very well; then I must proceed on a different tack, and I may tell you, that in laying siege
to a young lady whom you know to be already engaged, you are behaving like a cad, and in not
leaving the yacht after she has plainly indicated to you that your presence is a nuisance, you
are in the position of a man who has been kicked and doesn’t mind it.
Why, man, you must be mad to talk to me in this way? Who the deuce
To her unsolicited and spontaneous invitation – that I am here in the capacity of her declared suitor, and with her full consent.
What?
Mr. Kavanagh! what in the world is the matter?
Miss Blake, Mr. Grant has thought fit to take exception to my presence on board this yacht. I have explained to him that I am here at your express invitation. He tells me that I am telling a lie!
I will!
It is so, Jessie!
Mr. Grant, let me tell you once for all, that your interference has become unsupportable.
Am I then to understand that in stating that he is here at your express and spontaneous invitation, that he is telling the truth?
Most certainly!
Most unmistakably; I was present when the invitation was given.
But he tells me that he is here in the capacity of a declared and accepted suitor.
You will surely contradict that?
For the purpose I have in view, I will contradict Mr. Kavanagh in nothing.
But, great heaven! have you forgotten Guy Warrington? And do you know this man’s character?
Well, in this world everything seems to go wrong; here’s my master being a-trotting of himself up and down, between his quarters and the harbour, back’ards and for’ard, any time this last five days to see whether the Skylark with Miss Blake aboard is in sight; and to-day, when she’s signalled, blessed if he ain’t on duty, and can’t leave the barracks. P’raps there’s a world in which everything goes right – a world in which everybody has everythink he wishes for; but it ain’t this one. P’raps it’s as well. I don’t know that it would answer in the army. There’d be too many commanders-in-chief, and not much left for ’em to command. Fancy two hundred thousand field marshals, and, say, one contented rank and file! Lord, how they would re-organize him!
She’s here! She’s at anchor in Man-o’-War basin! She’s been at anchor this half-hour and I
never knew it. Druce, double down to the harbour – as hard as you can go. Tell them I’m on
duty and can’t leave the barracks – and look here – bring them up here – and if they’re not on
board they’ll have gone to the hotel – find them, any way.
Sir!
Aren’t you off yet?
Off directly, sir.
Stop! With what description of feelings are you expecting the Skylark?
Description of feelings, sir?
Yes – yes – aren’t you impatient to see her?
Aren’t you going wild with joy now that’s she’s in harbour?
Wild, sir?
Yes, man; Yes – wild – wild – wild!
If I didn’t allow you to go down to the harbour directly, wouldn’t it drive you mad?
Stark staring mad, sir!
Then off you go, and run like blazes.
Like blazes, eh? Blest if I could run like anything else in this here climate. I’m off, sir!
There, I’m better now. Druce is an ass, but it’s better to confide in an ass than in nobody.
There she lays!
They’re here! Denis! My dear old Den, this is kind of you, to come up to my quarters so
soon. Where’s Jessie? Why, what a solemn old phiz!
There is nothing the matter. She was very well when I saw her last.
When you saw her last? That can’t be very long since!
Some days – about a week.
A week!
Yes, I left the yacht at Cadiz, and travelled here by steamer. I was delayed three days at Cadiz, or I should have been here sooner.
But the yacht’s in harbour. She’s been anchored this half-hour.
Indeed? That’s odd.
But why did you leave her?
Well, no great matter, perhaps – a question of taste – I didn’t get on very well with Kavanagh.
No – I should think not
Quarrelled? What about?
Well, I’m afraid I was in the wrong, but I don’t like Kavanagh, and I can’t help showing it. I believe I did him an injustice. At all events I had to apologise to him.
You apologised to that snob?
Yes; don’t talk of it – change the subject – it’s not a pleasant one. I’m very glad to see you, old fellow.
There’s something wrong, old man – something more than a row with a fellow like Kavanagh. You are sure Jessie was quite well when you left her?
Yes, quite well.
And happy?
Yes, she seemed so.
Did she know of your quarrel?
Yes, she knew of it.
And she sided with Kavanagh?
Yes, she sided with Kavanagh.
I’m very sorry for that, very sorry. But you
Yes, I was wrong. I made a mistake. Drop the subject.
And you’ve taken care of her? You’ve watched over her? You haven’t let her flirt? She’s been quite true to me?
My dear Guy, I was true to my trust until I left the yacht; and I should not have left the yacht, even after what had occurred, if I had not been quite sure that my presence on board was no longer necessary.
True?
Grip!
Thank you, Den. Thank you, and again. Do you know, I began to think at first that there was – that there was something wrong. I can’t tell you how I thank you for your kindness.
And, Denis, old man, I expect her here every minute! Think of that! She once said to me that
it was worth quarrelling to make it up, as
Why, who are you?
My name’s Grouse, of Grouse and Cookit, attorneys-at-law, of London. Your name’s Warrington?
That is my name. What do you want?
It’s business!
Well, go on!
Private and particular.
Nonsense! I’ve no secrets from this gentleman!
But I have, a good many! No offence to you, Mr. Grant.
. Do you know me?
Oh, yes! I know you. I saw you at Beauclere – also on board the Skylark – just before that unpleasant shindy with Mr. Kavanagh.
Oh, in course not. Oh, certainly! Oh, to be sure! Mum is the expression. Dumb as an oyster. Oh, yes, not a word about that.
I’ll take a turn in the barrack square, Guy; I shall be close at hand if you want me.
Now then, who are you?
I’m a lawyer, sir, of five-and-thirty years’ standing.
Oh! Wouldn’t you like to sit down?
Thank you.
Now then, what’s your business?
It refers to Miss Blake, sir.
Well, go on! She’s quite well?
I humbly trust so, sir; but I didn’t come from her, sir: I come about her. I believe you consider yourself engaged to Miss Blake?
Well, sir?
And a sweet young couple you’ll make – perhaps! You don’t happen to be an orphan, sir?
No; I am not.
I’m sorry for that – it’s a pity; but never mind, you will be some day if you’re a good lad.
What do you mean?
Nothing, sir; only I’ve come to do you a good turn, and I’d rather you was an orphan on principle. It’s always a pleasure to do a good turn to anybody; but as I used to say to my late missus, the luxuriousness of feeling is increased when one’s dealing with an orphan. She was an orphan, and I’m an orphan.
Then in about two minutes
I’m coming to it. Miss Blake’s got a tidy lot of money.
Well?
At least, you
I know she has property of some kind to which she succeeded on the death of her father.
That’s it. Miss Blake ain’t Miss Blake. Her father wasn’t her father. Her property ain’t her property. She was his adopted daughter, and he died without a will, so her property belongs to Mr. Kavanagh, the next of kin. At least, that is Mr. Kavanagh’s case, but I know better.
If Mr. Kavanagh’s statement is true, you can’t suppose that I should counsel Miss Blake to resist his claim.
No, but it ain’t true. As a general rule, Mr. Kavanagh’s statements never
Mr. Kavanagh is at liberty to intend anything he pleases.
Oh, of course. Only some people object to their wives being married to anybody else but themselves! It’s an amiable weakness, and its amiable character is increased when there’s twelve thousand pounds at stake! Now this is what I propose –
Why, you infernal scoundrel, Mr. Grant has just told me that –
I wouldn’t believe Mr. Grant if I was you. I wouldn’t believe anybody if I was you. Except me! Mr. Grant’s an interested party.
What?
Mr. Grant and Mr. Kavanagh had a row at Cadiz.
I know. He told me so.
Yes, but did he tell you what the row was about?
No!
Did you ask him?
Yes.
And he declined to tell you?
He
I thought so.
Ridiculous! When I tell you, sir, that Mr. Grant is my oldest and dearest friend, I have told you enough to show –
You have said enough to show that you’re about nineteen years old. My good sir, Mr. Grant proposed to Miss Blake six weeks ago and was rejected by her!
Do you mean to say that you know all this of your own knowledge?
Lord bless you, sir, the row, and the reason of it, was the talk of the whole place. Look
here – local English paper – “The Cadiz British Sentinel.”
Stop! I’ll listen to you presently. This matter must be cleared up first.
But, sir, you mustn’t mention this or my plan will fail.
Hold your tongue, man, and go in there.
But if Mr. Grant knows of it?
Do as I tell you or I’ll have you kicked out of barracks.
Well, if ever I do a good turn to any but an orphan again, I’m d-dash-mn-dash-d!
Well, got rid of him?
Not a creditor I hope?
No.
Glad of that, old boy.
He has come to tell me of a creditor.
Creditors are generally ready enough to announce themselves.
There are creditors, Denis Grant, whose trade is so utterly contemptible that they are ashamed to declare it. My creditor is one of them. There are debts that it is pleasanter to pay than to receive; my debt is one of them.
There
Yes, this is serious, indeed, my poor Guy!
Is it necessary to tell you more?
Let us be sure that we understand one another, Guy. Tell me all about it. Who is the man has wronged you, and what was the trust you reposed in him?
The trust – my love for Jessie Blake!
Look, and judge for yourself.
But what do you refer to?
I refer to this: When I left England I begged you to watch over Jessie Blake and protect her. You availed yourself of that trust to endeavour to win her from me. That is what I refer to.
Guy, you are the victim of some monstrous lie!
I am!
Sir!
Denis Grant, you quarrelled with Kavanagh on board that yacht.
Yes!
Your quarrel had reference to Miss Blake.
If you insist on an answer –
I
Then take this one, and be satisfied with it. It
I demand a full account of the circumstances of that quarrel.
You refuse?
I refuse.
Then I will supply one. Read that.
That is false!
It is infamously false, Guy Warrington. Do you know me so little that you have allowed this abominable paragraph to give you more than a moment’s irritation?
If that is false will you tell me the true story?
It should not be sufficient, because, if you are capable of the villainy here charged against you, you are also capable of covering it with a lie!
If you know me, you would not think me capable of this villainy.
It is because I did
No!
Remember what I have at stake, and in heaven’s name tell me the whole truth.
No!
I can bear it now, whatever it is; it cannot be more bitter than the belief that you have been false to me. Tell me, Denis Grant, for pity’s sake! Den, dear old Den, let me think anything rather than that you have done this fearful thing. Tell me! Tell me all!
No!
. Then I accept this paragraph as it stands, and so accepting, I tell you that you have behaved like a –
Stop, you don’t know what you’re doing. Give yourself time to think before you utter another
word. I do not ask it for myself. Have mercy on yourself, if you will have none on me!
Will you tell me the story of your quarrel with Kavanagh?
No! You shall never hear it from my lips.
And here is the man who of all others can best place it beyond doubt.
Dear me, I’m afraid my visit is inopportune. Shall I go?
I call upon you, sir, to endorse my assurance that I never appeared on board that yacht in the character of Miss Blake’s suitor!
Now, Mr. Grant, attend to me. We will assume, if you please for the sake of argument, that I am addressing a gentleman.
For heaven’s sake, man, don’t trifle with this unhappy fellow!
Allow me to proceed. At an early stage in your acquaintance with Miss Blake, you propose to marry her. She rejects you.
Stop, in heaven’s name!
She rejects you perhaps wisely – perhaps foolishly!
You miserable liar!
No; I do not deny that.
Ah!
It is quite true? But it was before I knew that you loved her.
Bah! and you never told me of this?
Why should I have told you of it? It would have pained you to hear it – it would have pained me to tell it – it would have pained her to have it told! It would have done much harm and no good.
It would have done this good, that I should not have entrusted the guardianship of the girl I loved to a rejected suitor. You were bound in honour to tell me.
I was bound in honour to keep a secret which was as much hers as mine. I was further bound in honour never to renew my proposals directly or indirectly, and before heaven, I have kept to my bond.
Before heaven, I don’t believe you.
It is hard to hear such words from any man, harder from you than any other. When you know the truth, you will never forgive yourself.
I tell you, sir, that I do not believe you. Do you hear me, Mr. Grant? I say that I do not believe you.
I hear you!
You have helped to rob me of my life, in robbing me of my life’s happiness. You have behaved
like a scoundrel. Don’t speak, I will not believe one word you say. Do you hear me, sir? Do
you hear me? Damn it, man, will nothing rouse you short of this?
Guy – dear, dear Guy! Why, won’t you speak to me? It is I – Jessie!
Miss Blake, I will tell why he won’t speak to you. He believes that my quarrel with
Kavanagh, sprung from
Jessie, what am I to do? What am I to believe?
Believe? Believe that I have been wilful, petulant, wicked; believe that I behaved badly to
him and to you. Believe anything rather than that Mr. Grant has wronged you.
But Kavanagh told me –
What I believed to be true. I know nothing of the charge you confided to Mr. Grant. I sought Miss Blake’s hand, and I looked at him as a rival.
Then you admit that your statement that you were invited by Miss Blake is –
Oh! Mrs. Fitzosborne, I had no idea of this. Why, will you believe me, I thought you disliked me, or I should have made myself much more agreeable. If I had known of this earlier! Why, you could have had no idea at the time that –
Not at all. For once, Mrs. Fitzosborne, you are quite mistaken.
Baby, I’ve behaved very badly –
Well, upon my word, Mrs. Fitz – I think you have!
I’m very sorry, because I see I’ve pained you; but I’ve had a lesson, and I won’t pain you
any more. Could
Nothing could be – I mean no – nothing.
And you forgive me?
Yeth, I forgive you.
I can never forgive myself.
Let me make a clean breast of it. Miss Blake, there is a consummate scoundrel who was once a clerk of your late father’s. His name is –
Grouse – but he ain’t a scoundrel.
You here?
It’th the criminal!
It’s the lunatic.
Do you mean to tell me that that is the identical letter you wrote to me?
And you returned unopened. The identical one.
Not a copy?
The identical one. You hear me, sir – the identical one.
Very good. Oblige me by reading this, Mr. Grant.
His partner. That letter was enclosed to me by mistake. Read on.
“Dear Tim, – old Blake’s will has come to hand. When Kavanagh has touched the money, we’ll try its capacity for further bloodletting. Yours cock-a-doodly, Toney Grouse.”
Why, what’s that?
That’s a facsimile copy of your letter, taken in my hand press on board the Skylark.
But, I say, you couldn’t have got at my letter, I
And that
Quite genuine!
The identical one?
The identical one!
Which you tore into fragments and threw overboard? Mr. Grouse, this time you appear to have overreached yourself.
Why, what’ll you swear?
What’ll I thwear? Why, I’ll thwear Grouthe ith black game, and back my opinion at any oddth the prethent company like to name. No takerth! Nothing can be fairer than that!
What have
Cut you! My dear boy, a mere acquaintance could do no more.
Then you forgive me?
A mere friend could do no less!
But really! –
Yes, really!