Evelyn. And do you think I am so base a slave to passion that I would owe to my gold what was denied to my affection? Graves. But you must choose one, in common gratitude; you ought to do so-yes, there you are right. Besides, you are constantly at the house-the world observes it; you must have raised hopes in one of the girls. Yes, it is time to decide between her whom you love and her whom you do not! Evelyn. Of the two, then, I would rather marry where I should exact the least. A marriage, to which each can bring sober esteem and calm regard, may not be happiness, but it may be content. But to marry one whom you could adore, and whose heart is closed to you to yearn for the treasure, and only to claim the casket to worship the statue that you never may warm to life— Oh! such a marriage would be a hell the more terrible because Paradise was in sight. Graves. Georgina is pretty, but vain and frivolous. (Aside) But he has no right to be fastidious-he has never known Maria! (Aloud) Yes, my dear friend, as you are sure to be miserable when you are married, you will be as wretched as myself!—When you are married we will mingle our groans together! Georgina is pretty, but vain and frivolous! Evelyn. You may misjudge Georgina; she may have a nobler nature than appears on the surface. On the day, but before the hour, in which the will was read, a letter, in a strange or disguised hand, signed "From an unknown friend to Alfred Evelyn," and enclosing what to a girl would have been a considerable sum, was sent to a poor woman for whom I had implored charity, and whose address I had only given to Georgina. Graves. Why not assure yourself? Evelyn. Because I have not dared. For sometimes, even against my reason, I have hoped that it might be Clara! (Taking a letter from his bosom and looking at it.) No, I can't recognise the hand. Graves, I detest that girl. (Crossing L, and back.) Graves. Who? Georgina? Evelyn. No; Clara! But I've already, thank Heaven! taken some revenge upon her. (Aside) I'll not mention it. Yes, Graves, come nearer. (Whispers) I've bribed Sharp to say that Mordaunt's letter to me contained a codicil leaving Clara Douglas £20,000. Graves. And didn't it? Evelyn. Not a farthing. One of his caprices. Besides, Sir John wrote him word that Lady Franklin had adopted her. But I'm glad of it-I've paid the money—she's no more a dependant. No one can insult her now-she owes it all to me, and does not guess it, man- —does not guess it!—owes it to me, me, whom she rejected; -me, the poor scholar!-Ha! ha!-there's some spite in that, eh? Graves. You're a fine fellow, Evelyn, and we understand each other. Perhaps Clara may have seen the address, and dictated this letter, after all! Evelyn. Do you think so ?-I'll go to the house this instant! Graves. Eh? Humph! Then I'll go with you. That Lady Franklin is a fine woman! If she were not so gay, I think-I could Evelyn. No, no; don't think any such thing; women are even worse than men. Graves. True; to love is a boy's madness! Graves. To hope is to be deceived. Graves. Make haste, or Lady Franklin will be out!—A vale of tears-a vale of tears! Evelyn. A vale of tears, indeed! Re-enter GRAVES for his hat. [Exeunt, R. Graves. And I left my hat behind me! Just like my luck! If I had been bred a hatter, little boys would have come into the world without heads. [Exit, R. SCENE FROM JOHN BULL. G. COLMAN THE YOUNGER. [See page 344.] CHARACTERS: SIR SIMON ROCHDALE. PEREGRINE. JOB THORNBERRY. JOHN BUR. An apartment in Job Thornberry's house. Enter JOB THORNBERRY, L., in a dressing gown, followed by JOHN BUR. Bur. Don't take on so-don't you now! Pray listen to reason! Job. I wont ! Bur. Pray do! friend; Job. I wont! Reason bid me love my child and help my -what's the consequence? My friend has run one way, and broke up my trade; my daughter has run another, and broke my- -No! she shall never have it to say she broke my heart. If I hang myself for grief, she shan't know she made me. Bur. Well, but, master Job. And reason told me to take you into my shop, when the fat churchwardens starved you at the workhouse-hang them for their want of feeling !—and you were thumped about, a poor, unoffending, ragged boy as you were!-I wonder you haven't run away from me too! Bur. That's the first real unkind word you ever said to me. I've sprinkled your shop two-and-twenty years, and never missed a morning. Job. The bailiffs are below, clearing the goods; you wont have the trouble any longer. Bur. Trouble!—Look ye, old Job Thornberry Job. Well! What, are you going to be saucy to me now I'm ruined? Bur. Don't say one cutting thing after another. You have been as noted all round our town, for being a kind man as being a blunt one. Job. Blunt or sharp, I've been honest. Let them look at my ledger-they'll find it right. I began upon a little; I made that little great by industry: I never cringed to a customer to get him into my books, that I might hamper him with an overcharged bill for long credit; I earned my fair profits; I paid my fair way; I break by the treachery of a friend, and my first dividend shall be seventeen shillings in the pound. I wish every tradesman in England may clap his hand on his heart and say as much, when he asks a creditor to sign his certificate. Bur. 'Twas I kept your ledger all the time. Job. I know you did. Bur. From the time that you took me out of the workhouse. Bur. You never mentioned it to me yourself till to-day. Job. I said it in a hurry. Bur. And I've always remembered it at leisure. I don't want to brag, but I hope I've been faithful. It's rather hard to tell poor John Bur, the workhouse boy, after clothing, feeding, and making him your man of trust for two-and-twenty years, that you wonder he don't run away from you now you're in trouble. Job. (Affected). John, I beg your pardon. [Stretching out his hand. Bur. (Taking his hand). Don't say a word more about it. Job. I Bur. Pray, now, master, don't say any more!—come, be a man! get on your things, and face the bailiffs that are rummaging the goods. Job. I can't, John-I can't. My heart's heavier than all the iron and brass in my shop. Bur. Nay, consider what confusion! Pluck up a courage-do, now! Job. Well, I'll try. Bur. Ay, that's right; here's your clothes. (Taking them from the back of a chair.) They'll play the deuce with all the pots and pans, if you arn't by. Why, I warrant you'll do! Bless you, what should ail you? Job. Ail me! do you go and get a daughter, John Bur; then let her run away from you, and you'll know what ails me. [Crosses to R. Bur. Come, here's your coat and waistcoat. (Going to help him on with his clothes). This is the waistcoat young mistress worked with her own hands, for your birthday, five years ago. Come, get into it, as quick as you can. Job. (Throwing it on the floor violently). I'd as lieve go into my coffin! she'll have me there soon. Pshaw! rot it! I'm going to snivel! Bur, go and get me another. Job. No, I wont. (BUR pauses). No, I tell you!-(Exit BUR, L.) How proud I was of that waistcoat five years ago! I little thought what would happen now, when I sat in it, at the top of my table, with all my neighbours to celebrate the day. There was Collop on one side of me, and his wife on the other, and my daughter Mary sat at the further end, smiling so sweetly-like an artful good-fornothing- -I shouldn't like to throw away the waistcoat neither— I may as well put it on. Yes, it would be poor spite not to put it on. (Putting his arms into it). She's breaking my heart! but I'll wear it, I'll wear it!-(Buttoning it as he speaks, and crying involuntarily). It's my child's-she's undutiful, ungrateful, barbarous-but she's my child, and she'll never work me another. Re-enter JOHN BUR, L. Bur. Here's another waistcoat, but it has laid by so long, I think it's damp. Job. I was thinking so myself, Bur; and so Bur. Eh? What! you've got on the old one? Well, now, I declare I'm glad of that! Here's your coat. (Putting it on him). 'Sbobs! this waistcoat feels a little damp about the top of the bosom. Job. (Confused). Never mind, Bur, never mind. A little water has dropped on it; but it wont give me cold, I believe. [A noise without, R. Bur. Heigh! they are playing up old Harry below! I'll run Make haste after me-do now! and see what's the matter. [Exit, R. Job. I don't care for the bankruptcy now; I can face my creditors like an honest man; and I can crawl to my grave afterwards, as poor as a church mouse. What does it signify! Job Thornberry has no reason now to wish himself worth a groat; the old ironmonger and brazier has nobody to hoard his money for now! I was only saving for my daughter; and she has run away from her doting, foolish father, and struck down my heart-flat-flat! Well-who are you? Per. A friend Enter PEREGRINE, R. Job. Then I'm sorry to see you. I have just been ruined by a friend, and never wish to have another friend again as long as I live; no, nor any ungrateful, undutiful- -Poh!-I don't recollect your face. Per. Climate and years have been at work on it. While Europeans are scorching under an Indian sun, time is doubly busy in fanning their features with his wings. But do you remember no trace of me? Job. No, I tell you. If you have anything to say, say it. I have something to settle below with my daughter-I mean, with the people in the shop; they are impatient; and the morning has half run away before she knew I should be up-I mean, before I have bad time to get on my coat and waistcoat, she gave me—I mean— I mean, if you have any business, tell it at once. Per. I will tell it at once. You seem agitated. The harpies whom I passed in your shop informed me of your sudden misfortune; but do not despair yet. Job. Ay, I'm going to be a bankrupt; but that don't signify. Go on; it isn't that; they'll find all fair-but go on. Per. I will. 'Tis just thirty years since I left England. Job. That's a little after the time I set up in the hardware business. Per. About that time a lad of fifteen years entered your shop: he had the appearance of a gentleman's son, and told you he had heard, by accident, as he was wandering through the streets of Penzance, some of your neighbours speak of Job Thornberry's goodness to persons in distress. Job. I believe he told a lie there. Per. Not in that instance, though he did in another. Per. He had lost his parents, he said; and, destitute of friends, money, and food, was making his way to the next port, to offer himself to any vessel that would take him on board, that he might work his way abroad, and seek a livelihood. Job. Yes, yes, he did: I remember it. Per. You may remember, too, when the boy had finished his tale of distress, you put ten guineas in his hand. They were the first earnings of your trade, you told him, and could not be laid out to better advantage than in relieving a helpless orphan; and giving him a letter of recommendation to a sea captain at Falmouth, you wished him good spirits and prosperity. He left you with a promise that if fortune ever smiled upon him, you should one day hear news of Peregrine. Job. Ah, poor fellow! poor Peregrine! He was a pretty boy; I should like to hear news of him, I own. Per. I am that Peregrine. Job. Eh? what! you are-no! let me look at you again. Are the pretty boy that Bless us, how you are altered! you Per. I have endured many hardships since I saw you-many turns of fortune: but I deceived you (it was the cunning of a truant lad) when I told you I had lost my parents. From a romantic folly, the growth of boyish brains, I had fixed my fancy on being a sailor, and had run away from my father. Job. (With great emotion). Run away from your father? If I had known that, I'd have horsewhipped you within an inch of your life. Per. Had you known it, you had done right, perhaps. Job. Right! ah; you don't know what it is for a child to run |