Author . PR. I8T8 Title Imprint. 16 — *7?.?0-2 01»0 .-^,. i^-^zs-zo .^■i^ .' \ I^rsf produced at the Haymarket Theatre, Wednesdaj/y Srd October, 1877, under the management of Mr. J. S. Clarke. gramtttiH ^txnaxxit. Che;/iot Hill MR. GEORGE HONEY. ■ (A young man of propertg). -BEr^^vAWNEY MR. HAROLD KYRLE. * {Uis friend). Mr] Symperson MR. HOWE. An bus Macalistbr MR. DEWAR. ' {A Lowland peasant lad). Major McGiLLicuDBY MR. AVEATHERSBY. BeiLinda Treherne ... MISS MARION" TERRY MinInie MISS LUCY BUCKSTONE. ( {Sgm2)erson's daughter). .Macfablane MISS EMILY THORNE. A Lowland widow). y ', her daughter ... MISS JULIA STEWART. '' ^A Lowland lassie). RKER ... MISS JULIA ROSELLE. ' {Minnie's maid). -A-' jT I. — Garden of a cottage, near Gretna. {On the border, between England and Scotland.) ■A |CTS II. and III. — Drawing-room in Symporson's house in \ London. {Three months intervalis supposed to elapse between Acts 1 and 2.) {Three days' interval is supposed to elapsi between Acts 2 arid 3). :cupied in representation, Two hours and a quarter. NOTE. r It is absolutely essential to the success of tliis piece thr' it should bo played Mith the most perfect tarucstuess a\^'^ gravity throughout. There should bo no exaggcratij^ in costume, n^akc-up, or demeanour ; and the charact one and all, should appear to believe, throughout, i perfect sincerity of their v/ords and actions. W. S. GILBERT. 24, The Boltonsj 12//^. October, 1877. { ACT I. Scene,' Garden of a humble hut picturesque cottage, near (rrctna, on the border between England and Scotland. The cottage (r ii) is covered with creepers, and the garden is prettily filled inth flowers. The door faces \ audience. A wooden bridge leads of l u e. The \ whole scene is suggestive of rustic prospe? ity and con- ^ tent. JMaggie Macfaklane, a pretty country girl, is discovered sjjiniiing at a wheel (l h), and singing as she sjnns. A rustic stool r. Angus Macalisteu, a good looking peasant lad, appears on at back, crosses to R, and creeps snftly down to Maggie as she sings and sjiins, and places his hands over her eyes. Ang. (r) Wha is it ? ]\f AG. (l) Oh Angus, ye friglitened me sae ! {B'e re- leasl^ /^(?;-). And see there — the flax is a' knotted and script-ed— and I'll do naething wi' it ! j^NG. Meg ! My Meg ! My ain bonnie Meg ! ]\!ag. Angus, why, lad, what's wrang wi' ee ? Thoj hast tear drops in thy bonnie blue ee'n. >NG. Diuna heed them, Meg. It comes fra glowerin' at fhy bright beauty. Speerin' at thee is like glowerin' at he noon-day sun ! ]\ AG. Angus, thour't talking fulishly. I'm but a poof brown hill-side lassie. I dinna like to hear sic things from a straight honest lad like thee. Its the way the dandy town-folk speak to me, and it does na come riglttly from the lips of a simple man. Ang. Forgive me, Meg, for I spake honestly to ye. Angus Macalister is not the man to deal in sque-iming compliments. Meg, I love thee dearly, as thoii well knowest. I'm but a poor lad, and I've little but twa braw arms and a straight hairt to live by, but I'v^ saved a wee bit siller — I've a braw housie and a scr?ppie of gude garden-land — and its a' for thee, lassie, if ftiou'U gie me thy true and tender little hairt ! \ Mag. Angus, I'll be fair and straight wi' ee. Tl askest me for my hairt. Why, Angus, thou'rt t£.^ll> ^ fair, and brave. Thou'.st a gude, honest face, ^"^t gude, honest hairt, which is mair precious than c*^ ^ gold on earth ! No man has a word to say against A. ^i Macalister — no, nor any woman neither. Thou 1 ^ strong arras to work wi', and a strong hairt to help t^ work. And wha am I that I should say that a,' thy bltsssings are not enough for me ^ If thou, gude, bra \ honest man, will be troubled wi' sic a poor little, hu ' mousie as Maggie Macfarlane, why, she'll just be proudest and happiest lassie in a' Dumfries. Ang. My ain darling ! {They embrace.) Enter Mrs. Macfarlane from cottage' door (r) f Mrs Mac. Why, Angus — Maggie, what's a' thit '^ • Akg. Mistress Macfirrlane, dinna be fasht wi' ii^ dinna think worse o' me than I deserve. I've loved yy lass honestly these fifteen years, but I never plucked! the hairt to tell her so until now ; and when she answei | fairly, it was not in human nature to do aught else I '• hold her to my hairt and place one kiss on her bo* ' cheek. A. Mrs. Mac. (r) Angus, say nae mair.My hairt is sai v" losing my only bairn ; but I'm nae fasht wi'ee. Thoii r a gude lad, and it's been the hope of my widowed am , heart to see you twain one. Thou'lt treat her kindl^^ / I ken that week Thou'rt a prosperous, kirk-going mS' and my Mag should be a happy lass indeed. Bless thl ' Angus ; bless thee ! \ Ang. (c) {icipmg Ids eyes.) Dinna heed the water \ my 'ee — it will come when I'm ower glad. Tes, I'n; fairly prosperous man. What wi' farmin' a bit 1 and gillieing odd times, and a bit o' poachin' now again ; and what wi' my illicit whusky stiJl — and thr. in' trains off the line, that the poor distracted passeng, may come to my cot, I've mair ways than one of mak an honest living — and I'll work them a' nicht and for my bonnie Meg ! Mrs. Mac. {seated r). D'ye ken, Angus, I somctinics think that thou'rt losing some o' thine auld skill at up- setting railway trains. Thou hast not done sic a thing these sa-i weeks, and the cottage stands sairly in need of sic chance custom as the for delayed passengers may bring. Mag. Nay, mither, thou wiangest him. Even noo, this very day, has he not placed twa .bonnie hraw sleepers across the up-line, ready for the express from Glaisgie, which is due in twa minutes or so (crosses to l), Mrs. Mac. Gude lad. Gude thoughfu' lad ! But I hope the unfortunate passengers viill na' be much hurt, puir unconscious bodies ! Ang. (c) Fear nought, mither. Lang experience has taught me to do my work deftly. The train will run off the line, and the traffic will just be blocked for half- a-day, but I'll warrant ye that, wi' a' this, nae mon, woman, or child amang them will get sae much as a bruised head or a broken nose. Mag. My ain tender-hearted Angus ! He wadna hurt sae much as a blatherin' buzzin' bluebottle flee ! {Ixailwaij whistle heard, l h). Ang. I^ao, Meg, not if takin' care and thought could help the poor dumb thing ! [wiping his eyes.) There, see, lass {looldng off), the train's at a standstill, and there's nae harm done. I'll just go and tell the puir d/straught passengers that they may rest them here, in thy cot, gin they will, till the line is cleared again. Mither, get thy rooms ready, and put brose i' the pot, for mebbe they'll be hungry, poor souls. Farewell, Meg ; I'll be back ere lang, and if 1 don't bring 'ee a full half dozen o' well-paying passengers, thou may'st just wed the red -headed exciseman ! \Exit Angus l over bridge. Mag. Oh, mither, mither, I'm ower happy ! I've nae deserved sic a good fortune as to be the wife o' yon brave and honest lad ! Mrs. Mac. Meg, thine auld mither's hairt is sair at the thought o' losin' ye, for hitherto she's just been a' I the world to 'ee ; but now thou'lfc cleave to thine Angus, and thou'lt learn to love him better than thy poor auld mitbcr ! But it mun be — it mun be ! Mag. Nay, mither, say not that. A gude girl loves her husband wi' one love and her mither wi* anither. They are not alike, but neither is greater nor less tban the ither, and they dwell together in peace and unity. That is how a gude girl loves. Mrs. Mac And thou art a gude girl, Meg ? Mag. I am a varra gude girl indeed, mither — a varra, varra gude girl ! Mrs. Mac. I'm richt sure o' that. Well, the puir belated passengers will be here directly, and it is our duty to provide for then: sic puir hospitality as our humble roof will afford. It shall never be said o' Janie Macfarlaue that she ever turned the weary traveller fainting from her door. Mag. My ain gentle-hearted mither ! [^Exeunt together into cottage n. Enter Angus tvith I^elvawney and Miss Trehei(Ine over bridge, l. She is in travelling costume, oind both are much agitated and alarmed. { Ang. {down r) Step in, sir— step in, and sit ye dolun fur a wee. I'll just send Mistress Macfarlane to jq. She's a gude auld bodie, and v/ill see to your comfoirts as if she was your ain mither. ) Bel. Thank you, my worthy lad, for your kindnjcss at this trying moment. I assure you we shall not for- get it. (Miss T. sits L.) ' Ang. Ah, sir, wadna any mon do as muckle ? ' A dry shelter, a bannock and a pan o' parritch is a' we can offer ye, but sic as it is ye're bairtily welcome. Bel. (l) It is well — we thank you. Ang. [Foot on stool r). For wha wadna help the un- fortunate ? Bel. (occMjs/ec^mY// MissTreherne), (lc). Exactly — every one would. Ang. Or feed the hungry ? 6 Bel. No doubt. Ang. It just brings the tear drop to my ee' to think — Bel, {Leading him off). My friend, we would bo alone, this maiden and I. Farewell ! [Exit Angus, 11, into cottage). Belinda— my own — my lite ! Compose yourself. It was in truth a weird and gruesome accident. The line is blocked — your parasol is broken, and your butterscotch trampled in the dust, but no serious harm ii done. Come, be cheerful. We are safe — quite safe. Miss T. Safe ! Ah, Belvawnoy, my own own, Bel- vawney — there is, I fear, no safety for us so long as we are liable to be overtaken by that fearful Major, to whom I was to have been married this morning ! Bel. Major McGillicuddy ? I confess I do not feel comfortable when I think of Major McGillicuddy. Miss T. You know his barbaric nature, and how madly jealous he is. If he should find that I have eloped with you, he will most surely shoot us both ! Bel. It is an uneasy prospect (crosses to r). {Sud- denly.) Belinda, do you love me ? Miss T. {advancing to him). With an impetuous passion that I shall carry with me to the tomb ! Bel. Then be mine to-morrow ! We are not far from Gretna, and the thing can be done without delay. Once married, the arm of the law will protect us from this fearful man, and we can defy him to do his worst. Miss T. Belvawney, all this is quite true. I love you madly, passionately ; I care to live but in your heart, I breathe but for your love ; yet, before I actually consent to take the irrevocable step that will place me on the pinnacle of my fondest hopes, you must give me some definite idea of your pecuniary position. I am not mercenary, heaven knows ; but business is business, and I confess I should like a little definite information about the setclements. Bel. (sits r) I often think that it is deeply to be de- plored that these grovelling questions of money should alloy the tenderest and most hallowed sentiments that inspire our imperfect natures. () Miss T. It is unfortunate, no doubt, but at tbe same time it is absolutely necessary. Bel. (rises) Belinda, I will be frank with you. My income is £1,000 a year, which I hold on certain con- ditions. You know my friend Cheviot Hill, who is travelling to London in the same train with us, but in the third class ? Miss T. (l) I believe I know the man you mean. B EL. (c) Cheviot, who is a young man of large property, but extremely close-fisted, is cursed with a strangely amatory disposition, as you will admit when I tell you that he has contracted a habit of proposing marriage, as a matter of course, to every woman he meets. His haughty father (who comes of a very old family— the Cheviot Hills had settled in this part of tha world centuries before the conquest) is compelled by his health to reside in Madeira. Knowing that I exercise an all but su[)ernatural influence over his son, and fearing that his affectionate disposition would lead him to contract an undesirable marriage, the old gentleman allov\-s me £1,000 a year so long as Cheviot shall live single, but at his death or marriage the money goes over to Cheviot's uncle Symperson, who is now travelling to town with him. Miss T. Then so long as your influence over hira lasts, so long only will you retain your income ? B EL. {crosses to l) That is, I am sorry to say, Ithe state of the case. J Miss T. (c) (After a pause). Belvawney, I love you with an imperishable ardour which mocks the power of words. If I were to begin to tell you now of the force of my indomitable passion for you, the tomb would close over me before I could exhaust the entrancing subject. But, as I said before, business is business, and unless I can see some distinct probability that your income will be permanent, I shall have no alternative but to weep my heart out in all the anguish of maiden solitude — uncared for, unloved, and alone ! ^Ent Miss Treherne (r) itito cottage — quickly. Bel. (l) There goes a noble-hearted girl, indeed ! Oh, for the gift of Cheviot's airy badinage — oh, f.jr his skill in weaving a net about the hearts of women ! If I could but induce her to marry me at once before the dreadful Major learns our flight ! Why not ? We are in Scotland. Methinks I've heard two loving hearts can wed, in this strange country, by merely making declara- tion . to that effect. I will think out some cunning scheme to lure her into marriage unawares. Enter Maggie (ii) from cottage. Mag. (r) Will j'e walk in and rest a wee, Maister Belvawney. There's a room ready fur yo, kind sir, and ye're heartily welcome to it. Bel. (l) It is well. (Maggih going). Stop ! Come hither, maiden. Mag. Oh, sir ! you do not mean any harm towards a poor, innocent, unprotected cottage lassie ? Bel. Harm ! No ; of couise, I don't. What do you mean ? Mag. (b c) I'm but a poor, humble mountain girl ; but let me tell you, sir, that my character's just as dear to me as the richest and proudest lady's in the land. Be- fore I consent to approach ye, swear to me that you mean me no harm. Bel. Harm ? Of course I don't. Don't be a little fool ! Come here. Mag. There is something in bis manner that reassures me. It is not that of the airy trifler with innocent hairts. [AIohcI) — What wad ye wi' poor, harmless Maggie Macfarlane, gude sir ? {Advancing to him.) Bel. Can you tell me what constitutes a Scotch mar- riage ? Mag. Oh, sir, it's nae use asking me that ; for my heart is not my ain to give. I'm betrothed to the best and noblest lad in a' the bonnie borderland. Oh, sir, I cauna be your bride ! Bel. My girl, you mistake. I do not want you for 8 my bride. Can't you answer a simple question ? What constitutes a Scotch marriage ? Mag. Ye've just to say before twa witnesses, " Maggie ^facfarlane is my wife ; " and I've just to sa,y, " Maister Belvawney is my husband," and nae mon can set us asunder. But, sir, I canna be your bride ; for I'm bethrothed to the best and noblest Bel. I congratulate you. You can go. Mag. Yes, sir. lUxit Maggie into cottage (r). Bel, It is a simple process ; simple, but yet how beautiful ! One thing is certain — Cheviot may marry any day, despite my precautions, and then I shall be penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be penniless. Belinda has £500 a year — it is not much, but it would, at least, save me from starvation. [_Uxit Belvawney (r 2 e). Enter Symperson and Cheviot Hill over bridge (lh). T/iey both show signs oj damage — their hats are beaten in and their clothes disordered through the accident. Symp. (r) Well — here wo are at last — Ch. (l) Yes, Here we are at last, and a pretty state I'm in to I e sure. Symp. My dear nephew, you would travel third- class, and this is the consequence. After all, there's not much harm done. Ch. Not much harm ? What d'ye call that ? {/show- ing his hat) ten and ninepence at one operation ! My gloves split — one and four ! My cost ruined — eighteen and six ! It's a coarse and brutal nature that recognizes no harm that don't involve loss of blood. I'm reduced by this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human- being to a moral pulp — a mash — a poultice. Damme, sir, thats' what I am ! I'm a poultice ! Sym. Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the accident you were speaking to me on a very interesting subject. Ch. "Was I ? I forget what it was. The accident has knocked it clean out of my head. Sym. You were saying that you were a man of good position and fortune ; that you derived £2000 a year from your bank ; that you thought it was time you settled. You then reminded mo that I should come into Belvawney's £1000 a year on your marriage, and I'm not sure, but I rather think you mentioned, casually, that my daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light. Cir. True, and just then we went off the line. To resume — Uncle Symperson, your daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light, a perfect being, as innocent as a new- laid egg. SvM. Minnie is, indeed, all that you have described her. Ch. Uncle, I'm a man of few words. I feel and I speak. I love that girl, madly, passionately, irresistibly. She is my whole life, my whole aoul and body, my Past, my Present, and my To Come. I have thought for none but her ; she fills my mind, sleeping and waking ; she is the essence of every hope — the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing — my own To Come ! Sym. [icho has sank overpowered on to stool, r h, during this speech). Cheviot, my dear boy, excuse a father's tear. I won't beat about the bush. You have antici- pated my devoutest wish. Cheviot, my dear boy, take her, she is yours ! Ch. I have often heard of rapture, but I never knew what it was till now. Uncle Symperson, bearing in mind the fact that your income will date from the day of the wedding, when may this be ? 8ym. {rises) My boy, the sooner the better ! Delicacy would prompt me to give Belvawney a reasonable notice of the impending loss of his income, but should I, for such a mere selfish reason as that, rob my child of one hour of the happiness that you are about to confer upon her P No ! Duty to my child is paramount ! Ch. (l) On one condition, however, I must insist. This must be kept from Belvawney's knowledge. You know 10 the strange, mysterious influence that his dreadful eyes exercises over me. Sym. I have remarked it with astonishment. Cn. They are much inflamed just now, and he has to wear green spectacles. Vvhilo this lasts I am a fr^e agent, hut under treatment they may recover. In that case, if hn knew that I contemplated matrimony, he would use them to prevent my doing eo — and I cannot resist them — I cannot resist them ! Therefore, I say, until I am safely and securely tied up, Belvawney must know nothing about it. Sym. Trust me, Cheviot, he shall know nothing about it from me. (Aside) A thousand a year ! I have endea- voured, but in vain, to woo Fortune for fifty-six years, but she smiles upon me at last ! — she smiles upon me at last I \_Exit Symperson into eotfar/e r h. Ch. At length my hopes are to be crowned ! Oh, my OAvii — my own — the hope of my heart-— my love — my life ! iJnter Belvawney (r 2 e), ivho lias overheard these words. Bel. Cheviot ! Whom are you apostrophising in those terms ? You've been at it again, I see ! Ch. (c) Belvawney, that apostrophe was private ; I decline to admit you to my confideno. Bel. Cheviot, what is the reason of this strange tone of defiance ? A week ago I had but to express a wish, to have it obeyed as a matter of course. Ch. Belvawney, it may not be denied that there was a time when, owing to the remarkable influence exer- cised over me by your extraordinary eyes, you could do with me as you would. It would be affectation to deny it, your eyes withered my will. They paralyzed my volition. They were strange and lurid eyes, and I bowed to ihem. Those eyes wei e my Fate — my Destiny — my unerring Must — my inevitable Shall. That time has gone — for ever ! Bel, {sits, r) Alas for the days that are past and the good that came and went with them ! Jl Ch. Weep for tliem if you will. I caunot weep ■with you, for I loved them not. But, as you say, they are past. The light that lit up those eyes is extinct — their fire has died out — (heir soul has floi. They are no longer eyes, they are poached eggs. I have not yet sunk so low as to be the slave of two poached e;(gs Bel, {ri^es) Have mercy. If any girl has succeeded ia enslaving you — and I know how easily you are enslaved — dismiss her from your thoughts ; have no more to say to her ; and I will — yes, I will bless you with my latest breath ! Ch. Whether a blessing conferred with one's latest breath is a superior article to one conferred in robust health we need not stop to enquire. I decline, as I said before, to admit you to ray confidence on any terms whatever. [Crosses to k). Begone ! \_Fj'it Bei>vawney (2 E l). Ch. Dismiss from my thoughts the only womau I ever loved ! Have no more to say to the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing ! No, Belvawney, I cannot cut off my tree as it it were gas or water. I do not treat women like that. Some men do, but I don't. I am not that sort of man. I respect women ; I love women. They arc good ; they are pure ; they are beau- tiful ; at least, many of them are. [Enter Maggie from cottage (r) he is much fascinated) This one, for example, is very beautiful indeed ! Mag. If ye'll just walk in sir, ye'U find a bannock and a pan o' parritch waitin' for ye ou the table. Ch. [fascinated). This is one of the loveliest women I ever met in the whole course of my life ! Mag. [amle). What's he glowerin* at? [Aloui) — • Oh sir, ye mean no harm to the poor Lowland lassie ? [Advancing to c.) Ch. Pardon me ; it's very foolish. I can't account for it — but I am arrested, fascinated. Mag. Oh gude sir, what's fascinated ye ? Ch. I don't know ; there is something about you 12 that exercises a most remarkable influence over me ; it seems to weave a kind of enchantment around me. I can't think what it is. You are a good girl, I am sure. None but a good girl could so powerfully aS'ect me. You aro a good girl, are you not ? Mag.(c) I am a varra gude girl indeed, sir, Ch. I was quite sure of it. {Geis his arm round her icaist.) Mag, I am a much better girl than nineteen out of twenty in these pairts. And they are all gude girls too. Ch, (l c) My darling ! {Kisses her.) Mag. Oh, kind sir, what's that for ? Ch. It is your reward for being a good girl. Mag. Oh sir, I did na look for sic a recompense ; you are varra varra kind to poor little Maggie Macfarlane. Ch. I cannot think what it is about you that fas- cinates me so remarkably. Mag. Maybe it's my beaut3^ Ch. Maybe it is. It is quite possible that it may be, as you say, your beauty, Mag. I am remarkably pretty, and I've a varra neat figure. Ch. There is a natural modesty in this guileless appreciation of your own perfection that is, to me, infinitely more charming than the affected ignorance of an artificial town-bred beauty. Mag. Oh sir, can I close my e'en to the picture that my looking-glass holds up to me twenty times a day ? We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair ; we see the silver moon sailing in the braw blue heavens, and we say that she is bright; we see the brawling stream purling over the smooth stanes i' the burn, and we say that it is beautiful ; and shall we close our e'en to the fairest of nature's works — a pure and beautiful woman ? Why sir, it wad just be base ingratitude ! No, its best to tell the truth about a' things : I am a varra, varra, beautiful girl ! Ch. Maggie Macfarlane, I'm a plain, blunt, straight- 13 forward, man, and I come quickly to the point. I see more to love in you than I ever saw in any woman in all my life before. I have a large income, which I do not spend recklessly. I love you passionately ; you are the essence of every hope ; you are the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing— my Past, my Present, my Future — you are my own To Come. Tell me, will you be mine — will you join your life with mine ? {Enter Angus, r, icho listens.) Mag. Ah kind sir, I'm sairly grieved to wound sae true and tender a love as yours, but ye're ower late, my love is nae my ain to give ye, its given ower to the best and bravest lad in a' the bonnie Borderland ! Ch. Give me his address that I may go and curse him ! Mag. {hiecls to Hill, l c) Ah ye must not curse him — Oh spare him, spare him, for he is good and brave, and he loves me, oh sae dearly, and I love him, oh sae dearly too . Oh sir, kind sir, have mercy on him and do not — do not curse him, or I shall die ! ( Throwing herself at his feet.) Ch. Will you, or will you not, oblige me by telling me where he is, that I may at once go and curse him ? Ang. {coming fonoard). He is here, sir, but dinna waste your curses on me. Maggie, my bairn {raising her), I heard the answer ye gave to this man, my true and gentle lassie ! Ye spake well and bravely, Meg — well and bravely ! Dinna heed the water in my 'ee — its a tear of joy and gratitude, Meg — a tear of joy and gratitude ! {Passes Maggie to r.) Ch. {touched). Poor fellow ! I will not curse him ! (Aloud.) Young man, I respect your honest emotion. I don't want to distress you, but I cannot help loving this mo-t charming girl. Come, is it reasonable to quarrel with a man because he's of the same way of thinking as yourself ? Ang. Nay, sir, Pm nae fasht, but it just seems to drive a' the bluid back into my hairt when I think that my Meg is loved by anither ! Oh, sir, she's a fair and l4 winsome lassie, and I miclit as justly be angry wi* ye for loving the blue heavens ! She's just as far above us as they are ! ( Wiping his eyes and kissing her.) Ch. {loith decision). Pardon me, I cannot allow that. Ang. Eh ? Ch. I love that girl madly — passionately- and I cannot possibly allow you to do that— not before my eyes, I beg. You simply torture me. Mag. [to Ang.). Leave, oflF, dear, till the poor gentle- man's gone, and then ye can begin again, Ch. Angus, listen to me. You love this girl ? Ang. I love her, sir, a'most as weel as I love mysel'! Ch, Then reflect how you are standing in the way of her prosperity. I am a rich man. I have money, position, and education. I am a much more intellectual and generally agreeable companion for her than you can ever hope to be. I am full of anecdote, and all my anecdotes are in the bsst possible taste. I will tell you some of them, some of these days, and you can judge for yourself. Maggie, if she married me, would live iu a nice house in a good square. She would have wine — occasionally. She would be kept beautifully clean. Now, if you really love this girl almost as well as you love yourself, are you doing wisely dr kindly in standing in the way of her getting all these good things ? As to compensation— why, I've had heavy expenses of late — but if — yes, if thirty shillings Ang. {liotly). Sir, I'm puir in pocket, but I've a rich hairt. It is rich in a pure and overflowing love, and he that hath love hath all. You canna ken what true love is, or you wadna dare to insult a puir but honest lad by ofi'ering to buy his treasure for money. (Cheviot retires up.) Mag. (g) My ain true darling ! {They embrace.) Ch. Now, I'll not have it ! Understand me, I'll not have it. It's simple agony to me (Angus jjasses Maggie over L E h.) Angus, I respect your indignation, but you are too hasty. I do not offer to buy your treasure for money. You love her ; it will naturally cause you pain 1^ to pnrt witli her, and I prescribe thirty shillings, not as a cure, but as a temporary solace. If thirty shillings is not enough, why, I don't mind making it two pounds. Ang. Nae, sir, its useless, and we ken it weel, do we not, my brave lassie ? Our hearts are one as our bodies will be some day ; and the man is na' born, and the gold is na' coined, that can set us twain asunder ! Mag. (r) Angus, dear, I'm varra proud o' sae staunch and true a love ; it's like your ain true self, an' I can say nae more for it than that. But dinna act wi'out prudence and forethought, dear. In these hard times twa pound is twa pound, and I'm nae sure that ye'ro acting richtly in refusing sae large a sum. I love you varra dearly — ye ken that right weel — an' if ye'll be troubled wi' sic a poor little mousie I'll mak' ye a true an' loving wife, but I doubt whether, wi' a' my love, I'll ever be worth as much to ye as twa pound. Dinna act in haste, dear ; tak time to think before ye refuse this kind gentleman's offer. Ano. (c) Oh, sir, is not this a rare modesty ? Could ye match it amang your toun-bred fine ladies ? I think not ! Meg, it shall be as you say. I'll tak' the siller, but it '11 be wi' a sair and broken hairt ! (Cheviot gives Angus money) . Fare thee weel, my love— my childhood's — boyhood's — manhood's love ! Ye're ganging f ra my hairt to anither, who'll gie thee mair o' the gude things o' this world than I could ever gie 'ee, except love, an' o* that my hairt is full indeed ! But its a' for the best; ye'll be happier wi' him — and twa pound is twa pound. Meg, mak him a gude wife, be true to him, and love him as you loved mo. Oh, JMeg, my poor bruised hairt is well nigh like to break ! [ Exit into cottage r in great agony. Mag. [looking widfully after ]dm). Puir laddie, puir laddie ! Oh, I did na' ken till noo how weel he loved me ! • Cii. Maggie, I'm almost sorry I — poor lad, poor fell')W ! He has a generous heart. I am glad I did not curse him. (Aside.) This is weakness ! (Aloud) Maggie my own, ever and for always my own, we will be very happy, will wo not ? 1(5 Mag. Oh, sir, I dinna ken, but in truth I hope so. Ob, sir, my happiness is in your hands noo ; be kind to the poor cottage lassie wbo loves ye sae weel ; My hairt is a' your ain, and if ye forsake me my lot will be a sair one indeed ! [Exit, weeping, into cottage. Ch. Poor little Lowland lassie ! That's my idea of a wife. No ridiculous extravagance ; no expensive tastes. Knows how to dress like a lady on £5 a year ; ah, and does it too ! No pretence tbere of being blind to her own beauties; she knows that she is beautiful, and scorns to lie about it. Tn that respect she resembles Symperson's dear daughter Minnie. My darling Minnie ; (loolis at miniature, sits l). My own darling Minnie. Minnie is fair, Maggie is dark. Maggie loves me ! That excellent and perfect country creature loves me ! She is to be the light of my life, my own to come ! Tn some respects she is even prettier than Minnie — my darling Minnie, Symperson's dear daughter, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growmg ; my Past, my Present and my Future, my own To Come ! But this tendency to reverie is growing on me ; I must shake it off. {Rises, crosses to r.) {E)iter Miss Trehekne at hack from rh.) Heaven and earth, what a singularly lovely girl ! Miss T. (l c) a stranger ! Pardon me, I will with- draw ! — \_Going. Ch. a stranger indeed, in one sense, inasmuch as he never had the happiness of meeting you before, but, iu that he has a heart that can sympathise with another's misfortune, he trusts he may claim to be regarded almost as a friend. Miss T. May I ask, sir, to what misfortunes you allude ? Cii. (e) I — a — do not know their precise nature, but that perception would indeed be dull, and that heart would be indeed flinty, that did not at once perceive that you arc very very unhappy, Accept, madam, my deepest and most respectful sympathy. Miss T. (i.) You have guessed rightly, sir. I am in- deed a most unhappy woman. 17 Ch. I am delighted to hear it — a — I mean I feel a pleasure, a melancholy and chastened pleasure, in reflect- ing that, if your distress is not of a pecuniary nature, it may perchance lay in my power to alleviate your sorrow. Miss T. (l) Impossible, sir, though I thank you for your respectful sympathy. Ch. (c) How many women would forego twenty years of their lives to be as beautiful as yourself, little dream- ing that extraordinary loveliness can co-exist with the most poignant anguish of mind ! But so, too often, we find it, do we not, dear lady ? Miss T. Sir ! this tone of address, from a c :)mplete stranger. Ch. (c) Nay, be not unreasonably severe upon an im- passionable and impulsive man, whose tongue is but the tco faithful herald of his heart. "VVe see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair, we see the bonnie brooks purling over the smooth stanes — I should say stones — in the burn, and we say that it is beautiful, and s'^.all we close our eyes to the fairest of nature's works, a pure and beautiful woman ? Why, it would be base ingratitude, indeed ! Miss T. T cannot deny that there is much truth in the sentiments you so beautifully express, but I am, un- happily, too well aware that, whatever advantages I may possess, personal beauty is not among their number. {Sits L.) Ch. How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensi- bility to your own singular loveliness ! How infinitely more winning than the bold-faced self appreciation of under-bred country girls ! Miss T, I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with my modesty. It has often been admired. Ch. Pleased ! I am more than pleased — that's a very weak word. I am enchanted. Madam, I am a man of quick impulse and energetic action. I feel and I speak — I cannot help it. Madam, be not surprised Avhen I tell you that I cannot resist the conviction that you are the light of my future life, the essence of every hope, c 18 the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing — my Past, my Present, my Future, my own own To Come ! (Miss T. rises.) Do not extinguish that light, do not disperse that essence, do not hlight that tree ! I am well off; I'm a bachelor; I'm thirty -two ; and I love you, madam, humbly, truly, trustfully, patiently. Paralyzed with admiration, I wait anxiously, and yet hopefully for your reply. Miss T. (l) Sir, that heart would indeed he cold that did not feel grateful for so much earnest, single-hearted devotion. I am deeply grieved to have to say one word to cause pain to one who expresses himself in such well- chosen terms of respectful esteem, but, alas, I have already yielded up my heart to one who, if I mistake not, is a dear personal friend of your own ? Ch. (c) Am I to understand that you are the young lady of property whom Belvawney hopes to marry ? Miss T. I am, indeed, that unhappy woman ! Ch. And is it possible that you love him ? Miss T. "With a rapture that thrills every fibre of my heart — with a devotion that enthralls my very soul ! But there's some difficulty about his settlements. Ch. a difficulty ! I should think there was. "Why, on my marrying, his entire income goes over to Symper- son ! I could reduce him to penury to-morrow. As it happens, I am engaged, I recollect, to Symperson's daughter ; and if Belvawney dares to interpose between you and me, by George, I'll do it ! {Crosses to l.) Miss T. Oh, spare him, sir ! {Falis on knees.) You say that you love me ? Then, for my sake, remain single for ever — it is all I ask, it is not much. Promise me that you will never, never marry, and we will both bless you with our latest breath ! (Rises.) Ch. (l) There seems to be a special importance at- tached to a blessing conferred with one's latest breath that I entirely fail to grasp. It seems to me to convey no definite advantage of any kind whatever. Miss T. Cruel, cruel man ! ( Weeping. Crosses to k.) 19 JEnter Belyawihey, in great alarm over hrigde l. down c. Bel, We are lost ! — we are lost ! Miss T, What do you mean ? Ch. Who has lost you ? Eel. Major McGillicuddy discovered your flight, and followed in the next train. The line is blocked through our accident, and his train has pulled up within a few yards of our own. He is now making his way to this very cottage ! What do you say to that ? Miss T. (r) I agree with you, we are lost ! Ch. (c) I disagree with you ; I should say you are found. Bel. (r c) This man is a reckless fire-cater ; he is jealous of me. H e will assuredly shoot us both if he sees us here together. I am no coward — but — I confess I am uneasy. (Turns up.) Miss T. Oh sir {crosses to c, brings C. Hill for- icard), you have a ready wit ; help us out of this diffi- culty, and we will both bless you — Bel. (l) With our latest breath ! Ch. That decides me. Madam, remain here with me. Belvawuey, withdraw. (Belvawney retires r). I will deal with this maniac alone. All I ask is, that if I find it necessary to make a statement that is not consistent with strict truth, you, madam, will unhesitatingly endorse it ? Miss T. I will stake my very existence on its veracity, whatever it may be. Ch. Good. He is at hand. Belvawney, go. (Belvawney retires to hack, r, and exit.) Now madam, repose upon my shoulders, place your arms around me so — is that comfortable ? Miss T. It is luxurious. Ch. Good. Miss T. You are sure it does not inconvenience you ? Ch. Not at all. Go back, I like it. Now we are ready for him. o2 20 Enter, l over bridge down k corner, McGillicuddy with ttvo friends dressed as for a wedding, with white favours, icho remain on bridge. McGillicuddy has pistols. All greatly excited. McG-. Where is the villain ? I'll swear he is con- cealed somewhere. Search every tree, every bush, every geranium. (Se^s Cheviot a/jf? Miss T.) Ha! they are here. Perjured woman ! I've found you at last. Miss T. {to Cheviot.) Save me ! (Belvawney appears at back, listening.) McGr. Who is the unsightly scoundrel with whom you have flown — the unpleasant looking scamp whom you have dared to prefer to me ? Uncurl yourself from around the plain villain at once, unless you would share his fate. (Maggie and Angus appear from cottage, u.) Miss T. Major, spare him ! {Crosses to r c.) Ch. (c) Now, sir, perhaps you will be so good as to explain who the deuce you are, and what you want with this lady ? McG. I don't know who you may be, but I'm McGillicuddy. I am betrothed to this lady ; we were to have been married this morning. I waited for her at the church from ten till four, then I began to get impatient. Ch. I really think you must be labouring under some delusion. McG. Delusion ? Ha ! ha ! ( Tivo friends on bridge produce large wedding cake.) Here's the cake ! Ch. Still I think there's a mistake somewhere. This lady is my wife. McG. What ! Belinda ! oh, Belinda ! Tell me that this unattractive man lies ; tell me that you are mine and only mine, now and for ever ! Miss T. I cannot say that. This gentleman is my husband ! (McGillicuddy falls sobbing on seat, r. Belvawney tears his hair in despair, Maggie sobs on Angus's shoulder, n.) Act Drop — ^uick. 21 ACT II. Scene. Double Drawing-room in Sympcrson'' s House, door R c, open at hack. Another door, 1st entrance, L. Chair and Stool r c. Piano r. Sofa l c. Indica- tions that a wedding is about to take place. A plate of farts and a bottle of tcine on table (r) against flat. Enter Minnie Symperson, in wedding dress, folloiced by Parkkr, her inaid, holding her train (r c d). MiN. (c) Take care, Parker — that's right. There ! How do I look ? Par. (r) Beautiful, miss ; quite beautiful. MiN. {earnestly.) Oh, Parker, am I really beautiful ? Really, really beautiful, you know ? Par, Oh, miss, there's no question about it. Oh, I do so hope you and Mr. Cheviot Hill will be happy. MiN. Oh, I'm sure we shall, Parker. He has often told me that I am the tree upon which the fruit of his heart is growing ; and one could'nt wish to be move than that. And he tells me that his greatest happiness is to see me happy. So it will be my duty — my duty, Parker — to devote my life, my whole life, to making myself as happy as I possibly can. Enter Symperson, dressed for wedding, door in flat (r) Sym. So, my little lamb is ready for the sacrifice. You can go, Parker. {Exit Parker, r d in r.) And I am to lose my pet at last ; my little dickey-bird is to be married to-day ! Well, well, it's for her good. I must try and bear it — I must try and bear it. MiN. And as my dear old papa comes into £1,000 a year by it, I hope he won't allow it to distress him too much. He must try and bear up. He mustn't fret. Sym. My child, I will not deny that £1,000 a year is a consolation. {Sits r.) It's quite a fortune. I hardly know what I shall do with it. 22 Mix. I think, dear papa, you will spend a good deal of it on brandy, and a good deal more on billiards, and a good deal more on betting. S"SM. It may be so : I don't say it won't. We shall see, Minnie, we sball see. These simple pleasures would certainly tend to soothe your poor old father's declining years. And my darling has not done badly either, has she ? MiN. No, dear papa, only fancy! Cheviot has £2,000 a year, from Shares in the Koyal Indestructible Bank. Sym. (r) And don't spend £200. By-the-bye I'm sorry that my little bird has not contrived to induce him to settle anything on her ; that, I think, was remiss in my tom-tit. MiN. (r c, l-neels) Dear papa, Cheviot is the very soul of honour ; he's a fine, noble, manly, spirited fellow, but if he has a fault, it is that he is very, oh very, rery stingy. He would rather lose his heart's blood than part with a shilling unnecessarily. He's a noble fellow, but he's like that. Sym. Still I can't help feeling that if my robin had worked him judiciously • MiN. Papa, dear, Cheviot is an all but perfect character, the very type cf knightly chivalry ; but he has faults, and among other things he's one of the worst tempered men I ever met in all my little life. Poor, simple, little Minnie, thought the matter over very carefully in her silly childish way, and she came to the conclusion, in her foolish little noddle, that, on the whole, perhaps she could work it better after marriage, than before. Sym. (c) "Well, well, perhaps my wren is right. (Rises.) '■ Mm. (l) Don't laugh at my silly little thoughts, dear papa, when I say I'm sure she is. Sym. Minnie, my dear daughter, take a father's advice, the last he will ever be entitled to give you. If you would be truly happy in the married state, be sure you have your own way in everything. Brook no con- 23 tradictions. Never yield to outside pressure. Give in to no argument. Admit no appeal. However wrong you may be, maintain a firm, resolute and determined front. These were your angel mother's principles through life, and she was a happy woman indeed. I neglected those principles, and while she lived I was a miserable wretch. Mix. Papa dear, I have thought over the matter very carefully in my little baby-noddle, and I have come to the conclusion — don't laugh at me, dear papa — that it is my duty — my duty — to fall in with Cheviot's views in everything before marriage, and Cheviot's duty to fall into my views in everything after marriage. I think that is only fair, don't you ? Sym. Yes, I dare say it will come to that. MiN. Don't think me a very silly little goose when I say I'm sure it will. Quite, quite sure, dear papa. Quite. \_Exit Minnie, door l. Sym. (l) Dear child — dear child ! I sometimes fancy T can see traces of her angel mother's disposition in her. Yes, I think — I think she will be happy. But, poor Cheviot ! Oh, lor, poor Cheviot ! Dear me, it won't bear thinking of! Enter Miss Trehekne, (r d in flat) unobserved. She is dressed in stately and funeral blach. Miss T. (r c) Come liere, man-servant. Approach. I'm not going to bite you. Can I see the fair young thing they call Minnie Symperson ? Sym. Well really, I can hardly say. There's nothing wrong I hope ? Miss T. Nothing wrong ? Oh thoughtless frivolous lighthearted creature ! Oh reckless old butterfly ! Nothing wrong ? You've eyes in your head, a nose on your face, ears on each side of it, a brain of some sort in your skull, have'nt you, butler ? Sym. Undoubtedly, but I beg to observe I'm not the Miss T. Have you or have you not the gift of simple 24 apprehension? Can you or can you not draw con- clusions ? {Crosses to r.) Go to, go to, you offend me. Sym. {aside), c. There h something wrong, and its here {touching his forehead). I'll tell her you're here. Whom shall I say? Miss T. Say that one on whose devoted head the black sorrows of a long lifetime have fallen, even as a funeral pall, craves a minute's interview with a dear old friend. Do you think you can recollect that message, butler ? Sym, I'll try, but I beg, I heg to observe, I'm not the butler. {Aside). This is a most surprising young person ! [Exit l. Miss T. At last I'm in my darling's home, the homo of the bright blythe carolling thing that lit, as with a ray of heaven's sunlight, the murky gloom of my miser- able school- days. But what do I see? Tarts? Ginger wine ? There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas, I am out of place here. AVhat have I in common with tarts ? Oh I am ill- attuned to scenes of revelry ! {Takes a tart and eats it.) ' Enter Minnie, MiN. (l c) Belinda ! {TJtey rash to each other^s arms.) Miss T. (k) Minnie ! My own long-lost lamb ! This is the first gleam of joy that has lighted my darksome course this many and many a day ! And in spite of the change that time and misery have brought upon me, you knew me at once ! {Eating the tart all this time.) MiN. Oh, I felt sure it was you, from the message. Miss T. How wondrously fair you have grown ! And this dress ! Why, it is surely a bridal dress ! Those tarts— that wine ! Surely this is not your wedding- day ? MiN. Yes, dear, I shall be married in half an hour. Miss T. Oh, strange chance ! Oh, unheard-of co- incidence ! Married ! And to whom ? Min. Oh, to the dearest love — My cousin, Mr. Cheviot Hill. Perhaps you know the name ? 25 Miss T. I have heard of the Cheviot Hills, some- where. Happy — strangely happy girl! You, at least, know your husband's name. {Siis on sofa l.) MiN. {Sits on 8ofa l.) Oh yes, it's on all his pocket- handkerchiefs. Miss T. It is much to know. I do not know mine. MiN. Have you forgotten it ? Miss T. No ; I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. It may not be unfathomed. It is buried in the fathom- less gulf of the Eternal Past. There let it lie. MiN. Oh, tell me all about it, dear. Miss T. It is a lurid tale, Triree months since I fled from a hated one, who was to have married me. He pursued me. I confided my distress to a young and wealthy stranger. Acting on his advice, I declared myself to be his wife ; he declared himself to be my hus- band. We were parted immediately afterwards, and we have never met since. But this took place in Scotland ; and by the law of that remarkable country we are man and wife, though I didn't know it at the time. MiN. {rises) What fun ! Miss T. (c) Fun ! Say, rather, horror — distraction — chaos! I am rent with conflicting doubts! Perhaps he was already married ; in that case, I am a bigamist. Maybe he is dead ; in that case, I am a widow. Maybe he is alive ; in that case, I am a wife. What am I ? Am I single ? Am I married ? Am I a widow ? Can I marry ? Have I married ? May I marry ? Who am I ? Where am I ? What am I ? — What is my name ? What is my condition in life ? If I am married, to whom am I married? If I am a widow, how came I to be a widow, and.)whose widow came I to be ? Why am I his widow ? What did he die of P Did he leave me anything ? if anything, how much, and is it saddled with conditions ? — Can I marry again without forfeiting it ? Have I a mother-in-law ? Have I a family of step- children, and if so, how many, and what are their ages, sexes, sizes, names and dispositions? These are 26 questions that rack me night and day, and until they are settled, peace and I are not on terms ! {Crosses to r.) MiN. Poor dear thing ! Miss T. (c) But enough of my selfish sorrows. (Goes up to table c, a7id takes a tart. Minnie is annoyed at this.) Tell me about the noble boy who is about to make you his. Has he any dross ? MiN. I don't know {secretly removes tarts fror)i c talle to table L, close to door). I never thought of asking — I'm such a goose. But papa knows. Miss T. Have those base and servile things called settlements been satisfactorily adjusted ? {Eating.) MiN. (l) I don't know. It never occurred to me to enquire. But papa can tell you. Miss T. The same artless little soul ! MiN. {standing so as to conceal tarts from Belinda). Yes, I am quite artless — quite, quite artless. But now that you are here you will stay and see me married. Miss T. I wouH willingly be a witness to my darling's joy, but this attire is, perhaps, scarcely in harmony with a scene of revelry. MiN. Well dear, you're not a cheerful object, and that's the truth. Miss T. And yet these charnel-house rags may serve to remind the thoughtless banquetters that they are but mortal. MiN. I don't think it will be necessary to do that, dear. Papa's sherry will make that quite clear to them. Miss T. Then I will hie me home, and array me in garments of less sombre hue. Min. I think it would be better, dear. Those are the very things for a funeral, but this is a wedding. Miss T. I see very little difference between them. But it shall be as you wish {crosses to l), though I have worn nothing but black since my miserable marriage. Farewell, dearest Minnie. There is breakfast, I sup- pose? 27 MiN. Yes, at dear Cheviot's house. Miss T. That is well. I shall return in time for it. Thank heaven I cau still eat ! ( Takes a tart from table at door l and exit, followed hy Minnie, ivho expresses annoyance at Belinda's greediness.) Enter Cheviot Hill (d in f ii). He is dressed as for a u'cdding. Cii. Here I am at last — quite flurried and hot after the usual row with the cabman, just when I wanted to be particularly calm and self-contained. I got the best of it though. Dear mo, this is a great day for me — a great day. "Where's Minnie, I wonder ? Arraying herself for the sacrifice, no doubt. Pouf ! {Sits r.) This is a very ner- vous occasion. I wonder if I'm taking a prudent step. Marriage is a very risky thing; it's like Chancery, once, in it you can't get out of it, and the costs are enormous. There you are — fixed. Fifty years hence, if we're both alive, there we shall both be — fixed. That's the devil of it. It's an unreasonably long time to be responsible for another person's ex- penses. I don't see the use of making it for as long as that. It seems greedy to take up half a century of another person's attention. Besides — one never knows — one might come across somebody else one liked better — that uncommonly nice girl I met in Scotland, for instance. No, no, I shall be true to my Minnie {rises and crosses to l) — quite true. I am quite determined that nothing shall shake my constancy to Minnie. {Enter Parker, D F r). What a devilish pretty girl ! Par. {aside) He's a mean young man, but he ought to be good for half-a-crown to-day. Ch. Come here, my dear ; a — How do I look ? Par. (r) Yery nice indeed, sir. Ch. (c) What, really ? Par. Really. Ch. What, tempting, eh ? Par. Yery tempting indeed. 28 Ch. Hah ! The married state is an enviable state, Parker. Pak. Is it, sir ? I hope it may he. It depends. Ch. What do you mean by " it depends ? " You're a member of the Church of England, I trust ? Then don't you know that in sajang " it depends " you are flying in the face of the marriage service ? Don't go and throw cold water on the married state, Parker. I know what you're going to say — its expensive. So it is, at first, very expensive, but with economy you soon re- trench that. By a beautiful provision of Nature, what's enough for one is enough for two. This phenomenon points directly to the married state as our natural state. Par. (r) Oh, for that matter, sir, a tigress would get on with you. You're so liberal, so gentle, so — there's only one word for it — dove-like. Ch. (c) What, you've remarked that, eh ? Ha ! ha ! Put dove-like as I am, Parker, in some respects, yet (getting his arm round her) in other res^iecis — (aside), deuced pretty girl ! — in other respects I am a man, Parker, of a strangely impetuous and headstrong nature. I don't beat about the bush ; I come quickly to the point. Shall I tell you a secret ? There's some- thing about you, I don't know what it is, that — in other words, you are the tree upon which — no, no, damn it, Cheviot — not to-day, not to-day. Pak. What a way you have with you, sir ! Ch. What, you've noticed that, have you ? Ha ! ha ! yes, I have a way, no doubt ; it's been remarked before. Whenever I see a pretty girl (and you are a very pretty girl) I can't help putting my arm like that (pitttirig it round her icaist). Now, pleasant as this sort of thing is, and you find it pleasant, don't you ? (Parl-er nods). Yes, you find it pleasant — pleasant as it is, it is decidedly wrong. Par. It is decidedly wrong in a married man. Ch. It is decidedly wrong in a married man. In a married man it's abominable, and I shall be a married man in half-an-hour. So, Parker, it will become 29 necessary to conquer this tendency, to strugs^le with it, and subdue it — in half-an-hour [getting more affectionate) . Not that there's any real harm in putting your arm round a girl's waist. Highly respectable people do it, when they waltz. Par. Yes, sir, but then a band's playing. Ch. True, and when a band's playing it don't matter, but when a band is not playing, why it's dangerous, you see. You begin with this, and you go on from one thing to another, getting more and more affectionate, until you reach tJiis stage {kissing her). Not that there's any real harm in kissing, either; for you see fatbers and mothers, who ought to set a good example, kissing their children every day. Par. Lor. sir, kissing's nothing ; everybody does that. Ch. That is your experience, is it ? It tallies with my own. Take it that I am your father, you are my daughter — or take it even that I am merely your husband, and you my wife, and it would be expected of me. [Kissing her.) Par. But I'm not your wife, sir. Ch. No, not yet, that's very true, and, of course, makes a difference. That's why I say I must subdue this tendency ; I must struggle with it ; I must conquer it — in half-an-hour. MiN. {icithout). Parker, where's Mr. Cheviot? Ch. There is your mistress, my dear — she's coming. Will you excuse me? [Releasing her.) Thank you. Good day, Parker. Par. [disgusted). Not so much as a shilling ; and that man's worth thousands ! [_H.rit Parker. Enter Minnie, l. Ch. My darling Minnie — my own, own To Come ! [Kissing her.) MiN. Oh, you mustn't crush me, Cheviot, you'll spoil my dress. How do you like it ? Ch. It's lovely. It's a beautiful material. MiN. (l) Yes ; dear papa's been going it, 30 Ch. Oh, but you're indebted to me for that beautiful dress. MiN. To yoQ ! Oh thank you — thank you ! Ch. Yes. I said to your papa, " Now do for once let the girl have a nice dress ; be liberal ; buy the very best that money will procure, you'll never miss it. So. thanks to me, he bought you a beauty. Seventeen and six a yard if it's a penny. (Minnie goes ujp stage c.) Dear me ! To think that in half-an-hour this magnifi- cent dress will be my property ! MiN. Yes. Dearlpapa said that as you had offered to give the breakfast at your house, he would give me the best dress that money could procure. Ch. Yes, I did offer to provide the breakfast in a reckless moment ; that's so like me. It was a rash offer, but I've made it, and I've stuck to it. Oh, then there's the cake. MiN, Oh, tell me all about the cake. (Ch. and Minnie sit en .^ofa l h.) Ch. It's a very pretty cake. Very little cake is eaten at a wedding breakfast, so I've ordered what's known in the trade as the three-quarter article. MiN. I see ; three-quarters cake, and the rest wood. Ch. No ; three-quarters wood, the rest cake. Be sure, my dear, you don't cut into the wood, for it has to be returned to the pastrycook to be filled up with cake for another occasion. I thought at first of ordering a seven-eighths article ; but one isn't married every day — it's only once a year— I mean it's only now and then. So I said, " Hang the expense ; let's do the thing well." And so it's a three-quarters. MiN. How good you are to me ! We shall be very happy, shall we not ? Ch. I— I hope so — yes. I hope so. Playfully happy, like two little kittens. MiN. That will be delightful. Ch. Economically happy, like two sensible people. MiN. Oh, we must be very economical. Ch. No vulgar display ; no pandering to a jaded 31 appetite. A refined and economical elegance ; that is what we must aim at. A simple mutton chop, nicely broiled, for you ; and two simple mutton chops, very nicely broiled, for me. MiN. And some flowery potatoes — Cir. A loaf of nice household bread — MiN. A stick of celery — Ch. And a bit of cheese, and you've a dinner fit for a monarch. MiN. Then how shall we spend our evenings ? Ch. "We'll have pleasant little fireside games. Are you fond of fireside games ? MiN. Oh, they're great fun. Ch. Then we'll play at tailoring. MiN. Tailoring? I don't think I know that game. Ch. It's a very good game. You shall be the clever little jobbing tailor, and I'll be the particular customer who brings his own materials to be made up. You shall take my measure, cut out the cloth (real cloth, you know), stitch it together and try it on ; and then I'll find fault like a real customer, and you shall alter it until it fits, and when it fits beautifully that counts one to you. MiN. Delightful ! Ch. Then there's another little fireside game which is great fun. "We each take a bit of paper and a pencil and try who can jot down the nicest dinner for nine- pence, and the next day we have it. MiN. Oh, Cheviot, what a paradise you hold open to me. [Rises.) Ch. Yes. How's papa? MiN. He's very well and very happy. He's going to increase his establishment on the strength of the £1,000 a year, and keep a man-servant, Ch. I know. I've been looking after some servants for him ; they'll be here in the course of the morning. A cook, a housemaid, and a footman. I found them through an advertisement. They're country people, and will come very cheap. 32 MiN. How kind and thoughtful you are ! Oh, Cheviot, I'm a very lucky girl ! [_Fcr/t Minnie, d l i e. Ch. Yes, I think so too, if 1 can only repress my tendency to think of that tall girl I met in Scotland ! Cheviot, my boy, you must make an effort ; you are going to he married, and the tall girl is nothing to you. ! Enter Pakkek, d in r e. Pah. Please, sir, here's a gentleman to see you. Ch. Oh, my solicitor, no doubt. Show him up. Par. And please, some persons have called to see you about an advertisement. Ch. Oh, Symperson's servants. To be sure. Show up the gentleman, and tell the others to wait. l^Exit Pakker, u e r. Enter Belvawney, S^e lools very miserable, d in f e. Ch. Belvawney ! This is unexpected. [Much con- fused.) Bel. (r) Yes, Cheviot. At last we meet. Don't, oh don't frown upon a heartbroken wretch. Ch. (c) Belvawney, I don't want to hurt ycur feel- ings, but I will not disguise from you that, not having seen you for three months, I was in hopes that I had got rid of you for ever. Bel. Oh, Cheviot, don't say that, I am so unhappy. And you have it in your power to make me comfortable. Do this, and I will bless you with my latest breath ! Ch. It is a tempting offer; I am not proof against it. We all have our price, and that is mine. Proceed. Bel. Miss Treherne — Belinda — whom I love so dearly, won't have anything to say to me. Ch. It does her credit. She's a very superior girl. Bel. It's all through you, Cheviot. She declares that the mutual declaration you made to protect her from McGilhcuddy amounts to a Scotch marriage. Ch. What ! ! ! Bi'.L. She declares she is your wife. She professes to ^3 love me as fondly as ever ; but a stern sense of duty to you forbids her to hold any communication with me. Ch. Uh, but this is absurd, you know ! Bel. Of course it is ; but what's to be done ? You left with Symperson immediately after making the decla- ration. As soon as she found you were gone she implored me to tell her your name and address. Of course I refused, and she quitted me telling me that she would devote her life to finding you out. Ch. (l) Bat this is simple madness. T can't have it ! This da} ; too, of all others ! If she'd claimed me last week, or even yesterday, I wouldn't have minded, for she's a devilish fine woman ; but if she were to turn up now — ! (Aloud.) Belvawney, my dear friend, tell me what to do — I'll do anything. Bel. (c) It seems that there's some doubt whether this cottage, which is just on the border, is in England or Scotland, If it is in England, she has no case ; if it is in Scotland, I'm afraid she has. I've written to the owner of the property to ascertain, and if, in the mean- time, she claims you, you must alsolutely decline to recognise this marriage tor a moment. Ch. Not for one moment ! Bel. It was a mere artifice to enable her to escape from McGillicuddy. Ch. Nothing more ! Bel. It's monstrous — perfectly monstrous — that that should constitute a marriage. It's disgraceful — it's abominable. Damme, Cheviot, it's immoral. Ch. So it is — it's immoral. That settles it in mi/ mind. It's immoral. Bel. You're quite sure you'll be resolute, Cheviot ? Ch. Resolute ? I should think so ! Why, hang it all, man, I'm going to be married in twenty minutes to Minnie Symperson ! Bel. What! Ch. (confused at having let this out). Didn't I tell you ? I believe you're right ; I did not tell you. It escaped me. Oh, yes, this is my wedding-day. D 34 Bel. Cheviot, you're joking — you don't mean this ! Why, I shall lose £1,000 a year by it, every penny I have in the world ! Oh, it can't he — it's nonsense ! Ch. "What do you mean by nonsense ? The married state is an honourable estate, I believe ? A man is not looked upon as utterly lost to all sense of decency because he's got married, I'm given to understand? People have been married before this, and have not been irretrievably tabooed in consequence, unless I'm grossly misinformed ? Then what the dickens do you mean by saying " nonsense " when I tell you that I'm going to be married ? Bel. (r) Cheviot, be careful how you take this step. Beware how you involve an innocent and helpless girl in social destruction. Ch. (l c) What do you mean, sir? Bel. You cannot marry ; you are a married man. Ch. Come, come, Belvawney, this is trifling. Bel. You are married to Miss Treherne. I was present, and can depose to the fact. Ch. Oh, you're not serious. Bel. Never more serious in my life. Ch. But, as you very properly said just now, it was a mere artifice — we didn't mean anything. It would be monstrous to regard that as a marriage. Damme, Bel- vawney, it would be immoral ! Bel. I may deplore the state of the law, but I cannot stand tamely by and see it deliberately violated before my eyes. Ch. {icildly). But, Belvawney, my dear friend, reflect ; everything is prepared for my marriage, at a great expense. I love Minnie deeply, devotedly. She is the actual tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing. There's no mistake about it. She is my own To Come. I lovo her madly- -rapturously. {Going on his knees to Belvawney.) I have prepared a wedding breakfast at a great expense to do her honour. I have ordered four flys for the wedding party. I have taken two second-class Cook's tourists' tickets for Tlfracombe, Devon, Exetey^ Cornwall, 35 Westward Ho ! and Bidcford Bay. T)ie whole thing has cost me some twenty or twenty-five pounds, and all this will he wasted — utterly wasted — if you interfere. Oh, Belvawney, dear Belvawney, let the recollection of our long and dear friendship operate to prevent your shipwrecking my future life. (Sobbing hydcrically.) Bel. I have a duty to do. I must do it. {Going u.) Ch, But reflect, dear Belvawney, if I am married to Miss Treherne, you lose your income as much as if I married Minnie Symperson. (C. HilIj falls on sofa, l.) Bel. {at sofa). No doubt, if you could prove your marriage to Miss Treherne. But you can't {tvith melodramatic intensity) . Ch. Those eyes ! Bel. You don't know where she is {with fiendish exultation). Ch. Oh, those eyes ! Bel. The cottage has been pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated to Patagonia Ch. Oh, those eyes ! Bel. I'm the only witness left. / can prove your marriage, if I like ; but you can't. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! {u-ith Satanic laugh). It's a most painful and unfortunate situation for you ; and, believe mc, dear Cheviot, you have my deepest and most respectful sympathy. \_Kvit Belvawney d. in f. r. Ch. This is appalling ; simply appalling ! The cup of happiness dashed from my lips just as I was about to drink a life-long draught. The ladder kicked from under my feet just as I was about to pick the fruit of my heart from the tree upon which it has been growing so long. I'm a married man ! More than that, my honeymoon's past, and I never knew it ! Stop a moment, though. The bride can't be found ; the cottage is pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated ; what proof is there that such a marriage ever took place ? There's only Belvawney, and Belvawney isn't a proof. Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be worth something j uncorroborated, it is worthless. I'll d2 \ \ 36 risk it. He can do nothing ; the bride is nowhere ; the cottagers are in Patagonia, and lAt this moment Mrs. Macfarlane, Maggik, and Angus appear at the bade d. in f. r. T/iei/ stand bobbing and curtsying in rustic fashion to Cheviot [whom they don't recognise). He stares aghast at them for a moment, then staggers back to sofa. Ch. The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that's infernal ! Mrs. Mac. (r) Gude day, sir. AVe've just ca'd to see ye about the advertisement. {Producing paper.) Ch. I don't know you — I don't know you. Go away. (Cheviot buries his head in a neu'spaper, and pretends to read on sofa) . Mag. (l) Ah, sir, ye said that we were to ca' on ye this day at eleven o'clock, and sae we've coom a' the way fra Dumfries to see ye. Ch. I tell you I don't know you. Go away. I'm not at all well. I'm very ill, and its infectious. Ang. (c) We fear no illness, sir. This is Mistress Macfarlane, the gude auld mither, who'll cook the brose and boil the panitch, and sit wi ye, and nurse ye through your illness till the sad day ye dee ! ( Wiping his eye. Cheviot pohes a hole with his finger through newsjMper, and reconnoitres unobserved.) Mrs. Mac. And this is Meg, my aiu lass, Meg ! Ch. (aside). Attractive girl, very. I remember her perfectly. Mrs. Mac. And this is Angus Macalister, who's going to marry her, and who'll be mair than a son to me ! Ang. Oh, mither, mither, dinna say it, for ye bring the tear drop to my ee ; an' it's no canny for a strong man to be blithering and soughing like a poor weak lassie ! ( Wiping his eye.) [Angus and Mrs. Macfarlane sit. Maggie advances to hole in newspaper and peep^ fhrough. 87 Mag, Oh, mither, mither ! [Staggers hack info Angus's arms, r.) Mrs. Mac. What is it, Meg ? Ang. (r) Meg, my weel lo'ed Meg, my wee wifie that is to he, tell me what's wrang wi' 'ec ? Mag. (r c) Oh, mither, its him ; the nohle gentleman I plighted my troth to three weary months agone ! The gallant Englishman who gave Angus two golden pound to give me up ! Ang. It's the coward Sassenach who well nigh hroke our Meg's heart ! Mrs. Mac. (r c) My lass, my lass, dinna greet, maybe he'll marry ye yet. Ch. {de^peratehj). Here's another ! Does anybody else want to marry me? Don't be shy. You, ma'am {to Mrs. Mac), yoxCrc a fine woman — perhaps you would like to try your luck ? {Crosses to c.) Mag. (c) Ah, sir ! I dinna ken your name, but your bonnie face has lived in my twa e'en, sleeping and waking, three weary, weary months ! Oh, sir, ye should na' ha' deceived a trusting simple Lowland lassie, 'Twas na weel done — 'twas na weel done ! ( Weeping on his shoulder ; he puis his arm round her waist, c.) Oh. {softening, l c). My good girl, what do you wish me to do ? I remember you now perfectly. I did admire you very much — in fact, I do still ; j^ou're a very charming girl. Let us talk this over, calmly and quietly. (Mag. moves aicay). No, you needn't go ; you can stop there if you like. There, there, my dear ! don't fret. {Aside). She is a very charming girl. I almost wish I — I really begin to think I — no, no ! damn it, Cheviot ! not to day. Mag. Oh ! mither, he told me ho loved me ! Ch. So I did. The fact is, when I fell in love with you — don't go my pretty bird— I quite forgot that I w^as engaged. There, there ! I thought at the time that you were the tree upon which the fruit of my heart was growing ; but I was mistaken. Don't go ; you needn't go on that account. It was another tree — S8 Mag. (c) Oh, mither, it was ai)ither tree! [Weeping on Cheviot's shoulder). Mrs. Mac. (r) Angus, it was anither tree! {Weeping on Angus's shoulder). Ang. Dinna, mither, dinna ; I canna bear it ! (Weeps). Ch. Yes, it was another tree — you can remain there for the present — in point of fact, it was growing on both trees. I don't know how it is, but it seems to grow on a great many trees — a perfect orchard — and you are one of tbem, my dear, Come, come, don't fret, you are one of them ! [Enter Minnie and Symperson.] MiN. Cheviot ! Sym. What is all this ? Ch. (rapidl// referring to piece of paper given to him by Mrs. Macfarlane as if going over a tcasherwouian's bill) . '* Twenty-four pairs socks, two shirts, thirty- seven col- lars, one sheet, forty-four nightshirts, twenty- two flannel waistcoats, one white tie." Ridiculous — quite ridicu- lous— I won't pay it. MiN. Cheviot, who is this person who we found hang- ing on your neck ? Say she is somebody — for instance, your sister or your aunt. Oh, Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I implore you I ( The three cottagers curtsey and how to Minnie.) Sym. Cheviot, say she is your auni, I command you. Ch. (c) Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't see you. These ladies are — are ray washerwomen. Allow me to intro- duce them. They have come — they have come for their small account. (Maggie, ivho has been sobbing through this, throws herself hysterically on to Cheviot's bosom, c.) There's a discrepancy in the items~twenty-two flannel waistcoats are ridiculous, and, in short, some washerwomen are like this when they're contradicted— they can't help fi' 39 it — it's something in the suds : it undermines their con- stitution. Sym. {sternly). Cheviot, I should like to believe you, but it seems scarcely credible. Mag. {crosses to l c) Oh, sir, lie's no telling ye truly. I'm the puir Lowland lassie that he stole the hairt out of, three mouths ago, and promised to marry ; and I love him sae weel — sae weel, and now he's married to anither ! Ch. Nothing of the kind. I — Sym. You are mistaken, and so is your mith — mother. He is not yet married to anith — nother. Mag. Why, sir, it took place before my very ain eyes, before us a', to a beautiful lady, three months since. [^Retires, c. MiN. Cheviot, say tbat this is not true. Say that the beautiful lady was somebody— for instance, your aunt. Oh, say she was your aunt, I implore you ! Sym. {sternly). Cheviot, say she was your aunt, I command you ! Ch. Minnie, Symperson, don't believe them — it was no marriage. I don't even know the lady's name — I never saw her before — I've never seen her since. It's ridiculous— I couldn't have married her without knowing it — it's out of the question ! Sym. Cheviot, let's know exactly where we are. 1 don't much care whom you marry, so that you marry someone— that's enough for me. But please be explicit, for this is business and mustn't be trifled with. Tell me all about it ? Ch. [in despair) I cannot ! {Sits in chair r.) Fnter Belvawney (d in f k). Bel. I can. Sym. Belvawney ! Bel. I was present when Cheviot and a certain lady declared themselves to be man and wife. This took place in a cottage on the Border — in the presence of these worthy people. 40 Sym. (l) That's enougli for me. It's a Scotch mar- riage ! Minnie, my child, we must find you someone else. (Minnie crosses to l.) Cheviot's married. Bel- vawney, I am sorry to say, I deprive you of your income. Bel. I beg your pardon, not yet. Sym. Why not ? Bel. In the first place, it's not certain whether the cottage was in England or in Scotland ; in the second place, the bride can't be found. Sym. But she shall be fouud. What is her name ? Bel. That I decline to state. Sym. But you shall be made to state. I insist upon knowing the young lady's name. Enter Miss Treherne, in a light and cheerful dress, D in F R. Bel. (amazed). Belinda Treherne ! Miss T. {rushing to Minnie, l c). Minnie, my own old friend I Ch. (rc.) Tisshe! Miss T. {turns and recognises Cheviot.) My husband ! Ch. My wife ! Miss T. throws herself at Cheviot's feet, hissing his hands rapturouslg. Belvawney staggers back, Minnie faints in her father's arms, (l) Maggie sobs on Angus's breast (r). Ficture. Act Drop 41 ACT III. Scene. Same as Act II. Belvaicney discovered with Miss Treherne and Minnie. He is singing to them. Miss Treherne is leaning romantically on r of piano. Minnie is seated, jiicturesquely, on a stool on his l. Bel. (sinr/s). " Says the old Obadiali to the young Obadiah, I am drier, Obadiah, I am drier." Chorus. "I am drier." Bel. "Says the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah, I'm on fire, Obadiah, I'm on fire." Chorus. " I'm on fire." MiN. Oh, thank you, Mr. Belvawney. How sweetly pretty that is. Where can I get it ? Miss T. (r) How marvellous is the power of melody over the soul that is fretted and harassed by anxiety and doubt. I can understand how valuable must have been the troubadours of old, in the troublous times of anarchy. Your song has soothed me, sir. Bel. (c) I am indeed glad to think that I have com- forted you a little, dear ladies. (Rises.) MiN. (rises) Dear Mr. Belvawney, I don't know what we should have done without you. "What with your sweet songs, your amusing riddles, and your clever con- juring tricks, the weary days of waiting have passed like a delightful dream. Miss T. (r) It is impossible to be dull in the society of one who can charm the soul with plaintive ballads one moment, and the nest roll a rabbit and a guinea-pig into one. Bel. (c) You make me indeed happy, dear ladies. But my joy will be of brief duration, for Cheviot may return at any moment with the news that that fatal cot- age wasin Scotland, and then — Oh, Belinda, what is to become of me ? Miss T. How many issues depend on that momentous 42 question ? Has Belvawney a thousand a year, or is he ruined ? Has your father that convenient addition to his income or has he not ? May Maggie marry Angus, or will her claim on Cheviot be satisfied ? Are you to be his cherished bride, or are you destined to a life of solitary maidenhood? Am I Cheviot's honoured wife, or am I but a broken-hearted and desolate spinster ? "Who can tell ! Who can tell ! {Crosses to Minnie, l.) Bel. (goes to ivindow in second dratcing-room, c). Here is a cab with luggage — it is Cheviot ! He has returned with the news ! {Comes doicn to r c.) Ladies — one word before I go. One of you will be claimed by Cheviot, that is very clear. To that one (whichever it may be) I do not address myself — but to the other (which- ever it may be), I say, I love you (whichever you are) with a fervour which I cannot describe in words. If you (whichever you are) will consent to cast your lot with mine, I will devote my life to proving that I love you and you only (whichever it may be) with a single- hearted and devoted passion, which precludes the possi- bility of my ever entertaining the slightest regard for any other woman in the whole world. T thought I would just mention it. Good morning ! \^Exit Belvawney, r. Miss T. How beautifully he expresses himself. He is indeed a rare and radiant being. MiN. {nervously). Oh, Belinda, the terrible moment is at hand. {Sits on sofa, l.) Miss T. Minnie, if dear Cheviot should prove to be my husband, swear to me that that will not prevent your coming to stop with us — with dear Cheviot and me — whenever you can. MiN. Indeed I will. And if it should turn out that dear Cheviot is at liberty to marry me, promise me that that will not prevent your looking on our house — on dear Cheviot's and mine — as your home. Miss T. I swear it. We will be like dear, dear sisters. Enter Cheviot, as from journey (d r r), with hag and rug. Miss T. Cheviot, tell me at once — are you my own, husband ? 43 MiN. Cheviot, spe.ik — is poor, little, simple Minnie to be your bride ? Ch, [sits on chair n.) Minnie, the hope of my heart, my pet fruit tree ! Belinda, my past, my present, and my to come ! I have sorry news, sorry news ! Miss T. (aside). Sorry news! Then I am not his wife. MiN. (aside). Sorry news ! Then she is his wife. Ch. My dear girls — my very dear girls, my journey has been fruitless — I have no information. Miss T. and Mm. No information ! Ch. None. The McQuibbigaskie has gone abroad ! (Both ladies fall icceping. Sits on sofa). Miss T. More weary waiting ; more weary waiting ! MiN. Oh my breaking heart ; oh, my poor bruised and breaking heart ! (Sits on stool r.) Ch. We must be patient, dear Belinda. Minnie, my own, we must be patient. After all, is the situation so vtry terrible ? Each of you has an even chance of becoming my wife, and in the meantime I. look upon my- self as engaged to both of you. I shall make no dis- tinction. I shall love you both, fondly, and you shall both love me. My affection shall be divided equally between you, and we will be as happy as three little birds. Miss T. (l) {wiping her eyes) You are very kind and thoughtful, dear Cheviot. MiN. (r) I believe, in my simple little way, that you are the very best man in the whole world ! Ch, (c) (deprecatinghj) No, No. MiN. Ah, but do let me think so : it makes me so happy to think so ! Ch. Does it ? Well, well, be it so. Perhaps I am 1 And now tell me, how has the time passed since I left. Have my darlings been dull ? Miss T. We should have been dull indeed but for the airy Belvawuey. The sprightly creature has done his best to make the lagging hours fly. He is an entertain- ing rattlesnake — I should say, rattletrap. 44 Ch. (jealous) Oh, is he so ? Belvawney has been makicg the hours fly, has he? I'll make him fly, when I catch him ! (Miss Teeherne sits on sofa l c.) MiN. His conjuring tricks are wonderful ! Ch, Confound his conjuring tricks ! MiN. Have you seen him bring a live hen, two hair brushes, and a pound and a-half of fresh butter out of his pocket handkerchief ? Ch. No, T have not had that advantage ! Miss T. It is a thrilling sight. Ch. 80 I should be disposed to imagine ! Pretty goings on in my absence ! you seem to forget that you two girls are engaged to be married to me ! Miss T. [Rises.) Ah, Cheviot! do not judge us harshly. We love you with a reckless fervour that thrills us to the very marrow— don't we darling ? But the hours crept heavily without you, and when, to lighten the gloom in which we were plunged, the kindly creature swallowed a live rabbit and brought it out, smothered in onions, from his left boot, we could not choose but smile. The good soul has promised to teach me the trick. {Crosses to L.) Ch. Has he ! That's his confounded impudence. Now, once for all, I'll have nothing of this kind. One of you will be my wife, and until I know which, I will permit no Belvawneying of any kind whatever, or any- thing approaching thereto. When that is settled, the other may Belvawney until she is black in the face. Miss T. And how long have we to wait before we shall know which of us may begin Belvawneying ? Ch. I can't say. It may be some time. The Mo Quibbigaskie has gone to Central Africa. No post can reach him, and he will not return for six years. Miss T. Six years ! Oh, I cannot wait six years ! AVhy in six years I shall be eight-and-twenty ! MiN. Six years ! Why, in six years the Statute of Limitations will come in, and he can renounce us both. Miss T. True ; you are quite right. {To Cheviot) Cheviot, I have loved you madly, desperately, as 45 other woman never loved other man. This poor inexperienced child (embracing Minnie), who clings to me as the ivy clings to the oak, also loves you as woman never loved before. Even the poor cottage maiden, whose rustic heart you so recklessly enslaved, worships you with a devotion that has no parallel in the annals of the heart. In return for all this unalloyed affection, all we ask of you is that you will recommend us to a respectable solicitor. Ch. (r c) But, my dear children, reflect — I can't marry all three. I am most willing to consider myself engaged to all three, and that's as much as the law will allow. You see I do all I can. I'd marry all three of you, with pleasure, if I might ; but, as our laws stand at present, I'm sorry to say — I'm very sorry to say—it's out of the question. [^Uxit Cheviot, r d f. Miss. T. Poor fellow. Ho has my tcnderest sym- pathy ; but we have no alternative but to place ourselves under the protecting cegis of a jury of our countrymen ! Miter SvMPERsoN, l, tcith two letters. Symp. Minnie — Miss Symperson— the post has just brought me two letters ; one of them bears a Marseilles post-mark, and is, I doubt not, from the McQuibbigaskie ! He must have written just before starting for Central Africa ! MiN. (c) From the McQuibbigaskie ? Oh, read, read ! Miss. T. (r) Oh, sir ! how can you torture us by this delay ? Have you no curiosity ? Symp. (l) Well, my dear, very little on this point ; you see it don't much matter to me whom Cheviot marries. So that he marries some one, that's enough for me. But however, your anxiety is natural, and I will gratify it. {Opens letter and reads.) "Sir, —In reply to your letter, I have to inform you that Evan Cottage is certainly in England. The deeds relating to the property place this beyond all question." MiN. In England ! Miss T. {sinking into a chair, r c). This blow is 46 indeed a crusher ! Against this blow I cannot stand up ! (Faints). MiN. {o)i her knees, r of Belinda). My poor Belinda — my darling sister — love — oh forgive me — oh forgive me ! Don't look like that ! Speak to me, dearest— oh speak to me — speak to me. Miss T. [suddenly springing vp, r). Speak to you? Yes, I'll speak to you ! All is not yet lost ! TruCj he is not married to me, hut why should he not be ? I am as young as you ! I am as beautiful as you ! I have more money than you ! I will try — oh how hard I will try ! (Crosses to r, and then up to door r c.) MiN. Do, darling ; and I wish— oh how I wish you may get him ! Miss T. (at door, spiitef ally). Minnie, if you were not the dearest little friend I have in the world I could pinch you ! \_Exit Belinda, d f r. Symp. (l c) (icho has been reading thi other letter). Dear me — how terrible ! MiN. (k g) What is terrible, dear papa? Symp. Belvawney writes to tell me the Indestructible Bank stopped payment yesterday, and Cheviot's shares are waste paper. MiN. Well upon my word. There's an end of him 1 Symp. An end of him. What do you mean? You are not going to throw him over ? MiN. Dear papa, I am sorry to disappoint you, but unless your tom-tit is very much mistaken, the In- destructible was not registered under the Joint-Stock Companies Act of Sixty-two, and in that case the share- holders are jointly and severally liable to the whole extent of their available capital. Poor little Minnie don't pretend to have a business head; but she's not qidte such a little donkey as that, dear papa. Symp. You decline to marry him ? Do I hear lightly? MiN. I don't know, papa, whether your hearing is as good it was, but from your excited manner, I should say you heard me perfectly. \Exit Minnie, d f k, 47 Symp. (c) This is a pretty business ! Done out of a thousand a year ; and by my own daughter ! What a terrible thing is this incessant craving after money ! Upon my word, some people sefm to think that they're sent into the world for no other purpose but to acquire wealth ; and, by Jove, they'll sacrifice their nearest and dearest relations to get it. It's most humiliating— most humiliating ! Enter Cheviot in loio spirits, d f r. Ch. {throicing himself into a chair. Sobs alohd.) Oh! Uncle Symperson, have you heard the news ? Symp. {angrily). Yes, I have heard the news; and a pretty man of business i/ou are to invest all your pro- perty in an unregistered company ! Ch. Uncle, don't i/ou turn against me ! Belinda is not my wife ! I'm a ruined man ; and ray darlings — my three darlings, whom I love with a fidelity, which, in these easy going days, is simply Quixotic — will have nothing to say to me. Minnie, your daughter, declines to accompany me to the alter. Belinda, I feel sure will revert to Belvawney, and Maggie is at this present moment hanging round that iScotch idiot's neck, although she knows that in doing so she simply tortures me. Symper- son, I never loved three girls as I loved those three — never ! never ! and now they'll all three slip through ray fingers — I'ra sure they will ! Sym. Pooh, pooh, sir. Do you think nobody loses but you ? Why I'm done out of a thousand a year by it. Ch. (moodily). For that matter, Symperson, I've a very vivid idea that you won't have to wait long for the money. Sym. What d'you mean ? Oh — of course— I under- stand. Ch. Eh? Sym. Mrs. Macfarlane ! I have thought of her myself. A very fine worae^n for her years ; a raajestic ruin, beautiful in decay. My dear boy, my very dear boy, I congratulate you. 48 Ch. Don't be absurd. I am not going to marrv anybody. Sym. Eh ? Why, then how— ? I don'^t think I quite follow you, Ch. (k) There is another contingency on which you come into the money. My death. Sym. To be sure ! I never thought of that ! And, as you say, a man can die but once. Ch. I beg your pardon. I didn't say anything of the kind — you said it ; but its true, for all that. Sym. I'm very sorry ; but of course, if you have made up your mind to it Ch. Why, when a man's lost everything, what has he to live for ? Sym. True, true. Nothing whatever. Still Ch. His money gone, his credit gone, the three girls he's engaged to gone. Sym. I cannot deny it. It is a hopeless situation. Hopeless— quite hopeless. Cn. His happiness wrecked, his hopes blighted , the three trees upon which the fruit of his heart was growing — all cut down. What is left but suicide? Sym. True— true ! You're quite right. Farewell. {Going.) Ch. Symperson, you seem to think I unnt to kill myself. I don't want to do anything of the kind. I'd much rather live — upon my soul I would — if I could think of any reason for living. Symperson, can't you think of something to check the heroic impulse which is at this moment urging me to a tremendous act of self- destruction ? Sym. Something ! Of course I can ! Say that you threw yourself into the Serpentine — which is handy. Well, it's an easy way of going out of the world, I'm told — rather pleasant than otherwise, I believe— quite an agreeable sensation, I'm given to understand. But you — you get wet through — and your — your clothes are absolutely ruined ! Ch. {mournfaUy) For that matter, I could take off my clothes before I went in. 49 Sym. True, so you could. I never thought of that. You could take them off before you go in — there's no reason why you should'nt, if you do it in the dark — and that objection falls to the ground. Cheviot, my lion- hearted boy, it's impossible to resist your arguments, they are absolutely convincing. {Shakes his hand.) \_Rrit L D F. Ch. Good fellov, Symperson — I like a man who's open to conviction ! But it's no use — all my attractions are gone — and I can not live unless I feel I'm fasci- nating. Still there's one chance left — Belinda ! I haven't tried her. Perhaps, after all, she loved me for myself alone ! It isn't likely — but it's barely possible. Enter Belvawxey (r d f) who has orcrhcard these words. Bel. Out of the question ; you are too late ! I represented to her that you are never likely to induce any one to marry you now that you are penniless. She felt that my income was secure, and she gave me her hand and her heart. Cn. Then all is lost ; my last chance is gone, and the irrevocable die is cast ! Be happy with her, Bel- vawney ; be happy with her ! Bel. (r) Happy ! You shall dine with us after our honeymoon and judge for yourself. Ch. {Sits on sofa j.) No, I shall not do that; long before you return I shall be beyond the reach of dinners. Bel. I understand — you are going abroad. Well, I don't think you could do better than try another country. Ch. {tragically). Belvawney, I'm going to try another world ! {Drawing a pistol from his pocket.) Bel. (alarmed). What do you mean ? Ch. In two minutes I die ! Bel. You're joking, of course ? Ch. Do I look like a man who jokes ? Is my frame of mind one in which a man indulges in trivialities ? Bel. {in great terror). But my dear Cheviot, reflect — Ch. Why should it concern you ? You will be happy with Belinda. You will not be well off, but £ 50 Symperson will, and I daresay he will give you a meal now and then. It will not be a nice meal, but still it will be a meal. Bel. (c) Cheviot, you mustn't do this ; pray reflect ; there are interests of magnitude depending on your existence. Ch. (c) My mind is made up. {Rising and cocking the pistol.) Bel. {loildly). But I shall be ruined ! Ch. (l) There is Belinda's fortune. Bel. She Avon't have me if I'm ruined ! Dear Cheviot, don't do it — its culpable — its wrong ! Ch. Life is valueless to me without Belinda. {Pointing the pistol to his head.) Bel. [desperately). You shall have Belinda; she is much — very much to me, but she is not everything. Your life is very dear to me ; and when I think of our old friendship ! Cheviot, you shall have anything you like if you'll only consent to live ! Ch. If I thought you were in earnest ; but no — no. {Putting pistol to head.) Bel. In earnest ? of course I'm in earnest ! "Why what's the use of Belinda to me if I'm ruined ? "Why she wouldn't look at me. Ch. Butperhapsif I'mrulnedjshe wouldn't lookatme. Bel. Cheviot, I'll confess all, if you'll only live. You — you are not ruined ! Ch. Not ruined ?. Bel. Not ruined. I — I invented the statement. Ch. {in great delight). You invented the statement? My dear Iriend ! My very dear friend ! I'm very much obliged to you ! Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times ! Oh, Belvawney, you have made me very very happy ! {sobbing on his shoulder, then sud- dcnhj sprinijimj up.) But what the devil did you mean by circulating such a report about me ? How dare you do it, sir ? Answer me that, sir ? Bel. I did it to gain Belinda's love. I knew that the unselfish creature loved you for your wealth alone. 51 Ch. It was a liberty, sir ; it was a liberty. To put it mildly, it was a liberty. Bel, It was. You're quite right — that's tlie word fir it— it was a liberty. But I'll go and undeceive her at once. [Exit BELA^\w^'EY, r d f. Cii. "Well, as I've recovered my fortune, and with it my tree, I'm about the happiest fellow in the world. My money, my mistress, and my mistress's money, all my own. I believe I could go mad with joy ! Enter SniPERSON (l) in deep hIarJc ; he irallis pensively, tvith a white handkerchief to his mouth, crosses to R. Sits. Cn. What's the matter ? Sym. ('r) Hallo ! You're still alive ? {Disappointed.) Cn. (r) Alive? Yes; \y\\y [noticiwj his dress), {^awy- thing wrong ? Sym. No, no, my dear young friend, these clothes are symbolical ; they represent my state of mind. After your terrible threat, which I cannot doubt you iateud to put at once into execution — — Ch. My dear uncle, this is very touching ; this un- mans me. But, cheer up, dear old friend, I have good news for you. Sym. {alarmed). Good news ? What do you mean ? Ch. I am about to remove the weight of sorrow which hangs so heavily at }our heart. Resume your fancy check trousers — I have consented to live. Sym. Consented to live ? Why, sir, this is con- founded trifling. I don't understand this lino of conduct at all ; you threaten to commit suicide ; your friends are dreadfully shocked at first, but eventually their minds become reconciled to the prospect of losing you, they become resigned, even cheerful ; and when they have brought themselves to this Christian state of mind, you coolly inform them that you have changed your mind and mean to live. It's not business, sir — it's not business. [Crosses to l.) Ch. But, my dear uncle, I've nothing to commit suicide for ; I'm a rich man, and Belinda will, no doubt, accept me with joy and gratitude. E 2 \ 62 Sym. Belinda will do nothing of the kind. She has just left the house with Belvawney, in a cab, and under the most affectionate circumstances. Ch. {alarmed). Left with Belvawney ? Where have they gone ? Sym. I don't know. Very likely to get married. Ch. {aghast). Married ? Sym. Yes, before the registrar. Ch. {excitedly.) I've been sold ! I see that now ! Belvawney has done me ! But I'm not the kind of man who stands such treatment quietly. Belvawney has found his match. Sympersou, they may get married, but, they shall not be happy ; I'll be revenged on ihem both, before they're twenty-four hours older. She marries him because she thinks his income is secure. I'll show her she's wrong ; I won't blow out my brains ; I'll do worse. Sym. What? Ch. I'll marry. Sym. Marry ? Ch. Anybody. I don't care who it is. Sym. Will Minnie do ? Ch. Minnie will do ; send her here. Sym. In one moment, my dear boy— in one moment ! \_Exit Sympeuson, hurriedly, r d r. Ch, Belinda alone in a cab with Belvawney ! It's maddening to think of it ! He's got his arm round her waist at this moment, if I know anything of human nature ! I can't stand it — I cannot and I will not stand it ! I'll write at once to the registrar and tell him she's married {sits at uiriting table l and prepares to write). Oh, why am T constant by disposition ? Why is it that when I love a girl I can think of no other girl but that girl, whereas, when a girl loves me she seems to entertain the same degree of affection for mankind at large ? I'll never be constant again ; henceforth I fascinate but to deceive ! Enter Minnie, k d r. Crosses to l. MiM. Mr. Cheviot Hill, papa tells me that you wish to speak to me, 53 Ch. {hurriedly — writing at table). I do. MissSymperson, I have no time to beat about tlie bush ; I must come to the point at onco. You rejected me a short time since — I will not pretend that I am pleased with you for rejecting me— on the contrary, I think it was in the worst taste. However, let bygones be bygones, Unforseen circum- stances render it necessary that I should marry at once, and y(m'il do. An early answer will be esteemed, as this is business. [Rcstoncs his writiivi.) MiN. Mr. Hill, dear papa assures me that the report about the loss of your money is incorrect. I hope this may be the case, but I cannot foi'get that the infor- mation comes from dear papa. Now dear papa is the best and dearest papa in the whole world, but he has a lively imagination, and when ho wants to accomplish his purpose, he does not hesitate to inveat — I am not quite sure of the word, but I think it is " bmncers." Ch. {writiag.) You are quite right, the word is bouncers. Bouncers or bangers — either will do. MiN. Then forgive my little silly fancies, Mr. Hill ; but, before I listen to your suggestion, I must have the very clearest proof that your position is, in every way, fully assured. {Retires up c.) Ch. {rises.) Mercenary little donkey ! I will not con- descend to proof. I renounce her altogether. {Strikes gong bell.) Enter Maggie with Axgus and Mrs. M.\cfae.l.\ne, r d. Angus has his arm roun.l her ivaist. Ch. {suddenly seeing her). Maggie, come hero. Angus, do take your arm from round that girl's waist, iitand back, and don't you listen. {Excitedly) Maggie, three months ago I told you that I loved you passion- ately ; to-day 1 tell you that I love you as passionately as ever ; I may add that I am still a rich m^*^ '^ oblige me with a postagii-stamn '^ stamp from her porJ-"^ do you say ? answer, as this is 54 Mag. (c) Oh, sir, ye're ower late. Oli, Maister Cheviot, if I'd only ken'd it before ! Oh, sir, I love ye right weel ; the bluid o' my hairt is nae sae dear to me as thou. (Sobbing on his s/ioukler.) Oh, Cheviot, my ain auld love ! my ain auld love ! Ang. (aside). Puir lassie, it just dra's the water from my e'e to hear her. Oh, mither, mither ! my hairt is just breaking. (Sobs on Mrs. Macfarlank's shoulder.) Ch. (c) But why is it too late ? You say that you love me. I offer to marry you. My station in life is at least equal to your own. What is lo prevent our union ? Mag. (wiping her eyes). Oh, sir, ye're unco guid to poor little Maggie, but ye're too late ; for she's placed the matter in her solicitor's hands, and he tells her that an action f )r breach will just bring dama;^es to the tune of a thousand (jound. There's a laddie waiting outside noo, to serve the bonnie writ on ye. (Turns ciffcction- atehj to Akgus. Retires up c.) Cheviot /c///s sobbing on to sofa. Ch. No one will marry me. There is a curse upon me — a curse upon me. No one will marry me — no, not one ! Mrs. Mac. (c) Dinna say that, sir. There's mony a woman — nae young, soft, foolish lassie, neither ; but grown women o' sober age, who'd be mair a mither than a wife to ye ; and that's what ye want, puir laddie, for ye'ro no equal to takin' care o' yersel'. (Crosses to l.) Ch. Mrs. Macfarlane, you are right. I am a man of quick impulse. I see, I feel, I speak. I — you are the tree upon which — that is to say — no, no, d n it, I can't ; I can't ! One must draw the line somewhere. (Turning from her with disgust.) Mrs. Mac, But ye need not draw the line at me ! '"^"'■■"".S tip ) - 'VD Belvawney, RDF. Thei/ - / Minnie. es ? You have I f, returned to mc, you have not gone off witli Belvawncy / after all? Thank heaven, thank heaven! {Getting i^/ii/sterical). m Miss T. I thought that, as I came in, I heard you r sa)' something about a tree. Ch. You are right. As >ou entered I was remark- ing that I am a man of quick impulse. I see, I feel, I speak, I have two thousand a year, and I love you passionately. I lay my hand, my heart, and my income, all together, in one lot, at your feet ! Miss T. Cheviot, I love you with an irresistible fervour, that seems to parch my very existence. I love you as I rever loved man before, and as I can never hope to love man again. But, in the belief that you were ruined, I went with my own adored Belvawney before the registrar, and that registrar has just made us bne ! {Turns afectiunately to Belvawney.) a^-RT,. (vS (embraces ^i&iA^Dx). Bless him for it — bless One word. I have not yet seen the letter that blights my earthly hopes. For form's sake, I trust I may be permitted to cast my eye over that document ? As a matter ot business — that's all. ^' ^ • ' '-: -n-^- ^> i«. You wil ^M 56 Symp. {loohing over his shoulder at letter, reads). "Turn over." Cii. {deqxdringly). Why should I? What good would it do ? Oh ! I see, I beg your pardon ! {turns over the 2^<-'9g)' Halloa ! {Rises.) All. What? Ch. {reads). " P.S. — I may add that the border lint runs through the property. The cottage is undoubtedly in England, though the garden is in Scotland." Miss T. And we were married in the garden ! Ch. {amorously). Belinda, we were married in the garden ! (Belinda leaves Belvawney, and turns afec- tionatehj to Cheviot, wlio embraces her.) Bel. Belinda, stop a bit ! don't leave me like this ! Miss T, {crosses to Belvawney.) Belvawney, I love you with an intensity of devotion that I firmly believe will last while I live. But dear Cheviot is my husband now ; he has a claim upon me which it would be impossible — nay, criminal to resist. Farewell, Belvawney ; Minnie may yet be yours ! (Belvawney turns sobbing to Minnje, tvJin comforts Mm ; Miss T. crosses back to Cheviot.) Cheviot — my husband — my own old love — if the devotion ^c a life-time can -^^one for the misery of the last few ■^ it is yours, > ^^'ifely sentiment of pride,