Chapters 3
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1 01 - Act 1 45:19
S. Gilbert. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dramatis Personae. Read by Alan Mapstone. Angus McAllister, a lowland peasant lad. Read by Todd. Major McGillicuddy. Read by Craig Franklin. Belinda Trehearne. Read by Emmy Krantz. Minnie, Simpersons' daughter. Read by Jen Broda. Mrs. McFarlane, a lowland widow. Read by Sonia. Maggie, her daughter, a lowland lassie. Parker, Minnie's maid.
Stage directions by Michael Maggs.
Act One. Garden of a Cottage near Gretna. On the border between England and Scotland. Acts Two and Three. Drawing Room in Simpersons House in London. Three months' interval is supposed to elapse between Acts 1 and 2. Three days' interval is supposed to elapse between Acts 2 and 3. Engaged. Act One. Seen. Garden of a humble but picturesque cottage near Gretna, on the border between England and Scotland. The whole scene is suggestive of rustic prosperity and content. Maggie MacFarlane, a pretty country girl, is discovered spinning at a wheel and singing as she spins. Angus MacCallister, a good-looking peasant lad, appears on a back and creeps softly down to Maggie as she sings and spins, and places his hands Over her eyes.
Why is it? Oh, Angus, you frighten me, say. He releases her. And see there, the flax is unknoted and scribbled, and I'll do naything with it. Meg, my Meg, my ain' bonnie Meg. Angus, why lad, what's wrang with thee? Thou hast teardrops in thy bonnie blueeen. D'naheed him, Meg. It comes fra glorin' at thy bright beauty. Glowerin' at thee is like glowin' at the noonday sun. Angus, thou'rt talkin' foolishly. I'm but a pure brown hillside lassie. I dinna like to hear sick things from a straight honest lad like thee. It's the way the dandy town folks speak to me, and does nay come rightly from the lips of a simple man. Forgive me, Meg, for I speak honestly to ye. Angus McAllister is not the man to deal in squeamin' compliments.
Meg, I love thee dearly, as thou well knowest. I'm but a poor lad, and I've little but two brah arms and a straight hair to live by. But I've saved a wee bit siller. I've a brah housey and a scrappy o' good garden land, and it's all for thee, lassie. If thou give me thy true and tender little heart. Angus, I'll be fair and straight with thee. Thou askest me for my heart. Why, Angus, thou art tall and fair and brave. Thou'st a good, honest face and a good, honest heart, which is mere precious than all the gold in earth. No man has a word to say against Angus McAllister, no, nor any woman neither. Thou hast strong arms to work with, and a strong heart to help thee work. And why am I that I should say that these blessings are not enough for me?
If thou, good, brave, honest man, will be troubled with sick a pure little humble mousy as Maggie McFarlane, why, she'll just be the proudest and happiest lassie in a Dumfries. My ain't darlin'. They embrace. Enter Mrs. McFarlane from Cottage. Why, Angus, Maggie, what's a dis? Mrs. McFarlane, didn't it be fast with me? Didn't it think worse of me than I deserve? I've loved your lass honestly these fifteen years, but I never plucked up the hat to tell her so till new. And when she answered fairly, it wasn't a human nature to do aught else but hold it to my hat and place one kiss on her bonny cheek. Angus, say no ma'am. My heart is sere at losing my only bairn, but I'm na' feshed wi' thee. Thou art a good lad, and it's been the hope of my widowed old heart to see you twain one.
Thou treat her kindly, I ken that weel. Thou art a prosperous, kirk-going man, and my mag should be a happy lass indeed. Bless thee, Angus, bless thee." Didn't heed the water in my ear. It will come when I'm o'er glad. Yes, I'm a fairly prosperous man. What with farming a bit of land and gillying odd times, and a bit of poaching now and again, and what with my illicit whiskey still, and throwing trains off the line that the poor distracted passengers may come to my cot, I've mere ways than one of making a honest living. "'And I'll work them a nick and day for my Bonnie Meg.'" "'T'you can, Angus. I sometimes think that thou art losing some of thine old skill at upsetting railway trains. Thou hast not done such a thing these sex weeks, and the cottage stands salee in need of such chance custom as the poor delayed passengers may bring.'" "'Nay, mither, thou rang'st him.
Even new, this very day, has he not placed twa Bonnie Braw sleepers across the up-line?' Ready for the express from Glaeski, which is due in two minutes or so? Good lad. Good thoughtful lad. But I hope the unfortunate passengers will not be much hurt. Poor unconscious bodies. Fear not, neither. 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 you that, with all this, nae moun, woman, or child of man, will get se' much as a bruised head or a broken nose. My ain't tender-hearted Angus, he wa'na' hurt se' much as a blatherin' buzzin' blue-bottle flea. Nay, Meg, not if takin' care an' thought could help the poor dumb thing.
There, see, lass.
The trains are to standstill, and there's nae harm done. I'll just go and tell the poor distraught passengers that they may rest them here, in thy cot, gin they will, till the line is cleared again. A mither? Get thy rooms ready, and put bruise in the pot, for maybe they'll be hungry, poor souls. Farewell, Meg. I'll be back, eh lang? And if I don't bring ye a full half-dozen o' well-payin' passengers, thou mayest just wed the red-headed excise-man. Exit Angus. Oh, mither, mither, I'm ower happy. I've nay deserve sick a good fortune as to be the wife o' yon brave and honest lad. Mag, dan old mither's head is sad at the thought o' loosing ye, for hitha too she's just been a wall to thee. But now thou'd clave to thine angers, and thou'd learn to love him better than thy poor old mither.
But it won't be. It won't be. Nay, mither, say not that. A good girl loves her husband with one love, and her mither with another. They are not alike, but neither is greater nor less than the other, and they dwell together in peace and unity. That is how a good girl loves. And thou art a good girl, Meg. "'I am a very good girl indeed, mither, a very, very good girl.' "'I'm re-sure of that. Well, the poor belated passengers will be here directly, and it is our duty to provide for them such poor hospitality as our humble roof will afford. It shall never be said to Jane McFarlane that she ever turned the weary traveller fainting from her door.' "'My ain gentle-hearted, mither.' Enter Angus with Belvornie and Mr.
Hearn. She is in travelling costume, and both are much agitated and alarmed. Step in, sir. Step in and sit you down for a wee. I'll just send Mistress Macfarlane to ye. She's a good old body, and will see to your comforts as if she was your ain' mither. Thank you, my worthy lad. For your kindness at this trying moment, I assure you we shall not forget it. Why, sir, wouldn't any man do his muckle? A dry shelter, a bannock in the pain of parish is all we can offer ye. But, sick as it is, ye are haeley welcome. It is well. We thank you. For a while wouldn't it help the unfortunate. Belvarni. Occupied with Mr. Hearn. Exactly. Everyone would. Or feed the hungry. No doubt. It just brings a teardrop to my ear, think.
Belvourney leading him off. My friend, we would be alone, this maiden and I. Farewell.
Belinda, my own, my life! Compose yourself. It was in truth a weird and gruesome accident. The line is blocked, your peristalt is broken, and your butterscotch— Trampled in the dust, but no serious harm is done. Come, be cheerful. We are safe, quite safe. Safe? Ah, Belveny, my own own Belveny. There is, I fear, no safety for us so long as we are liable to be overtaken by the fearful Major, to whom I was to have been married this morning. Major McGillicuddy? I confess I do not feel comfortable when I think of Major McGillicuddy. 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. It is an uneasy prospect. Certainly.
Belinda, do you love me? With an impetuous passion that I shall carry with me to the tomb. Then be mine tomorrow. 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. Belveny, 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 settlements.
I often think that it is deeply to be deplored that these groveling questions of money should alloy the tenderest and most hallowed sentiments that inspire our imperfect natures. It is unfortunate, no doubt. But at the same time, it is absolutely necessary. Belinda, I will be frank with you. My income is a thousand pounds a year, which I hold on certain conditions. You know my friend Chavoy Hill, who is traveling to London in the same train with us, but in the third class? I believe I know the man you mean. Chavoy, 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 Chavoy Hills had settled in this part of the world centuries before the conquest, is compelled by his health to reside in Madeira. Knowing that I exercise an all-but-supernatural influence over his son, and fearing that his affectionate disposition would lead him to contract an undesirable marriage, the old gentleman allows me a thousand pounds a year, so long as Chavoy shall live single, but at his death or marriage the money goes over to Chavoy's Uncle Simpersen, who is now travelling to town with him. Then, so long as your influence over him lasts, so long only will you retain your income. That is, I am sorry to say, the state of the case.
Mr. Hurl, after a pause. Belveny, 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. Exit Mr. Hearn into cottage. There goes a noble-hearted girl indeed. Oh, for the gift of Shaboy's airy badmatch. Oh, for 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 declaration to that effect. I will think out some cunning scheme to lure her into marriage unawares. Enter Maggie from Cottage. Will you walk in and rest a wee, Maester Belvani? There's a room ready for ye, kind sir, and you're heartily welcome to it. It is well. Stop! Come hither, maiden. Oh, sir, you do not mean any harm towards a pure, innocent, unprotected cottage lassie. Harm? No, of course I don't. What do you mean? I'm but a pure, humble mountain girl. But let me tell you, sir, that my character's just as dear to me as the richest and proudest ladies in the land. Before I consent to approach ye, swear to me that you mean me no harm.
Harm? Of course I don't! Don't be a little fool. Come here. There is something in his manner that reassures me. It is not that of the airy trifler with innocent herits. Allowed. What would you, a pure, harmless Matty McFarlane good sir? Can you tell me what constitutes a Scotch marriage? Oh, sir, it's nae use askin' me that, for my hairt is not my ain to give. I'm betrothed to the best and noblest lad, in the body borderland. Oh, sir, I cannot be your bride. My girl, you mistake. I do not want you for my bride. Can't you answer a simple question? What constitutes a Scotch marriage? You've just to say before twa witnesses, Maggie McFarlane is my wife. And I'm just to say Maester Belvenie is my husband, and Naaman can set asunder.
But, sir, I cannot be your bride, for I am betrothed to the best and noblest. I congratulate you. You can go. Yes, sir. Exit Maggie into cottage. It is a simple process. Simple! But yet, how beautiful! One thing is certain. Chavoy may marry any day, despite my precautions, and then I shall be penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be penniless. Belinda has five hundred pounds a year. It's not much, but it would at least save me from starvation. Exit Balvorni. Enter Simperson and Cheviot Hill over Bridge. They both show signs of damage. Their huts are beaten in, and their clothes disordered through the accident. Well, here we are at last. Yes, we are here at last, in a pretty state I'm in, to be sure.
My dear nephew, you would travel third class, and this is the consequence. After all, there's not much harm done. Not much harm? What do you call that? Showing his hat. Ten and ninepence at one operation. My gloves split, one and four. My coat ruined, eighteen and six. It's a coarse and brutal nature that recognizes no harm that don't involve a loss of blood. I'm reduced by this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human being to a moral pulp, a mash, a poultice. Damn, sir, that's what I am. I'm a poultice. Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the accident, you were speaking to me on a very interesting subject. Was I? I forget what it was. The accident has knocked it clean out of my head.
You were saying that you were a man of good position and fortune, that you derived two thousand pounds a year from your bank? That you thought it was time you settled. You then reminded me that I should come into Balvonies, thousand pounds 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. True. And just then we went off the line. To resume, Uncle Simperson, your daughter Minnie is an angel of light, a perfect being, as innocent as a new-laid egg. Minnie is indeed all that you have described her. 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 soul 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. Simperson, who has sunk overpowered onto stool during this speech. Chariot, my dear boy, excuse a father's tears. I won't beat about the bush. You have anticipated my devoutest wish. Sheviot, my dear boy, take her. She is yours. I have often heard of rapture, but I never knew what it was till now. Uncle Simpersen, bearing in mind the fact that your income will date from the day of the wedding, when may this be? My boy, the sooner the better. Delicacy would prompt me to give Belvoni 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 on her? No. My duty to my child is paramount. On one condition, however, I must insist. This must be kept from Belvani's knowledge. You know the strange, mysterious influence that his dreadful eyes exercise over me. I have remarked it with astonishment. They are much inflamed just now, and he has to wear green spectacles. While this lasts, I am a free agent. But under treatment, they may recover. In that case, if he knew that I contemplated matrimony, he would use them to prevent my doing so. And I cannot resist them. I cannot resist them. Therefore, I say, until I am safely and securely tied up, Belvani must know nothing about it.
Trust me, Shaviot, he shall know nothing about it from me. Aside. A thousand a year! I have endeavored, but in vain, to woo fortune for fifty-six years. But she smiles upon me at last. She smiles upon me at last. Exit Simperson into Cottage. At length my hopes are to be crowned. Oh, my own, my own, the hope of my heart! My love. My life. Enter Belvoni, who has overheard these words. Shavoy? Whom are you apostrophizing in those terms? You've been at it again, I see. Belvoni, that apostrophe was private. I decline to admit you to my confidence. Shavoy. 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. Belvani, it may not be denied that there was a time when, owing to the remarkable influence exercised 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 them. Those eyes were my fate, my destiny, my unerring must, my inevitable shall. That time has gone. Forever. Alas for the days that are past, and the good that came and went with them. Weep for them, if you will. I cannot 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. Their soul has fled. They are no longer eyes. They are poached eggs. I have not yet sunk so low as to be the slave of two poached eggs. Have mercy! If any girl has succeeded in 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. Whether a blessing conferred with one's latest breath is a superior article to one conferred in robust health, we need not stop to inquire. I decline, as I said before, to admit you to my confidence on any terms whatever. Be gone! Exit Bolvorny. Dismiss from my thoughts the only woman I ever loved. Have no more to say to the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing. No, Belvani, I cannot cut off my tree as if 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 are good. They are pure. They are beautiful. At least, many of them are.
Enter Maggie from Cottage. He is much fascinated. This one, for example, is very beautiful indeed. If you'll just walk in, sir, you'll find a bannock and a pan of parrots waiting for you on the table. This is one of the loveliest women I ever met in the whole course of my life. Maggie, aside. What's he glowering at? Aloud. Oh, sir, you mean no harm to the poor Lowland lassie. Pardon me, it's very foolish. I can't account for it, but I am arrested, fascinated. Oh good, sir, what's fascinated ye? I don't know. There is something about you 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 affect me. You are a good girl, are you not? I am a very good girl indeed, sir. I was quite sure of it. Gets his arm round her waist. I am a much better girl than nineteen out of twenty in these parts, and they are all good girls, too. My darling. Kisses her. Oh, kind sir, what's that for? It is your reward for being a good girl. Oh, sir, I did not look for sicker recompense. You are very, very kind to pure little Maggie McFarlane. I cannot think what it is about you that fascinates me so remarkably. Maybe it's my beauty. Maybe it is. It is quite possible that it may be, as you say, your beauty. I am remarkably pretty, and I have a very neat figure. 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.
Oh, sir, can I close my ean 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 bra-blue heavens, and we say that she is bright. We see the brawling stream purling over the small stains in the burn, and we say that it is beautiful. And shall we close our ean to the fairest of nature's works, a pure and beautiful woman? Why, sir, it would just be base in gratitude. No, it's best to tell the truth about a things. I am a vera vera beautiful girl. Maggie McFarlane, I'm a plain, blunt, straightforward 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, who listens. Ah, kind sir, I'm sorely grieved to wound say true and tender a love as yours. But you're o'er late. My love is name my ain to give you. It's given o'er to the best and bravest lad in o' the bonny borderland. Give me his address, that I may go and curse him. Mikey kneels to Hill. Ah, you must not curse him. Oh, spare him, spare him, for he is good and brave, and he loves me. Oh, say dearly.
And I love him. Oh, say 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. Will you or will you not oblige me by telling me where he is, that I may at once go and curse him?
He is here, sir, but do you no waste your curses on me? Maggie, my Ben. 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. Do you heed the water, am I ye? It's a tear of joy and gratitude, Meg. A tear of joy and gratitude. Chiviet touched. Poor fellow. I will not curse him. Allowed. Young man, I respect your honest emotion. I don't want to distress you, but I cannot help loving this most charming girl. Come, is it reasonable to quarrel with a man because he's of the same way of thinking as yourself? Nay, sir. I'm nay fast. But it just seems to dry all the blood back in my heart when I think that my Meg is loved by anither.
Oh, sir, she's a fair and winsome lassie, and I mictus justly be angry with ye for loving the blue heavens. She's just as far above us as they are." Wiping his eyes and kissing her. Chiviot, with decision. Pardon me, sir. I cannot allow that. Eh? 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. Maggie, to Angus. Leave off, dear. Till the pure gentleman's gone, and then you can begin again. Angus, listen to me. You love this girl? I love her, sir. Almost as real as I love myself. 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 best 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 in 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 or kindly and 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... Sir, I'm poor in pocket. But I've a rich hat. It is rich in a pure and overflowing love, and he that hath love hath all. Ye can't a ken what true love is, or ye wouldn't dare to insult a pure but honest lad by offering to buy his treasure for money.
Cheviot retires up. My ain true darling. They embrace. Now, I'll not have it. Understand me, I'll not have it. It's simple agony to me. 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 to part with 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. Nay, sir, it's useless. And we can it will, do we not, my brave lassie? Our heads are one as our bodies will be some day, and the man is nae born, and the gold is nae coined, that can set us twain asunder. Angus, dear, I'm vera proud o' so staunch and true o' love.
It's like your ain true self, and I can say nae more for it than that. But dinna act without prudence and forethoughts, dear. In these hard times, twa pound is twa pound, and I'm nay sure that you're actin' richly in refusin' say large a sum. I love you very dearly. You ken that right wheel, and if you'll be troubled with sick a poor little mousy, I'll make you a true and lovin' wife. But I doubt whether, witha my love, I'll ever be worth as much to you as twa pound. Didn't act in haste, dear. Take time to think before you refuse this kind gentleman's offer. Oh, sir. Is not this rare modesty? Could ye imagine to mend your town-bred fine ladies? I think not. Meg, it shall be as ye say. I'll take the siller, but it'll be with a sare and a broken head.
Cheviet gives Angus money. Fare thee weel, my love, my childhood's boyhood's manhood's love. Ye're ganging from my heart to another who'll give thee mere of the good things in this world than I could ever give thee, except love, and of that my heart is full indeed. But it's air for the best. Ye'll be happier with him, and twa pound is twa pound. Meg, make him a good wife. Be true to him, and love him as ye loved me. Oh, Meg, my poor bruised hair tis well nigh like to break. Exit into cottage in great agony.
Maggie looking wistfully after him. Pure laddie, pure laddie. Oh, I didna ken till knew how well he loved me. Maggie, I'm almost sorry I... poor lad, poor fellow. He has a generous heart. I am glad I did not curse him. Aside. This is weakness. Allowed. Maggie, my own. Ever and for always my own. We will be very happy, will we not? Oh, sir, I dinna can, but in truth I hope so. Oh, sir, my happiness is in your hands, new. Be kind to the pure cottage lassie who loves you, say weel. My heart is a urine, and if you forsake me, my lot will be a ser one indeed. Exit weeping into cottage. 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 five pounds a year.
Ah, and does it, too. No pretense there of being blind to her own beauties. She knows that she is beautiful, and scorns to lie about it. In that respect, she resembles Simperson's dear daughter, Minnie. My darling Minnie. Looks at miniature. 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. In some respects she is even prettier than Minnie. My darling Minnie, Simpersons' dear daughter, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing. 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. Enter Miss Trahanna.
Heaven and earth, what a singularly lovely girl! A stranger! Pardon me, I will withdraw. A stranger indeed, in one sense, inasmuch as he never had the happiness of meeting you before. But in that, he has a heart that can sympathize with another's misfortune. He trusts he may claim to be regarded almost as a friend. May I ask, sir, to what misfortunes you allude? I, uh, 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 are very, very unhappy. Accept, madam, my deepest and most respectful sympathy. You have guessed rightly, sir. I am indeed a most unhappy woman. I am delighted to hear it. Uh— I mean, I feel a pleasure—a melancholy and chastened pleasure—in reflecting that, if your distress is not of a pecuniary nature, it may perchance lay in my power to alleviate your sorrow.
Impossible, sir, though I thank you for your respectful sympathy. How many women would forego twenty years of their lives to be as beautiful as yourself? Little dreaming 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? Sir, this tone of address from a complete stranger! Nay, be not unreasonably severe upon an impassionable and impulsive man, whose tongue is but the too faithful herald of his heart. We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair. We see the bonnie brooks purling over the smooth stains—I should say, stones—in the burn, and we say that it is beautiful. And shall we close our eyes to the fairest of nature's works, a pure and beautiful woman?
Why, it would be base ingratitude indeed. I cannot deny that there is much truth in the sentiments you so beautifully express. But I am unhappily too well aware that, whatever advantages I may possess— Personal beauty is not among their number. How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensibility to your own singular loveliness! How infinitely more winning than the bold-faced self-appreciation of underbred country girls! I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with my modesty. It has often been admired. 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 when I tell you that I cannot resist the conviction that you are the light of my future life, the essence of every hope, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing, my past, my present, my future, my own to come.
Do not extinguish that light. Do not disperse that essence. Do not blight 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. Sir, that heart would indeed be 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. Am I to understand that you are the young lady of property whom Belvani hopes to marry?
I am, indeed, that unhappy woman. And is it possible that you love him? With a rapture that thrills every fiber of my heart, with a devotion that enthralls my very soul. But there's some difficulty about his settlements. A difficulty? I should think there was. Why, on my marrying, his entire income goes over to Simperson. I could reduce him to penury to-morrow. As it happens, I am engaged, I recollect, to Simperson's daughter. And if Belvani dares to interpose between you and me, by George I'll do it. Oh, spare him, sir. 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.
There seems to be a special importance attached to a blessing conferred with one's latest breath that I entirely failed to grasp. It seems to me to convey no definite advantage of any kind whatever. Cruel, cruel man. Enter Belvoni in great alarm. We are lost. We are lost! What do you mean? Who has lost you? Major McGillicuddy discovered your flight and followed in the next train. The line is blocked through our accident, and his train is 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? I agree with you. We are lost. I disagree with you. I should say you are found. This man is a reckless fire-eater! He is jealous of me. He will assuredly shoot us both if he sees us here together.
I am no coward, but I confess I am uneasy. Miss Travern to Cheviot. Oh, sir, you have a ready wit. Help us out of this difficulty, and we will both bless you. With our latest breath! That decides me. Madam, remain here with me. Belvoni withdraw. Belvoni retires. 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? I will stake my very existence on its veracity, whatever it may be. Good. He is at hand. Belvani, go. Exit Belvani. Now, madam, repose upon my shoulders. Place your arms around me so. Is that comfortable? It is luxurious. Good. You are sure it does not inconvenience you?
Not at all. Go back. I like it. Now we are ready for him. Enter McGillicuddy, with two friends dressed as for a wedding, with white favours. McGillicuddy has pistols, all greatly excited. Where is the villain? I'll swear he is concealed somewhere. Search every tree, every bush, every geranium. Ah! They are here. Perjured woman, I've found you at last. Mr. Hahn to Cheviot. Save me. Belvoni appears at back, listening. 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. "'May just bear him.' "'Now, sir, perhaps you will be so good as to explain who the deuce you are, and what you want with this lady.' "'I don't know who you may be, but I'm Muck-Giddy-Cuddy.
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. I really think you must be laboring under some delusion. Delusion? Ha ha ha! The two friends produce large wedding cake. Here's the cake. Still, I think there's a mistake somewhere. This lady is my wife. What? Belinda! Oh, Belinda! Tell me that this unattractive man lies! Tell me that you are mine, and only mine, now and for ever! I cannot say that. This gentleman is my husband. McGillicuddy falls sobbing on seat. Belvarni tears his hair in despair. Maggie sobs on Angus's shoulder. End of Act One.
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2 02 - Act 2 43:26
S. Gilbert. Act Two. Scene. Double drawing room in Simpersons House. Indications that a wedding is about to take place. A plate of tarts and a bottle of wine on table.
Enter Minnie Simperson in wedding dress, followed by Parker, her maid, holding her train. Take care, Parker. That's right. There. How do I look? Beautiful, miss. Quite beautiful. Minnie, earnestly. Oh, Parker, am I really beautiful. Really, really beautiful, you know. Oh, Miss, there's no question about it. I do so hope you and Mr. Cheviot Hill will be happy. 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 couldn't wish to be more 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 Simperson, dressed for wedding. So my little lamb is ready for the sacrifice. You can go, Parker. And I am to lose my pet at last. My little Dickie Bird is to be married today. Well, well, it's for her good. I must try and bear it. I must try and bear it. And as my dear old Papa comes into a thousand pounds 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. My child, I will not deny that a thousand pounds a year is a consolation. It's quite a fortune. I hardly know what I shall do with it. 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 bedding. It may be so.
I don't say it won't. We shall see, Minnie, we shall 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? No, dear Papa. Only fancy. Cheviot has two thousand pounds a year from shares in the Royal Indestructible Bank. And don't spend two hundred pounds. By the by, I'm sorry that my little bird has not contrived to induce him to settle anything on her. That, I think, was remiss of my tomtit. Dear Papa, Cheviot is the very soul of honor. He's a fine, noble, manly-spirited fellow, but if he has a fault, it is that he is very, oh, very, very 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. Still, I can't help feeling that if my Robin had worked him judiciously... Papa, dear, Cheviot is an all-but-perfect character, the very type of 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 noodle, that on the whole, perhaps she could work it better after marriage than before. Well, well. Perhaps Moiraine is right. Rises. Don't laugh at my silly little thoughts, dear Papa, when I say I'm sure she is. 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 to have your own way in everything. Brook no contradictions. Never yield to outside pressure. Give in to no argument. Admits 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. Papa dear, I have thought over the matter very carefully in my little baby noodle, 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? Yes, I dare say it will come to that. 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. Dear child, dear child, I sometimes fancy I 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 be thinking of. Enter Miss Traherne, unobserved. She is dressed in stately and funereal black. Come here, manservant, approach. I'm not going to bite you. Can I see the fair young thing they call Minnie Simberson? Well, really, I can hardly say. There's nothing wrong, I hope. Nothing wrong. Oh, thoughtless, frivolous, light-hearted 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 you not? Butler. Undoubtedly. But I beg to observe that I am not the— Have you, or have you not, the gift of simple apprehension? Can you, or can you not, draw conclusions? Go to. Go to. You offend me. Simperson, aside. There is something wrong, and it's here. Touching his forehead. I'll tell her you're here. Whom shall I say? Say that one on whose devoted head the black sorrows of a long lifetime have fallen, even as a funeral pal, craves a minute's interview with a dear old friend. Do you think you can recollect that message, butler? I'll try, but I beg, I beg to observe.
I'm not the butler.
This is a most surprising young person.
At last I'm in my darling's home, the home of the bright-light carolling thing that lit as with a ray of heaven's sunlight, the murky gloom of my miserable school days. But what do I see? Tarts, ginger wine. There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas, I am out of place here. What have I in common with tarts? Oh, I am ill attuned to the scene of ravelry. Takes a tart and eats it. Enter Minnie. Belinda! They rush to each other's arms. Minnie, my own long-lost lamb! This is the first gleam of joy that has lied at 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? Oh, I felt sure it was you from the message.
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. Yes, dear, I shall be married in half an hour. Oh, strange chance! Oh, unheard of coincidence! Married! And to whom? Oh, to the dearest love, my cousin, Mr. Cheviot Hill. Perhaps you know the name? I have heard of the Cheviot Hill somewhere. Happy, strangely happy girl. You at least know your husband's name. Oh, yes, it's on all his pocket-handkerchiefs. It is much to know. I do not know mine. Have you forgotten it? No, I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. It may not be unfathomed. It is buried in the fathomless gulf of the eternal past. There let it be.
Oh, tell me all about it, dear. It is a leery tale. Three 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 husband. 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. What fun! 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? Did he leave me anything? If anything, how much, and is it settled with conditions? Can I marry again without forfeiting it? Have I a mother-in-law? Have I a family of stepchildren, and if so, how many, and what are their ages, sexes, sizes, names, and dispositions? These are questions that rack me night and day, and until they are settled, peace and I are not on terms."
Poor dear thing. But enough of my selfish sorrows. Goes up to table and 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? I don't know. Secretly removes tarts to another table, close to door. I never thought of asking. I'm such a goose, but Papa knows. Have those base and servile things called settlements been satisfactorily adjusted? I don't know. It never occurred to me to inquire, but Papa can tell you. The same artless little soul. Minnie, 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. I would willingly be a witness to my darling's joy, but this attire is, perhaps, scarcely in harmony with the scene of revelry.
Well, dear, you're not a cheerful object, and that's the truth. And yet these charnel-house rags may serve to remind the thoughtless banqueters that they are but mortal. I don't think it will be necessary to do that, dear. Papa Sherry will make that quite clear to them. Then I will hire me home and array me in garments of less sombre hue. I think it would be better, dear. Those are the very things for a funeral, but this is a wedding. I see very little difference between them, but it shall be as you wish, though I have worn nothing but black since my miserable marriage. Day's breakfast, I suppose? Yes, at dear Cheviot's house. That is well. I shall return in time for it. Thank heaven I can still eat!
Takes a tart from table, and exit, followed by Minnie. Enter Cheviot Hill. He is dressed as for a wedding. 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 me, this is a great day for me. A great day. Where's Minnie, I wonder? Arraying herself for the sacrifice, no doubt. Poof. This is a very nervous 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 expenses. 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, quite true. I am quite determined that nothing shall shake my constancy to Minnie. Enter Parker. What a devilish pretty girl. Parker aside. He's a mean young man, but he ought to be good for half a crown today. Come here, my dear. Uh, how do I look? Very nice indeed, sir. What, really? Really. What tempting, eh? Very tempting indeed.
Ha! The married state is an enviable state, Parker. Is it, sir? I hope it may be. It depends. 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 saying, 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. It's expensive. So it is, at first, very expensive. But with economy, you soon retrench 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. 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. Dovelike. What? You've remarked that, eh? Ha-ha. But dovelike as I am, Parker, in some respects yet... Getting his arm round her. In other respects... 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 something about you. I don't know what it is that—in other words, you are the tree upon which—no, no—dammit, Cheviot. Not today, not today. What a way you have with you, sir! 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.
Putting it round her waist. Now, pleasant as this sort of thing is, and you find it pleasant, don't you? Parkin nods. Yes, you find it pleasant. Pleasant as it is. It is decidedly wrong. It is decidedly wrong in a married man. 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 necessary to conquer this tendency, to struggle 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. Yes, sir, but then a band's playing. 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 this stage. Kissing her. Not that there's any real harm in kissing, either. For you see fathers and mothers, who ought to set a good example, kissing their children every day. Lord, sir, kissing's nothing. Everybody does that. 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. But I'm not your wife, sir. No, not yet. That's very true, and, of course, makes a difference. That's why I say I must subdue this tenancy. I must struggle with it.
I must conquer it. In half an hour. Minnie, without. Parker! Where's Mr. Cheviot? There is your mistress, my dear. She's coming. Will you excuse me? Releasing her. Thank you. Good day, Parker. Parker, disgusted. Not so much as a shilling, and that man's worth thousands. Exit, Parker. Enter Minnie. My darling Minnie, my own own to come. Kissing her. Oh, you mustn't crush me, Cheviot. You'll spoil my dress. How do you like it? It's lovely. It's a beautiful material. Yes, dear Papa's been going it. Oh, but you're indebted to me for that beautiful dress. To you? Oh, thank you! Thank you! 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. Dear me, to think that in half an hour this magnificent dress will be my property. Yes, dear Papa said that as you had offered to give the breakfast at your house, he would give me the best dress that money could procure. 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. Oh, tell me all about the cake. 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. I see. Three-quarters cake, and the rest wood.
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 pastry cook 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. How good you are to me! We shall be very happy, shall we not? Aye. I hope so, yes. I hope so. Playfully happy, like two little kittens. That will be delightful. Economically happy, like two sensible people. Oh, we must be very economical. No vulgar display, no pandering to a jaded 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. And some floury potatoes. A loaf of nice household bread. A stick of celery. And a bit of cheese, and you've a dinner fit for a monarch. Then how shall we spend our evenings? We'll have pleasant little fireside games. Are you fond of fireside games? Oh, they're great fun. Then we'll play at tailoring. Tailoring? I don't think I know that game. 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. Delightful! 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 ninepence. And the next day, we have it. Oh, Cheviot, what a paradise you hold open to me! Yes. How's Papa? He's very well and very happy. He's going to increase his establishment on the strength of the one thousand pounds a year and keep a manservant. 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. How kind and thoughtful you are! Oh, Sheviot, I'm a very lucky girl. Exit Minnie. Yes, I think so, too. If I 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 be married, and the tall girl is nothing to you. Enter Parker. Please, sir, here's a gentleman to see you. Oh, my solicitor, no doubt. Show him up. And please, some persons have called to see you about an advertisement. Oh, Simpersons servants, to be sure. Show up the gentlemen and tell the others to wait. Exit Parker.
Enter Belvoni. He looks very miserable. Belvoni? This is unexpected. Much confused. Yes, Shavoy. At last we meet. Don't, oh, don't frown upon a heartbroken wretch. Belvani, I don't want to hurt your feelings, 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 forever. Oh, Shavoy, 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. It is a tempting offer. I am not proof against it. We all have our price, and that is mine. Proceed. Mr. Hearn, Belinda, whom I love so dearly, won't have anything to say to me. It does her credit. She's a very superior girl.
It's all through you, Chavoy. She declares that the mutual declaration you made to protect her from McGillicuddy amounts to a Scotch marriage. What? She declares she is your wife. She professes to love me as fondly as ever, but a stern sense of duty to you forbids her to hold any communication with me. Oh, but this is absurd, you know. Of course it is, but what's to be done? You left with Simperson immediately after making the declaration. 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. But this is simple madness. I can't have it. This day, 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— Alert. Belvani, my dear friend, tell me what to do. I'll do anything. 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 meantime she claims you, you must absolutely decline to recognize this marriage for a moment. Not for one moment. It was a mere otifice to enable her to escape from McGillicuddy. Nothing more. It's monstrous! Perfectly monstrous!
That that should constitute a marriage! It's disgraceful! It's abominable! Damn, Chavoy! It's immoral! So it is. It's immoral. That settles it in my mind. It's immoral. You're quite sure you'll be resolute, Chavoy? Resolute? I should think so. Why, hang it all, man. I'm going to be married in twenty minutes to Minnie Simpersen. What? Cheviot, 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. Shavoy, you're joking. You don't mean this. Why, I shall lose a thousand pounds a year by it, every penny I have in the world. Oh, it can't be. It's nonsense. What do you mean by nonsense? The married state is an honorable 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? Shavoy, be careful how you take this step. Beware how you involve an innocent and helpless girl in social destruction. What do you mean, sir? You cannot marry. You are a married man! Come, come, Belvani. This is trifling. You are married to Miss Traherne. I was present and can depose to the fact. Oh, you're not serious. Never more serious in my life. 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. Damn, Belvani, it would be immoral. I may deplore the state of the law, but I cannot stand tamely by and see it deliberately violated before my eyes. But, Belvani, 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 love her madly, rapturously. Going on his knees to Balvorny. I have prepared a wedding breakfast at a great expense to do her honor. I have ordered four flies for the wedding party. I have taken two second-class cook's tourist tickets to Ilfracombe, Devon, Exeter, Cornwall, Westford Ho, and Bidford Bay.
The whole thing has cost me some twenty or twenty-five pounds, and all this will be wasted, utterly wasted, if you interfere. Oh, Belvani, dear Belvani, let the recollection of our long and dear friendship operate to prevent your shipwrecking my future life.
I have a duty to do. I must do it. But reflect, dear Belvani, if I am married to Miss Trahearn, you lose your income as much as if I married Minnie Simpersen. No doubt, if you could prove your marriage to Miss Trahearn, but you can't. With melodramatic intensity. Those eyes. You don't know where she is. With fiendish exultation. Oh, those eyes! The cottage has been pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated to Patagonia! Oh, those eyes! I'm the only witness left. I can prove your marriage, if I like, but you can't! It's a most painful and unfortunate situation for you, and believe me... My dear Shevoy, you have my deepest and most respectful sympathy. Exit, Bolvorny. This is appalling, simply appalling.
A cup of happiness dashed from my lips just as I was about to drink a lifelong 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 passed, 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 Belvani, and Belvani isn't a proof. Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be worth something. Uncorroborated, it is worthless. I'll risk it. He can do nothing. The bride is nowhere. The cottagers are in Patagonia, and— At this moment Mrs.
Macfarlane, Maggie, and Angus appear at the back. They stand bobbing and curtsying in rustic fashion to Cheviot, whom they do not recognize. He stares aghast at them for a moment, then staggers back to sofa. The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that's infernal! Good day, sir. We've just called to see you about the advertisement. Producing paper. I don't know you. I don't know you. Go away. Xiviet buries his head in a newspaper and pretends to read on sofa. Ah, sir. You said that we were to call on you this day at eleven o'clock, and so we've come all the way for Dumfries to see you. I tell you, I don't know you. Go away. I'm not at all well. I'm very ill, and it's infectious. We fear no illness, sir.
This is Mistress McFarlane, the good old mither, who'll cook the bruce and boil the parritch, and sit with ye, and nurse ye through your illness till the sad day ye dee." Wiping his eye. Sheev it. Pokes a hole with his finger through newspaper and reconnoitres unobserved. And this is Meg, my aimless Meg. Chiviet aside. Attractive girl, very. I remember her perfectly. And this is Angus McAllister, who's going to marry her, and who'll be mere than a son to me. Oh, mither, mither, didn't say it. For ye bring the teardrop to my ee, and it's no canny for a strong man to be blithering and sowing like a poor weak lassie. Wiping his eye, Angus and Mrs. Macfarlane sit. Maggie advances to hole-in newspaper and peeps through.
Oh, mither, mither! Staggers back into Angus's arms. What is it, Mag? Me wee loved Meg, my wee wifey that is to be. Tell me what's wrang with thee. O mither it's him, the noble gentleman I plighted my troth to, three weary months agone, the gallant Englishman who gave Anglis twa golden pound to give me up. It's the coward Sassanash, who well nigh broke on Meg's head. Males! Males! Ben greet! Maybe he'll marry you yet? Cheviot, desperately. Here's another. Does anybody else want to marry me? Don't be shy. You, ma'am. To Mrs. Macfarlane. You're a fine woman. Perhaps you would like to try your luck. Ah, sir, I didn't ken your name, but your balmy face has lived in my own twain, sleeping and waking three weary, weary months.
Oh, sir. You shouldna have deceived a trustin' simple Lowland lassie. Twas nawil done. Twas nawil done. Weeping on his shoulder, he puts his arm round her waist. Chivit, softening. My good girl, what do you wish me to do? I remember you now perfectly. I did admire you very much. In fact, I still do. You're a very charming girl. Let us talk this over. Calmly and quietly. Maggie moves away. 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. Dammit, Cheviot, not today. Oh, Mither, he told me he loved me. So I did. The fact is, when I fell in love with you. Don't go, my pretty bird.
I quite forgot that I was 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. Oh, mither, it was another tree. Weeping on Cheviot's shoulder. Oh, Angus, it was another tree. Weeping on Angus's shoulder. Dina, mither, dina. I canna bear it. Weeps. 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 them, my dear. Come, come, don't fret. You are one of them. Enter Minnie and Simpersome. Sheviot!
What is all this? Sheviot, rapidly referring to piece of paper given to him by Mrs. Macfarlane, as if going over a washerwoman's bill. Twenty-four pairs of socks, two shirts, thirty-seven collars, one sheet, forty-four nightshirts, twenty-two flannel waistcoats, One white tie. Ridiculous. Quite ridiculous. I won't pay it. Sheviot, who is this person who was found hanging on your neck? Say she is somebody. For instance, your sister or your aunt. Oh, Sheviot, say she is your aunt. I implore you. The three cottagers curtsy and bow to Minnie. Sheviot, say she is your aunt. I command you. Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't see you. These ladies are...are my washerwomen. Allow me to introduce them. They have come...they have come for their small account.
Maggie, who has been sobbing through this, throws herself hysterically onto Cheviot's bosom. 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 it. It's something in the suds that undermines their constitution. Cheviots, I should like to believe you, but it seems scarcely credible. Oh, sir, he's nay telling you truly. I'm the pure lowland lassie that he stole the hair tout of three months ago and promised to marry. And I love him say-wheel, say-wheel, and now he's married to another. Nothing of the kind. I— You are mistaken, and so is your mith-uh-mother. He is not yet married to anith-uh-another.
Why, sir, it took place before my very ain eyes, before a saw to a beautiful lady three months since. Sheviot, say that this is not true. Say that the beautiful lady was somebody, for instance, your aunt. Oh, say she was your aunt. I implore you. Sheviot, say she is your aunt. I command you. Minnie, Simperson, 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. Cheviot, let's know exactly where we are. I 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. Sheaviet in despair. I cannot. Enter Belvoni. I can. Belvoni? I was present when Sheavoy 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. That's enough for me. It's a Scotch marriage. Minnie, my child, we must find you someone else. Cheviot's married. Belvoni, I am sorry to say, I deprived you of your income. I beg your pardon. Not yet. Why not? 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. But she shall be found. What is her name? That I decline to state. But you shall be made to state. I insist upon knowing the young lady's name.
Enter Miss Trahan in a light and cheerful dress. Belvourne, amazed. Belinda Traherne! Mr. Brown, rushing to Minnie. Minnie, my own old friend. Tis she. Mr. Brown turns and recognises Cheviot. My husband. My wife. Mr. Brown throws herself at Cheviot's feet, kissing his hands rapturously.
Belvourne staggers back.
Minnie faints in her father's arms. Maggie sobs on Angus's breast.
End of Act Two.
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3 03 - Act 3 36:29
Scene. Same as Act II. Belvourney discovered with Mr. Hearn a Minnie. He is singing to them. Mr. Hearn is leaning romantically on piano. Minnie is seated on a stool. Says the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah, I am Dryah, Obadiah, I am Dryah, I am Dryah. I am Dryah. Says the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah, I'm on fire, Obadiah, I'm on fire, I'm on fire. I'm on fire. Oh, thank you, Mr. Belvani. How sweetly pretty that is. Where can I get it? How marvelous 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 troubled times of anarchy. Your song has soothed me, sir. Mr. Brown. I am indeed glad to think that I have comforted you a little, dear ladies.
Dear Mr. Belvani, I don't know what we should have done without you. What with your sweet songs, your amusing riddles, and your clever conjuring tricks, the weary days of waiting have passed like a delightful dream. It is impossible to be dull in the society of one who can charm the soul with plaintive ballads one moment, and the next roll a rabbit and a kin and a pig into one. You make me indeed happy, dear ladies. But my joy will be of brief duration, for Chevoy may return at any moment with the news that the fatal cottage was in Scotland, and then—oh, Belinda, what is to become of me? Belinda, how many issues depend on that momentous question? Has Belvenie a thousand years, or is he ruined?
Has your father the convenient addition to his income, or has he not? May Maggie marry Agnes, 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 honored wife, or am I but a brokenhearted and desolate spinster? Who can tell? Who can tell? Crosses to Minnie. Belvoni goes to window in second drawing room. Here is a cab with luggage. It is Chavoy. He has returned with the news. Ladies, one word before I go. One of you will be claimed by Chavoy. That is very clear. To that one, whichever it may be, I do not address myself, but to the other, whichever 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 possibility of my ever entertaining the slightest regard for any other woman in the whole world. I thought I would just mention it. Good morning. Exit Belvoni. How beautifully he expresses himself! He is indeed a rare and radiant being. Minnie, nervously. Oh, Belinda, the terrible moment is at hand! 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. 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 you looking at our house, on dear Cheviot's and mine, as your home.
I swear it, we will be like dear, dear sisters. Enter Cheviot as from journey, with bag and rug. Cheviot, tell me at once, are you my own husband? Sheviet speak, is poor, little, simple Minnie to be your bride. 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. Mr. Han, aside. Sorry news, then I am not his wife. Minnie, aside. Sorry news, then she is his wife. My dear girls, my very dear girls, my journey has been fruitless. I have no information. No information? None. The McQuibigaski has gone abroad.
Both ladies full weeping. More weary waiting, more weary waiting. Oh, my breaking heart! Oh, my poor bruised and breaking heart! We must be patient, dear Belinda. Many my own. We must be patient. After all, is the situation so very terrible? Each of you has an even chance of becoming my wife, and in the meantime I look upon myself as engaged to both of you. I shall make no distinction. 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 Trahan, wiping her eyes. You are very kind and thoughtful, dear Sheviot. I believe, in my simple little way, that you are the very best man in the whole world.
No, no. Ah, but do let me think so. It makes me so happy to think so. Does it? Well, well, be it so, perhaps I am. And now tell me, how has the time passed since I left? Have my darlings been dull? We should have been dull indeed, but for the airy Belveni. This prightly creature has done his best to make the lagging hours fly. He's an entertaining rattlesnake. I should say, rattle-trap. Chivit, jealous. Oh, is he so? Belveni has been making the hours fly, has he? I'll make him fly when I catch him. His conjuring tricks are wonderful. Confound his conjuring tricks. Have you seen him bring a live hen, two hairbrushes, and a pound and a half of fresh butter out of his pocket handkerchief? No, I have not had that advantage.
It is a thrilling sight. So 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. Ah, Sheviot, do not judge us harshly. We love you with a reckless fervor 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. 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 Belvaniing of any kind whatever, or anything approaching thereto.
When that is settled, the other may Belvani until she is black in the face. And how long have we to wait before we shall know which one of us may begin Belvenaying? I can't say. It may be some time. The Mekwibigaski has gone to Central Africa. No post can reach him, and he will not return for six years. Six years? Oh, I cannot wait six years. Why, in six years I will be eight and twenty. Six years? Why, in six years the Statue of Limitations will come in, and he can renounce us both. True. You are quite right. T'Chiviot. T'Chiviot, I have loved you madly. Desperately, as other women never loved other men. This poor, inexperienced child, who clings to me as the ivy clings to the oak, also loves you as women never loved before.
Even that 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. 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'd 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. Exit Cheviot. Poor fellow. He has my tender sympathy. But we have no alternative but to place ourselves under the protecting aegis of a jury of our countrymen.
Enter Simperson with two letters. Minnie! Mr. Hearn! The post has just brought me two letters. One of them bears a Marseille postmark, and is, I doubt not, from the Mekwibigaski. He must have written just before starting for Central Africa. From the McQuibigaski? Oh, read, read! Oh, sir, how can you torture us by this delay? Have you no curiosity? Well, my dear, very little on this point. You see, it doesn't matter much to me whom Sheviot marries. So that he marries someone, that's enough for me. But, however, your anxiety is natural, and I will gratify it.
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.
Sinking into a chair. This blow is indeed a crusher. Against such a blow I cannot stand up. Faints. Minnie on her knees. 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 Traherne suddenly springing up. Speak to you. Yes, I'll speak to you. All is not yet lost. True, he is not married to me. But 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 will I try. Do, darling. And I wish—oh, how I wish you may get him. Minnie, if you were not the dearest little friend I have in this world, I could binge you. Exit Belinda. Simperson, who has been reading the other letter.
Dear me, how terrible. What is terrible, dear papa? Belvoni writes to tell me the indestructible bank stopped payment yesterday, and Cheviot shares are waste paper. Well, upon my word, there's an end of him. An end of him? What do you mean? You're not going to throw him over? Dear Papa, I am sorry to disappoint you, but unless your tomtit is very much mistaken, the indestructible was not registered under the Joint Stock Companies Act of 62, and in that case, the shareholders are jointly and severally liable to the whole extent of their available capital. Poor little Minnie doesn't pretend to have a business head, but she's not quite such a little donkey as that dear papa. You declined to marry him?
Do I hear rightly? I don't know, Papa, whether your hearing is as good as it was, but from your excited manner, I should say you heard me perfectly. Exit Minnie. This is a pretty business, done out of a thousand a year by my own daughter. What a terrible thing is this incessant craving after money. Upon my word, some people seem 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 low spirits. Cheviot, throwing himself into a chair, sobs aloud.
Oh, Uncle Simperson, have you heard the news? Yes, I have heard the news. And a pretty man of business you are to invest all your property in an unregistered company? Uncle, don't you turn against me. Belinda is not my wife. I'm a ruined man, and my darlings—my three darlings, whom I love with a fidelity which, in these easygoing days, is simply kixotic. "'Will have nothing to say to me. Minnie, your daughter, declines to accompany me to the altar. Belinda, I feel sure, will revert to Belvani. And Maggie is, at this present moment, hanging around that Scotch idiot's neck. Although she knows that in doing so she simply tortures me. Simpersen, I never loved three girls as I loved those three. Never.
Never. And now they'll all three slip through my fingers. I'm sure they will." Pooh-pooh, sir. Do you think nobody loses but you? Why, I'm done out of a thousand a year by it. For that matter, Simpersen, I've a very vivid idea that you won't have to wait long for the money. What do you mean? Oh, of course. I understand. A? Mrs. McFarlane. I have thought of her myself. A very fine woman for her years. A majestic ruin. Beautiful in decay. My dear boy, my very dear boy, I congratulate you. Don't be absurd. I'm not going to marry anybody. Eh? Why then, Hal? I don't think I quite follow you. There is another contingency on which you come into the money. My death. To be sure. I never thought of that.
And as you say, a man can die but once. I beg your pardon? I didn't say anything of the kind. You said it. But it's true for all that. I'm very sorry. But of course, if you've made up your mind to it... Why... When a man's lost everything, what has he to live for? True, true. Nothing whatsoever. Still... His money gone, his credit gone, the three girls he's engaged to gone. I cannot deny it. It's a hopeless situation. Hopeless, quite hopeless. 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? True, true. You're quite right. Farewell. Going. Simperson, you seem to think I want 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. Simperson, 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? Something? Of course I can. Say that you throw 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 get wet through, and your clothes are absolutely ruined. Sheviet mournfully. For that matter, I could take off my clothes before I went in. True. So you could. I never thought of that. You could take them off before you go in.
There's no reason why you shouldn't 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.
Good fellow, Simperson. I like a man who's open to conviction. But it's no use. All my attractions are gone, and I cannot live unless I feel I'm fascinating. 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 Balvorny, who has overheard these words. Out of the question, you are too late! I have represented to her that you are never likely to induce anyone to marry you, now that you are penniless. She felt that my income was secure, and she gave me her hand and her heart. Then all is lost, my last chance is gone, and the irrevocable die is cast. Be happy with her, Belvani. Be happy with her.
Happy? You shall dine with us after our honeymoon and judge for yourself. No, I shall not do that. Long before you return, I shall be beyond the reach of dinners. I understand. You're going abroad. Well, I don't think you could do better than try another country. Cheviot, tragically. Belvani, I'm going to try another world. Drawing a pistol from his pocket, Belvani alarmed. What do you mean? In two minutes, I die. You're joking, of course? Do I look like a man who jokes? Is my frame of mind one in which a man indulges in trivialities? But, my dear Chavoy, reflect! Why should it concern you? You will be happy with Belinda. You will not be well off, but Simpersen will, and I dare say he will give you a meal now and then.
It will not be a nice meal, but still it will be a meal. Chavoy, you mustn't do this. Pray reflect. There are interests of magnitude depending on your existence. My mind is made up. Cocking the pistol. But I shall be ruined! There is Belinda's fortune. She won't have me if I'm ruined! Dear Chavoy, don't do it! It's culpable. It's wrong. Life is valueless to me without Belinda. Pointing the pistol to his head, Belvoni 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, Shavoy, you shall have anything you like if only you'll consent to live. If I thought you were in earnest. But no. No.
Putting pistol to head. In earnest? Of course I'm in earnest! What's the use of Belinda to me if I'm ruined? Why she wouldn't look at me? But perhaps if I'm ruined, she wouldn't look at me. Shaboy, I'll confess all. If you only live, you... you are not ruined. Not ruined? Not ruined. I invented the statement. Cheviot, in great delight. You invented the statement? My dear friend, my very dear friend, I'm very much obliged to you. Oh, thank you. Thank you a thousand times. Oh, Belvani, you have made me very, very happy.
Sobbing on his shoulder, then suddenly springing 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. I did it to gain Belinda's love. I knew that the unselfish creature loved you for your wealth alone. It was a liberty, sir. It was a liberty. To put it mildly, it was a liberty. It was. You're quite right. That's the word for it. It was a liberty. But I'll go and undeceive her at once. Exit Belvornia. 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 Simperson in deep black. He walks pensively, with a white handkerchief to his mouth.
What's the matter? Hello. You're still alive. Alive? Yes. Why? Noticing his dress. Is anything wrong? No, no, my dear young friend. These clothes are symbolic. They represent my state of mind. After your terrible threat, which I cannot doubt you intend to put at once into execution... My dear uncle, this is very touching. This unmans me. But cheer up, dear old friend. I have good news for you. Sympism alarmed. Good news? What do you mean? I am about to remove the weight of sorrow which hangs so heavily at your heart. Resume your fancy-check trousers. I have consented to live. Consented to live? Why, sir, this is confounded trifling. I don't understand this line 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. 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. Belinda will do nothing of the kind. She has just left the house with Belvani, in a cab, and under the most affectionate circumstances... Chiviet alarmed. Left with Belvani? Where have they gone? I don't know. Very likely to get married.
Married? Yes, before the registrar. I've been sold. I see that now. Belvani has done me. But I'm not the kind of man who stands such treatment quietly. Belvani has found his match. Simberson, they may get married, but they shall not be happy. I'll be revenged on them 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. What? I'll marry. Marry? Anybody. I don't care who it is. Will Minnie do? Minnie will do. Send her here. In one moment, my dear boy, in one moment. Exit Simperson hurriedly. Belinda, alone in a cab with Belvani. It's maddening to think of it. He's got his arm around 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 it once to the registrar and tell him she's married. Sits at writing table. And prepares to write. Oh, why am I 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. Mr. Cheviot Hill, Papa tells me that you wish to speak to me. Cheviot, hurriedly writing at table. I do. Miss Simperson, I have no time to beat about the bush. I must come to the point at once. 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. Unforeseen circumstances render it necessary that I should marry at once. And you'll do. An early answer will be esteemed as this is business. Resumes his writing. Mr. Hill, dear Papa assures me that the report of your loss of your money is incorrect. I hope this may be the case, but I cannot forget that the information 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 he wants to accomplish his purpose, he does not hesitate to invent. I am not quite sure of the word, but I think it is bouncers.
Chiviot writing. You are quite right. The word is bouncers. Bouncers or bangers, either will do. Then forgive my silly little 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. Mercenary little donkey, I will not condescend to proof. I renounce her altogether. Ringsbell. Enter Maggie with Angus and Mrs. Macfarlane. Angus has his arm round her waist. Cheviot suddenly seeing her. Maggie, come here. Angus, do take your arm from round that girl's waist. Stand back, and don't you listen. Maggie, three months ago I told you that I loved you passionately. Today I tell you that I love you as passionately as ever.
I may add that I am still a rich man. Can you oblige me with a postage stamp? Maggie gives him a stamp from her pocket. He sticks it onto his letter. What do you say? I must trouble you for an immediate answer, as this is not pleasure. It's business. Oh, sir, ye're o'er late. Oh, Maester Chavoy, if I only kenned it before. Oh, sir, I love ye right weel. The bluid o' my herit is naysay dear to me as thou. Sobbing on his shoulder. Oh, Shevoy, my ain't out love, my ain't out love. Angus aside. Poor lassie. It just draws the water for my ye to hear her. Oh, mither, mither, my head is just breaking. Sobs on Mrs. Macfarlane's shoulder. 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 to prevent our union? Maggie, wiping her eyes. Oh, sir, you're unca good to pure little Maggie, but you're too late, for she's placed the matter in her solicitor's hands, and he tells her that an action for breach will just bring damages to the tune of a thousand pound. There's a laddie outside new to serve the bonnie writ on you. Turns affectionately to Angus. Chiviet falling sobbing onto sofa.
No one will marry me. There is a curse upon me, a curse upon me. No one will marry me, no, not one. Didn't say that, sir. There is many a woman, my young, soft, foolish lassie neither, but grown woman of sober age who'd be mair a mither than a wife to ye. And that's what you want, poor lady, for you are no equal to taking care of yourself. Mrs. McFarlane, 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, dammit, I can't, I can't. One must draw the line somewhere. Turning from her with disgust. Enter Mr. Hearn and Belvarny. They are followed by Simperson and Minnie. Belinda, can I believe my eyes? You have returned to me. You have not gone off with Belvarny after all?
Thank heaven! Thank heaven! I thought that as I came in I heard you say something about a tree. You are right. As you entered I was remarking 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. Cheviot, I love you with an irresistible feather that seems to part my very existence. I love you as I never 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 belveny before the register. And that register has just made us one. Turns affectionately to Belvorni. Belvorni embraces Belinda.
Bless him for it! Bless him for it! Chiviat, deadly calm. 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 of business, that's all. Certainly. Here it is. You will find the situation of the cottage described in unmistakable terms. Hands the letter to Cheviot. Cheviot reads, 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. Thank you. I am satisfied. Takes out pistol. Now, sir, perhaps you will kindly release that young lady. She is my wife. Sheviot's arm has crept mechanically round Mr.
Hearn's waist. Oh, Sheviot, kindly release me. I am his wife. Crushed. Crushed. Crushed. Simperson, looking over his shoulder at letter, reads, Turn over. Chiviet, despairingly. Why should I? What good would it do? Oh, I see. I beg your pardon. Turns over the page. Hello. Rises. What? What? What? What? Chiviet reads. P.S. I may add that the borderline runs through the property. The cottage is undoubtedly in England, though the garden is in Scotland. And we were married in the garden. Belinda, we were married in the garden. Belinda leaves Belvoni and turns affectionately to Cheviot, who embraces her. Belinda, stop a bit! Don't leave me like this! Miss Trevon crosses to Belvoni. Belveni, 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, Belvenie. Minnie may yet be yours.
Belvenie turns sobbing to Minnie, who comforts him. Miss Traherne crosses back to Cheviot. Cheviot, my husband, my own old love. If the devotion of a lifetime can atone for the misery of the last few days, it is yours, with every wifely sentiment of pride, gratitude, admiration, and love. Cheviot embracing her. My own, my own, tender blossom of my budding hopes, star of my life, essence of happiness, tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing, my past, my present, my to come. Picture. Cheviot embracing Mr. Hearn. Belvoni is being comforted by Minnie. Angus is solacing Maggie, and Mrs. Macfarlane is reposing on Mr. Simperson's bosom. End of Act Three. End of Engaged by W.S. Gilbert.