Читать книгу Original Plays, Second Series - W. S. Gilbert - Страница 14
ACT II.
ОглавлениеScene.—Double Drawing-room in Symperson’s House. Indications that a wedding is about to take place. A plate of tarts and a bottle of wine on table.
Enter Minnie Symperson, in wedding dress, followed by Parker, her maid, holding her train.
Min. Take care, Parker—that’s right. There! How do I look?
Par. Beautiful, miss; quite beautiful.
Min. (earnestly). Oh, Parker, am I really beautiful? Really, really beautiful, you know?
Par. Oh, miss, there’s no question about it. Oh, I do so hope you and Mr. Cheviot Hill will be happy.
Min. Oh, I’m sure we shall, Parker. He has often told me that I am the tree upon which the fruit of his heart is growing; and one 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 Symperson, dressed for wedding.
Sym. So, my little lamb is ready for the sacrifice. You can go, Parker. And I am to lose my pet at last; my little dickey-bird is to be married to-day! Well, well, it’s for her good. I must try and bear it—I must try and bear it.
Min. And as my dear old papa comes into £1000 a year by it, I hope he won’t allow it to distress him too much. He must try and bear up. He mustn’t fret.
Sym. My child, I will not deny that £1000 a year is a consolation. It’s quite a fortune. I hardly know what I shall do with it.
Min. I think, dear papa, you will spend a good deal of it on brandy, and a good deal more on billiards, and a good deal more on betting.
Sym. 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?
Min. No, dear papa; only fancy! Cheviot has £2000 a year from shares in the Royal Indestructible Bank.
Sym. And don’t spend £200. By-the-bye, I’m sorry that my little bird has not contrived to induce him to settle anything on her; that, I think, was remiss in my tom-tit.
Min. Dear papa, Cheviot is the very soul of honour; he’s a fine, noble, manly, spirited fellow, but if he has a fault, it is that he is very, oh very, 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.
Sym. Still I can’t help feeling that if my robin had worked him judiciously——
Min. Papa, dear, Cheviot is an all but perfect character, the very type 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 noddle, that, on the whole, perhaps she could work it better after marriage, than before.
Sym. Well, well, perhaps my wren is right. (Rises.)
Min. Don’t laugh at my silly little thoughts, dear papa, when I say I’m sure she is.
Sym. Minnie, my dear daughter, take a father’s advice, the last he will ever be entitled to give you. If you would be truly happy in the married state, be sure you have your own way in everything. Brook no contradictions. Never yield to outside pressure. Give in to no argument. Admit no appeal. However wrong you may be, maintain a firm, resolute, and determined front. These were your angel mother’s principles through life, and she was a happy woman indeed. I neglected those principles, and while she lived I was a miserable wretch.
Min. Papa dear, I have thought over the matter very carefully in my little baby-noddle, and I have come to the conclusion—don’t laugh at me, dear papa—that it is my duty—my duty—to fall in with Cheviot’s views in everything before marriage, and Cheviot’s duty to fall into my views in everything after marriage. I think that is only fair, don’t you?
Sym. Yes, I dare say it will come to that.
Min. Don’t think me a very silly little goose when I say I’m sure it will. Quite, quite sure, dear papa. Quite.
[Exit Minnie.
Sym. 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 bear thinking of!
Enter Miss Treherne, unobserved. She is dressed in stately and funereal black.
Miss T. Come here, man-servant. Approach. I’m not going to bite you. Can I see the fair young thing they call Minnie Symperson?
Sym. Well really, I can hardly say. There’s nothing wrong, I hope?
Miss T. Nothing wrong? Oh, thoughtless, frivolous, 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, haven’t you, butler?
Sym. Undoubtedly, but I beg to observe I’m not the——
Miss T. Have you or have you not the gift of simple apprehension? Can you or can you not draw conclusions? Go to, go to, you offend me.
Sym. (aside). There is something wrong, and it’s here (touching his forehead). I’ll tell her you’re here. Whom shall I say?
Miss T. Say that one on whose devoted head the black sorrows of a long lifetime have fallen, even as a funeral pall, craves a minute’s interview with a dear old friend. Do you think you can recollect that message, butler?
Sym. I’ll try, but I beg, I beg to observe, I’m not the butler. (Aside.) This is a most surprising young person!
[Exit.
Miss T. At last I’m in my darling’s home, the home of the bright blythe 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 scenes of revelry! (Takes a tart and eats it.)
Enter Minnie.
Min. Belinda! (They rush to each other’s arms.)
Miss T. Minnie! My own long-lost lamb! This is the first gleam of joy that has lighted my darksome course this many and many a day! And in spite of the change that time and misery have brought upon me, you knew me at once! (Eating the tart all this time.)
Min. Oh, I felt sure it was you, from the message.
Miss T. How wondrously fair you have grown! And this dress! Why, it is surely a bridal dress! Those tarts—that wine! Surely this is not your wedding-day?
Min. Yes, dear, I shall be married in half an hour.
Miss T. Oh, strange chance! Oh, unheard-of coincidence! Married! And to whom?
Min. Oh, to the dearest love—My cousin, Mr. Cheviot Hill. Perhaps you know the name?
Miss T. I have heard of the Cheviot Hills, somewhere. Happy—strangely happy girl! You, at least, know your husband’s name.
Min. Oh yes, it’s on all his pocket-handkerchiefs.
Miss T. It is much to know. I do not know mine.
Min. Have you forgotten it?
Miss T. No; I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. It may not be unfathomed. It is buried in the fathomless gulf of the Eternal Past. There let it lie.
Min. Oh, tell me all about it, dear.
Miss T. It is a lurid 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.
Min. What fun!
Miss T. 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 saddled with conditions?—Can I marry again without forfeiting it? Have I a mother-in-law? Have I a family of step-children, and if so, how many, and what are their ages, sexes, sizes, names and dispositions? These are questions that rack me night and day, and until they are settled, peace and I are not on terms!
Min. Poor dear thing!
Miss T. 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?
Min. 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.
Miss T. Have those base and servile things called settlements been satisfactorily adjusted? (Eating.)
Min. I don’t know. It never occurred to me to inquire. But papa can tell you.
Miss T. The same artless little soul!
Min. (standing so as to conceal tarts from Belinda). Yes, I am quite artless—quite, quite artless. But now that you are here you will stay and see me married.
Miss T. I would willingly be a witness to my darling’s joy, but this attire is, perhaps, scarcely in harmony with a scene of revelry.
Min. Well, dear, you’re not a cheerful object, and that’s the truth.
Miss T. And yet these charnel-house rags may serve to remind the thoughtless banquetters that they are but mortal.
Min. I don’t think it will be necessary to do that, dear. Papa’s sherry will make that quite clear to them.
Miss T. Then I will hie me home, and array me in garments of less sombre hue.
Min. I think it would be better, dear. Those are the very things for a funeral, but this is a wedding.
Miss T. I see very little difference between them. But it shall be as you wish, though I have worn nothing but black since my miserable marriage. There is breakfast, I suppose?
Min. Yes, at dear Cheviot’s house.
Miss T. 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.
Ch. 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. Pouf! 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!
Par. (aside). He’s a mean young man, but he ought to be good for half-a-crown to-day.
Ch. Come here, my dear; a—How do I look?
Par. Very nice indeed, sir.
Ch. What, really?
Par. Really.
Ch. What, tempting, eh?
Par. Very tempting indeed.
Ch. Hah! The married state is an enviable state, Parker.
Par. Is it, sir? I hope it may be. It depends.
Ch. What do you mean by “it depends?” You’re a member of the Church of England, I trust? Then don’t you know that in 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.
Par. Oh, for that matter, sir, a tigress would get on with you. You’re so liberal, so gentle, so—there’s only one word for it—dove-like.
Ch. What, you’ve remarked that, eh? Ha! ha! But dove-like 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, damn it, Cheviot—not to-day, not to-day.
Par. What a way you have with you, sir!
Ch. What, you’ve noticed that, have you? Ha! ha! yes, I have a way, no doubt; it’s been remarked before. Whenever I see a pretty girl (and you are a very pretty girl) I can’t help putting my arm like that (putting it round her waist.) Now, pleasant as this sort of thing is, and you find it pleasant, don’t you? (Parker nods.) Yes, you find it pleasant—pleasant as it is, it is decidedly wrong.
Par. It is decidedly wrong in a married man.
Ch. It is decidedly wrong in a married man. In a married man it’s abominable, and I shall be a married man in half an hour. So, Parker, it will become 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.
Par. Yes, sir, but then a band’s playing.
Ch. True, and when a band’s playing it don’t matter, but when a band is not playing, why it’s dangerous, you see. You begin with this, and you go on from one thing to another, getting more and more affectionate, until you reach 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.
Par. Lor, sir, kissing’s nothing; everybody does that.
Ch. That is your experience, is it? It tallies with my own. Take it that I am your father, you are my daughter—or take it even that I am merely your husband, and you my wife, and it would be expected of me. (Kissing her.)
Par. But I’m not your wife, sir.
Ch. No, not yet, that’s very true, and, of course, makes a difference. That’s why I say I must subdue this tendency; I must struggle with it; I must conquer it—in half-an-hour.
Min. (without). Parker, where’s Mr. Cheviot?
Ch. There is your mistress, my dear—she’s coming. Will you excuse me? (Releasing her.) Thank you. Good day, Parker.
Par. (disgusted). Not so much as a shilling; and that man’s worth thousands!
[Exit Parker.
Enter Minnie.
Ch. My darling Minnie—my own, own To Come! (Kissing her.)
Min. Oh, you mustn’t crush me, Cheviot, you’ll spoil my dress. How do you like it?
Ch. It’s lovely. It’s a beautiful material.
Min. Yes; dear papa’s been going it.
Ch. Oh, but you’re indebted to me for that beautiful dress.
Min. To you! Oh, thank you—thank you!
Ch. Yes. I said to your papa, “Now do for once let the girl have a nice dress; be liberal; buy the very best that money will procure, you’ll never miss it.” So, thanks to me, he bought you a beauty. Seventeen and six a yard if it’s a penny. Dear me! To think that in half-an-hour this magnificent dress will be my property!
Min. 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.
Ch. Yes, I did offer to provide the breakfast in a reckless moment; that’s so like me. It was a rash offer, but I’ve made it, and I’ve stuck to it. Oh, then, there’s the cake.
Min. Oh, tell me all about the cake.
Ch. It’s a very pretty cake. Very little cake is eaten at a wedding breakfast, so I’ve ordered what’s known in the trade as the three-quarter article.
Min. I see; three-quarters cake, and the rest wood.
Ch. No; three-quarters wood, the rest cake. Be sure, my dear, you don’t cut into the wood, for it has to be returned to the pastrycook to be filled up with cake for another occasion. I thought at first of ordering a seven-eighths article; but one isn’t married every day—it’s only once a year—I mean it’s only now and then. So I said, “Hang the expense; let’s do the thing well.” And so it’s a three-quarters.
Min. How good you are to me! We shall be very happy, shall we not?
Ch. I—I hope so—yes. I hope so. Playfully happy, like two little kittens.
Min. That will be delightful.
Ch. Economically happy, like two sensible people.
Min. Oh, we must be very economical.
Ch. No vulgar display; no pandering to a jaded appetite. A refined and economical elegance; that is what we must aim at. A simple mutton chop, nicely broiled, for you; and two simple mutton chops, very nicely broiled, for me—
Min. And some flowery potatoes—
Ch. A loaf of nice household bread—
Min. A stick of celery—
Ch. And a bit of cheese, and you’ve a dinner fit for a monarch.
Min. Then how shall we spend our evenings?
Ch. We’ll have pleasant little fireside games. Are you fond of fireside games?
Min. Oh, they’re great fun.
Ch. Then we’ll play at tailoring.
Min. Tailoring? I don’t think I know that game.
Ch. It’s a very good game. You shall be the clever little jobbing tailor, and I’ll be the particular customer who brings his own materials to be made up. You shall take my measure, cut out the cloth (real cloth, you know), stitch it together, and try it on; and then I’ll find fault like a real customer, and you shall alter it until it fits, and when it fits beautifully that counts one to you.
Min. Delightful!
Ch. Then there’s another little fireside game which is great fun. We each take a bit of paper and a pencil and try who can jot down the nicest dinner for ninepence, and the next day we have it.
Min. Oh, Cheviot, what a paradise you hold open to me!
Ch. Yes. How’s papa?
Min. He’s very well and very happy. He’s going to increase his establishment on the strength of the £1000 a year, and keep a manservant.
Ch. I know. I’ve been looking after some servants for him; they’ll be here in the course of the morning. A cook, a housemaid, and a footman. I found them through an advertisement. They’re country people, and will come very cheap.
Min. How kind and thoughtful you are! Oh, Cheviot, I’m a very lucky girl!
[Exit Minnie.
Ch. 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.
Par. Please, sir, here’s a gentleman to see you.
Ch. Oh, my solicitor, no doubt. Show him up.
Par. And please, some persons have called to see you about an advertisement.
Ch. Oh, Symperson’s servants. To be sure. Show up the gentleman, and tell the others to wait.
[Exit Parker.
Enter Belvawney. He looks very miserable.
Ch. Belvawney! This is unexpected. (Much confused.)
Bel. Yes, Cheviot. At last we meet. Don’t, oh don’t, frown upon a heartbroken wretch.
Ch. Belvawney, 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 for ever.
Bel. Oh, Cheviot, don’t say that, I am so unhappy. And you have it in your power to make me comfortable. Do this, and I will bless you with my latest breath!
Ch. It is a tempting offer; I am not proof against it. We all have our price, and that is mine. Proceed.
Bel. Miss Treherne—Belinda—whom I love so dearly, won’t have anything to say to me.
Ch. It does her credit. She’s a very superior girl.
Bel. It’s all through you, Cheviot. She declares that the mutual declaration you made to protect her from McGillicuddy amounts to a Scotch marriage.
Ch. What!!!
Bel. 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.
Ch. Oh, but this is absurd, you know!
Bel. Of course it is; but what’s to be done? You left with Symperson immediately after making the 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.
Ch. 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—! (Aloud.) Belvawney, my dear friend, tell me what to do—I’ll do anything.
Bel. It seems that there’s some doubt whether this cottage, which is just on the border, is in England or Scotland. If it is in England, she has no case; if it is in Scotland, I’m afraid she has. I’ve written to the owner of the property to ascertain, and if, in the mean time, she claims you, you must absolutely decline to recognize this marriage for a moment.
Ch. Not for one moment!
Bel. It was a mere artifice to enable her to escape from McGillicuddy.
Ch. Nothing more!
Bel. It’s monstrous—perfectly monstrous—that that should constitute a marriage. It’s disgraceful—it’s abominable. Damme, Cheviot, it’s immoral.
Ch. So it is—it’s immoral. That settles it in my mind. It’s immoral.
Bel. You’re quite sure you’ll be resolute, Cheviot?
Ch. Resolute? I should think so! Why, hang it all, man, I’m going to be married in twenty minutes to Minnie Symperson!
Bel. What!
Ch. (confused at having let this out). Didn’t I tell you? I believe you’re right; I did not tell you. It escaped me. Oh, yes, this is my wedding-day.
Bel. Cheviot, you’re joking—you don’t mean this! Why, I shall lose £1000 a year by it, every penny I have in the world! Oh, it can’t be—it’s nonsense!
Ch. What do you mean by nonsense? The married state is an honourable estate, I believe? A man is not looked upon as utterly lost to all sense of decency because he’s got married, I’m given to understand! People have been married before this, and have not been irretrievably tabooed in consequence, unless I’m grossly misinformed? Then what the dickens do you mean by saying “nonsense” when I tell you that I’m going to be married?
Bel. Cheviot, be careful how you take this step. Beware how you involve an innocent and helpless girl in social destruction.
Ch. What do you mean, sir?
Bel. You cannot marry; you are a married man.
Ch. Come, come, Belvawney, this is trifling.
Bel. You are married to Miss Treherne. I was present, and can depose to the fact.
Ch. Oh, you’re not serious.
Bel. Never more serious in my life.
Ch. But, as you very properly said just now, it was a mere artifice—we didn’t mean anything. It would be monstrous to regard that as a marriage. Damme, Belvawney, it would be immoral!
Bel. I may deplore the state of the law, but I cannot stand tamely by and see it deliberately violated before my eyes.
Ch. (wildly). But, Belvawney, my dear friend, reflect; everything is prepared for my marriage, at a great expense. I love Minnie deeply, devotedly. She is the actual tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing. There’s no mistake about it. She is my own To Come. I love her madly—rapturously. (Going on his knees to Belvawney.) I have prepared a wedding breakfast at a great expense to do her honour. I have ordered four flys for the wedding party. I have taken two second-class Cook’s tourists’ tickets for Ilfracombe, Devon, Exeter, Cornwall, Westward Ho! and Bideford 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, Belvawney, dear Belvawney, let the recollection of our long and dear friendship operate to prevent your shipwrecking my future life. (Sobbing hysterically.)
Bel. I have a duty to do. I must do it.
Ch. But reflect, dear Belvawney; if I am married to Miss Treherne, you lose your income as much as if I married Minnie Symperson.
Bel. No doubt, if you could prove your marriage to Miss Treherne. But you can’t—— (With melodramatic intensity.)
Ch. Those eyes!
Bel. You don’t know where she is—— (With fiendish exultation.)
Ch. Oh, those eyes!
Bel. The cottage has been pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated to Patagonia——
Ch. Oh, those eyes!
Bel. I’m the only witness left. I can prove your marriage, if I like; but you can’t. Ha! ha! ha! ha! (with Satanic laugh.) It’s a most painful and unfortunate situation for you; and, believe me, dear Cheviot, you have my deepest and most respectful sympathy.
[Exit Belvawney.
Ch. This is appalling; simply appalling! The cup of happiness dashed from my lips just as I was about to drink a life-long draught. The ladder kicked from under my feet just as I was about to pick the fruit of my heart from the tree upon which it has been growing so long. I’m a married man! More than that, my honeymoon’s past, and I never knew it! Stop a moment, though. The bride can’t be found; the cottage is pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated; what proof is there that such a marriage ever took place? There’s only Belvawney, and Belvawney isn’t a proof. Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be worth something; 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.
Ch. The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that’s infernal!
Mrs. Mac. Gude day, sir. We’ve just ca’d to see ye about the advertisement. (Producing paper.)
Ch. I don’t know you—I don’t know you. Go away.
[Cheviot buries his head in a newspaper, and pretends to read on sofa.
Mag. Ah, sir, ye said that we were to ca’ on ye this day at eleven o’clock, and sae we’ve coom a’ the way fra Dumfries to see ye.
Ch. I tell you I don’t know you. Go away. I’m not at all well. I’m very ill, and it’s infectious.
Ang. We fear no illness, sir. This is Mistress Macfarlane, the gude auld mither, who’ll cook the brose and boil the parritch, and sit wi’ ye, and nurse ye through your illness till the sad day ye dee! (Wiping his eye.)
[Cheviot pokes a hole with his finger through newspaper, and reconnoitres unobserved.
Mrs. Mac. And this is Meg, my ain lass Meg!
Ch. (aside). Attractive girl, very. I remember her perfectly.
Mrs. Mac. And this is Angus Macalister, who’s going to marry her, and who’ll be mair than a son to me!
Ang. Oh, mither, mither, dinna say it, for ye bring the tear drop to my ee; an’ it’s no canny for a strong man to be blithering and soughing like a poor weak lassie! (Wiping his eye.)
[Angus and Mrs. Macfarlane sit. Maggie advances to hole in newspaper and peeps through.
Mag. Oh, mither, mither! (Staggers back into Angus’s arms.)
Mrs. Mac. What is it, Meg?
Ang. Meg, my weel lo’ed Meg, my wee wifie that is to be, tell me what’s wrang wi’ ’ee?
Mag. Oh, mither, it’s him; the noble gentleman I plighted my troth to three weary months agone! The gallant Englishman who gave Angus twa golden pound to give me up!
Ang. It’s the coward Sassenach who well nigh broke our Meg’s heart!
Mrs. Mac. My lass, my lass, dinna greet, maybe he’ll marry ye yet.
Ch. (desperately). Here’s another! Does anybody else want to marry me? Don’t be shy. You, ma’am (to Mrs. Mac.) you’re a fine woman—perhaps you would like to try your luck?
Mag. Ah, sir! I dinna ken your name, but your bonnie face has lived in my twa een, sleeping and waking, three weary, weary months! Oh, sir, ye should na’ ha’ deceived a trusting, simple Lowland lassie. ’Twas na’ weel done—’twas na’ weel done! (Weeping on his shoulder; he puts his arm round her waist.)
Ch. (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 do still; you’re a very charming girl. Let us talk this over, calmly and quietly. (Mag. 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! damn it, Cheviot! not to-day.
Mag. Oh! mither, he told me he loved me!
Ch. So I did. The fact is, when I fell in love with you—don’t go my pretty bird—I quite forgot that I 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—
Mag. Oh, mither, it was anither tree! (Weeping on Cheviot’s shoulder.)
Mrs. Mac. Angus, it was anither tree! (Weeping on Angus’s shoulder.)
Ang. Dinna, mither, dinna; I canna bear it! (Weeps.)
Ch. Yes, it was another tree—you can remain there for the present—in point of fact, it was growing on both trees. I don’t know how it is, but it seems to grow on a great many trees—a perfect orchard—and you are one of them, my dear. Come, come, don’t fret, you are one of them!
Enter Minnie and Symperson.
Min. Cheviot!
Sym. What is all this?
Ch. (rapidly referring to piece of paper given to him by Mrs. Macfarlane, as if going over a washerwoman’s bill.) “Twenty-four pairs 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.
Min. Cheviot, who is this person who was found hanging on your neck? Say she is somebody—for instance, your sister or your aunt. Oh, Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I implore you! (The three cottagers curtsy and bow to Minnie.)
Sym. Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I command you.
Ch. 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 on to 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: it undermines their constitution.
Sym. (sternly). Cheviot, I should like to believe you, but it seems scarcely credible.
Mag. Oh, sir, he’s na telling ye truly. I’m the puir Lowland lassie that he stole the hairt out of, three months ago, and promised to marry; and I love him sae weel—sae weel, and now he’s married to anither!
Ch. Nothing of the kind. I—
Sym. You are mistaken, and so is your mith—mother. He is not yet married to anith—nother.
Mag. Why, sir, it took place before my very ain eyes, before us a’, to a beautiful lady, three months since.
Min. Cheviot, 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!
Sym. (sternly). Cheviot, say she was your aunt, I command you!
Ch. Minnie, Symperson, don’t believe them—it was no marriage. I don’t even know the lady’s name—I never saw her before—I’ve never seen her since. It’s ridiculous—I couldn’t have married her without knowing it—it’s out of the question!
Sym. Cheviot, let’s know exactly where we are. 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.
Ch. (in despair). I cannot!
Enter Belvawney.
Bel. I can.
Sym. Belvawney!
Bel. I was present when Cheviot and a certain lady declared themselves to be man and wife. This took place in a cottage on the Border—in the presence of these worthy people.
Sym. That’s enough for me. It’s a Scotch marriage! Minnie, my child, we must find you someone else. Cheviot’s married. Belvawney, I am sorry to say, I deprive you of your income.
Bel. I beg your pardon, not yet.
Sym. Why not?
Bel. In the first place, it’s not certain whether the cottage was in England or in Scotland; in the second place, the bride can’t be found.
Sym. But she shall be found. What is her name?
Bel. That I decline to state.
Sym. But you shall be made to state. I insist upon knowing the young lady’s name.
Enter Miss Treherne, in a light and cheerful dress.
Bel. (amazed). Belinda Treherne!
Miss T. (rushing to Minnie). Minnie, my own old friend!
Ch. ’Tis she!
Miss T. (turns and recognizes Cheviot). My husband!
Ch. My wife!
[Miss T. throws herself at Cheviot’s feet, kissing his hands rapturously. Belvawney staggers back. Minnie faints in her father’s arms. Maggie sobs on Angus’s breast.
