Chapter XI: Act II

SCENE.--_The interior of a picturesque old forge. The forge is open
at the back, and DRUCE’S cottage is seen through opening. There is
a path off. DAN’L DRUCE, a hearty-looking old man of sixty-four,
is discovered hammering lustily at a piece of red-hot iron on his
anvil._

_Dan._ (_laying down his hammer_). Whew! That job’s done! Eh, but I’m that breathed, surelie. Why, Dan’l Druce, if thou’rt worked out like this at twelve o’ noon, it’s time ye thought of getting a partner into the old forge. But somehow the forge fire seems to strike hotter than o’ yore; and the iron of to-day takes more hammerin’ than the iron o’ thirty year ago. Mebbe I’m growin’ old. Well, a body can’t hope to live sixty-four year, and leave off a young un arter all. ’Twouldn’t be fair on the boys--no, nor the gals neither--eh, Dorothy?

_Enter DOROTHY running._

_Dor._ Oh, father, thou shouldst see the Green, by Raby’s End. The village is brave with banners and garlands. I have helped to deck it, father. And Master Maynard, the constable, is mounted on an ale cask to receive Sir Jasper Combe, who should pass on his way to Combe-Raven in half an hour; and the band of music hath arrived from Norwich, and _they’re_ all on ale casks too; and they are to play stirring music while the constable readeth an address to his worship!

_Dan._ It is a merciful provision, Dorothy, lest the address be heard. So Sir Jasper will be here in half an hour, eh?

_Dor._ Yes, and I long to see him. I have heard that he is a grave gentleman of goodly presence, and beyond measure kindly. He is a righteous landlord, too, so folk say, and giveth largely to the poor.

_Dan._ He is needed in these parts, for the poor were sorely used by the late squire. I shall be right glad to welcome him, but (_wearily_) I’ll not go to Raby’s End to do it. (_Sits on stool._)

_Dor._ Art thou wearied, father?

_Dan._ Growin’ old, lass, growin’ old. It’s one o’ those blessings that allers comes to him that waits long enough. But I don’t grumble, Dorothy. If old age will leave me strength enough to pull at a pipe and empty a tankard--two things thou canst not do for me, Dorothy--why, that’s all I ask. My lass can do the rest.

_Dor._ As I have been to thee so will I be to the end.

_Dan._ There’s no saying, Dorothy. Thou’rt comely, lass, and mebbe, ere long, some smart young lad will whip thee from my arms, and carry thee away to t’other side o’ the sunrise. There’s mor’n one within a mile o’ this who’d give his right arm to do it now.

_Dor._ Nay, thou art unkind. Did I not tend thee when thou wast hale and strong, and shall I desert thee now that thou hast most need of me?

_Dan._ (_with emotion_). My lass, Heaven knows I never needed thee more than when thou wast left at my hut fourteen year since. But I’ve news to gladden thee--thine old playmate, Geoffrey Wynyard, is returned from sea, and is now on his road from Norwich to see thee.

_Dor._ Geoffrey returned? Oh, I am right glad! Oh, indeed, father, I am right glad! Truly thou has brought me fair news. And is he well--and hath he prospered?

_Dan._ Ay, and growed out o’ knowledge. He was but a long-legged lad when he left, but he’s a man now, and a goodly one, I warrant thee. See to him when he cometh, for he’ll bide here wi’ us. (_After a pause._) My darlin’--thou’lt never leave me?

_Dor._ Never, while I live!

_Dan._ God bless thee, my child! [_Kisses her and exit._

_Dor._ Geoffrey returned! and Geoffrey a stalwart mariner, and grown to man’s estate! I can scarce believe it! Of a truth I could weep for very joy! I was but a child when he left, and now--I am seventeen! Geoffrey loved children,--it may be that he will be displeased with me now that I am a woman. I am rejoiced that I am decked in my new gown--it is more seemly than the russet, in which, methinks, I did look pale. Geoffrey a man!--my old playmate a man! Pity that I have not my new shoes, for they are comely; but they do compress my feet, and so pain me sorely. Nevertheless, I will put them on, for it behoveth a maiden to be neatly apparelled at all seasons.

_Enter GEOFFREY._

_Geof._ Mistress Dorothy!

_Dor._ (_turning--she starts_). Geoffrey! Oh, Geoffrey! (_She rushes towards him._)

_Geof._ Mistress Dorothy, I am right glad to hold thy little hand once more. I have had this moment in view for many, many months!

_Dor._ And I too, Master Geoffrey;--and oh, I am indeed rejoiced!

_Geof._ How thou art grown! A woman! By my right hand, a very woman!

_Dor._ Yes, Master Geoffrey, I am a woman now!

_Geof._ And a fair one, Mistress Dorothy! (_She turns._) Nay, ’tis but truth; and truth is made to be told. May I not say that thou art fair?

_Dor._ Yes, Master Geoffrey, if thou thinkest so in good sooth.

_Geof._ In good sooth I do! It is strange to be back in the old village again, after three years of blue water. And yet it seems but yesterday that we tossed hay together in the five-acre field.

_Dor._ I think the time must speed more swiftly with those who seek their fortunes in distant lands, for though I have been happy and full of content, yet it seemeth more than three years since thy departure.

_Geof._ Yet barely three years have gone.

_Dor._ (_sighing_). It seemeth more.

_Geof._ The time hath sped with me despite the long night watches and the never-ending days of a calm tropical sea; for no hour is so long but that I can fill it with thoughts of thee, Mistress Dorothy.

_Dor._ I am rejoiced to know this, for my mind has often dwelt on thy fortunes. Many a time, when the old forge rocked in the wintry gale, my heart has been sad for thee, and I have lain awake weeping and praying for--for----

_Geof._ For me?

_Dor._ For all who go down to the sea in ships.

_Geof._ In truth, if the sea had no other charm I would be a sailor, that I might have thy prayers, Mistress Dorothy.

_Dor._ Nay, but if it consisted with thy duty to abandon thy perilous calling, and bide here with us for ever, my poor prayers would still be thine, Master Geoffrey. But thou lovest the sea. (_Sighing._)

_Geof._ All sailors love the sea.

_Dor._ It is strange, for the sea is cold and cruel and fierce, and many brave men are yearly swallowed up of it.

_Geof._ Dorothy, I love the sea dearly. There is but one love that is stronger in my heart--one love for which I would yield it up for ever and ever. Dear Dorothy, I have loved thee, boy and man, for ten years past; and I shall love thee, come what may, through my life. I came here to-day to tell thee this. I thought how to say it, but all that I thought of is gone--it’s my heart that’s speaking now and not my tongue. Bear with me, Dorothy, for every hope of my life--every waking and sleeping dream of ten years past--is in the words I’m speaking now.

_Dor._ Oh, Geoffrey--Geoffrey! I know not what to say!

_Geof._ Fear not for thy father, for I will quit the sea. Sir Jasper has offered to make me his secretary, and that is why I have come. But say nay, and I must needs go to sea again.

_Dor._ Oh, Geoffrey--let me think--let me think! Do I love thee? I cannot say. It may be that I do--and yet--thou must not go to sea! Oh, I have given no thought to it. Truly thou art dear to me, for I am rejoiced when thou comest, and I am sorely grieved when thou goest. Is that love?

_Geof._ Dorothy, let us inquire into this.

_Dor._ Right willingly, for if I love thee I would fain know it, that I might gladden thine heart by telling thee so.

_Geof._ Then attend to me, sweetheart, while I paint a picture for thee. We will suppose that I have given up the sea--that I have bought a little farm near at hand, and that I have come to live here, close to thee and thy father, for the rest of my life. Canst thou see the picture I am painting?

_Dor._ Ay. It is a pleasant picture.

_Geof._ Living here, close to thee, I naturally see thee very often.

_Dor._ (_pleased_). Every day?

_Geof._ Twice--maybe thrice--a day--for my horses need much shoeing, and I always bring them to the forge myself. Is that pleasant?

_Dor._ Very pleasant. And on Sabbath thou takest me to church?

_Geof._ Ay, save only when some other village gallant is beforehand with me and offers to escort thee thither, and in such case I am fain to take Farmer Such-a-one’s daughter instead.

_Dor._ Nay, that were needless, for I would have no other escort than thou.

_Geof._ Yet it behoves one to be neighbourly, and if Farmer Such-a-one says to me, “Come and see Susan, for she’s lonely and wants cheering”----

_Dor._ Susan?

_Geof._ That’s the farmer’s daughter.

_Dor._ Is she fair?

_Geof._ Very fair. What then?

_Dor._ Why, then, thou wouldst not go.

_Geof._ (_slyly_). And wherefore not?

_Dor._ Wherefore not? Oh, well, wherefore not indeed! Go to Susan if thou wilt, Geoffrey. It is not for me to hinder thee!

_Geof._ Well, then, I would _not_ go. And so we live on--happy--very, very happy, for, say a year. But a change is at hand. My crops fail, my cattle die, and one evil night my homestead is burnt to the ground, and I am penniless!

_Dor._ Oh!

_Geof._ So there is nothing for it but to go to sea again, for three long years!

_Dor._ No, no, Geoffrey--oh no!

_Geof._ The time of parting draws near--a few weeks--a few days--a few hours. These few hours we have passed in silence, sitting hand in hand, thou and I. There are tears in my eyes, though I strive to check them, and there are sad thoughts in thine heart, also. Well, at last the horse is at the door, and it is time to go. I am at thy porch--one foot in stirrup--one hurried “God-speed”--and--I am gone!

_Dor._ Oh no, no, Geoffrey. I cannot bear it.

_Geof._ Months pass by and no news of me. The village seems blank at first without me, the walks to church seem long and lonely, and the evenings sad and cheerless. At last come tidings of a wrecked ship--thine heart beats quickly, for the name of the ship is the name of mine. Of all the crew but one man is saved, and that man’s name--is not Geoffrey Wynyard--for Geoffrey has gone down to his death in the dark waters.

_Dor._ (_rising--throwing her arms round him_). No, no, Geoffrey, be silent. I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it; have mercy, for I cannot bear it!

_Geof._ And dost thou love me?

_Dor._ (_bashfully, hiding her head in his bosom_). Oh, Geoffrey! (_Pause._)

_Geof._ Art thou happy there, Dorothy?

_Dor._ Passing happy! And thou?

_Geof._ Passing happy. (_He places a ring on her finger._)

_Dor._ Oh, Geoffrey, what is this?

_Geof._ A ring that I have brought thee from Venice, where there are cunning workers in such matters. Let it stay there in earnest of another ring of plainer workmanship that is not beyond the craft of our English goldsmiths to fashion.

_Dor._ But I know not if I may wear it. It is a vanity--but it is very beautiful. See how it shineth! Oh, pity that I may not wear it, for in truth it is very beautiful.

_Geof._ Thou hast a silver chain with thy mother’s locket on thy neck. Wear it on thy chain. Will it be a vanity if it is Concealed beneath thy kerchief?

_Dor._ Nay; for none will know of it. (_Withdraws a silver locket from her bosom_). See, the clasp will not hold them both. Stay! the locket shall be thine, and thy ring shall take its place. (_Detaches locket and gives it to him. He kisses her._)

_Enter DAN’L DRUCE. They stand confused._

_Dan._ (_after a pause, sighs deeply_). Tell me all about it, my pretty.

_Geof._ Master Dan’l--I----

_Dan._ No, lad--no--not from thee. I’d liefer hear it from my pretty.

_Dor._ (_going to him and putting her arms round his neck_) Dear father, Geoffrey hath told me that he loveth me, and would fain take me to be his wife----

_Dan._ Ay, ay, lass--go on----

_Dor._ He loveth me very dearly, father, and will quit the sea to bide with us here.

_Dan._ Go on----

_Dor._ He loveth me so dearly that it would sadden his life if I were to wed with another.

_Dan._ Well?

_Dor._ So, dear father, as I would not cause him sorrow I will not wed with another. (_Hiding her face on his shoulder._)

_Dan._ So soon! so soon! Nay, hang there a bit longer, my lass; for thou’rt all I have, and thou’rt going from me ower soon, and of thine own free will. Dorothy, oh, Dorothy, the hope and stay of my poor old life! my saving angel! my saving angel! It’s hard to part with thee, Dorothy. He will not love thee as I love thee. (_With an effort._) I’m but a thankless man. It was to be, and ’twould better fit me to rejoice that thou hast found a brave and honest man to tend thee when I am gone. Get thee within, and dry thine eyes. I’ll do thy weeping for thee, Dorothy! (_Exit DOROTHY into the cottage._) It’s come sudden, my lad, it’s come sudden, and I doan’t rightly know how to shift wi’out her. She’s been more than life to me, Dolly has. I was a hard and bitter man when she was left with me fourteen year since,--for I’d been cruelly warped--cruelly warped. But when things are at their worst, like as not they’ll mend; and from the time my darling was sent to me (by a miracle as I then thought, for I’d been brought up ’mong folk as see a miracle in ’most everything) a change crep’ over me, and bit by bit my cruel old heart growed soft again. I was a foul-tongued fellow then, but I couldna swear afore an angel come straight from heaven. I was cruel and hard, but I couldna sit glowerin’ at mankind wi’ her little arms round my neck, and her soft cheek agin’ my wicked old face. Then it come about that Dolly must be taught her Bible; but I’d no Bible--so, wi’ a shamefaced lie on my tongue, I borrowed a good book, and we spelt it out together. And many’s the time as the old half-forgotten words come back to me, bit by bit, and I called to mind when I’d first learnt ’em as a child. I laid my head down on the book, and wept like a woman. And as it was for me (God help me!) to teach her right from wrong, I learnt as I taught, and the Light come to us together--the old man and the little child--and as she growed in knowledge, my right self growed in strength--and such as I am--hale, hearty, and happy--livin’ by the sweat o’ my brow--owin’ no man, fearin’ none, and lovin’ all, why she has made me, God bless her!

_Geof._ And thou hast never seen her father since?

_Dan._ No; though for years I never passed a strange face but I peered into it--for I knowed every line o’ his, though I never heerd his name. Knowed it! Why, it burnt in my eyeballs, so that I see it in the dark! I seed it everywhere--I seed it in the forge, and be sure I raked it out!--I seed it red-hot on my anvil, and be sure I hammered with a will! After a while (but it was a weary while!) the thought come that mayhap he had perished in the gale, so I thought less about it; and Dolly seemed more like my own. Yet the old fear comes back, odd times, and, oh, Geoffrey, it’s like enough she’ll be taken from me yet.

_Enter DOROTHY from cottage._

_Dor._ Oh, father, a gentleman, whose horse hath cast a shoe, hath need of thy services in the yard.

_Dan._ A gentleman, eh?

_Dor._ It is Master Reuben Haines, Sir Jasper’s bailiff. He passed this way twice before to prepare for Sir Jasper’s arrival; but that was when thou wast away at Norwich.

_Dan._ And what manner of man is he?

_Dor._ A strange man, full of unmeaning jests, who maketh faces at me which doth fright me much, and he rolleth his eyes in a manner fearful to behold.

_Dan._ A town fashion, Dolly, who knows? Ha! ha! Take no heed of his faces. Make him welcome, for there’s no foreseein’; it may serve us, one day, to stand well with the bailiff! Come, Geoffrey, and lend me a hand. I’ll see to his horse. [_GEOFFREY kisses DOROTHY and exit with DAN’L._

_Enter REUBEN in riding dress, from cottage._

_Reu._ Good morrow, pretty Mistress Dorothy! We have not forgotten one another, I see! And how has time sped with thee since I saw thee last? Has it crept, crawled, drawled, dragged, and dawdled for lack of a certain merry old man who whiled away a certain half-hour with thee two months since with curious quip, quaint retort, and surprising conundrum? Dost thou remember that half-hour, Dorothy? _I_ do. In the course of it I said many rare things to thee, complimentary and insinuating things of amatory significance and connubial import, neatly disguised, or, as one may say, embalmed, in an outer husk of delicate epigram. And thou didst listen! Ye gods! how thou didst listen! I love a good listener.

_Dor._ Sir, I do indeed remember your coming; but as for your sayings, I was silent, for I understood them not. Is--is Sir Jasper at hand?

_Enter DAN’L DRUCE, unobserved, at back._

_Reu._ He will be here anon. Some village clowns are plaguing him with an address--a scurvy long one, and writ in very false jingle. I heard the first lines thereof; it began:

“Sir Jasper Combe, to welcome you
We do as much as we can do:
Here live and die--to House and Tomb
We welcome you, Sir Jasper Combe!”

It did so move me to laughter that Sir Jasper, who hath no sense of the ridiculous, did order me to ride on. But I doubt not that even he is laughing heartily thereat, by this time!

_Dan._ (_who has heard the last few lines_). Nay, sir, but if Sir Jasper deserve all that men say of him, he will scarcely hold in scorn that which poor humble folks have writ in his praise.

_Reu._ (_to DOROTHY_). Who is this old gentleman?

_Dan._ I am Dan’l Druce,--no gentleman, but a hard-working blacksmith, very much at your honour’s service. (_Looking at him._) I was away when you last come to the village, yet I think I’ve seen your honour’s face.

_Reu._ It is very like. It is a striking face. I don’t like it myself, but others do, so I yield to the majority. It is a good face.

_Dan._ I cannot recall where I have seen it.

_Reu._ It signifieth not--thou wilt have plenty of time to study it,--for thou wilt see it every quarter-day whilst thou livest. Despite its inherent goodliness, it will come to be a face of evil significance to thee, speaking, as it will, of raised rents, rapid distraint, and uncompromising ejection!

_Dan._ I’m a punctual tenant, sir, and I fear no man. Dorothy, draw this gentleman some ale while I look to his horse. [_Exit._

_Reu._ And take thy time, for we are very well thus, eh, Dorothy? (_DOROTHY going._) Nay, do not go. Never heed the ale. I’d rather take a long look at thy pretty face than a long pull at thy village brew. The one is sweet, I know--the other is sour, I’ll swear. Come hither, Dorothy.

_Dor._ Nay, sir, I----

_Reu._ I have news to tell thee, Dorothy--thou art a kind of wife of mine, for I have, in a manner, married thee--intellectually and reflectively; or, as one may say, in a mental or moral sense have I married thee. I have, as it were, invented thee as my wife, and the invention is none the less mine because a scurvy mechanic (to wit, the parson) hath not yet hammered in the rivets. (_Aside._) A quip!

_Dor._ Sir, I do not rightly understand thy talk, but it seemeth to me that thou makest jest of solemn things.

_Reu._ Nay, this time I am in earnest. If thou wilt be my wife I will so coll thee, coax thee, cosset thee, court thee, cajole thee, with deftly turned compliment, pleasant whimsy, delicate jest and tuneful madrigal--I will so pleasantly perplex thee with quaint paradox, entertaining aphorism, false conclusion and contradiction in terms--I will so edify thee with joyous anecdote, tales of court and camp, tales of love, hate, and intrigue, tales of murder, rapine, and theft, merry tales, sad tales, long tales, short tales, quip, crank, retort, repartee, and rejoinder, that thy wedded life shall seem one never-ending honeymoon, and thou shalt find but one fault with me--that I clog thee with sweets! (_Takes her round waist._)

_Dor._ Nay, sir, I pray you, remove your hand! Sir, you are unmannerly! I pray you, desist!

_Enter SIR JASPER; DOROTHY runs to him._

Oh, sir, defend me from this wicked man.

_Jas._ Why, Reuben Haines, thou art at thine old tricks again!

_Reu._ At _our_ old tricks, your honour!

_Jas._ Harkee, sirrah. Let bygones go by. Times are changed with me, as thou knowest well, and if thou valuest thy stewardship, adapt thy morals to those of thy master. If thou sayest or doest aught to anger this gentle maiden, I’ll lay my whip across thy shoulders, as I have done ofttimes ere this.

_Reu._ (_aside_). We are virtuous now, but time was when we would have angered her in company.

_Dor._ Nay, sir, I pray you, bear with him.

_Reu._ (_aside_). She pleadeth for me! Bless her pretty face, she pleadeth for me!

_Jas._ Has the rascal, then, found favour in thine eyes?

_Dor._ (_aside to SIR JASPER_). Oh no; but whenever he cometh to the forge he sayeth such strange things, and looketh at me with such strange looks, that I fear he is sorely afflicted, and not to be held accountable for his deeds.

_Jas._ (_laughing heartily_). Why, in truth, I sometimes think so too. (_To REUBEN._) Get thee to the inn, sir; we shall lie there to-night: as for the whipping, why the maiden’s intercession hath saved thee this once.

_Reu._ She pleadeth for me! Bless their hearts, they’re all alike! They all plead for me! [_Exit REUBEN._

_Jas._ And now, pretty maiden, tell me, who art thou?

_Dor._ So please your worship, I am Dorothy Druce, only daughter of Dan’l Druce, the blacksmith, and your worship’s tenant.

_Jas._ (_looking kindly at her_). He’s a kind father to thee, I’ll be sworn.

_Dor._ He is kind to me and to all. In very truth I think he must be the best man in the whole world.

_Jas._ And thou tendest him very carefully?

_Dor._ Yes, indeed. I am with him from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof; and we love each other with a love that passeth all telling.

_Jas._ (_after a pause_). Dorothy, I once had a little child who promised to grow up to be just such a pretty lass as thou. But we--we were separated many years ago, and I have never seen her since!

_Dor._ Oh, poor gentleman!

_Jas._ Poor, indeed--for I declare to thee, Dorothy, that I would give all my substance, were it ten times what it is, to have her with me in my old age. But though I have sought her high and low for many a weary year, I have found no tidings of her; and so I must needs go on to the end--a solitary old man, uncared for and alone! There’s a doleful tale, little Dorothy!

_Dor._ Indeed, it is passing sad, and my heart bleeds for your worship. I am even more grieved for thy daughter, who hath lost the fostering care and guidance of so worthy a gentleman. I am sure she would have loved your worship very dearly.

_Jas._ (_moved_). I know not. It may be so, and yet--I showed myself but a careless and unloving father to her when we were parted. But her mother died of grief--and--and I would fain make amends, I would fain make amends! Yes, Dorothy, it would have gone hard with me but I would have made her love me!

_Enter DAN’L._

Who is this good fellow?

_Dor._ It is my father, of whom I spoke unto your worship. Father, this is Sir Jasper Combe.

_Dan._ (_heartily_). At your worship’s service, Sir Jasper. I’ve naught to say, sir, but what’s been said by better men--“Welcome to Combe-Raven.” I’ll go bail my Dorothy’s said it already.

_Jas._ Indeed, she has given me a very kindly greeting, Master Druce. I was telling thy daughter how I came to be wifeless and childless; and how, desolate as I am, I envy thee thy good fortune in having so fair a little nurse to cosset thee in thine old age. Take heed, though, that she be not taken from thee, and at brief notice too, one of these days! (_During this speech DAN’L has gradually recognized SIR JASPER. He is stupefied with terror, and staggers back on anvil._) I say, take care that she be not taken from thee one of these days.

_Dan_ (_still stupefied_). By whom? Taken from me by whom?

_Jas._ (_laughing_). Oh, never fear me, Dan’l--by some far younger man than I!

_Dan._ Ay, ay--to be married. Ah, mebbe, mebbe!

_Dor._ Father, is aught amiss?

_Dan._ (_faintly_). No, lass, no; take no heed o’ me.

_Dor._ (_leading him to stool_). My father hath been working in the heat of the day, and he is faint.

_Dan._ Yes, I’ve--I’ve been working hard. Take no heed o’ me. I’m better now. I’m an old man, and weaker than o’ yore. Take no heed.

_Jas._ I’ll send thee strong wines that shall put the courage and strength of youth into thine old heart, Dan’l Druce. There, there, bear up, man. And Dorothy must come to the Hall, Dan’l. Old Bridget shall take good care of her; and I own I should like to see how the old place would shine in the sunlight shed by so fair a little lady. There, be of good cheer, man; I did but jest when I spake of thy daughter leaving thee.

_Dan._ Ay, ay--thou didst but jest, eh?

_Jas._ Why, to be sure. (_Aside._) To think that those few light words should have so shaken him. (_Looking at DOROTHY._) Well, I can understand it. (_To DAN’L, after a pause._) Master Druce, I’m an old man now, and a very grave and sober old man too. I had a fair young wife once; she had eyes like thy daughter’s eyes. There’s a strange whim in my head, but I’m an old man, and--and--and--may I kiss thy little daughter?

_Dan._ (_much moved_). Ay, ay, thou--thou mayst kiss her if thou wilt!

[_DOROTHY goes up to SIR JASPER, who kisses her on the forehead._

_Jas._ God bless thee, maiden. Dan’l Druce, I thank thee!
[_Exit SIR JASPER._

_Dor._ Oh, father, didst thou hear? I am to go to the Hall! I have heard that it is a goodly place, as big as a village, and bravely decked with velvets and rich silks and pictures and vast mirrors! Oh, I long to see the mirrors! Then the gardens are beyond everything fair to view, and there are deer in the park, and a spacious lake, and carriages and horses too! Oh, it must be brave to live in so fair a place!

_Dan._ (_in a broken voice_). Why, Dorothy--these things are but vanities. Oh, Dorothy, my darling, be content with thy lot!

_Dor._ Nay, father--but indeed I envy not Sir Jasper. I grieve to think how solitary the poor gentleman must be, all alone in so vast a house, with neither wife nor child to solace him in his old age!

_Dan._ (_anxiously_). Did he tell thee of his child?

_Dor._ Ay, speaking gravely, yet kindly, as of a sorrow still unhealed. And when he told me how he lost the maiden many years ago, and how he has vainly sought her ever since, my heart yearned to him, for the tears glistened in his eyes. Methinks a daughter must needs love such a father, for he is a noble gentleman.

_Dan._ Nay, thou knowest him not. He did not deal rightly by the girl. He left her to perish--to perish, Dolly--that he might save his own life. He is rightly served. The sins of his youth are visited upon him in his old age. It is just, it is just. _I_ would not have quitted _thee_, my child, my child!

_Dor._ In truth, I am very sure of that. I cannot think that there is in this world peril or necessity so dire as to part us twain!

_Dan._ Thou’lt never leave me, Dolly?

_Dor._ Never!

_Dan._ Come what may?

_Dor._ Come what may! (_He kisses her._) [_Exit DOROTHY._

_Dan._ (_looking after her_). Oh, it’s hard, arter so long; for the heart o’ my body is not so dear to me as yon poor little girl! Oh, Dolly, it canna be right,--it canna be right. Thou’st taken to me as to a father. If thou wast my own flesh and blood thou couldst not be dearer to me, nor I to thee. And now--arter so long.--It canna be right.

_Enter GEOFFREY._

_Geof._ Why, Master Druce, thou hast tears in thine eyes!

_Dan._ Ay, lad, and cause for ’em in my heart! Geoffrey, there’s a heavy blow come on me. I--I told thee of the cruel thankless father who left my girl wi’ me--my Dorothy--_thy_ Dorothy----

_Geof._ Yes!

_Dan._ I--I have seen him, Geoffrey! Here--here, I have seen him! Him as thou’rt here to meet,--that’s Dolly’s father!

_Geof._ Sir Jasper! Impossible!

_Dan._ Yes, I tell thee, ’twas him. He didn’t know me--_but I knowed him!_ Geoffrey--my only hope lies wi’ thee. Thou must wed Dorothy--ay, at once too. He cannot take her from _thee_,--and we will all go hence to a place of safety--to-morrow--to-morrow!

_Geof._ (_after a pause_). Master Druce, thou art a tenderhearted, right-doing man,--and it’s not for a boy like me to shape thy course.

_Dan._ Why, what dost thou mean?

_Geof._ If this man, Sir Jasper Combe, is indeed her father----

_Dan._ Her father? He cast her from him! He left her to perish! Her father? Heaven had given him the richest treasure that Heaven can give, and he flung it into my lap as he’d fling a coin to a beggar! The trust that he forsook I took up. The child that he plucked from his bosom I took to mine. There let it bide, Geoffrey Wynyard, there let it bide!

_Geof._ Yet bethink thee--the poor lone gentleman hath paid a bitter price for his wickedness; and though he did a cruel and reckless thing in abandoning her, yet grief and penitence have wrought a great change in him, and the laws of Heaven and of man give him a right over her that none may gainsay.

_Dan._ And have I earned no right in these fourteen years? Why, think what she is to me! what we are to each other! She has vouchsafed me her love, and for it I kneel down and worship her! She has turned my heart to man, and for it I kneel down and worship her. She has shown me the Truth, and for it I kneel down and worship her. We are life and death, body and soul, all in all to each other. And now thou wouldst have me say to this unworthy man, “Here is the daughter thou didst abandon in thy peril. For fourteen years I have reared her as mine own; but as thou didst beget her, so take her; I did but hold her in trust for thee that thou mightest reclaim her when it seemed good to thee to do so.” It may be that this is my duty, Geoffrey Wynyard; but I canna do it--I canna do it.

_Geof._ Thy case is a hard one--it is not for me to judge.

_Dan._ Thou hast rightly said it is not for thee to judge. Moreover, bethink thee, thou lovest her. If this man, her father, reclaims her, he will take her from thee, and raise her to a station as far above thine as thine is above hers.

_Geof._ Art thou so sure that Sir Jasper is indeed her father?

_Dan._ That’s true! that’s very true! I know not that he is her father! I cannot tell that. We judge men by their deeds, Geoffrey, not their words; and he may have lied. Come, that’s well thought of, Geoffrey! But we’ll go hence, Dolly and I--no one shall know--thou shalt join us later; and when thou and she are married, and he cannot take her from thee, why then, maybe, we’ll--oh, Geoffrey--thou wilt not betray me--thou wilt not betray _her_! Promise me that!

_Geof._ (_sighing_). I promise!

_Dan._ (_turns_). Remember, Geoffrey, thou’st promised. [_Exit._

_Geof._ In truth I am in a sore strait; for Sir Jasper is a man of proud blood, who would laugh to scorn such humble love as mine. And oh, Dorothy, if thou art taken from me, why, my life may go too! And if I cannot yield thee up, how can I ask _him_ to do so! Oh, Dan’l Druce, Dan’l Druce, my heart is with thine in this thing, and I’ll keep thy secret, never fear!

_Enter REUBEN._

_Reu._ Why, whom have we here in Dorothy’s house? A whelp--a very whelp, cur, or puppy, to be beckoned to, whistled to, frowned at, scowled at, whipped with whips, beaten with sticks, and slapped with the flat of hand!

_Geof._ Your servant, sir. Who are you?

_Reu._ Why, sir, I am an old horse-soldier, and yet not so very old neither but that I can wield quarter-staff or give the Cornish fling as well as another. No mere trooper neither, but a sergeant of horse, if you please; and one that hath cut his way through war’s intestine, as a hot knife cuts butter. One who has so snicked, chipped, chopped, slashed, cut, drilled, and carbonaded, with sword, with pistolet, with mace, with arquebus, with petronel, and with what-not, that he’d make no more of passing a rapier through that boy’s body of thine than of spitting a penny herring. And now, sir, who are _you_?

_Geof._ Why, sir, I am a sailor, and I hate brag.

_Reu._ Come, come, civil words, young master, lest we quarrel; and when _I_ quarrel, sextons lay in tolling grease and grave-diggers strip to their work. Dost thou know this Dan’l Druce?

_Geof._ I do.

_Reu._ A comfortable old man, they tell me, and one who can portion his pretty Dorothy. Pretty Dorothy and I are very good friends. She listens when I talk, which many won’t. (_GEOFFREY makes an angry gesture._) And talking of pretty Dorothy, we have here a bauble or locket, or, as one may say, a trinket that belongeth to her, I’ll go bail. (_Picking up locket which GEOFFREY dropped._)

_Geof._ Sir, that locket is mine.

_Reu._ It is very like--it is very like, yet for that I have but thy word. I care for no man’s word--no, not even for mine own, for though it is as good as another’s, yet it is worth nothing. If the trinket be thine, describe it with circumstance, and I will give it up to thee.

_Enter DAN’L, unperceived. He listens in great agitation._

_Geof._ It is fashioned like a heart, and bears an inscription “To the best loved of all,” and it is dated seventeen years since. It is a love-token, sir, and I desire you to yield it up without further parley.

_Reu._ (_who has recognized it_). Why, surely, I should know this locket well. From whom did you receive it?

_Geof._ (_taking it from him_). That is a question that I have no will to answer. It is a token of betrothal--let that suffice.

_Reu._ But it don’t suffice. Do you know who I am? I am bailiff to Sir Jasper Combe----

_Geof._ Sir Jasper Combe!

_Reu._ Ay; and I recognize that locket as one that he placed about the neck of his missing daughter the very day he abandoned her. Come, sir, from whom did you receive it? It is a love-token--a token of betrothal. To whom are you betrothed?

_Geof._ (_much agitated_). I decline to say.

_Enter DOROTHY at back. DAN’L stops her, and motions her to be
silent. They both listen together._

_Reu._ Shall I hazard a conjecture or guess? Thou art here, making free in the blacksmith’s forge. The blacksmith hath a daughter--her name is Dorothy. Shall we say that it is to Dorothy that thou art betrothed?

_Geof._ (_with an effort to speak unconcernedly_). What, Dorothy Druce? No, no, Master Bailiff, not Dorothy Druce! [_DOROTHY expresses surprise and pain._

_Reu._ And yet I noticed that when I spake lightly of her thou didst start in anger, and flush up in a fashion ridiculous to behold. I have the eye of a hawk.

_Geof._ (_confused_). Oh--for that--it is true that I have laughed and jested with Dorothy, but you know we sailors have a special license for such love frolics. We mean nothing by them. It is said of us that we have a wife in every port--well, that’s a slander, but at least I’ll plead guilty to a sweetheart in every village. [_DOROTHY weeps on DAN’L’S bosom._

_Reu._ Ha! Thou art a shameless young reprobate by thine own showing. It will go hard but Sir Jasper will elicit the truth. We shall meet again! [_Exit REUBEN._

_DAN’L and DOROTHY come forward, DAN’L trembling with rage, DOROTHY
weeping._

_Dan._ So, Geoffrey Wynward! The blow that is to bring me to my grave has been dealt by thine hand! The secret which was thine and mine has been revealed by thee! Oh, thief of more than hard-earned gold! Oh, slayer of more than human life, are there no laws to fit such crime as thine!

_Dor._ Father! father! hurt him not!

_Geof._ Master Druce--indeed, I knew not----

_Dan._ Thou knewest not! Will there be more mercy in this man’s heart because thou knewest not? Will the last years of my poor old lonely life be less desolate because thou knewest not?

_Dor._ Oh, father, father, what sayest thou?

_Dan._ Nay, girl, stop me not! (_Taking up a hammer._) Geoffrey Wynyard, there are injuries that laws can measure, and laws are made for ’em. There are injuries that no laws can measure, and wi’ them we deal ourselves, and wreak our vengeance wi’ our own right hands. (_To DOROTHY, who interposes._) Stand aside, girl; I’m a weak old man, but there’s devil enough in me to deal wi’ such as him. [_DOROTHY, kneeling, holds his arm._

_Dor._ No, no, father, yield not to thy wrath--he hath denied me--he hath dealt lightly with my love--and there’s an end. Oh, harm him not, oh, harm him not! Pardon him, even as I pardon him; and let him depart in peace.

_Dan._ (_with a violent effort to be calm_). Ay, ay, thou recallest me to myself. He hath dealt lightly wi’ thy love--and there’s an end. Heed not the words I spake; they were empty words, and had no meaning--heed them not. Geoffrey Wynyard, thou hast spoken lightly of my child, thou hast denied her who gave thee her heart. It was ill done. Quit my roof and let me see thee no more. I--I pardon thee. Go.

_Geof._ Master Druce, have pity, for my tongue is tied--I--I may not speak!

_Dan._ Go!

_Geof._ Dorothy, one word. Hear what I have to say.

_Dor._ (_with an effort_). Geoffrey, thou hast denied me. I love thee--but--thou must go! [_GEOFFREY goes out sadly. When he has gone, DOROTHY falls sobbing at DAN’L’S feet._

_Dan._ My child! My child! [_Music._