Chapter IX: Act I: , and trees that were small in Act I. are tall and bushy

now; the general arrangement of the garden is the same, except
that the sycamore planted in Act I. has developed into a large
tree, the boughs of which roof in the stage; the landscape has also
undergone a metamorphosis, inasmuch as that which was open country
in Act I. is now covered with picturesque semi-detached villas, and
there are indications of a large town in the distance. The month
is September, and the leaves of the Virginia creepers wear their
autumn tint._

_JENNY discovered seated on a bench at the foot of the tree, and RUTH
is standing by her side, holding a skein of cotton, which JENNY is
winding. JENNY is now a pleasant-looking middle-aged lady._

_Jen._ Have you any fault to find with poor Tom?

_Ruth._ No, miss, I’ve no fault to find with Tom. But a girl can’t marry every young man she don’t find fault with, can she now, miss?

_Jen._ Certainly not, Ruth. But Tom seems to think you have given him some cause to believe that you are fond of him.

_Ruth_ (_bridling up_). It’s like his impudence, miss, to say so! Fond of _him_ indeed!

_Jen._ He hasn’t said so, Ruth, but I’m quite sure he thinks so. I have noticed of late that you have taken a foolish pleasure in playing fast and loose with poor Tom, and this has made him very unhappy--very unhappy indeed; so much so that I think it is very likely that he will make up his mind to leave my service altogether.

_Ruth_ (_piqued_). Oh, miss, if Tom can make up his mind to go, I’m sure _I_ wouldn’t stand in his way for worlds.

_Jen._ But I think you would be sorry if he did.

_Ruth._ Oh yes, miss, I should be sorry to part with Tom!

_Jen._ Then I think it’s only right to tell you that the foolish fellow talks about enlisting for a soldier, and if he does it at all, he will do it to-night.

_Ruth_ (_with some emotion_). Oh, miss, for that, I do like Tom very much indeed; but if he wants to ’list, of course he’s his own master, and if he’s really fond of me, what does he want to go and ’list for? (_Going to cry._) One would think he would like to be where he could talk to me, and look at me--odd times! I’m sure I don’t want Tom to go and ’list!

_Jen._ Then take the advice of an old lady, who knows something of these matters, and tell him so before it’s too late--you foolish, foolish girl! Ah, Ruth, I’ve no right to be hard on you! I’ve been a young and foolish girl like yourself in my time, and I’ve done many thoughtless things that I’ve learnt to be very sorry for. I’m not reproaching you--but I’m speaking to you out of the fulness of my experience, and take my word for it, if you treat poor Tom lightly, you may live to be very sorry for it too! (_Taking her hand._) There, I’m not angry with you, my dear, but if I’d taken the advice I’m giving you, I shouldn’t be a lonely old lady at a time of life when a good husband has his greatest value. (_Ring._) Go and see who’s at the gate!

[_Exit JENNY. RUTH goes to the gate, wiping her eyes on her
apron--she opens it._

_Enter SPREADBROW (now SIR HENRY)._

_Spread._ My dear, is this Mr. Braybrook’s?

_Ruth._ Yes, sir.

_Spread._ Is he at home?

_Ruth._ No, sir, he is not; but mistress is.

_Spread._ Will you give your mistress my card? (_Feeling for his card-case._) Dear me, I’ve left my cards at home! Never mind--will you tell your mistress that a gentleman will be greatly indebted to her, if she will kindly spare him a few minutes of her time? Do you think you can charge yourself with that message?

_Ruth._ Mistress is in the garden, sir; I’ll run and tell her, if you’ll take a seat. [_Exit RUTH._

_Spread._ That’s a good girl! (_He sits on seat._) I couldn’t make up my mind to pass the old house without framing an excuse to take a peep at it. (_Looks round._) Very nice--very pretty--but, dear me, on a very much smaller scale than I fancied. Remarkable changes in thirty years! (_Rises and walks round trees, looking about._) Why, the place is a town, and a railway runs right through it. And this is really the old garden in which I spent so many pleasant hours? Poor little Jenny!--I wonder what’s become of her? Pretty little girl, but with a tendency to stoutness; if she’s alive, I’ll be bound she’s fat. So this is Mr. Braybrook’s, is it? I wonder who Braybrook is--I don’t remember any family of that name hereabouts. (_Looking off._) This, I suppose, is Mrs. Braybrook. Now, how in the world am I to account for my visit?

_Enter JENNY--she curtsies formally, he bows._

I beg your pardon, I hardly know how to explain this intrusion. Perhaps I had better state my facts, they will plead my apology:--I am an old Indian civilian, who, having returned to England after many years’ absence, is whiling away a day in his native place, and amusing himself with polishing old memories--bright enough once, but sadly tarnished--sadly tarnished!

_Jen._ Indeed? May I hope that you have succeeded?

_Spread._ Indifferently well--indifferently well. The fact is, I hardly know where I am, for all my old landmarks are swept away; I assure you I am within the mark, when I say that this house is positively the only place I can identify.

_Jen._ The town has increased very rapidly of late.

_Spread._ Rapidly! When I left, there were not twenty houses in the place, but (_politely_) that was long before your time. I left a village, I find a town--I left a beadle, I find a mayor and corporation--I left a pump, I find a statue to a borough member. The inn is a “Palace Hotel Company--” the alms-house a county jail--the pound is a police station, and the common a colony of semi-detached bungalows! Everything changed, including myself--everything new, except myself--ha, ha!

_Jen._ I shall be glad to offer you any assistance in my power, I should be a good guide, for I have lived here thirty-two years!

_Spread._ Thirty-two years! is it possible? Then surely I ought to know you? (_He feels for his glasses._) My name is Spreadbrow--Sir Henry Spreadbrow!

_Jen._ Spreadbrow! (_Putting on spectacles._) Is it possible? Why, my very dear old friend (_offering both her hands_), don’t you recollect me?

_Spread._ (_he puts on his double eye-glass, takes both her hands_). God bless me!--is it possible?--and this is really you!--you don’t say so! Dear me, dear me! Well, well, well! I assure you I am delighted, most unaffectedly delighted, to renew our friendship! (_Shaking hands again, they sit under tree and look at each other curiously._)

_Spread._ Not changed a bit! My dear Jane, you really must allow me. (_They shake hands again._) And now tell me, how is Mr. Braybrook?

_Jen._ (_rather surprised_). Oh, Mr. Braybrook is very well; I expect him home presently; he will be very glad to see you, for he has often heard me speak of you.

_Spread._ Has he indeed? It will give me the greatest--the very greatest possible pleasure, believe me (_very emphatically_), to make his acquaintance.

_Jen._ (_still surprised at his emphatic manner_). I’m sure he will be delighted.

_Spread._ Now tell me all about yourself. Any family?

_Jen._ (_puzzled_). I beg your pardon?

_Spread._ Any family?

_Jen._ Mr. Braybrook?

_Spread._ Well--yes.

_Jen._ Mr. Braybrook is a bachelor.

_Spread._ A bachelor? Then let me understand--am I not speaking to Mrs. Braybrook?

_Jen._ No, indeed you are not! Ha, ha! (_much amused_). Mr. Braybrook is my nephew; the place belongs to him now.

_Spread._ Oh! then, my dear Jane, may I ask who you are?

_Jen._ I am not married.

_Spread._ Not married!

_Jen._ No; I keep house for my nephew.

_Spread._ Why, you don’t mean to sit there and look me in the face and tell me, after thirty years, that you are still Jane Northbrook?

_Jen._ (_rather hurt at the mistake_). Northcott.

_Spread._ Northcott, of course. I beg your pardon--I should have said Northcott. And you are not Mrs. Braybrook? You are not even married! Why, what were they about--what were they about? Not married! Well, now, do you know, I am very sorry to hear that. I am really more sorry and disappointed than I can tell you. (_She looks surprised and rather hurt._) You’d have made an admirable wife, Jane, and an admirable mother. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to find that you are still Jane Northbrook--I should say, Northcott.

_Jen._ The same in name--much changed in everything else. (_Sighing._)

_Spread._ Changed? Not a bit--I won’t hear of it. I knew you the moment I saw you! We are neither of us changed. Mellowed perhaps--a little mellowed, but what of that? Who shall say that the blossom is pleasanter to look upon than the fruit? Not I for one, Jane--not I for one.

_Jen._ Time has dealt very kindly with us, but we’re old folks now, Henry Spreadbrow. (_Rises._)

_Spread._ I won’t allow it, Jane--I won’t hear it. (_Rises._) What constitutes youth? A head of hair? Not at all; I was as bald as an egg at five and twenty--babies are always bald. Eyesight? Some people are born blind. Years? Years are an arbitrary impertinence. Am I an old man or you an old woman, because the earth contrives to hurry round the sun in three hundred and sixty-five days? Why, Saturn can’t do it in thirty years. If I had been born on Saturn I should be two years old, ma’am--a public nuisance in petticoats. Let us be thankful that I was not born on Saturn. No--no, as long as I can ride to cover twice a week, walk my five and twenty miles without turning a hair, go to bed at twelve, get up at six, turn into a cold tub and like it, I’m a boy, Jane--a boy--a boy!

_Jen._ And you are still unmarried?

_Spread._ I? Oh dear, yes--very much so. No time to think of marriage. Plenty of opportunity, mind, but no leisure to avail myself of it. I’ve had a bustling time of it, I assure you, Jane, working hard at the Bar and on the Bench, with some success--with some success; (_sits again_) and now that I’ve done my work, I throw myself back in my easy-chair, fold my hands, cross my legs, and prepare to enjoy myself. Life is before me, and I’m going to begin it. Ha, ha! And so we are really Jane Northcott still?

_Jen._ Still Jane Northcott.

_Spread._ I’m indignant to hear it--I assure you that I am positively indignant to hear it. You would have made some fellow so infernally happy; (_rises_) I’m sorry for that fellow’s sake--I don’t know him, but still I am sorry. Ah, I wish I had remained in England. I do wish, for the very first time since I left it, that I had remained in England.

_Jen._ Indeed! And why?

_Spread._ Why? Because I should have done my best to remove that reproach from society. I should indeed, Jane! Ha, ha! After all, it don’t much matter, for you wouldn’t have had me. Oh yes! you had no idea of it; but, do you know, I’ve a great mind to tell you--I _will_ tell you. Do you know, I was in love with you at one time. Boy and girl, you know--boy and girl. Ha, ha! _you’d_ no idea of it, but I was!

_Jen._ (_in wonder_). Oh yes; I knew it very well.

_Spread._ (_much astonished_). You knew it? You knew that I was attached to you!

_Jen._ Why, of course I did!

_Spread._ Did you, indeed! Bless me, you don’t say so! Now that’s amazingly curious. Leave a woman alone to find _that_ out! It’s instinctive, positively instinctive. Now, my dear Jane, I’m a very close student of human nature, and in pursuit of that study I should like above all things to know by what signs you detected my secret admiration for you. (_Takes her hand._)

_Jen._ Why, bless the man! There was no mystery in the matter! You told me all about it!

_Spread._ I told you all about it?

_Jen._ Certainly you did--here, in this garden.

_Spread._ That I admired you--loved you?

_Jen._ Most assuredly! Surely you’ve not forgotten it. (_He drops her hand._) _I_ haven’t.

_Spread._ I remember that I had the impertinence to be very fond of you. I forgot that I had the impertinence to tell you so. I remember it now. I made a fool of myself. I remember it by that. I told you that I adored you, didn’t I?--that you were as essential to me as the air I breathed--that it was impossible to support existence without you--that your name should be the most hallowed of earthly words, and so forth. Ha, ha! my dear Jane, before I’d been a week on board I was saying the same thing to a middle-aged governess whose name has entirely escaped me. (_She has exhibited signs of pleasure during the earlier part of this speech, and disappointment at the last two lines._) What fools we make of ourselves!

_Jen._ And of others!

_Spread._ Oh, I meant it, Jane; I meant every word I said to you.

_Jen._ And the governess?

_Spread._ And the governess! I would have married you, Jane.

_Jen._ And the governess?

_Spread._ And the governess! I’d have married _her_, if she had accepted me--but she didn’t. Perhaps it was as well--she was a widow with five children--I cursed my destiny at the time, but I’ve forgiven it since. I talked of blowing out my brains. I’m glad I didn’t do it, as I’ve found them useful in my profession. Ha! ha! (_Looking round; JENNY stands watching him._) The place has changed a good deal since my time--improved--improved--we’ve all three improved. I don’t quite like this tree, though--it’s in the way. What is it? A kind of beech, isn’t it?

_Jen._ No, it’s a sycamore.

_Spread._ Ha! I don’t understand English trees--but it’s a curious place for a big tree like this, just outside the drawing-room window. Isn’t it in the way?

_Jen._ It _is_ rather in the way.

_Spread._ I don’t like a tree before a window, it checks the current of fresh air--don’t you find that?

_Jen._ It _does_ check the current of fresh air.

_Spread._ Then the leaves blow into the house in autumn, and that’s a nuisance--and besides, it impedes the view.

_Jen._ It is certainly open to these objections.

_Spread._ Then cut it down, my dear Jane. Why don’t you cut it down?

_Jen._ Cut it down! I wouldn’t cut it down for worlds. That tree is identified in my mind with many happy recollections.

_Spread._ Remarkable the influence exercised by associations over a woman’s mind. Observe--you take a house, mainly because it commands a beautiful view. You apportion the rooms principally with reference to that view. You lay out your garden at great expense to harmonize with that view, and, having brought that view into the very best of all possible conditions for the full enjoyment of it, you allow a gigantic and wholly irrelevant tree to block it all out for the sake of the sentimental ghost of some dead and gone sentimental reality! Take my advice and have it down. If I had had anything to do with it, you would never have planted it. I shouldn’t have allowed it!

_Jen._ You had so much to do with it that it was planted there at your suggestion.

_Spread._ At mine? Never saw it before in my life.

_Jen._ We planted it together thirty years ago--the day you sailed for India.

_Spread._ It appears to me that that was a very eventful day in my career. We planted it together! I have no recollection of having ever planted a gigantic sycamore anywhere. And we did it together! Why, it would take a dozen men to move it.

_Jen._ It was a sapling then--you cut it for me.

_Spread._ (_suddenly and with energy_). From the old sycamore in the old garden at Hampstead! Why, I remember; I went to London expressly to get it for you. (_Laughing--sitting on her left._) And the next day I called to say good-bye, and I found you planting it, and I helped; and as I was helping I found an opportunity to seize your hand. (_Does so._) I grasped it--pressed it to my lips--(_does so_), and said, “My dear, dear Jenny” (_he drops her hand suddenly_), and so forth. Never mind _what_ I said--but I meant it--I meant it! (_Laughs heartily--she joins him, but her laughter is evidently forced--eventually she shows signs of tears, which he doesn’t notice._) It all comes back with a distinctness which is absolutely photographic. I begged you to give me a flower--you gave me one--a sprig of geranium.

_Jen._ Mignonette.

_Spread._ _Was_ it mignonette? I think you’re right--it was mignonette. I seized it--pressed it to my trembling lips--placed it next my fluttering heart, and swore that come what might I would never, never part with it!--I wonder what I did with that flower!--And then I took one from my button hole--begged you to take it--you took it, and--ha, ha, ha!--you threw it down carelessly on the table, and thought no more about it, you heartless creature--ha, ha, ha! Oh, I was very angry! I remember it perfectly; it was a camellia.

_Jen._ (_half crying aside_). Not a camellia, I think.

_Spread._ Yes, a camellia, a large white camellia.

_Jen._ I don’t think it was a camellia; I rather think it was a rose.

_Spread._ Nonsense, Jane--come, come, you hardly looked at it, miserable little flirt that you were; and you pretend, after thirty years, to stake your recollection of the circumstance against mine? No, no, Jane, take my word for it, it was a camellia.

_Jen._ I’m sure it was a rose!

_Spread._ No, I’m sure it was a camellia.

_Jen._ (_in tears_). Indeed--indeed, it was a rose. (_Produces a withered rose from a pocket-book--he is very much impressed--looks at it and at her, and seems much affected._)

_Spread._ Why, Jane, my dear Jane, you don’t mean to say that this is the very flower?

_Jen._ That is the very flower! (_Rising._)

_Spread._ Strange! You seemed to attach no value to it when I gave it to you, you threw it away as something utterly insignificant; and when I leave, you pick it up, and keep it for thirty years! (_Rising._) My dear Jane, how like a woman!

_Jen._ And you seized the flower I gave you--pressed it to your lips, and swore that wherever your good or ill fortune might carry you, you would never part with it; and--and you quite forgot what became of it! My dear Harry, how like a man!

_Spread._ I was deceived, my dear Jane--deceived! I had no idea that you attached so much value to my flower.

_Jen._ We were both deceived, Henry Spreadbrow.

_Spread._ Then is it possible that in treating me as you did, Jane, you were acting a part?

_Jen._ We were both acting parts--but the play is over, and there’s an end of it. (_With assumed cheerfulness._) Let us talk of something else.

_Spread._ No, no, Jane, the play is _not_ over--we will talk of nothing else--the play is not nearly over. (_Music in orchestra, “John Anderson my Jo.”_) My dear Jane--(_rising and taking her hand_), my very dear Jane--believe me, for I speak from my hardened old heart, so far from the play being over, the serious interest is only just beginning. (_He kisses her hand--they walk towards the house._)

DAN’L DRUCE, BLACKSMITH.

_A NEW AND ORIGINAL DRAMA_, IN THREE ACTS.

_First performed at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, on Monday September 11th, 1876._

An incident in the First Act was suggested by George Eliot’s Novel “Silas Marner.”

CHARACTERS.

SIR JASPER COMBE, _a Royalist Colonel_ MR. HOWE.
DAN’L DRUCE MR. HERMANN VEZIN.
REUBEN HAINES, _a Royalist Sergeant_ MR. ODELL.
GEOFFREY WYNYARD, _a Merchant Sailor_ MR. FORBES ROBERTSON.
MARPLE MR. BRAID.
JOE RIPLEY, _a Fisherman_ MR. WEATHERSBY.
SERGEANT } _Of the Parliamentary_ { MR. C. ALLBROOK.
SOLDIER } _Army_ { MR. FIELDER.
DOROTHY MISS MARION TERRY.

_The First Act is supposed to take place shortly after the Battle of Worcester._

An interval of fourteen years between the First and Second Acts.

ACT I.

A RUINED HUT ON THE NORFOLK COAST.

ACT II.

DAN’L DRUCE’S FORGE.

ACT III.

INTERIOR OF DRUCE’S COTTAGE.

DAN’L DRUCE, BLACKSMITH.