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Bill. Oh, sir! please, sir! I'm a honest boy. It's the Bible-truth. I'll kiss twenty books on it.
James. I won't ax you.—Why, sir, he ain't even one o' the shoe-brigade. He 'ain't got a red coat. Bless my soul! he 'ain't even got a box—nothin' but a scrubby pair o' brushes as I'm alive! He ain't no shoeblack. He's a thief as purtends to black shoes, and picks pockets.
Bill. You're a liar! I never picked a pocket, in my life.
James. Bad language, you see! What more would you have?
Tho. Who'd iver lia' thowt o' sich wickedness in a boy like that!
Bill. I ain't a wicked boy, no. Nay, doan't thae tell mo that! Thae made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd been a mak ov a deevil—yo did.
James. He's one of the worst boys I know. This Timothy is one of the very worst boys in all London.
Bill (aside). Timothy, eh? I twigs! It's Rainbow, by Peter and Paul!—Look y'e here, old gen'leman! This 'ere's a bad cove as is takin' adwantage o' your woolliness. I knows him. His master guv me the suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where your Mattie was.
James. Don't you fancy you're g' in' to take in an experienced old gen'leman like that with your cock-and-bull stories! Come along, I say. Hey! Police!
Bill. Here you are! (Takes the coin from his mouth, rubs it dry on his jacket, and offers it.) I don't want it. Give it to old Hunx there.—He shan't never see his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, arter all.
James (taking the coin). Now look here, Timothy. I'm a detective hofficer. But I won't never be hard on no buy as wants to make a honest livin'. So you be hoff! I'll show the old gen'leman where he wants to go to.
BILL moves two paces, and takes a sight at him.
Tho. The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr Mattie then?
James. It's the dooty of a detective hofficer to know every girl in his beat.
Bill. My eye! there's a oner!
Tho. Tak mo to her, sir, an' aw'll pray for yo.
James. I will.—If I cotch you nearer than Mile End, I'll give you in charge at oncet.
Bill (bolting five yards). He's a humbug, daddy! but he'll serve you right. He'll melt you down for taller. He ain't no 'tective. I know him.
Tho. Goo away.
Bill. Good-bye, daddy! He don't know your Mattie. Good-bye, skelington! Exit.
Tho. Eh! sech a boy!
James. Let me see. You want a girl of the name of Mattie?
Tho. Aw do, sir.
James. The name is not an oncommon one. There's Mattie Kent?
Tho. Nay; it's noan o' her.
James. Then there's Mattie Winchfield?
Tho. Nay; it's noan o' her.
James. Then there's Mattie Pearson?
Tho. Yigh, that's hoo! That's hoo! Wheer? Wheer?
James. Well, it's too far for a man of your age to walk. But I'll call a cab, and we'll go comfortable.
Tho. But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab—as yo co it.
James. You don't suppose I'm a goin' to put an honest man like you to expense!
Tho. It's but raysonable I should peigh. But thae knows best.
James. Hey! Cab there! Exeunt.
Re-enter BILL, following them.
Bill. I'll have an eye of him, though. The swell as give me the yellow-boy—he's his master! Poor old codger! He'll believe any cove but the one as tells him the truth!
Exit.
Enter from the house MRS. CLIFFORD. Enter from opposite side COL. G.
Col. G. I was just coming to see you, Clara.
Mrs. C. And I was going to see you. How's Arthur to-day? I thought you would have come yesterday.
Col. G. My poor boy is as dependent on me as if I were not his father. I am very anxious about him. The fever keeps returning.
Mrs. C. Fortune seems to have favoured your mad scheme, Walter.
Col. G. Or something better than fortune.
Mrs. C. You have had rare and ample opportunity. You may end the farce when you please, and in triumph.
Col. G. On the contrary, Clara, it would be nothing but an anticlimax to end what you are pleased to call the farce now. As if I could make a merit of nursing my own boy! I did more for my black servant. I wish I had him here.
Mrs. C. You would like to double the watch—would you?
Col. G. Something has vexed you, Clara.
Mrs. C. I never liked the scheme, and I like it less every day.
Col. G. I have had no chance yet. He has been ill all the time. I wish you would come and see him a little oftener.
Mrs. C. He doesn't want me. You are everything now. Besides, I can't come alone.
Col G. Why not?
Mrs. C. Constance would fancy I did not want to take her.
Col. G. Then why not take her?
Mrs. C. I have my reasons.
Col. G. What are they?
Mrs. C. Never mind.
Col. G. I insist upon knowing them.
Mrs. C. It would break my heart, Walter, to quarrel with you, but I will if you use such an expression.
Col. G. But why shouldn't you bring Miss Lacordère with you?
Mrs. C. He's but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head.
Col. G. She's a fine girl. You make a friend of her.
Mrs. C. She's a good girl, and a lady-like girl; but I don't want to meddle with the bulwarks of society. I hope to goodness they will last my time.
Col. G. Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride be a Christian virtue.
Mrs. C. I see! You'll be a radical before long. Everything is going that way.
Col. G. I don't care what I am, so I do what's right. I'm sick of all that kind of thing. What I want is bare honesty. I believe I'm a tory as yet, but I should be a radical to-morrow if I thought justice lay on that side.—If a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn't he marry her?
Mrs. C. She may be unfit for him.
Col. G. How should he fall in love with her, then? Men don't fall in love with birds.
Mrs. C. It's a risk—a great risk.
Col. G. None the greater that he pleases himself, and all the more worth taking. I wish my poor boy—
Mrs. C. Your poor boy might please himself and yet not succeed in pleasing you, brother!
Col. G. (aside). She knows something.—I must go and see about his dinner. Good-bye, sister.
Mrs. C. Good-bye, then. You will have your own way!
Col. G. This once, Clara. Exeunt severally.
END OF ACT IIACT III
SCENE.—A garret-room. MATTIE. SUSANMat. At the worst we've got to die some day, Sue, and I don't know but hunger may be as easy a way as another.
Sus. I'd rather have a choice, though. And it's not hunger I would choose.
Mat. There are worse ways.
Sus. Never mind: we don't seem likely to be bothered wi' choosin'.
Mat. There's that button-hole done. (Lays down her work with a sigh, and leans back in her chair.)
Sus. I'll take it to old Nathan. It'll be a chop a-piece. It's wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up.
Mat. I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content with bread, I think.
Sus. Bread, indeed!
Mat. Well, it's something to eat.
Sus. Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone?
Mat. Bread's very good with a cup of tea.
Sus. Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!—If you'd mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now!
Mat. I never tasted lobster-salad.
Sus. I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don't care about your wittles: I do. When I'm hungry, I'm not at all comfortable.
Mat. Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard.
Sus. I can't eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain't dyin' of 'unger. It's only I'm peckish. Very peckish, though. I could eat—let me see what I could eat:—I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken—if it was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it—and a Bath-bun, and a sandwich; and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except just that crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle of champagne.
Mat. I don't know what one of those things tastes like—scarce one; and I don't believe you do either.
Sus. Don't I?—I never did taste champagne, but I've seen them eating lobster-salad many a time;—girls not half so good-lookin' as you or me, Mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. Oh dear! I am so hungry! Think of having your supper with a real gentleman as talks to you as if you was fit to talk to—not like them Jew-tailors, as tosses your work about as if it dirtied their fingers—and them none so clean for all their fine rings!
Mat. I saw Nathan's Joseph in a pastrycook's last Saturday, and a very pretty girl with him, poor thing!
Sus. Oh the hussy to let that beast pay for her!
Mat. I suppose she was hungry.
Sus. I'd die before I let a snob like that treat me. No, Mattie! I spoke of a real gentleman.
Mat. Are you sure you wouldn't take Nathan's Joseph for a gentleman if he was civil to you?
Sus. Thank you, miss! I know a sham from a real gentleman the moment I set eyes on him.
Mat. What do you mean by a real gentleman, Susan?
Sus. A gentleman as makes a lady of his girl.
Mat. But what sort of lady, Sue? The poor girl may fancy herself a lady, but only till she's left in the dirt. That sort of gentleman makes fine speeches to your face, and calls you horrid names behind your back. Sue, dear, don't have a word to say to one of them—if he speaks ever so soft.
Sus. Lawks, Mattie! they ain't all one sort.
Mat. You won't have more than one sort to choose from. They may be rough or civil, good-natured or bad, but they're all the same in this, that not one of them cares a pin more for you than if you was a horse—no—nor half a quarter so much. Don't for God's sake have a word to say to one of them. If I die, Susan—
Sus. If you do, Matilda—if you go and do that thing, I'll take to gin—that's what I'll do. Don't say I didn't act fair, and tell you beforehand.
Mat. How can I help dying, Susan?
Sus. I say, Don't do it, Mattie. We'll fall out, if you do. Don't do it, Matilda—La! there's that lumping Bill again—always a comin' up the stair when you don't want him!
Enter BILL.
Mat. Well, Bill, how have you been getting on?
Bill. Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can't go on so. (Holds out his stool.) It ain't respectable.
Mat. What ain't respectable? Everything's respectable that's honest.
Bill. Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin' about with a three-legged stool for a blackin' box? It ain't the thing. The rig'lars chaffs me fit to throw it at their 'eads, they does—only there's too many on 'em, an' I've got to dror it mild. A box I must have, or a feller's ockypation's gone. Look ye here! One bob, one tanner, and a joey! There! that's what comes of never condescending to an 'a'penny.
Sus. Bless us! what mighty fine words we've got a waitin' on us!
Bill. If I 'ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it's for the right word in the right place—as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him up for purfane swearin'.—When a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, I axes him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige me by givin' of it to the first beggar he may 'ave the good fort'n to meet. Some on 'em throws down the 'a'penny. Most on 'em makes it a penny.—But I say, Mattie, you don't want nobody arter you—do you now?
Mat. I don't know what you mean by that, Bill.
Bill. You don't want a father—do you now? Do she, Susan?
Sus. We want no father a hectorin' here, Bill. You 'ain't seen one about, have you?
Bill. I seen a rig'lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow.
Mat. What do you mean, Bill? Bill. A rig'lar swell—I repeats it—a astin' arter a young woman by the name o' Mattie.
Sus. (pulling him aside). Hold your tongue, Bill! You'll kill her! You young viper! Hold your tongue, or I'll twist your neck. Don't you see how white she is?
Mat. What was he like? Do tell me, Bill.
Bill. A long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane with a hivory 'andle.
Sus. He's a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can't abide him. If you tell him where she is, she'll never speak to you again.
Mat. Oh, Susan! what shall I do? Don't bring him here, Bill. I shall have to run away again; and I can't, for we owe a week's rent.
Sus. There, Bill!
Bill. Don't you be afeard, Mattie. He shan't touch you. Nor the old one neither.
Mat. There wasn't an old man with him?—not an old man with a long stick?
Bill. Not with him. Daddy was on his own hook?
Mat. It must have been my father, Susan. (Sinks back on her chair.)
Sus. 'Tain't the least likely.—There, Bill! I always said you was no good! You've killed her.
Bill. Mattie! Mattie! I didn't tell him where you was.
Mat. (reviving). Run and fetch him, Bill—there's a dear! Oh! how proud I've been! If mother did say a hard word, she didn't mean it—not for long. Run, Bill, run and fetch him.
Bill. Mattie, I was a fetchin' of him, but he wouldn't trust me. And didn't he cut up crusty, and collar me tight! He's a game old cock—he is, Mattie.
Mat. (getting up and pacing about the room). Oh, Susan! my heart'll break. To think he's somewhere near and I can't get to him! Oh my side! Don't you know where he is, Bill?
Bill. He's someveres about, and blow me if I don't, find him!—a respectable old party in a white pinny, an' 'peared as if he'd go on a walkin' till he walked hisself up staudin'. A scrumptious old party!
Mat. Had he a stick, Bill?
Bill. Yes—a knobby stick—leastways a stick wi' knobs all over it.
Mat. That's him, Susan!
Bill. I could swear to the stick. I was too near gittin' at the taste on it not to know it again.
Mat. When was it you saw him, Bill?
Bill. Yesterday, Mattie—jest arter you give me the tart. I sawr him again this mornin', but he wouldn't place no confidence in me.
Mat. Oh dear! Why didn't you come straight to me, Bill?
Bill. If I'd only ha' known as you wanted him! But that was sech a unlikely thing! It's werry perwokin'! I uses my judgment, an' puts my hoof in it! I am sorry, Mattie. But I didn't know no better (crying).
Mat. Don't cry, Bill. You'll find him for me yet—won't you?
Bill. I'm off this indentical minute. But you see—
Sus. There! there!—now you mizzle. I don't want no fathers here—goodness knows; but the poor girl's took a fancy to hers, and she'll die if she don't get him. Run now—there's a good boy! (Exit BILL.) You 'ain't forgotten who's a comin', Mattie?
Mat. No, indeed.
Sus. Well, I hope she'll be civil, or I'll just give her a bit of my mind.
Mat. Not enough to change hers, I'm afraid. That sort of thing never does any good.
Sus. And am I to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs, and sayin' yes, ma'am, an' no, ma'am? Not if I knows it, Matilda!
Mat. You will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of us.
Sus. An' what's that to me?
Mat. Well, I don't like to be thought a thief. Besides, Mrs. Clifford has been kind to us.
Sus. She's paid us for work done; so has old Nathan.
Mat. Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took home his slops?
Sus. Oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she takes it out in kingdom-come.
Mat. You're unfair, Susan.
Sus. Well, it's little fairness I get.
Mat. And to set that right you're unfair yourself! What you call speaking your mind, is as cheap, and as nasty, as the worst shoddy old Nathan ever got gobble-stitched into coats and trousers.
Sus. Very well, Miss Matilda! (rising and snatching her bonnet). The sooner we part the better! You stick by your fine friends! I don't care that for them! (snapping her fingers)—and you may tell 'em so! I can make a livin' without them or you either. Goodness gracious knows it ain't much of a livin' I've made sin' I come across you, Miss! Exit.
Mat (trying to rise). Susan! Susan! (Lays her head on the table).
A tap at the door, and enter MRS. CLIFFORD, with JAMES behind.
MATTIE rises.
Mrs. C. Wait on the landing, James.
James. Yes, ma'am.
Exit JAMES, leaving the door a little ajar.
Mrs. C. Well, Miss Pearson! (Mattie offers a chair.) No, thank you. That person is still with you, I see!
Mat. Indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl.
Mrs. C. She is a low creature, and capable of anything. I advise you to get rid of her.
Mat. Was she rude on the stair, ma'am?
Mrs. C. Rude! Vulgar—quite vulgar! Insulting!
Mat. I am very sorry. But, believe me, ma'am, she is an honest girl, and never pawned that work. It was done—every stitch of it; and the loss of the money is hard upon us too. Indeed, ma'am, she did lose the parcel.
Mrs. C. You have only her word for it. If you don't give her up, I give you up.
Mat. I can't, ma'am. She might go into bad ways if I did.
Mrs. C. She can't well get into worse. Her language! You would do ever so much better without her.
Mat. I daren't, ma'am. I should never get it off my conscience.
Mrs. C. Your conscience indeed! (rising). I wish you a good morning, Miss Pearson.—(Sound of a blow, followed by scuffling.)—What is that? I fear I have got into an improper place.
SUSAN bursts in.
Sus. Yes, ma'am, and that you have! It's a wery improper place for the likes o' you, ma'am—as believes all sorts o' wicked things of people as is poor. Who are you to bring your low flunkies a-listenin' at honest girls' doors! (Turning to James in the doorway.) Get out, will you? Let me catch you here again, and I'll mark you that the devil wouldn't know his own! You dirty Paul Pry—you! (Falls on her knees to Mattie.) Mattie, you angel!
Mat. (trying to make her get up) Never mind. It's all right between you and me, Susan.
Mrs. C. I see! I thought as much!
Sus. (starting up) As much as what, then, my lady? Oh, I know you and your sort—well enough! We're the dirt under your feet—lucky if we stick to your shoes! But this room's mine.
Mrs. C. That linen was mine, young woman, I believe.
Sus. An' it's for that miserable parcel you come a-talkin', an' abusin' as no lady ought to! How dare you look that angel in the face there an' say she stole it—which you're not fit to lace her boots for her! There!
Mat. Susan! Susan! do be quiet.
Sus. It's all very well for the likes o' me (courtesying spitefully)—which I'm no better'n I should be, and a great deal worse, if I'm on my oath to your ladyship—that's neither here nor there!—but she's better'n a van-load o' sich ladies as you, pryin' into other people's houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' yer flunkies! I know ye! I do!
Mat. Don't, Susan.
Sus. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye good manners? I been better brought up myself.
Mrs. C. I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the matter over to the police.
Sus. The perlice, indeed!—You get out of this, ma'am, or I'll make you!—you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in the face through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with your—insolence—that's your word!
Exit MRS. CLIFFORD.
Mat. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us?
Sus. She daren't do it—the old scrooge! But just let her try it on! See if I don't show her up afore the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work my fingers to the bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let me. I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger, which it's as true as gospel.
Mat. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey.
Sus. There must be some good people somewheres, Mattie.
Mat. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, Sukey.
Sus. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women ha' done it afore. It's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out—and they shouldn't me. There's ne'er a one o' the redcoats 'ill cut up rougher 'n I shall—barrin' the beard, and that don't go for much now-a-days.
Mat. And what should I do without you, Susan?
Sus. Do you care to have me, then?
Mat. That I do, indeed. But you shouldn't have talked like that to Mrs. Clifford. Ladies ain't used to such words. They sound worse than they are—quite dreadful, to them. She don't know your kind heart as I do. Besides, the look of things is against us. Ain't it now? Say yourself.
Sus. (starting up) I'll go and beg her pardon. I'll go direckly—I will. I swear I will. I can't abear her, but I'll do it. I believe hunger has nigh drove me mad.
Mat. It takes all the madness out of me.—No, Susan; we must bear it now. Come along. We can be miserable just as well working. There's your sleeve. I'll thread your needle for you. Don't cry—there's a dear!
Sus. I will cry. It's all I ever could do to my own mind, and it's all as is left me. But if I could get my claws on that lovyer o' yours, I wouldn't cry then. He's at the bottom of it! I don't see myself what's the use of fallin' in love. One man's as much of a fool as another to me. But you must go to bed. You ain't fit. You'll be easier when you've got your frock off. There! Why, child, you're all of a tremble!—And no wonder, wi' nothing on her blessed body but her frock and her shimmy!
Mat. Don't take off my frock, Sue. I must get on with my work.
Sus. Lie down a bit, anyhow. I'll lie at your back, and you'll soon be as warm's a toast. (MAT. lies down.) O Lord! she's dead! Her heart's stopped beatin'. (Runs out of the room.)
A moment of silence. A tap at the door.
CONSTANCE peeps in, then enters, with a basket.
Con. Miss Pearson!—She's asleep. (Goes near.) Good heavens! (Lays her hand on her.) No. (Takes a bottle from her basket, finds a cup, and pours into it.) Take this, Miss Pearson; it will do you good. There now! You'll find something else in the basket.
Mat. I don't want anything. I had so nearly got away! Why did you bring me back?
Con. Life is good!
Mat. It is not good. How dare you do it? Why keep a miserable creature alive? Life ain't to us what it is to you. The grave is the only place we have any right to.
Con. If I could make your life worth something to you—