SCENE II.—_Wood_.

_Enter_ AMBROSE GWINETT. (_running_.) L.

_Gwin_. I’ve distanced them—but i’faith I’ve had to run for it.—No, no, fair gentlemen, I hope yet to have many a blithe day ashore—high winds, roaring seas, and the middle-watch have no relish for Gwinett—make a sailor of me, what, and leave Lucy Fairlove?—I’ve hurt my wrist in the struggle with one of the gang—(_takes his handkerchief_, _which is stained with blood_, _from around his arm_.) It is but a scratch—if I bind it up again it may excite the alarm of Lucy—no, Time is the best surgeon, and to him I trust it. (_puts the handkerchief in his pocket_.) Eh! who have we here? by all my hopes, Lucy herself.

_Enter_ LUCY FAIRLOVE. R.

_Lucy_. Ambrose.

_Gwin_. Come, this is kind of you—nay, it is more than I deserve.

_Lucy_. What is kind or more than you deserve?

_Gwin_. Why coming to meet me through this lone road!

_Lucy_. Meet you—what vanity—not I indeed, I was merely taking my morning’s walk, thinking of—of—

_Gwin_. Come, come, confess it.

_Lucy_. Well then I do confess, I wished to meet you, to tell you that—

_Gwin_. You have spoken to your uncle?

_Lucy_. On the contrary—to desire you to defer—

_Gwin_. Why, do you fear a refusal? Why should he refuse—have I not every prospect—will not my character—

_Lucy_. Yes, more than satisfy him, but—

_Gwin_. Or perhaps Lucy there is another whom you would prefer to make this proposal.

_Lucy_. This is unkind—you do not believe so.

_Gwin_. Well, be it as you will: I believe nought but truth, but innocence in Lucy Fairlove, and by this kiss—

GRAYLING _looking from wing_. R.

_Gray_. Hem! holloa! there.

_Gwin_. How now—what want you?

_Gray_. Want! (_aside_.) Oh! Lucy, Lucy! nothing.

_Gwin_. Then wherefore did you call?

_Gray_. Because it pleased me: a man may use his own lungs I trow.

_Lucy_. (_aside_.) Alas! I fear some violence.

_Gwin_. Aye and his own legs, they cannot do him better service than by removing him from where he is not wanted.

_Gray_. (_Coming between them_, _folding his arms_, _and looking doggedly at Gwinett_.) Now I sha’n’t go.

_Gwin_. Would you quarrel, fellow?

_Gray_. Aye—yes—come will you fight with me?

_Lucy_. (Interposing.) For heaven’s sake! subdue this rashness—Gwinett—Grayling—good kind Master Grayling—

_Gray_. Good kind Master Grayling—you speak falsely Lucy Fairlove—

_Gwin_. Falsely?

_Gray_. Aye, Falsely! she thinks me neither good nor kind—but I see how it is—I have thought so a long time, (_after eying Gwinett and Lucy with extreme malice_.) I see how it is—ha! ha! ha! (_Laughing sarcastically_.)

_Gwin_. Fellow, look not with such devilish malice but give your venom utterance.

_Gray_. Venom—aye—the right word, venom,—and yet who’d have thought we should have found it where all looked so purely.

_Gwin_. Wretch! would you say—

_Gray_. Nothing—nothing—where we have facts what need of words? the artless timid Lucy, she who moves about the town with closed lips and downcast eyes—who flutters and blushes at a stranger’s look—can steal into a wood—oh! shame—shame.

_Gwin_. Shame! villain! but no, to infamy so black as this, the best return is the silent loathing of contempt.

_Gray_. What! would you go with him, Lucy?

_Lucy_. Grayling, never again, in town or field, under my uncle’s roof, or beneath the open sky, that you have so lately made a witness to your infamy, dare to pronounce my name; there is a poison festering in your lips, and all that passes through is tainting—your words fall like a blight upon the best and purest—to be named by you, is to be scandalised—once whilst I turned from, I pitied you—you are now become the lowest, the most abject of created things—the libeller, the hateful heartless libeller of an innocent woman. Farewell, if you can never more be happy, at least strive to be good.

[_Exit with Gwinett_. L.

_Gray_. Lucy, Lucy, upon my knees—I meant not what I said—’twas passion—madness—eh, what—now she takes him by the arm—they’re gone—I feel as I had drank a draught of poison—never sound her name again? yes, and I deserve it—I am a wretch!—a ruffian,—to breathe a blight over so fair a flower. I feel as if all the world,—the sky, the fields, the bright sun were passing from me, and I stood fettered in a dark and loathsome den—my heart is numbed, and my brain palsied.

_Enter_ REEF _and_ SAILORS. R.

_Reef_. A plague take these woods, I see no good in ’em—there’s no looking out a head the length of a bow sprit; I know he run down here.

1 _Sail_. That’s what I said at first, and if you had taken my advice we should have come here without staying beating about the bushes like a parcel of harriers.

_Reef_. He was a smart clean fellow, and would have done credit to the captain’s gig.—Eh! who have we here?—come, one man is as good as another, and this fellow seems a strong one.

_Gray_. How now!—what would you?

_Reef_. What would we?—why, what do you think of topping your boom—pulling your halyards taut, and turning sailor?

_Gray_. Sailor!

_Reef_. Aye—why you look as surprised as if we wanted to make you port admiral at once.

_Gray_. Turn sailor?

_Reef_. Sailor—what’s the use of turning the word over so with your tongue—I said sailor—it’s a useless gentility with us to ask you—because if you don’t like us, I can tell you we have taken a very great liking to you.

_Gray_. With all my heart—Lucy is gone for ever—this place is hateful to me—amid the perils of the ocean, I may find my best relief—come.

_Reef_. That’s right my hearty—come, scud away—eh, what have you brought yourself up with a round turn for?

_Gray_. Then I leave my rival to the undisturbed possession of—oh, the thought is withering—no, no, I cannot.

_Reef_. Cannot! we’re not to be put off, and by a landsman—so come, there’s one fellow already has outsailed us, piloting among these breakers,—one follow this morning—

_Gray_. This morning—what kind of man?

_Reef_. Why, to say the truth, messmate, he was a trim taut-rigged craft, and a devilish deal better looking than you are.

_Gray_. And he escaped from you?

_Reef_. Yes, but that’s more than we intend to let you do, so come.

_Gray_. Oh it will be a sweet revenge—one moment—how stands your pocket?

_Reef_. Why not a shot in the locker.

_Gray_. Here. (_takes out a purse_.)

_Reef_. Eh! how did you come by all that? you hav’nt run a pistol against a traveller’s head, eh?

_Gray_. These are the savings of a life of toil—I had hoarded them up for a far different purpose—but so that they buy me revenge—

_Reef_. Aye, that’s a bad commodity; for when people are inclined to purchase, they’ll do it at any rate; but I say, no foul tricks you know.

_Gray_. You say one man escaped you this morning, now I’ll lead you to him; moreover, if you secure him, this purse shall be your reward.

_Reef_. Shall it! we are the boys; and what’s more, we don’t mind giving you your discharge into the bargain.

_Gray_. Come on then; follow me into the town, and when the night comes on, I’ll find means to throw your victim into your hands; bear him away with as little noise as possible.

_Reef_. Oh, never fear—if he attempts to hallo, we’ll put a stopper in his mouth to spoil his music.

_Gray_. ’Tis well—thus I shall be revenged—Lucy, if you are resolved to hate, at least you shall have ample reason for it.

[_Exit with Sailors_. L.