SCENE III.—_A Room in the Blake’s Head_.

_Enter_ LABEL. L.

_Label_. Well, now let me see, where’s my next point of destination? ah, Dover. Thus I go through the country, and by both my trades of barber and doctor, contrive to look at the bright side of life, and lay by a little for the snows of old age. Had bad business here at Deal: all the people so plaguily healthy—not a tooth to be drawn—not a vein to be opened; the landlord here, master Collins, has been my only customer—the only man for whom I have had occasion to draw lancet. Now it’s very odd why he should be so secret about it—all to prevent alarming his wife he says,—good tender man.

_Enter_ GILBERT. R.

_Gil_. What, master Label, ah! bad work for you—all hearty as oaks—not a pulse to be felt in all Deal.

_Label_. Ah, I can’t think how that is.

_Gil_. Can’t you? I’ll tell you—we’ve no doctors with us; no body but you, and you’ll never do any harm, because—

_Label_. Because—because what?

_Gil_. Why we all know you, and there’s few will give you the chance; who do you think would employ a doctor who goes about calling at peoples’ houses to mend their constitutions, as tinkers call for old kettles.

_Label_. Ah, that’s it, humble merit may trudge its shoes off, and never finger a fee, whilst swaggering impudence bounces out of a carriage, and all he touches turns to gold. Farewell, good Gilbert, farewell—I’m off for Dover.

_Gil_. What! to night?

_Label_. Yes, directly.

_Gil_. Why you must pass through the church-yard.

_Label_. What of that?

_Gil_. Nothing, only if ever you had any patients, I thought you might have felt some qualms in taking that road.

_Label_. Ever had any patients, I’ll whisper a secret in your ear; I’ve had one in this house! Now what do you think of that? What follows now?

_Gil_. What follows now? why the grave-digger, I’m afraid; I say, I wonder you didn’t add the trade of undertaker to that of doctor.

_Label_. Why?

_Gil_. Why! how nicely you could make one business play into the other: when called in to a patient, as soon as you had prescribed for him, you know, you might have begun to measure him for his coffin.

_Label_. Ah, you’re a droll fellow, but we won’t quarrel; I dare say you think me very dull now, but bless you I’m not, when I’m roused I can be devilish droll—very witty indeed.

_Gil_. Aye, your wit is, I suppose, like your medicine—it must be well shaken before it’s fit to be administered; now how many of your jokes generally go to a dose?

_Label_. No, no, it won’t do, I’m not to be drawn out now—I’ve no time to be comical, I must away for Dover this instant.

_Gil_. A word with you, the sharks are out to-night.

_Label_. The sharks?

_Gil_. Aye, the blue-jackets, the press-gang—now you’d be invaluable to them; take my word, if they see you, you are a lost man.

_Label_. Never fear me, the blue-jackets, bless you, if they were to catch hold of me, I should run off and leave a can of flip in their hands; now what do you think of that?

_Gil_. Why I think of the two, the flip would be far the most desirable; but if you will go, why, a good night to you, and a happy escape.

_Label_. All the same thanks to you for your intelligence; press me, bless you they’d sooner take my physic than me; no, no, I’m a privileged man—good-night, good-night.

[_Exit_ R.

_Gil_. That fellow has killed more people than ever I saw; how he looks his trade, whenever I behold him, he appears to me like a long-necked pint bottle of rheubarb, to be taken at three draughts; but I must put all thing, to rights—here’s my master and Miss Lucy will be here in a minute; the house is full of customers, and it threatens to be a boisterous night.

_Enter_ REEF, _disguised in a large great coat_. L.

_Reef_. I say young man, (_Gilbert starts_.) why what are you starting at?

_Gil_. Nothing—only at first I didn’t know whether it was a man or a bear.

_Reef_. Indeed—and which do you think it is now?

_Gil_. Why, upon my word, it’s a very nice distinction: I can’t judge very well, so I’ll take you at your own word.

_Reef_. I’ve a little business here with a gentleman: do you know one Mr. Gwinett?

_Gil_. Gwinett! what, Ambrose Gwinett?

_Reef_. The same.

_Gil_. Know him!—I believe I do—a very fine, noble spirited,—

_Reef_. Aye, that’s enough; I want to see him—he’s in he house.

_Gil_. No, indeed.

_Reef_. Would you tell me a lie now?

_Gil_. Yes I would, if I thought it would answer any right purpose; I tell you he’s not in the house—and pray who are you?

_Reef_. Who am I? why—I’m—I’m—an honest man.

_Gil_. Aye, that’s so general a character; couldn’t you descend a little to particulars?

_Reef_. I’ve a letter to Mr. Gwinett—it’s of great consequence.

_Gil_. Who does it come from?

_Reef_. The writer!

_Gil_. Now it strikes me that this letter contains some mischief.

_Reef_. Why?

_Gil_. Because it’s brought by so black-looking a postman.

_Reef_. Will you deliver it? if as you say he’s not here when he comes?

_Gil_. Deliver it? why I don’t mind, but if you’ve any tricks you know.

_Reef_. Tricks, you lubber, give him the letter, and no more palaver. (_going_.)

_Gil_. Here—(_Reef returns_.) No—no matter—I thought you had left your civility behind you.

_Reef_. Umph!

[_Exit_. R.

_Gil_. I warrant me, that’s a fellow that never passes a rope maker’s shop without feeling a crick in the neck.

_Enter_ LUCY. L.

_Lucy_. Oh, Gilbert!

_Gil_. How now, Miss Lucy, you seem a little frightened or so?

_Lucy_. Oh, no—not frightened, only hurried a little—is my uncle in the house?

_Gil_. Oh, yes—and has been asking for you these dozen times,—here by-the-by is a letter for—but mum—here comes master.

_Enter_ MR. COLLINS. L.

_Col_. Well, Lucy child, where hast been all day, I havn’t caught a glance of you since last night—what have you got there, Gilbert?

_Gil_. Where, sir?

_Col_. Why, there in your hand—that letter.

_Gil_. Oh—aye—it is a letter.

_Col_. For me?

_Gil_. No, sir—it’s for master Ambrose Gwinett.

_Col_. Give it to me—I expect him here to-night.

_Lucy_. Expect master Ambrose here to-night, uncle?

_Col_. Aye, standing at the door just now, his uncle told me that he expected him at Deal to-day, but being compelled to be from home until to-morrow, he had left word that master Ambrose should put up here, and asked me to make room for him.

_Gil_. What here, master? why there’s not a corner—not a single corner to receive the visit of a cat—the house is full to the very chimney pots.

_Col_. Aye, as it is but for once, we must contrive—let me see—as we have no other room, master Ambrose can take part of mine—so bustle Gilbert, bustle, and see to it.

_Gil_. Yes, sir, yes.—(_Aside_.) I’m sorry master’s got that letter though; it was an ugly postman that brought it, and it can’t be good.

[_Exit_. L.

_Col_. Now, Lucy, that we are together, I would wish to have some talk with you. You know, girl, I love you, as though you were my own, and were sorrow or mischance to light upon you, I think ’twould go nigh to break my heart. Now answer me with candour—you know Grayling—honest Ned Grayling? why, what do you turn so pale at?

_Lucy_. Oh! uncle, I beseech you, name him not.

_Col_. Tut—tut—this is all idle and girlish—the man loves you, Lucy.

_Lucy_. Loves me!

_Col_. Aye; Ned is not so sprightly and trim a lad as many, but he hath that which makes all in a husband, girl—he has a sound heart and a noble spirit.

_Lucy_. Possibly—I do not know.

_Col_. But you do know, and so does all the town know; come, be just to him if you cannot love him; but for my part, I see not what should prevent you becoming his wife.

_Lucy_. His wife? oh, uncle, if you have the least love—the least regard for me, speak no more upon this theme—at least for the present. I will explain all to-morrow, will prove to you that my aversion is not the result of idle caprice, but of feelings which you yourself must sanction. In the mean while be assured I would rather go down into my grave, than wed with such a man as Grayling.

_Col_. Eh! why—what’s all this?—Grayling has not—if he has—

_Lucy_. No, no, it is I who am to blame, for speaking thus strongly—wait, dearest uncle—wait till to-morrow.

_Col_. Well, as it is not long, and the time will be slept out, I will,—but take heed, Lucy, and let not a foolish distaste prejudice you against a worthy and honourable man.

_Enter_ AMBROSE GWINETT _and_ GILBERT. L.

_Gwin_. Your servant, master Collins—I must I find be your tenant for the night.

_Col_. And shall be welcome, sir; come, Lucy, Gilbert, stir, and prepare supper; there’s a rough night coming on I fear, and you might fare worse, master Ambrose, than as guest at the Blake’s Head—here, by the way, is a letter for you.

[_Whilst Gwinett is reading the letter_, _the supper-table is arranged_, _and Collins sits down and begins counting some money_.

_Gwin_. This is a most mysterious assignation. (_Reads_.) “If you are a man, you will not fail to give me a meeting at twelve outside the house, I have to unfold a plot to you which concerns not you alone.—Your’s, a Friend.” (_Whilst Gilbert and Lucy are off for provisions_.) Master Collins, I may rise to-morrow morning ’ere any of your good people are stirring, you will therefore not be surprised to find me gone.

_Col_. But why so early?

_Gwin_. A little appointment—I shall return to breakfast.

_Col_. Then go out by the back gate; but stop, as the latch is broken in the inside, you had better take this knife (_giving Gwinett a clasp-knife_.) to lift it; we shall wait breakfast until your return.

[_Collins_, _Gwinett_, _and Lucy_, _seat themselves at table_.—_Grayling enters_, _takes a chair_, _and placing it between Lucy and Gwinett_, _sits down_.

_Col_. How now, master Grayling, you have mistaken the room.

_Gray_. Mistaken—how so? isn’t this the Blake’s Head?

_Col_. That may be; but this is my private apartment.

_Gray_. Private! than what does he here—Gilbert, some ale.

_Gwin_. (_aside_.) The very ruffian I encountered in the wood.

_Gray_. (_to Gwinett_.) What are you looking at man? I shall pay my score—aye, every farthing o’t, though I may not dress so trimly as some folks.

_Col_. Grayling, will you quit the room?

_Gray_. No!

_Col_. Then expect to lose—

_Gray_. Lose! and what can I lose? hasn’t he all that I could lose?

_Col_. What do you mean?

_Gray_. Ask Lucy—the wood, Lucy, the wood.

_Gwin_. Wretch! dare you beneath her uncle’s roof—

_Gray_. Dare I? you have among you awakened the wolf within my heart, and beware how it snaps.

_Col_. This is needless; good Grayling leave us.

_Gray_. Good, and you think I am to be hushed with fair words like a child, whilst he, that thief, for he has stolen from me all that made life happy, whilst he bears away Lucy and leaves and broken hearted.

_Col_. He bear away Lucy—you are deceived.

_Gray_. No, you are deceived, old man—you are deceived; but let to-morrow shew, I’ll not ’cumber your room, master Collins; I leave it to more gay visitors than Ned Grayling; I leave it till to-morrow—good-night—good-night, gay master Gwinett,—a pleasant night’s rest—ha! ha! ha!

[_Exit_ L.

_Lucy_. Dear uncle, is not this sufficient excuse for my aversion.

_Col_. No matter, we’ll talk more of this to-morrow. Go to your chamber, girl. (_Music_.—_Lucy goes off_. R.) and now, sir, we will to ours.

[_Music_.—_Exeunt_ R.