SCENE I.—_The Blake’s Head_.

_Enter_ GILBERT _and_ JENNY, _as landlord and landlady_. L.

_Gil_. I tell thee, Jenny, I can’t help it; ever as this day comes round, I’m melancholy, spite of reasoning.

_Jenny_. Well, well; but it’s so long ago.

_Gil_. But not the less to be remembered—it is now eighteen years this very day, since poor Ambrose Gwinett died the death of a murderer!—I’m sure he was innocent—I’d lay my life on it.

_Jenny_. But there’s no occasion to be so violent.

_Gil_. I tell you I can’t think with calmness and speak on it. A fine open hearted youth, and see the end of it. Not one of his accusers but is come to shame. Look at Grayling—Ned Grayling the smith—don’t good folks shake the head, and the little children point at him as he goes by—and then those two churls who scoffed at him, as he was on the road to death—has either of them had a good crop since?—havn’t their cattle died?—their haystacks took fire—with all kinds of mischief falling on them?

_Jenny_. Yes, and poor Lucy.

_Gil_. And there again; Lucy, Gwinett’s widow, though almost broken hearted—doesn’t she keep a cheerful face, and look smilingly—whilst her husband’s accusers are ashamed to shew their heads—I say again, I know he was innocent. I know the true murderers will some day be brought to light.

_Jenny_. I’m sure I hope they will; but in the mean time, we musn’t stand talking about it, or no one will come to the Blake’s Head.

_Gil_. Well, well; I leave it all to you to day, Jenny: I’m not fit to attend to the customers. Ah! good fortune has been showered upon us—little did we think of seeing ourselves owners of this house; but I’m sure I’d walk out of it with a light heart, if it’s old owner, poor Robert Collins, could but come back to take possession of it—but that’s impossible, so we’ll talk no more of it.

_Jenny_. Well I declare this is all waste of time—we’ve the house full of customers, and here we’re standing talking as—

_Gil_. You know we used to do Jenny, some eighteen years ago; then I was waiter and ostler here, and you were dairy maid at squire—

_Jenny_. Well that’s all past, where is the use of looking back.

_Gil_. A great deal: when a man gets to the top of the hill by honest industry, I say he deserves to be taken by the neck and hurled down again, if he’s ashamed to turn about and look at the lowly road along which he once travelled.

_Jenny_. Well, I didn’t mean that.

_Gil_. No no, I know you meant no harm, Jenny—but you will talk—well I shall go and take a round.

_Jenny_. You’re going to the meadow, at One-Tree-Farm to mope yourself to death.

_Gil_. Why perhaps I may take a turn that way—but I shall be back soon—eh! who’s this?

_Jenny_. Why it’s the servant of the rich old gentleman, from the Indies.

_Gil_. Oh!—what he in the Dolphin?

_Enter_ LABEL, _dressed as servant_. L. _Jenny curtseys and Exit_. L.

_Label_. Servant, Sir,—you are the landlord.

_Gil_. Yes—hope your master slept well—I wasn’t at home last night when you put up, or I should have paid my respects:—he’s from India I hear.

_Label_. From India!—and as rich, and as liberal as an emperor.

_Gil_. You’ve been some time in his service, I suppose?

_Label_. Some twelve years.

_Gil_. Has he any friends in these parts?

_Label_. He had when he left, or rather when he was dragged from this country, some eighteen years ago.

_Gil_. Dragged from the country!

_Label_. Yes pressed—he was taken on board ship at dead of night; the vessel weighed anchor at daybreak—started for India—and there my master, what with one and another piece of luck, got his discharge: but I believe he wishes to see you.

_Gil_. I’ll attend him directly—and then I’ll go and take my melancholy round.

[_Exit_. R.

_Label_. Nobody knows me—no one sees the valet in the steward, the late Label, barber and doctor—and only think that I should meet with Master Collins—a man who was thought murdered—alive and flourishing in India—poor Gwinett—poor Ambrose—I have never had the courage to tell my master that sad story—he little thinks that an innocent man has been hanged on his account—somehow I wish I had told him—and yet what would have been the use; he couldn’t have brought the dead man alive again, and it would only have made him miserable. But now he can’t long escape hearing the whole tale, and then what will become of me—no matter; I must put a bright face upon the business, and trust to chances.

[_Exit_. R.