Part 2

_Douglas._ Well, that’s a capital joke, and, egad, I’ll humor it. So here goes. (_Takes up lapstone. Drops it on his toes._) O, murder! I’ve smashed my toe!

_Mary._ No matter. Try again.

_Douglas._ To smash another? No, I thank you. (_Puts lapstone in lap._) There, that’s all right. (_Takes up shoe, puts strap over it._) How’s that?

_Mary._ Beautiful. You were born to be a shoemaker.

_Douglas._ I hope not. (_Takes pegs and hammer._) Now, to drive my first peg. (_Strikes his fingers. NED appears at doorway with pail._) O, murder! I’ve smashed my thumb!

_Ned._ Served you right, meddler.

_Douglas._ (_Starts up._) Sir! What’s that?

_Ned._ The truth. You’re meddling with my tools; and if you’re not out of this place in three seconds, I’ll wallop you.

_Mary._ O, Ned, Ned! it’s all my fault. I set him to work.

_Ned._ O, indeed! That’s quite another matter. But he can’t stay on my bench.

_Douglas._ If you’re not more civil, _you_ won’t stay on it long. Mind that, Master Ned.

_Ned._ What d’ye mean?

_Mary._ Now, don’t quarrel. Bring the pail in for me, Ned.--Mr. Douglas, I’ll give you a lesson another time. (_Exit, L._)

_Ned._ Lesson, indeed! You work with your white hands! Bah, you couldn’t earn your salt! (_Exit, L._)

_Douglas._ Confound that fellow, he puts on more airs than a nabob! He’s in the way. Mary is too fond of him; and he, with that jealous glitter in his eye, too much in love with her for my comfort. He must be got rid of. Pshaw, Douglas! What chance could a poor journeyman shoemaker have with the lady of your choice? Rich, accomplished, by no means a bad-looking fellow, the whole family would be delighted to gain so distinguished a connection. And she, I know, looks upon me with favor. I have only to gain the old man’s consent. And that’s an easy matter. Still, I don’t like the idea of this fellow’s presence. He must be got rid of. But how? Will! Ah, there’s a ready tool. I want him in the city. There’s a little sharp practice in which I want a second hand to work; and Will’s the lad. If I can only get him to pick a quarrel with Ned Hartshorn, bring them to blows, and thus arouse the old man’s temper, they’ll both be turned out of doors. Will would be mine, and the other out of the way.

_Will._ (_Outside. Sings._)

“My wife and I live all alone, In the little brown house we call our own; She,” &c.

_Enters, C., intoxicated._

Hullo, Hen! How are you, Hen? I’ve been looking for you--I have. Wan’t at home. But the bottle was. I found it in the old spot, so I drank your health. “Here’s to Hen Douglas. Hip, hip, hooray!” Hullo, there’s the little brown jug! I’ll drink your health again. Hip, hip, hooray! (_Drinks._) I say! what’s the matter with you?

_Douglas._ I have been insulted.

_Will._ Been what? Say that again. Show me the man, woman, or child that has insulted Hen Douglas,--hip, hip, hooray!--and I’ll--I’ll wipe him out. Fetch ’em on, one at a time, or all together. I’m the friend of the oppressed--I am. Feel my muscle! so don’t you be afraid. Say, who’s the feller or fellerers?

_Douglas._ Fellow, indeed! That miserable whelp, Ned Hartshorn, here in this place, and in the presence of your sister. But I’ve done with you all. I’ll not be disgraced by such associates. Good by, Will. You I like, and if ever you get into trouble, come to me in the city, and I’ll stand your friend.

_Will._ Say! hold on! Let’s settle this thing. You shall have satisfaction. If Ned Hartshorn has dared to insult my friend,--my friend, Hen Douglas; hip, hip, hooray!--I’ll trounce him. Now you just wait and see me do it. Going to the city? All right. I’ll go with you, spite of the old man.

_Douglas._ No, no, don’t pick a quarrel on my account. Perhaps he didn’t mean to insult me. Perhaps he was blinded by his love for your sister.

_Will._ What? Ned Hartshorn in love with my sister! I’ll trounce him for that. Now you see me do it. Insult my friend, and in love with my sister! O, I’ll fix him!

_Douglas._ Hush! Here he is.

_Enter NED, L._

_Ned._ Ah, Will, back again?

_Will._ Ay, back again, you sneaking thief!

_Ned._ How, Will? You forget yourself.

_Will._ Indeed! You forgot yourself when you made love to my sister and insulted my friend, you mean, contemptible sneak!

_Ned._ Will, you’ve been drinking.

_Will._ (_Throws off his coat._) You’re right. I’ve just enough liquid lightning in my hide to rouse my manhood. You’ve insulted my friend. Beg his pardon at once.

_Ned._ I shall do nothing of the kind. If he has told you I insulted him, he must have told you, also, that I made love to your sister; and he’s a liar.

_Douglas._ Liar? This to me?

_Ned._ Ay, to you. ’Tis you who have turned Will’s head, you who have tempted him to drink, you who, with a lying tongue, now seek to make us quarrel. Bah! you’re a coward! You dare not face me yourself; you dare not ask me to beg your pardon; for, if you did, you know I’d knock you down quicker than I did when you insulted Patty Moore.

_Will._ But I dare, and mean you shall. So, solemn, pious, temperate Ned Hartshorn, obey at once!

_Ned._ Will, I’d do anything in reason to oblige _you_. But I can’t do that.

_Will._ Then I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.

_Ned._ O no, you won’t, Will.

_Will._ I say I will, sneak, coward, son of a drunkard!

_Ned._ Careful, Will, careful!

_Will._ Come on. My blood’s up. If you won’t apologize, you must fight.

_Ned._ Keep off! keep off, I say! You’ll get hurt.

_Will._ Shall I? I’ll risk it. (_They struggle. NED throws WILL across stage. He falls on bench, L._)

_Douglas._ That won’t do. (_Seizes jug, steps up behind NED, and strikes him on the head. JARIUS appears in the door, C._)

_Ned._ O, my head, my head! (_Staggers, and falls on bench, R._)

JARIUS. Jes’ so. (_Disappears._)

_Douglas._ (_Runs to WILL, and places the jug in his hand._) Are you hurt, Will?

_Will._ Hurt? No. Let me come at him. Let me--

_Douglas._ No, no. You have nearly killed him with the jug.

_Will._ The jug?

_Douglas._ Yes; you seized it, and struck him before I could interfere.

_Will._ Did I? Then I’ll give him another.

_Enter JOHN, L._

JOHN. What’s going on here? Fighting? Ned hurt? Who has done this?

_Enter JARIUS, C._

_Jarius._ (_Goes to NED._) The boy’s senseless. Water, water! quick! (_Enter MARY, L._) Mary, bring water! quick! Ned’s hurt.

_Mary._ Ned hurt? O, mercy! (_Exit, L._)

_John._ Who struck him?

_Douglas._ Will, but quite accidentally. You see, Ned provoked him, and, quite accidentally--

_Will._ No such thing. Don’t play sneak, Hen. I did it, old man, to uphold the honor of the family.

_John._ Will Nutter, you’re drunk.

_Will._ Drunk yourself, you old fool. O, I ain’t afraid of you. I’ve been tied to your leather apron long enough. Now I’m going to see the world. D’ye hear that, old man? No more pegs for me. You can have the little brown jug to yourself now. I’ve had a taste of something better--something stronger. It’s roused the man in me. So I’m off. Good by.

_Enter MARY, L. with water. She runs to NED, and JARIUS and she try to revive NED._

_John._ Stop, Will Nutter. If you leave this place now, you can never return to it.

_Will._ That’s all right--just the sort. Don’t want to see it again. Hope you’ll live long and prosper, and, when you die, leave a nice little fortune to yours, truly. Good by.

_Douglas._ Don’t mind him, sir. I’ll take care of him. You see how he is. Come, Will. (_Drags him to the door, C._)

_Will._ I say, old man, I’m off to fame and fortune.

_John._ Fame and fortune? Disgrace and infamy! Will, I’ll give you one more chance. Return to your bench, and all shall be forgotten. Leave this place now, and its doors shall never be opened to you again, though you were dying on the doorstep. Choose now, and choose quickly.

_Will._ Quick enough. I’m off.

_John._ Then go; and, as you desert me, may you, in turn, be deserted. May all your plans fail you, your enterprises prove unsuccessful, poverty and ruin dog your steps, and life be to you a failure and a burden. Away, and bear with you a father’s bitter, bitter--

_Mary._ (_Running to him, and putting her arms around his neck._) No, father, don’t say that, don’t say that! Poor boy, his will be a bitter life without his father’s curse.

TABLEAU.

_WILL in door, C., his left arm raised defiantly. DOUGLAS has left hand on WILL’S shoulder, his right hand in WILL’S right, dragging him out. JARIUS bending over NED, R. JOHN, L., with right hand raised; MARY, with her arms about his neck, looking into his face. Slow curtain._

ACT SECOND.

_SCENE.--Room in NUTTER’S House. Lounge, R., on which NED is lying asleep. Small table near lounge, at which MARY is seated, sewing. Lamp on table. Arm-chair, L. C. Table with plants, R. corner, back; if scenery is used, window in flat, R. C. Door, C., shut. Moonlight through window. SALLY, asleep in arm-chair, L. C._

_Mary._ Poor fellow, he’s asleep at last. What a terrible year it has been for him! That cruel blow stretched him on a bed of sickness, from which we feared he never would rise. Only a good constitution and careful nursing have saved him from death, and saved Will from worse than death--the stain of murder. O, Will, if you only knew how we have fought to save you from that, how we have prayed for Ned’s recovery, your heart might be touched with remorse. Surely Henry Douglas must have told him of his danger. He says he has. But not a word, not a line comes from him. A whole year has passed. We have watched and waited. Mother’s once bright cheek has grown pale. Father, though he says not a word, starts at every footfall. But yet no sign of his return.

_Sally._ Now, Jarius, if you don’t stop, I’ll scream. Murder, murder! (_Wakes._) Bless my soul! Have I been dreaming?

_Mary._ Yes, Sally, of Jarius.

_Sally._ It’s no sech thing. Leastwise, dreams go by contraries. I thought that Jarius Jerden had his arm around my neck, and was going to kiss me; so I hollered.

_Mary._ As dreams go by contraries, you wouldn’t scream if he really had.

_Sally._ Yes, I would. What do I care for Jarius Jerden? He’s forever pokin’ his nose in here when he ain’t wanted. I’ll give him a piece of my mind some day, see if I don’t.

_Mary._ That will be very satisfactory to him, no doubt, when he pops the important question.

_Sally._ He? Jarius Jerden pop the question? He’ll never do it. He hain’t the courage. He jest comes here, and sits and whistles, sighs and whittles, and talks about Squire Jones and his cattle, and sich nonsense. I’ve no patience with him. If I was a man, I’d just know which side my bread was buttered on in short order.

_Hannah._ (_Outside, L._) Sally, Sally!

_Sally._ Yes, marm.

_Hannah._ (_Outside, L._) Your bread’s run onto the floor, the fire’s all out, and the cat’s in the cream.--Scat! scat!

_Sally._ Dear me! What a chapter of accidents! And I here dreaming! O, these men, these men! (_Exit, L._)

_Mary._ Ah, Sally, ’twill be a happy day for you when Jarius Jordan musters up courage enough to ask you to be his wife. There’ll be a prompt answer on your part, I’ll warrant. (_Enter DOUGLAS, C._) And a happy life, which you so richly deserve, will be the sequel to this queer wooing. Heigho!

_Douglas._ (_Who has crept up behind her chair._) That sigh was touching, Mary. Was it meant for me?

_Mary._ (_Starting up._) Mr. Douglas! You here?

_Douglas._ Does that surprise you? Where should I be but in the presence of her I love--of the angelic being who has promised to be my wife? (_NED wakes, and, leaning on his elbow, listens._)

_Mary._ That was a great while ago.

_Douglas._ A year only. Surely you have not repented of your promise.

_Mary._ I have.

_Douglas._ Ho, ho! So this is the meaning of the coldness which I have felt creeping into our intercourse of late--you repent your promise!

_Mary._ Mr. Douglas, listen to me. A year ago I was a giddy girl, proud to be noticed by one so high in the social sphere as you. Your attentions to me, while other girls in vain sought to attract you, dazzled me, caused a fluttering in my silly bosom, which I then thought was love, and I gave you encouragement; nay, I will confess it, promised to be your wife. We were very happy here in our family circle then--very. But, alas! trouble came. You know how. My brother fled; our dear Ned was struck down; I became his nurse; by night and by day I watched by his couch; and in those long hours what could I do but think, think, think? I thought of the wide difference in our social position, how unsuited we were for each other--you, with your fine talents and rich connections, I, a poor girl, reared to hard work, with no knowledge of the world outside our little village; and then I looked into my heart, and somehow, I can’t explain it, I felt there was no love there; that I never could be happy as your wife; and so to-night I ask you to release me.

_Douglas._ Well, ’pon my word, here’s a confession! Here’s a fine position for the heir of the Douglas name and state. After my unremitting attentions for a year, I am to be thrown aside, like a country bumpkin, at the whim of a girl who don’t know her own mind! No, no, Mary, I shall not release you. You’ll think better of it to-morrow.

_Mary._ Yes, better, for my resolve will be stronger.

_Douglas._ And that resolve is--

_Mary._ Never to marry you, Henry Douglas. It is best we have no misunderstanding now.

_Douglas._ It is, indeed. So, so! While I have been absent, my place has been taken in your heart by that fool, Ned Hartshorn.

_Mary._ Mr. Douglas!

_Douglas._ Yes; it’s as plain as the sun at noonday. Stunned by a slight blow, he made that the pretext for a long season of wasting sickness, that he might secure your attention, that he might bill and coo in your face, excite your compassion, and awake in your heart an answer to his love. The hypocrite! With his youth and strength, the blow he received should not have kept him from his work a day. ’Twas a crafty trick.

_Mary._ Mr. Douglas!

_Douglas._ Ay, a crafty trick. But it shall not succeed. I have your promise; I have your father’s consent. I will not release you.

_Mary._ Henry Douglas, you have spoken plainly, and you have spoken falsely. ’Tis true he who lies there loves me. I have read it in his pleading eyes; I have heard it in the delirium of fever from his lips. But he is as incapable of the meanness you would ascribe to him as you are of an honorable thought. Shame, shame! He has worked hard for an honest name. Poor fellow; ’tis all he has in the world!--and you, rich and powerful, seek to rob him of that.

_Douglas._ Mary!

_Mary._ Silence! I will not hear you. You have attacked the honor of a dear friend, dearer for the infirmity which has fallen upon him through the instrumentality of one of my name. ’Tis but right I should stand forth in his defence. Hear me. I asked you to release me from my promise; I gave you the reasons, good, true reasons, which would have convinced an honorable man. I have one more to give, which must convince you. I can never be your wife, for your attack has revealed something I hardly dreamed. I love Ned Hartshorn as I can never love another.

_Douglas._ Ha! The truth at last! There is no misunderstanding now. Your last reason has convinced me. Now hear one which must overpower yours, which must convince you that I will not be trifled with. Your brother Will and I parted company this morning.

_Mary._ Will and you! What mean you?

_Douglas._ Yesterday, being the first of the month, my book was returned to me from the Phœnix Bank, with the checks which I had drawn during the month. I say, which I had drawn. I’m wrong. There was one there for two hundred dollars, signed by a clever imitation of my name, of which I had no knowledge. It was a forgery.

_Mary._ A forgery! Well?

_Douglas._ Nay, ’twas very bad, for I found, upon investigation, it had been done by your brother.

_Mary._ Will? No, no; you do not suspect him.

_Douglas._ I know he forged that check. This morning I charged him with it. Of course he indignantly denied it. I informed him, quietly, that I had no further need of his services. He took his hat, and departed; and there the matter rests. Of course I might have called in an officer, and had him arrested; but, as he was in a fair way to become my brother-in-law, that would have been injudicious, to say the least.

_Mary._ It would have killed my mother. But Will--where is he now?

_Douglas._ I haven’t the least idea. Of one thing be certain--he will never trouble you with his presence. His city life has not been a success. He will not return to boast of it. Besides, should he appear here, I must arrest him.

_Mary._ You arrest him? No, no; that would be infamous.

_Douglas._ He is a criminal; he has robbed me, and squandered my money. Why should I pardon him?

_Mary._ Because--because--(_Aside._) O, Heavens, I have lost the power to plead for him!

_Douglas._ Mary, you _will_ think better of your resolve. You love your brother; he is in danger. If I but raise my finger, disgrace and infamy are fastened upon him forever. I would not willingly be the instrument of justice in this case. I would not rob him of liberty; of the opportunity to wipe out this disgrace. But you, to-night, propose to rob me of my happiness; to blight my life by withholding the treasure I covet--yourself. Think you not, in such a case, revenge is justice?

_Mary._ What would you have me do?

_Douglas._ Fulfil your promise. Become my wife.

_Mary._ Still loving Ned Hartshorn?

_Douglas._ Love that fool! I do not believe it. You are too sensible a girl, Mary. No, no. When you are my wife, this idle folly will be but a dream.

_Mary._ Yes, when I am your wife! And if I keep my promise, my brother--

_Douglas._ Shall not be molested. More, I will befriend him, and place him in a good position.

_Mary._ Indeed! So I am to save my brother at the cost of my love! Henry Douglas, the trick is worthy of you; but it shall not move me. I love my brother, Heaven knows; but not even to save him from prison would I marry one who has suffered at his hands, by consenting to become your wife.

_Douglas._ I have done. Justice must take its course. Nay, I will not be conquered by so mean a foe. Your father, your father, Mary, he shall decide whom he will accept as his daughter’s husband,--I, rich, accomplished, of good family, or that low, gawky clown.

_Mary._ Silence! He is a brave, noble, true man, who would scorn to stoop to the petty tricks of the rich and accomplished Henry Douglas. Let my father decide. I care not. Every threat you utter but strengthens my resolution. Do your worst. From your arms I would fly to his, though I knew poverty and toil should be our portion.

_Douglas._ As you please. But I shall not release you, Mary Nutter. My wife you shall, you must be. You’ve a stubborn father and a stubborn lover to fight. Arm yourself, Mary; you will need all your strength, and then--I shall win. Good night. (_Exit, C._)

_Mary._ Ah, while there is life there is hope, even in a bad cause. (_Turns, and sees NED looking at her._) Why, Ned, you awake?

_Ned._ Yes, Mary. I have heard all.

_Mary._ What! No, no, Ned, not all!

_Ned._ Yes, Mary, every word. O, it seems as though a reviving draught had been poured through my veins, and life, strong, healthy life was coming back to me. Now I can speak, give utterance to that which you have discovered, but which I, weak, distrustful, hid in my own bosom. Now, Mary, I can tell you I love you.

_Mary._ Ned, have I done right to break my promise?

_Ned._ Yes, Mary. You have obeyed the dictates of your heart. Douglas is unworthy the rich prize he seeks.

_Mary._ Had I known you were listening, Ned, I fear my tongue would have refused to do its duty.

_Ned._ And you love me?

_Mary._ Yes, Ned, with all my heart.

_Ned._ O, you make me so happy! An hour ago life seemed not worth living for; but now, with your love to cheer me, all is bright and hopeful. It’s a glorious world! and never fear but I will find a way to lead you, not to toil and poverty, not to wealth and luxury, but to a comfortable home, where the ring of my hammer and the sound of your voice shall blend in sweet accord.

_Mary._ Why, Ned, what magic’s here? Your eye is bright, your cheek glowing, your whole manner so unlike you! I’m frightened.

_Ned._ Magic? The magic of a woman’s love, which can transform age to youth, and make the dull heart beat with healthy power. You smile on me, and I am strong again.

_Mary._ Now be careful. Remember you are an invalid. Bless me! how late it is! Come, you must to bed at once. Remember I am your nurse still.

_Ned._ O, I’ll obey. But I shan’t sleep a wink. Mary, are you sure I’m not dreaming?

_Mary._ There’s my hand. When you ask it, it is yours.

_Ned._ (_Places his arm around her waist, takes her hand and raises it to his lips._) Mine! heart and hand mine! No; I’m not dreaming. ’Tis a blessed reality.

_Exeunt, R._

(_Knock at door, C., then it opens, and JARIUS sticks his head in._)

_Jarius._ Jes’ so. (_Enters._) Nobody to hum, or all gone to roost, except Sally. That air female I jest seen through the kitchen winder a slashin’ away in the bread trough like all possessed. She’s a powerful gal--she is. Her washin’ don’t hang round long arter breakfast, I reckon. O, Sally, ef yeou only knew what a powerful drubbin’ was goin’ on behind my ribs on your account, you’d take pity and help a feller out somehow. Plague take it! She knows it well enough. Didn’t I start right off, a year ago, on her hint, and git my hair cropped so short that I couldn’t lay on a piller, and sneezed and snorted, and wore out handkerchers with the influenza? Didn’t I go and git measured for a new pair of boots, so tight that I hobbled all day and howled all night with aching toes? Didn’t I git fitted to a bran new coat, that bust up the back the fust time I wore it? Ef that ain’t showin’ off one’s love, I’d like to know it! But it’s no use. She won’t help a feller a bit. She knows every time I come I’m a burnin’ to ask her to be my wife. But I can’t say it. It gits jes’ so fur, and there it sticks. Sally, I love you. Four words. I’m blamed ef they ain’t a bigger load to git rid of than a Fourth er July oration! But it’s no use. It’s got to come. So, Jarius, don’t be a fool. Spit it out, and she’s yourn. I will, the minute I see her. I won’t wait for nothin’, but jest shout, Sally--(_Enter SALLY, L., with her hands and arms covered with flour._) Sh, sh! How do you do? (_Shakes hands quickly._)

_Sally._ Law sakes, Mr. Jerden, you’ve caught me this time, sure enough! I’m up to my elbows in flour. So jest excuse me a minute. (_Going, L._)

_Jarius._ No, hold on a minute, or I shall bust. Now’s the appointed time, Sally. Sally, I’ve got something particular to say--Sally--Sally--old Hopkins has got the yaller janders.

_Sally._ Wal, I declare! Is that the particular somethin’? (_Going, L._)

_Jarius._ No, no. Hold on a minute. (_Catches her by the arm; gets flour on his hands._) ’Tain’t that. (_Aside._) Consarn it, there’s a cold chill runs up my back, and my face is burnin’ up. (_Wipes his face with his hands, leaving flour on it._)

_Sally._ Why, Mr. Jerden, what is the matter with you? You’re as pale as a ghost!

_Jarius._ Jes’ so. O, Sally, hear me. Don’t look at me, but open your ears. Pally Seeslee,--no, Sally Peeslee,--I--I--I think it’s going to rain. (_Aside._) I can’t do it.

_Sally._ Wal, what of it?

_Jarius._ Jes’ so. It’ll put an end to the dry spell.

_Sally._ It seems to me that you are having a very dry spell about somethin’, Mr. Jerden.

_Jarius._ Yes; jes’ so. Ha, ha, ha-h! That’s very good!

_Sally._ I’ll be back before you want me, I guess. (_Going, L._)

_Jarius._ Don’t leave me. Hear me first, for I’m on an awful strain, and if I once let up I’m a gone coon. Sally, I want to say--I must say--Sally, I mean to say--how’s your marm?