Chapter 36

SCENE.--_A garret-room_. MATTIE. SUSAN.

_Mat_. 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--_al_ways 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 _un_likely 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--

_Mat_. You make my life worth to me! You don't know what you're saying, miss. (_Sitting up_.)

_Con_. I think I do.

_Mat_. I will _not_ owe my life to you. I _could_ love you, though--your hands are so white, and your look so brave. That's what comes of being born a lady. We never have a chance.

_Con_. Miss Pearson--Mattie, I would call you, if you wouldn't be offended--

_Mat_. Me offended, miss!--I've not got life enough for it. I only want my father and my mother, and a long sleep.--If I had been born rich--

_Con_. You might have been miserable all the same. Listen, Mattie. I will tell you _my_ story--I was once as badly off as you--worse in some ways--ran about the streets without shoes to my feet, and hardly a frock to cover me.

_Mat_. La, miss! you don't say so! It's not possible! Look at you!

_Con_. Indeed, I tell you the truth. I know what hunger is too--well enough. My father was a silkweaver in Spitalfields. When he died, I didn't know where to go. But a gentleman--

_Mat_. Oh! a gentleman!--(_Fiercely_.) Why couldn't you be content with _one_, then?

_Con_. I don't understand you.

_Mat_. I dare say not! There! take your basket. I'll die afore a morsel passes _my_ lips. There! Go away, miss.

_Con_. (_aside_). Poor girl! she is delirious. I must ask William to fetch a doctor. _Exit_.

_Mat_. I wish my hands were as white as hers.

_Enter_ SUSAN, _followed by_ COL. G. CONSTANCE _behind_.

_Sus_. Mattie! dear Mattie! this gentleman--don't be vexed--I couldn't help him bein' a gentleman; I was cryin' that bad, and I didn't see no one come up to me, and when he spoke to me, it made me jump, and I couldn't help answerin' of him--he spoke so civil and soft like, and me nigh mad! I thought you was dead, Mattie. He says he'll see us righted, Mattie.

_Col. G._ I'll do what I can, if you will tell me what's amiss.

_Sus_. Oh, everything's amiss--everything!--Who was that went out, Mattie--this minute--as we come in?

_Mat_. Miss Lacordère.

_Sus_. Her imperence! Well! I should die of shame if I was her.

_Mat_. She's an angel, Susan. There's her basket. I told her to take it away, but she would leave it.

_Sus_. (_peeping into the basket_). Oh, my! Ain't this nice? You _must_ have a bit, Mattie.

_Mat_. Not one mouthful. You wouldn't have me, Susan!

_Sus_. _I_ ain't so peticlar (_eating a great mouthful_). You really must, Mattie. (_Goes on eating_.)

_Col. G._ Don't tease her. We'll get something for her presently. And don't you eat too much--all at once.

_Sus_. I think she'd like a chop, sir.--There's that boy, Bill, again!--Always when he ain't wanted!

_Enter_ BILL.

_Bill_ (_aside to Susan_). What's the row? What's that 'ere gent up to? I've been an' had enough o' gents. They're a bad lot. I been too much for one on 'em, though. I ha' run _him_ down.--And, Mattie, I've found the old gen'leman.

_Mat_. My father, Bill?

_Bill_. That's it percisely! Right as a trivet--he is!

_Mat_. Susan! take hold of me. My heart's going again.

_Bill_. Lord! what's up wi' Mattie? She do look dreadful.

_Sus_. You been an' upset her, you clumsy boy! Here--run and fetch a sausage or two, and a--

_Col. G._ No, no! That will never do.

_Sus_. Them's for Bill and me, sir. I was a goin' on, sir.--And, Bill, a chop--a nice chop. But Lord! how are we to cook it, with never a fryin'-pan, or a bit o' fire to set it on!

_Col. G._ You'd never think of doing a chop for an invalid in the frying-pan?

_Sus_. Certainly not, sir--we 'ain't got one. Everything's up the spout an' over the top. Run, Bill. A bit of cold chicken, and two pints o' bottled stout. There's the money the gen'leman give me.--'T 'ain't no Miss Lackodare's, Mattie.

_Bill_. I'll trouble no gen'leman to perwide for _my_ family--obleeged all the same, sir. Mattie never wos a dub at dewourin', but I'll get her some'at toothsome. I favours grub myself.

_Col. G._ I'll go with you, Bill. I want to talk to you.

_Bill_. Well, I 'ain't no objection--so be you wants to talk friendly, sir.

_Col. G._ Good night. I'll come and see you to-morrow.

_Sus_. God bless you, sir. You've saved both on our lives. I _was_ a goin' to drown myself, Mattie--I really was this time. Wasn't I, sir?

_Col. G._ Well, you looked like it--that is all I can say. You shall do it next time--so far as I'm concerned.

_Sus_. I won't never no more again, sir--not if Mattie don't drive me to it.

_Con_. (_to_ COL. G.). Come back for me in a little while.

_Col. G._ Yes, miss. Come, Bill. _Exit_.

_Bill_. All right, sir. I'm a follerin', as the cat said to the pigeon. _Exit_.

_Sus_. I'll just go and get you a cup o' tea. Mrs. Jones's kettle's sure to be a bilin'. That's what you would like.

_Exit_. _Constance steps aside, and Susan passes without seeing her_.

_Mat_. Oh! to be a baby again in my mother's arms! But it'll soon be over now.

CONSTANCE _comes forward_.

_Con_. I hope you're a little better now?

_Mat_. You're very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon for speaking to you as I did.

_Con_. Don't say a word about it. You didn't quite know what you were saying. I'm in trouble myself. I don't know how soon I may be worse off than you.

_Mat_. Why, miss, I thought you were going to be married!

_Con_. No, I am not.

_Mat_. Why, miss, what's happened. He's never going to play _you_ false--is he?

_Con_. I don't mean ever to speak to him again?

_Mat_. What has he done to offend you, miss?

_Con_. Nothing. Only I know now I don't like him. To tell you the truth, Mattie, he's not a gentleman.

_Mat_. Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so?

_Con_. Do _you_ know anything about him? Did you ever see him?

_Mat_. Yes.

_Con_. Where?

_Mat_. Once at your house.

_Con_. Oh! I remember--that time! I begin to--It couldn't be at the sight of him you fainted, Mattie?--You knew him? Tell me! tell me! Make me sure of it.

_Mat_. To give you your revenge! No. It's a mean spite to say he ain't a gentleman.

_Con_. Perhaps you and I have different ideas of what goes to make a gentleman.

_Mat_. Very likely.

_Con_. Oh! don't be vexed, Mattie. I didn't mean to hurt you.

_Mat_. Oh! I dare say!

_Con_. If you talk to me like that, I must go.

_Mat_. I never asked you to come.

_Con_. Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I wouldn't hurt you for the world.

_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) I beg your pardon, miss. I'm behaving like a brute. But you must forgive me; my heart is breaking.

_Con_. Poor dear! (_kissing her_) So is mine almost. Let us be friends. Where's Susan gone?

_Mat_. To fetch me a cup of tea. She'll be back directly.

_Con_. Don't let her say bad words: I can't bear them. I think it's because I was so used to them once--in the streets, I mean--not at home--never at home.

_Mat_. She don't often, miss. She's a good-hearted creature. It's only when hunger makes her cross. She don't like to be hungry.

_Con_. I should think not, poor girl!

_Mat_. Don't mind what she says, please. If you say nothing, she'll come all right. When she's spoken her mind, she feels better. Here she comes!

_Re-enter_ SUSAN. _It begins to grow dark_.

_Sus_. Well, and who have we got here?

_Mat_. Miss Lacordère, Sukey.

_Sus_. There's no lack o' dare about _her_, to come here!

_Mat_. It's very kind of her to come, Susan.

_Sus_. I tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole. It _was_ stole, miss!--stole from me--an' that angel there a dyin' in the street!

_Con_. I'm quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought anything else.

_Sus_. Not but I allow it was a pity, miss!--I'm very sorry. But, bless you! (_lighting a candle_)--with all _your_ fine clothes--! My! you look like a theayter-queen--you do, miss! If you was to send _them_ up the spout now!--My! what a lot they'd let you have on that silk!

_Con_. The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe. It's an Indian one--all needlework.

_Sus_. And the bee-utiful silk! Laws, miss! just shouldn't I like to wear a frock like that! I _should_ be hard up before I pledged _that_! But the shawl! If I was you, miss, I would send 'most everything up before that!--things inside, you know, miss--where it don't matter so much.

_Con_. (_laughing_) The shawl would be the first thing I should part with. I would rather be nice inside than out.

_Sus_. Lawk, miss! I shouldn't wonder if that was one of the differs now! Well, I never! It ain't seen! It must be one o' the differs!

_Con_. What differs? I don't understand you.

_Sus_. The differs 'tween girls an' ladies--girls like me an' real ladies like you.

_Con_. Oh, I see! But how dark it has got! What can be keeping William? I must go at once, or what will my aunt say! Would you mind going with me a little bit, Susan?

_Sus_. I'll go with pleasure, miss.

_Con_. Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the wide streets. You couldn't lend me an old cloak, could you?

_Sus_. I 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what I stand up in--'cep' it be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket-'an'kercher. Nobody 'ill know you.

_Con_. But I oughtn't to be out dressed like this.

_Sus_. You've only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss.

_Con_. (_drawing up her skirt_) I never thought of that!

_Sus_. Well, I never!

_Con_. What's the matter?

_Sus_. Only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my breath away, miss. It ain't no use turnin' of _it_ up: you'll look like a lady whatever you do to hide it. But never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as you don't look down on the rest of us. There, miss! There you are--fit for a play! Come along; I'll take care of you. Lawks! I'm as good as a man--_I_ am!

_Con_. Good-bye then, Mattie.

_Mat_. Good-bye, miss. God bless you.

_Exeunt_.

END OF ACT III.