Chapter XV: Act IV

_The Stage represents the Admiral’s house_, _as in Acts I. and III_. _A chair_, _L._, _in front_. _As the curtain rises_, _the Stage is dark_. _Enter_ ARETHUSA, _L._, _with candle_; _she lights another_; _and passes to door_, _R._, _which she unbolts_. _Stage light_

SCENE I

ARETHUSA, KIT

ARETHUSA. Come, dear Kit, come!

KIT. Well, I’m here.

ARETHUSA. O Kit, you are not angry with me.

KIT. Have I reason to be pleased?

ARETHUSA. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me.

KIT. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant it kindly; but there are some kindnesses a man would rather die than take a gift of. When a man is accused, Arethusa, it is not that he fears the gallows—it’s the shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, the way to help was to stand to your belief. You should have nailed my colours to the mast, not spoke of striking them. If I were to be hanged to-morrow, and your love there, and a free pardon and a dukedom on the other side—which would I choose?

ARETHUSA. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was not my life that was at stake, it was yours. Had it been mine—mine, Kit—what had you done, then?

KIT. I am a downright fool; I saw it inside out. Why, give you up, by George!

ARETHUSA. Ah, you see! Now you understand. It was all pure love. When he said that word—O!—death and that disgrace! . . . But I know my father. He fears nothing so much as the goodness of his heart; and yet it conquers. He would pray, he said: and to-night, and by the kindness of his voice, I knew he was convinced already. All that is wanted, is that you should forgive me.

KIT. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that I’d forgive you piracy on the high seas. I was only sulky; I was boxed up there in the black dark, and couldn’t see my hand. It made me pity that blind man, by George!

ARETHUSA. O, that blind man! The fiend! He came back, Kit: did you hear him? he thought we had killed you—you!

KIT. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping company with such a swab.

ARETHUSA. One thing puzzles me: how did you get in? I saw my father lock the door.

KIT. Ah, how? That’s just it. I was a sheet in the wind, you see. How did we? He did it somehow. . . . By George, he had a key! He can get in again.

ARETHUSA. Again? that man!

KIT. Ay, can he! Again! When he likes!

ARETHUSA. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill my father.

KIT. Afraid. I’m glad of that. Now, you’ll see I’m worth my salt at something. Ten to one he’s back to Mrs. Drake’s. I’ll after, and lay him aboard.

ARETHUSA. O Kit, he is too strong for you.

KIT. Arethusa, that’s below the belt! Never you fear; I’ll give a good account of him.

ARETHUSA (_taking cutlass from the wall_). You’ll be none the worse for this, dear.

KIT. That’s so (_making cuts_). All the same, I’m half ashamed to draw on a blind man; it’s too much odds. (_He leaps suddenly against the table_.) Ah!

ARETHUSA. Kit! Are you ill?

KIT. My head’s like a humming top; it serves me right for drinking.

ARETHUSA. O, and the blind man! (_She runs_, _L._, _to the corner cupboard_, _brings a bottle and glass_, _and fills and offers glass_.) Here, lad, drink that.

KIT. To you! That’s better. (_Bottle and glass remain on Gaunt’s table_.)

ARETHUSA. Suppose you miss him?

KIT. Miss him! The road is straight; and I can hear the tap-tapping of that stick a mile away.

ARETHUSA (_listening_). St! my father stirring in his room!

KIT. Let me get clear; tell him why when I’m gone. The door—?

ARETHUSA. Locked!

KIT. The window!

ARETHUSA. Quick, quick! (_She unfastens R. window_, _by which_ KIT _goes out_.)

SCENE II

ARETHUSA, GAUNT _entering L._

ARETHUSA. Father, Kit is gone . . . He is asleep.

GAUNT. Waiting, waiting and wearying. The years, they go so heavily, my Hester still waiting! (_He goes R. to chest_, _which he opens_.) That is your chain; it’s of Guinea gold; I brought it you from Guinea. (_Taking out chain_.) You liked it once; it pleased you long ago; O, why not now—why will you not be happy now? . . . I swear this is my last voyage; see, I lay my hand upon the Holy Book and swear it. One more venture—for the child’s sake, Hester; you don’t think upon your little maid.

ARETHUSA. Ah, for my sake, it was for my sake!

GAUNT. Ten days out from Lagos. That’s a strange sunset, Mr. Yeo. All hands shorten sail! Lay aloft there, look smart! . . . What’s that? Only the negroes in the hold . . . Mr. Yeo, she can’t live long at this; I have a wife and child in Barnstaple. . . . Christ, what a sea! Hold on, for God’s sake—hold on fore and aft! Great God! (_as thought the sea were making a breach over the ship at the moment_).

ARETHUSA. O!

GAUNT. They seem quieter down below there . . . No water—no light—no air—seven days battened down, and the seas mountain high, and the ship labouring hell-deep! Two hundred and five, two hundred and five, two hundred and five—all to eternal torture!

ARETHUSA. O pity him, pity him! Let him sleep, let him forget! Let her prayers avail in heaven, and let him rest!

GAUNT. Hester, no, don’t smile at me. Rather tears! I have seen you weep—often, often; two hundred and five times. Two hundred and five! (_With ring_.) Hester, here is your ring (_he tries to put the ring on his finger_). How comes it in my hand? Not fallen off again? O no, impossible! it was made smaller, dear, it can’t have fallen off! Ah, you waste away. You must live, you must, for the dear child’s sake, for mine, Hester, for mine! Ah, the child. Yes. Who am I to judge? Poor Kit French! And she, your little maid, she’s like you, Hester, and she will save him! How should a man be saved without a wife?

ARETHUSA. O father, if you could but hear me thank and bless you! (_The tapping of Pew’s stick is heard approaching_. GAUNT _passes L. front and sits_.)

GAUNT (_beginning to count the taps_). One—two—two hundred and five

ARETHUSA (_listening_). God help me, the blind man! (_She runs to door_, _C._; _the key is put into the lock from without_, _and the door opens_.)

SCENE III

ARETHUSA (_at back of stage by the door_); GAUNT (_front L._); _to these_, PEW, _C._

PEW (_sotto voce_). All snug. (_Coming down_.) So that was you, my young friend Christopher, as shot by me on the road; and so you was hot foot after old Pew? Christopher, my young friend, I reckon I’ll have the bowels out of that chest, and I reckon you’ll be lagged and scragged for it. (_At these words_ ARETHUSA _locks the door_, _and takes the key_.) What’s that? All still. There’s something wrong about this room. Pew, my ’art of oak, you’re queer to-night; brace up, and carry off. Where’s the tool? (_Producing knife_.) Ah, here she is; and now for the chest; and the gold; and rum—rum—rum. What! Open? . . . old clothes, by God! . . . He’s done me; he’s been before me; he’s bolted with the swag; that’s why he ran: Lord wither and waste him forty year for it! O Christopher, if I had my fingers on your throat! Why didn’t I strangle the soul out of him? I heard the breath squeak in his weasand; and Jack Gaunt pulled me off. Ah, Jack, that’s another I owe you. My pious friend, if I was God Almighty for five minutes! (GAUNT _rises and begins to pace the stage like a quarterdeck_, _L._) What’s that? A man’s walk. He don’t see me, thank the blessed dark! But it’s time to slip, my bo. (_He gropes his way stealthily till he comes to Gaunt’s table_, _where he burns his hand in the candle_.) A candle—lighted—then it’s bright as day! Lord God, doesn’t he see me? It’s the horrors come alive. (GAUNT _draws near and turns away_.) I’ll go mad, mad! (_He gropes to the door_, _stopping and starting_.) Door. (_His voice rising for the first time_, _sharp with terror_.) Locked? Key gone? Trapped! Keep off—keep off of me—keep away! (_Sotto voce again_.) Keep your head, Lord have mercy, keep your head. I’m wet with sweat. What devil’s den is this? I must out—out! (_He shakes the door vehemently_.) No? Knife it is then—knife—knife—knife! (_He moves with the knife raised towards_ GAUNT, _intently listening_, _and changing his direction as_ GAUNT _changes his position on the stage_.)

ARETHUSA (_rushing to intercept him_). Father, father, wake!

GAUNT. Hester, Hester! (_He turns_, _in time to see_ ARETHUSA _grapple_ PEW _in the centre of the Stage_, _and_ PEW _force her down_.)

ARETHUSA. Kit! Kit!

PEW (_with the knife raised_). Pew’s way!

SCENE IV

_To these_, KIT

(_He leaps through window_, _R._, _and cuts_ PEW _down_. _At the same moment_, GAUNT, _who has been staring helplessly at his daughter’s peril_, _fully awakes_.)

GAUNT. Death and blood! (KIT, _helping_ ARETHUSA, _has let fall the cutlass_. GAUNT_ picks it up and runs on_ PEW.) Damned mutineer, I’ll have your heart out! (_He stops_, _stands staring_, _drops cutlass_, _falls upon his knees_.) God forgive me! Ah, foul sins, would you blaze forth again? Lord, close your ears! Hester, Hester, hear me not! Shall all these years and tears be unavailing?

ARETHUSA. Father, I am not hurt.

GAUNT. Ay, daughter, but my soul—my lost soul!

PEW (_rising on his elbow_). Rum? You’ve done me. For God’s sake, rum. (ARETHUSA _pours out a glass_, _which_ KIT _gives to him_.) Rum? This ain’t rum; it’s fire! (_With great excitement_.) What’s this? I don’t like rum? (_Feebly_.) Ay, then, I’m a dead man, and give me water.

GAUNT. Now even his sins desert him.

PEW (_drinking water_). Jack Gaunt, you’ve always been my rock ahead. It’s thanks to you I’ve got my papers, and this time I’m shipped for Fiddler’s Green. Admiral, we ain’t like to meet again, and I’ll give you a toast: Here’s Fiddler’s Green, and damn all lubbers! (_Seizing_ GAUNT’S _arm_.) I say—fair dealings, Jack!—none of that heaven business: Fiddler’s Green’s my port, now, ain’t it?

GAUNT. David, you’ve hove short up, and God forbid that I deceive you. Pray, man, pray; for in the place to which you are bound there is no mercy and no hope.

PEW. Ay, my lass, you’re black, but your blood’s red, and I’m all a-muck with it. Pass the rum, and be damned to you. (_Trying to sing_)—

‘Time for us to go,
Time for us—’

(_He dies_.)

GAUNT. But for the grace of God, there lies John Gaunt! Christopher, you have saved my child; and I, I, that was blinded with self-righteousness, have fallen. Take her, Christopher; but O, walk humbly!

* * * * *

CURTAIN

MACAIRE A MELODRAMATIC FARCE IN THREE ACTS

PERSONS REPRESENTED

ROBERT MACAIRE.

BERTRAND.

DUMONT, Landlord of the _Auberge des Adrets_.

CHARLES, a Gendarme, Dumont’s supposed son.

GORIOT.

THE MARQUIS, Charles’s Father.

THE BRIGADIER of Gendarmerie.

THE CURATE.

THE NOTARY.

A WAITER.

ERNESTINE, Goriot’s Daughter.

ALINE.

MAIDS, PEASANTS (_Male and Female_), GENDARMES.

The Scene is laid in the Courtyard of the _Auberge des Adrets_, on the frontier of France and Savoy. The time 1800. The action occupies an interval of from twelve to fourteen hours: from four in the afternoon till about five in the morning.

* * * * *

NOTE.—_The time between the acts should be as brief as possible_, _and the piece played_, _where it is merely comic_, _in a vein of patter_.