Act 3 — SCENE III.—Interior of the Blake’s Head.

Enter Lucy and Gilbert. L.

Gil. Nay, but you must see him; I promised you should.

Lucy. You were wrong, good Gilbert, I cannot see him.

Gil. No, ’tis you are wrong, Mrs. Lucy Gwinett, how do you know but he may bring you good news?

Lucy. Can he make the dead live again? Good news!

Gil. Well, now for my sake, see the gentleman.

Lucy. I cannot refuse you. Heaven knows what would have been my fate, had I not found a friend—a protector in you.

Gil. You’ll see him then? Ah I knew you’d think better of it. He’s a very pleasant kind of gentleman; and asked after you so earnestly, that I’m sure he cannot mean but kind.

Enter Grayling, (abruptly.) L.

Well, and what do you want?

Gray. Aye, it’s ever thus.—Do you think I bring the plague into your house, that you look so fiercely at me?

Gil. I don’t know, but you do!—Is there nobody here that you are ashamed to gaze upon?

Gray. No; I see nobody but you and Mrs. Lucy—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Lucy Gwinett.

Gil. Villain!

Gray. Thou liest—stop—there was a time, when at such a word, I’d seen thee sprawling at my feet; but now, I can’t tell how it is—I cannot strike thee.

Gil. But I’ll tell you how it is—the title’s a just one—you feel it sink into your heart—and your arm is palsied; once more, leave my house.

Gray. And why is my money not as good as a finer customer’s? why can’t you take my money?

[During this scene, Blackthorn and Ash enter behind P. S. and exeunt through door in flat. R.

Gil. Why, in truth, Grayling, I’m afraid ’tis gained by too foul a business.

Gray. Ha! ha! the conscience of an innkeeper.

Gil. Grayling, leave the house; at any time I’d sooner look upon a field of blighted corn, than see you cross my threshold; but on this day, beyond all—

Gray. This day,—and why (sarcastically, and looking at Lucy.) oh, I had forgotten; yes, it is the very day—

Lucy. Oh! good Gilbert.

Gil. Stay but one moment longer, and as I am a man, I’ll send thee headforemost into the street.

Gray. Fine words!

Gil. We’ll try then.

(Gilbert is rushing at Grayling, when Lucy comes between them, Gwinett enters hastily at this moment, and starts on beholding Lucy; Grayling sees Gwinett, exchanges a look of defiance with Gilbert and Lucy, and goes sullenly off. P. S.)

Gwin. (aside.) ’Tis she! oh, heavens! all my dangers are repaid.

Gil. An unruly customer, Sir, that’s all—I’ll take care he does not disturb you. (To Lucy.) This is the gentleman who would speak to you.

Lucy. Do not leave me.

Gil. Nay, he has something he says to tell thee privately—I’ll be within call.

[Exit R.

Gwin. (aside.) Let me be calm, lest too suddenly the secret burst upon her—she knows me not—time and peril have wrought this change.

Lucy. You would speak to me, Sir?

Gwin. I would, Madam; is there no one within hearing?

Lucy. No one—but why such caution?

Gwin. ’Tis necessary for the memory of one you once loved.

Lucy. Whom mean you?

Gwin. Ambrose!

Lucy. Oh! in mercy speak not that name—I dare not breathe it to myself; once loved—oh! this agony—you probe into a breaking heart.

Gwin. But not recklessly believe me.

Lucy. Alas, what avails this now—let the dead rest unspoken of—break not the silence of my Gwinett’s grave.

Gwin. His grave!

Lucy. Oh! you wake a thousand horrors in my soul; he has no grave; they stole him from me—they robbed the widow of her last bitter consolation.

Gwin. Perhaps it was the deed of friends.

Lucy. Friends!—But to your errand, Sir, what would you say? speak it quickly, lest my reason desert me, and you talk to madness:—I was told you brought me comfort, I smiled at the word; it seems my unbelief was right.

Gwin. I do bring you comfort—News of your husband.

Lucy. Ah! perhaps, yes, I see it—you can tell me where they laid his cold remains—can lead me to his grave, where I may find a refuge too.—You weep, nay then I know your mission is one of kindness—of charily to the widow of that unhappy guiltless soul, who died a felon’s death on yonder hill.

Gwin. I would speak of Ambrose—but, start not—he died not at the hour men think.

Lucy. Died not?

Gwin. As you loved your husband living, and weep him dead, I charge you conjure up all the firmness springing from woman’s love, nor let one sound or breath escape you to publish the sad history I’m about to tell.

Lucy. I’m fixed as stone—should my husband rise before me, my heart might burst, but not a cry should escape me.

Gwin. Many years after, the whole world believed him dead—your husband lived. (Lucy by a violent effort maintains her silence.) You know ’twas thought the body had been stolen for interment.—Listen, I knew your husband—met him abroad: to me, he confided the secret of his escape; to me, he described the frightful scene—the thronging multitude—the agonies of death! The dreadful ordeal past, the ministers of justice executed the remaining part of the sentence—the body was suspended in chains. Whether it was from the inexperience of the executioner, or the hurried manner in which the sad tragedy was performed, I know not,—but your husband still lived—the fresh airs of night blew upon him, and he revived—revived and found himself hanging.—Oh! my blood thickens as I think upon the torture that was his—fortunately, the irons that supported him, hung loosely about him; by a slight effort he freed his limbs, and dropping to the earth, hastened with all speed, to another part of the coast, took ship and quitted England.

Lucy. (incoherently.) And I!—I not to know of this—unkind.

Gwin. Often he strove to inform you—often wrote, but ne’er received an answer,—twelve years ago he set out, resolved to dare all hazards and seek you, when he was taken by the Moors and sold for a slave—I knew him whilst a captive.

Lucy. And did he die in slavery—oh, your looks declare it—unhappy wretched Gwinett,—but no, happy, thrice happy, he died not on a scaffold. Did he hope you would ever see his miserable widow?

Gwin. He did, and gave me this locket—it contains your hair.

Lucy. Oh, give it me—oh, well do I remember when I saw it last, Gwinett was gazing at it with tearful eyes, when the prison bell—oh, that sound! ’tis here still—I’m sick at heart. (Falls on Gwinett’s shoulder.)

Gwin. Still she knows me not—how to discover myself!—oh Lucy, what a ruin has sorrow made of thee.

Lucy. (reviving.) Ah!—what was that?—no no, I wander—yes, it is—(recognizing him.) oh heavens it is my husband! (falls into his arms.)

Gwin. Within there—

Enter Jenny. R.

assist me to remove her—she will recover shortly—come, madam.

[Exeunt. R.

Enter Grayling cautiously. R.

Gray. So! no one here—I can see nothing of Blackthorn or Will Ash—well, all the better, I may be spared some mischief—and then how to live?—live, can I call this life—a dreadful respite from day to day—hunger and disgrace dogging my steps—what do I here?—there is a charm that holds me to this spot, and spite of the taunts, the rebukes that’s showered upon me, I cannot quit it, nor ever whilst Lucy is—eh! who have we here?

Enter Blackthorn and Will Ash cautiously from door in flat with Gwinett’s portmanteau.

Blackthorn!—Ash!

Black. (whispering.) Hush—not a word.

Gray. What have you there?

Black. Plunder, and good booty too I take it.

Gray. And what would you do with it?

Black. What!—that question from Grayling?—come let’s away.

Ash. We cannot—the portmanteau will be missed, and we instantly pursued.

Black. Stay—is there no surer way—I have it—we’ll even shake its contents a bit, and leave the trunk here—what say you, Grayling?

Gray. As you will—I’m fit for any work.

Black. Come then and assist—(puts portmanteau on table and opens it.) eh—he’s well provided—(takes out a pair of pistols and puts them on table.) ah!—here’s gold—(takes out purse.) Dos’t hear it chink?—Grayling, come and assist, man.

Gray. (approaching the table, and recognising portmanteau.) Hold for your lives—you must not, shall not, touch this.

Black. Eh!—how does the wind blow now?—and why not I pray?

Gray. Anything but this—the owner this morning relieved my necessities—hundreds passed and heeded not the outcast, famishing, Grayling—he who claims this gave me alms, and bade me repent—I am a wretch, a poor houseless, despised wretch—yet villain as I am, there is some touch of feeling left—my hand would fall withered did I attempt to touch it.

Black. Ah, this may be all very well.

Gray. Blackthorn—Ash—dare but to lay a robber’s hand on a single doit, and I’ll alarm the house.

Black. Tush.

Gray. To the trial then.

(Grayling advances to table and seizes hold of part of the contents of the portmanteau from the hand of Blackthorn—they struggle—Blackthorn regains the purse and Grayling is about to pursue him, when his eye falls upon a packet of letters that still remains in his hand—he stands petrified—Blackthorn and Ash are about to go of at the opposite wings, when Label and Gilbert come in from behind, and each taking a pistol from table, come down and prevent the escape of the robbers—Grayling in a state of agitation unmindful of every thing but the papers, which he hastily looks over.)

Gil. So my brave fellows, here you are—three knaves between a parenthesis of bullets.

Black. Why what’s the matter? it’s all a mistake.

Gil. A mistake—yes, I suppose you intended to be a very honest fellow, but by accident are become a convicted scoundrel.

Black. Well,—there’s the money—now we’re clear.

Gil. Clear!—and you, Grayling, are you not ashamed?—do you not fear the gallows?

Gray. (madly.) Gallows!—no, all was lost—good name—hopes—happiness—but yet I had revenge—I hugged it to my heart—’tis gone, and Grayling has nought to live for.

Gil. Give me those papers.

Gray. Did I say revenge was gone?—no, it rages again with redoubled fury—he shall not foil me—this time his death is sure.

Gil. Unhappy wretch—give me those papers.

Gray. Millions should not buy them, till they had served my purpose—oh, it all bursts on my maddened brain—relieved—pitied by him!—

Gil. Grayling—yield ere your fate is certain.

Gray. Never!

Gil. Call in assistance. (Label goes up stage and beckons on neighbours, &c. Gwinett and Lucy come on. L.)

There, secure the prisoner.

Gray. Aye—secure the prisoner.

Offi. Which is he?

Gil. There—Grayling the robber.

Gray. No—not Grayling the robber—but, there, Gwinett the convicted murderer.

Omnes. Gwinett?

Gil. Gwinett!—Ambrose Gwinett!—it can’t be.

Gwin. It is even so, good Gilbert—though wonderful ’tis true.

Gil. He’s innocent—I knew he was innocent—good friends—kind neighbours—let not this be spoken of—heaven has by a miracle preserved a guiltless man—you will all be secret—no one here will tell the tale.

Gray. Yes—here is one.

Gil. You will not be that wretch.

Lucy. (falling at Grayling’s feet.) Mercy! mercy!

Gray. Are you there, Lucy Gwinett—think of my agonies—my hopes all blighted—my affections spurned—think of my sufferings for eighteen years—look at me—can you kneel before the ruin which your scorn has made—but now, new I triumph—seize upon the murderer. (all indicate unwillingness.) Nay then, I will proclaim the tale throughout the town. (Is rushing up stage, when Gilbert seizes him by the throat.)

Gil. You stir not a foot—if a murderer must be hanged, it shall be for strangling such a serpent.

Grayling and Gilbert struggle, Grayling throws Gilbert from him, and with the rest of the characters following, rushes up the stage. As he is about to exit at back, the folding doors fly open, and Collins, an old grey-headed man, presents himself at the entrance; a general exclamation of “Collins” from all the characters who recoil in amazement.

Gray. See—his ghost, the ghost of the victim rises from the grave to claim the murderer—I am revenged—I triumph—ha! ha! ha!

(falls exhausted.)

Col. My friends. Lucy.

Lucy. My uncle!

Gwin. He lives! he lives! the world beholds me innocent! beholds me free from the stain of blood!

Gil. Master—oh! day of wonders!—the dead come back.

Col. Wonders, indeed! Gwinett, ’tis but within this past half hour, I have heard the story of your sufferings.

Gil. But tell me, master, how is this? dead! and not dead, and—

Col. Another time; it is a tedious story, the night you thought me killed, I had left my chamber to procure assistance to staunch a wound—scarcely had I crossed the threshold, than I was seized by a press-gang, and hurried—but see to yon unhappy man.

(They raise Grayling, who is dying; his face is pale, his eyes set, and his lips and hands stained as though he had burst a blood-vessel.)

Gray. (seeing Collins.) There still—not gone yet?

Col. How fares it now, Grayling?

Gray. And speaks—lives—then Gwinett, Gwinett the husband of Lucy—my Lucy, for I loved her first—is no murderer.

Lucy. Grayling.

Gray. Oh! Lucy, that voice, my heart leaps to it—leaps to it as it did—but all’s past; Lucy, you will not curse me when I’m dead—there are those who will—but let them—you will not: the earth is sliding from beneath my feet—my eyes are dark—what are these?—tears—Lucy’s tears!—I am happy.

[Sinks backward.