SCENE III.—A Room in the Blake’s Head.

Enter Label. L.

Label. Well, now let me see, where’s my next point of destination? ah, Dover. Thus I go through the country, and by both my trades of barber and doctor, contrive to look at the bright side of life, and lay by a little for the snows of old age. Had bad business here at Deal: all the people so plaguily healthy—not a tooth to be drawn—not a vein to be opened; the landlord here, master Collins, has been my only customer—the only man for whom I have had occasion to draw lancet. Now it’s very odd why he should be so secret about it—all to prevent alarming his wife he says,—good tender man.

Enter Gilbert. R.

Gil. What, master Label, ah! bad work for you—all hearty as oaks—not a pulse to be felt in all Deal.

Label. Ah, I can’t think how that is.

Gil. Can’t you? I’ll tell you—we’ve no doctors with us; no body but you, and you’ll never do any harm, because—

Label. Because—because what?

Gil. Why we all know you, and there’s few will give you the chance; who do you think would employ a doctor who goes about calling at peoples’ houses to mend their constitutions, as tinkers call for old kettles.

Label. Ah, that’s it, humble merit may trudge its shoes off, and never finger a fee, whilst swaggering impudence bounces out of a carriage, and all he touches turns to gold. Farewell, good Gilbert, farewell—I’m off for Dover.

Gil. What! to night?

Label. Yes, directly.

Gil. Why you must pass through the church-yard.

Label. What of that?

Gil. Nothing, only if ever you had any patients, I thought you might have felt some qualms in taking that road.

Label. Ever had any patients, I’ll whisper a secret in your ear; I’ve had one in this house! Now what do you think of that? What follows now?

Gil. What follows now? why the grave-digger, I’m afraid; I say, I wonder you didn’t add the trade of undertaker to that of doctor.

Label. Why?

Gil. Why! how nicely you could make one business play into the other: when called in to a patient, as soon as you had prescribed for him, you know, you might have begun to measure him for his coffin.

Label. Ah, you’re a droll fellow, but we won’t quarrel; I dare say you think me very dull now, but bless you I’m not, when I’m roused I can be devilish droll—very witty indeed.

Gil. Aye, your wit is, I suppose, like your medicine—it must be well shaken before it’s fit to be administered; now how many of your jokes generally go to a dose?

Label. No, no, it won’t do, I’m not to be drawn out now—I’ve no time to be comical, I must away for Dover this instant.

Gil. A word with you, the sharks are out to-night.

Label. The sharks?

Gil. Aye, the blue-jackets, the press-gang—now you’d be invaluable to them; take my word, if they see you, you are a lost man.

Label. Never fear me, the blue-jackets, bless you, if they were to catch hold of me, I should run off and leave a can of flip in their hands; now what do you think of that?

Gil. Why I think of the two, the flip would be far the most desirable; but if you will go, why, a good night to you, and a happy escape.

Label. All the same thanks to you for your intelligence; press me, bless you they’d sooner take my physic than me; no, no, I’m a privileged man—good-night, good-night.

[Exit R.

Gil. That fellow has killed more people than ever I saw; how he looks his trade, whenever I behold him, he appears to me like a long-necked pint bottle of rheubarb, to be taken at three draughts; but I must put all thing, to rights—here’s my master and Miss Lucy will be here in a minute; the house is full of customers, and it threatens to be a boisterous night.

Enter Reef, disguised in a large great coat. L.

Reef. I say young man, (Gilbert starts.) why what are you starting at?

Gil. Nothing—only at first I didn’t know whether it was a man or a bear.

Reef. Indeed—and which do you think it is now?

Gil. Why, upon my word, it’s a very nice distinction: I can’t judge very well, so I’ll take you at your own word.

Reef. I’ve a little business here with a gentleman: do you know one Mr. Gwinett?

Gil. Gwinett! what, Ambrose Gwinett?

Reef. The same.

Gil. Know him!—I believe I do—a very fine, noble spirited,—

Reef. Aye, that’s enough; I want to see him—he’s in he house.

Gil. No, indeed.

Reef. Would you tell me a lie now?

Gil. Yes I would, if I thought it would answer any right purpose; I tell you he’s not in the house—and pray who are you?

Reef. Who am I? why—I’m—I’m—an honest man.

Gil. Aye, that’s so general a character; couldn’t you descend a little to particulars?

Reef. I’ve a letter to Mr. Gwinett—it’s of great consequence.

Gil. Who does it come from?

Reef. The writer!

Gil. Now it strikes me that this letter contains some mischief.

Reef. Why?

Gil. Because it’s brought by so black-looking a postman.

Reef. Will you deliver it? if as you say he’s not here when he comes?

Gil. Deliver it? why I don’t mind, but if you’ve any tricks you know.

Reef. Tricks, you lubber, give him the letter, and no more palaver. (going.)

Gil. Here—(Reef returns.) No—no matter—I thought you had left your civility behind you.

Reef. Umph!

[Exit. R.

Gil. I warrant me, that’s a fellow that never passes a rope maker’s shop without feeling a crick in the neck.

Enter Lucy. L.

Lucy. Oh, Gilbert!

Gil. How now, Miss Lucy, you seem a little frightened or so?

Lucy. Oh, no—not frightened, only hurried a little—is my uncle in the house?

Gil. Oh, yes—and has been asking for you these dozen times,—here by-the-by is a letter for—but mum—here comes master.

Enter Mr. Collins. L.

Col. Well, Lucy child, where hast been all day, I havn’t caught a glance of you since last night—what have you got there, Gilbert?

Gil. Where, sir?

Col. Why, there in your hand—that letter.

Gil. Oh—aye—it is a letter.

Col. For me?

Gil. No, sir—it’s for master Ambrose Gwinett.

Col. Give it to me—I expect him here to-night.

Lucy. Expect master Ambrose here to-night, uncle?

Col. Aye, standing at the door just now, his uncle told me that he expected him at Deal to-day, but being compelled to be from home until to-morrow, he had left word that master Ambrose should put up here, and asked me to make room for him.

Gil. What here, master? why there’s not a corner—not a single corner to receive the visit of a cat—the house is full to the very chimney pots.

Col. Aye, as it is but for once, we must contrive—let me see—as we have no other room, master Ambrose can take part of mine—so bustle Gilbert, bustle, and see to it.

Gil. Yes, sir, yes.—(Aside.) I’m sorry master’s got that letter though; it was an ugly postman that brought it, and it can’t be good.

[Exit. L.

Col. Now, Lucy, that we are together, I would wish to have some talk with you. You know, girl, I love you, as though you were my own, and were sorrow or mischance to light upon you, I think ’twould go nigh to break my heart. Now answer me with candour—you know Grayling—honest Ned Grayling? why, what do you turn so pale at?

Lucy. Oh! uncle, I beseech you, name him not.

Col. Tut—tut—this is all idle and girlish—the man loves you, Lucy.

Lucy. Loves me!

Col. Aye; Ned is not so sprightly and trim a lad as many, but he hath that which makes all in a husband, girl—he has a sound heart and a noble spirit.

Lucy. Possibly—I do not know.

Col. But you do know, and so does all the town know; come, be just to him if you cannot love him; but for my part, I see not what should prevent you becoming his wife.

Lucy. His wife? oh, uncle, if you have the least love—the least regard for me, speak no more upon this theme—at least for the present. I will explain all to-morrow, will prove to you that my aversion is not the result of idle caprice, but of feelings which you yourself must sanction. In the mean while be assured I would rather go down into my grave, than wed with such a man as Grayling.

Col. Eh! why—what’s all this?—Grayling has not—if he has—

Lucy. No, no, it is I who am to blame, for speaking thus strongly—wait, dearest uncle—wait till to-morrow.

Col. Well, as it is not long, and the time will be slept out, I will,—but take heed, Lucy, and let not a foolish distaste prejudice you against a worthy and honourable man.

Enter Ambrose Gwinett and Gilbert. L.

Gwin. Your servant, master Collins—I must I find be your tenant for the night.

Col. And shall be welcome, sir; come, Lucy, Gilbert, stir, and prepare supper; there’s a rough night coming on I fear, and you might fare worse, master Ambrose, than as guest at the Blake’s Head—here, by the way, is a letter for you.

[Whilst Gwinett is reading the letter, the supper-table is arranged, and Collins sits down and begins counting some money.

Gwin. This is a most mysterious assignation. (Reads.) “If you are a man, you will not fail to give me a meeting at twelve outside the house, I have to unfold a plot to you which concerns not you alone.—Your’s, a Friend.” (Whilst Gilbert and Lucy are off for provisions.) Master Collins, I may rise to-morrow morning ’ere any of your good people are stirring, you will therefore not be surprised to find me gone.

Col. But why so early?

Gwin. A little appointment—I shall return to breakfast.

Col. Then go out by the back gate; but stop, as the latch is broken in the inside, you had better take this knife (giving Gwinett a clasp-knife.) to lift it; we shall wait breakfast until your return.

[Collins, Gwinett, and Lucy, seat themselves at table.—Grayling enters, takes a chair, and placing it between Lucy and Gwinett, sits down.

Col. How now, master Grayling, you have mistaken the room.

Gray. Mistaken—how so? isn’t this the Blake’s Head?

Col. That may be; but this is my private apartment.

Gray. Private! than what does he here—Gilbert, some ale.

Gwin. (aside.) The very ruffian I encountered in the wood.

Gray. (to Gwinett.) What are you looking at man? I shall pay my score—aye, every farthing o’t, though I may not dress so trimly as some folks.

Col. Grayling, will you quit the room?

Gray. No!

Col. Then expect to lose—

Gray. Lose! and what can I lose? hasn’t he all that I could lose?

Col. What do you mean?

Gray. Ask Lucy—the wood, Lucy, the wood.

Gwin. Wretch! dare you beneath her uncle’s roof—

Gray. Dare I? you have among you awakened the wolf within my heart, and beware how it snaps.

Col. This is needless; good Grayling leave us.

Gray. Good, and you think I am to be hushed with fair words like a child, whilst he, that thief, for he has stolen from me all that made life happy, whilst he bears away Lucy and leaves and broken hearted.

Col. He bear away Lucy—you are deceived.

Gray. No, you are deceived, old man—you are deceived; but let to-morrow shew, I’ll not ’cumber your room, master Collins; I leave it to more gay visitors than Ned Grayling; I leave it till to-morrow—good-night—good-night, gay master Gwinett,—a pleasant night’s rest—ha! ha! ha!

[Exit L.

Lucy. Dear uncle, is not this sufficient excuse for my aversion.

Col. No matter, we’ll talk more of this to-morrow. Go to your chamber, girl. (Music.—Lucy goes off. R.) and now, sir, we will to ours.

[Music.—Exeunt R.