Part 2 — Scene II.—The inside of the cottage. An old man sitting by the hearth.

Beau. We have made bold, friend, to trouble your wife for a little water.

John. Sit down—sit down—gentlemen. I would get up to give you my chair, but I have the misfortune to be lame, and am almost blind too.

Harf. Lame and blind! Oh Beaumont! (aside).

284John. Ay, sir, old age will come on; and, God knows, we have very little means to fence against it.

Beau. What, have you nothing but your labour to subsist on?

John. We made that do, sir, as long as we could; but now I am hardly capable of doing anything, and my poor wife can earn very little by spinning, so we have been forced at last to apply to the parish.

Harf. To the parish! Well I hope they consider the services of your better days, and provide for you comfortably.

John. Alas, sir; I am not much given to complain; but what can two shillings a week do in these hard times?

Harf. Little enough, indeed! And is that all they allow you?

John. It is, sir; and we are not to have that much longer, for they say we must come into the workhouse.

Mary (entering with the water). Here, gentlemen, the jug is clean, if you can drink out of it.

Harf. The workhouse, do you say?

Mary. Yes, gentlemen; that makes my poor husband so uneasy—that we should come in our old days to die in a workhouse. We have lived better, I assure you—but we were turned out of our little farm by the great farmer near the church; and since then we have grown poorer and poorer, and weaker and weaker, so that we have nothing to help ourselves with.

John (sobbing). To die in a parish workhouse—I can hardly bear the thought of it! But God knows best, and we must submit!

Harf. But, my good people, have you no children to assist you?

John. Our children, sir, are all dead except one that is settled a long way off, and as poor as we are.

Beau. But surely, my friends, such decent people as you seem to be, must have somebody to protect you.

Mary. No, sir; we know nobody but our neighbours, and they think the workhouse good enough for the poor.

Harf. Pray, was there not a family of Harfords once in this village?

John. Yes, sir, a long while ago—but they are all dead and gone, or else far enough from this place.

Mary. Ay, sir, the youngest of them, and the finest child among them, that I’ll say for him, was nursed in our house when we lived on the old spot near the green. He was with us till he was thirteen, and a sweet-behaved boy he was; I loved him as well as ever I did any of my own children.

Harf. What became of him?

285John. Why, sir, he was a fine bold-spirited boy, though the best tempered creature in the world—so last war he would be a sailor, and fight the French and Spaniards, and away he went, nobody could stop him, and we have never heard a word of him since.

Mary. Ay, he is dead or killed, I warrant—for if he was alive, I am sure nothing would keep him from coming to see his poor daddy and mamma as he used to call us. Many a night have I lain awake thinking of him!

Harf. (to Beau.). I can hold no longer.

Beau. (to him). Restrain yourself awhile. Well, my friends, in return for your kindness, I will tell you some news that will please you. This same Harford, Edward Harford....

Mary. Ay, that was his name—my dear Ned!—What of him, sir, is he living?

John. Let the gentlemen speak, my dear.

Beau. Ned Harford is now alive and well, and a lieutenant in his majesty’s navy, and as brave an officer as any in the service.

John. I hope you do not jest with us, sir?

Beau. I do not, upon my honour.

Mary. Oh, thank God—thank God—if I could but see him!

John. Ay, I wish for nothing more before I die.

Harf. Here he is—here he is! My dearest, best benefactors! Here I am, to pay some of the great debt of kindness I owe you. (Clasps Mary round the neck, and kisses her.)

Mary. What—this gentleman my Ned! Ay, it is, it is—I see it, I see it!

John. Oh, my old eyes!—but I know his voice now. (Stretches out his hand, which Harford grasps.)

Harf. My good old man! Oh that you could see me as clearly as I do you!

John. Enough—enough—it is you, and I am contented.

Mary. O, happy day! O, happy day!

Harf. Did you think I could ever forget you?

John. Oh, no; I knew you better; but how long it is since we parted!

Mary. Fifteen years come Whitsuntide.

Harf. The first time I set foot in England all this long interval was three weeks ago.

John. How good you were to come to us so soon!

Mary. What a tall strong man you are grown! but you have the same sweet smile as ever.

286John. I wish I could see him plain—but what signifies! he’s here, and I hold him by the hand. Where’s the other good gentleman?

Beau. Here—very happy to see such worthy people made so.

Harf. He has been my dearest friend for a great many years, and I am beholden to him almost as much as to you two.

Mary. Has he? God bless him and reward him!

Harf. I am grieved to think what you must have suffered from hardship and poverty. But that is all at an end—no workhouse now.

John. God bless you! then I shall be happy still. But we must not be burdensome to you.

Harf. Don’t talk of that. As long as I have a shilling, it is my duty to give you sixpence of it. Did you not take care of me when all the world forsook me, and treated me as your own child when I had no other parent; and shall I ever forsake you in your old age! Oh never—never!

Mary. Ay, you had always a kind heart of your own. I always used to think our dear Ned would some time or other prove a blessing to us.

Harf. You must leave this poor hut, that is not fit to keep out the weather, and we must get you a snug cottage in this village or some other.

John. Pray, my dear sir, let us die in this town, as we have always lived in it. And as to a house, I believe that where old Richard Carpenter used to live in is empty, if it would not be too good for us.

Harf. What, the white cottage on the green? I remember it; it is just the thing. You shall remove there this very week.

Mary. This is beyond all my hopes and wishes!

Harf. There you shall have a little close to keep a cow—and a girl to milk her, and take care of you both—and a garden well stocked with herbs and roots—and a little yard for pigs and poultry; and some good new furniture for your house.

John. O, too much—too much!

Mary. What makes me cry so, when so many good things are coming to us?

Harf. Who is the landlord of this house?

John. Our next neighbour, Mr. Wheatfield.

Harf. I’ll go and speak about it directly and then come to you again. Come, Beaumont. God bless you both!

John. God in heaven bless you!

Mary. O, happy day. O, happy day!

287

EVENING XXIV.