Act 2 — Scene II.

The Gipsy encampment in the wood.

Nelly comes forward.

Nelly. Lady Etheridge, you spurned me! you chased me from your doors! what! shall humanity in any shape be worried by your pampered dogs? when youth was fresh upon our brows, our steps light upon the green, and our hearts still more light with innocence, had then the Lady Etheridge more admirers than the poor outcast gipsy, Nelly Armstrong? Have you forgotten your origin, proud lady of the Hall? Had his partial eyes fallen upon me when Sir Gilbert chose his wife from among the cottage maidens, and you, proud lady, had come hungry and in rags to my door, should I have unslipped the hounds upon your cry for charity? No, no, no! You have given insult—expect retaliation. But here comes one of my instruments. Unbend, Eleanor Armstrong, from this lofty carriage, and be again the miserable—the cheating gipsy.

Enter young Bargrove.

Nelly. A fine morning, most fortunate sir.

Peter. Well, my good woman, have you found it out?

Nelly. What, youth of a brilliant horoscope, do you mean the starlit mystery? It is revealed, but the planets have been very cross. I watched—and watched—and watched—

Peter. Well, and what did you discover?

Nelly. The discovery, sir, is precious. Golden, sir, golden! A guinea! it is worth twenty!

Peter. A bargain's a bargain. There's your guinea (Takes out his purse and gives money.) And now, let me have my value for it.

Nelly. I cast a trine through the rays of Saturn, and placing a quadrature upon his seventh house, I travelled wearily through the heavens; and, at last, this afternoon, at about thirty-five minutes, forty-nine seconds, after the hour of three, I discovered that your mother was wet nurse to both Sir Gilbert's children.

Peter. Miraculous! and so indeed she was!

Nelly. You were born at nearly the same time as Captain Etheridge, and was put out to nurse to one Sally Stone. I discovered all about this nursing and suckling in the milky way.

Peter. Did the stars there tell you all this? wonderful!

Nelly. Yes, and a great deal more. But first promise me, if your fate is no sordid one, you will not yourself be sordid; for now comes the great secret. Money, sir, money for the prophetess. Suppose, now, I should prove you a gentleman of ten thousand a year; what would you give me then?

Peter. Give you! another guinea—perhaps two. (Holding up his purse.) Ten thousand a year! I would give you the whole purse.

Nelly. (laying hold of one end of the purse.) Then listen to me—you were changed at nurse. You are the son of Sir Gilbert Etheridge of the Hall!

Peter. The son of Sir Gilbert Etheridge! and changed by the nurse!

Nelly. Why don't you clasp your hands, turn up your eyes, and thank the stars, that have gained for you your patrimony?

Peter. So I will (Clasps his hands, and lets the purse go, Nelly pockets it.) But what nurse changed me?

Nelly. Why, Mrs Bargrove to be sure, who nursed you, and put her own son in your place.

Peter. Infamous old woman! but how is this possible?

Nelly. The stars have said it.

Peter. My stars?

Nelly. Yes, yours.

Peter. But how am I to prove this?

Nelly. There again I can assist you. Did you never hear of a girl called Nelly Armstrong?

Peter. To be sure—she nursed my sister, that is, she nursed Lucy Bargrove. A sad reprobate was Nelly——

Nelly. Reprobate in your teeth, young man! Speak of that person with the utmost respect; for 'tis she that will appear and divulge the whole. She was the accomplice of Mrs Bargrove; but you must lose no time; challenge Mrs Bargrove, and she may confess all. Then hasten to Lady Etheridge, and flinging yourself into her arms, sob out upon her bosom that she is your mother.

Peter. Excellent! it will be quite moving. I think a white handkerchief looks most interesting.

Nelly. I hope, when your honour comes to your property, you won't forget the gipsy woman.

Peter. Forget you, good woman! no, that I won't. You shall have a right of encampment here, and permission to rob any tenants upon the estate. Leave me.

[Exit Nelly, curtseying several times to the ground.

Peter solus (strutting up and down). Well, I knew that I was a gentleman born, I knew I was (rubbing his hands). Why, what a shameful trick of the old woman. But I'll make her confess directly. And then—and then—I'll pardon her; for she has been very kind to me, that's certain. Sir Peter Etheridge with ten thousand a year! O! it will sound well. "Pray," says the traveller from London to one of my tenants, "whose superb mansion is that?" "Sir Peter's." Ha! ha! ha! "And that fine equipage?" "Sir Peter's." He! he! he! "And that beautiful lady all over jewels?" "Sir Peter's." Ho! ho! ho! Lucky, lucky Sir Peter! Hum! ha! I'll turn old Bargrove off for his impudence—that's decided; and I must cease to be cheerful and familiar. Melancholy—melancholy is your only gentlemanlike bearing, as Shakespeare says. [Exit.]