Chapter III · (continued 2)

Mrs. Micawber is at home attending to the twins, one of which she is holding in her arms, the other is in the cradle near by, and various of the children are scattered about the floor.

Mrs. Micawber has been bothered all the morning by the calling of creditors;—at last she exclaims, as she trots the babe in her arms:—

(Mrs. Micawber.) Well, I wonder how many more times they will be calling! However, it's their fault. If Mr. Micawber's creditors won't give him time, they must take the consequences. Oh! there is some one knocking now! I believe that's Mr. Heep's knock. It is Mr. Heep! Come in, Mr. Heep. We are very glad to see you. Come right in.

Heep.—Is Mr. Micawber in?

Mrs. Mic.—No, Mr. Heep. Mr. Micawber has gone out. We make no stranger of you, Mr. Heep, so I don't mind telling you Mr. Micawber's affairs have reached a crisis. With the exception of a heel of Dutch cheese, which is not adapted to the wants of a young family,—and including the twins,—there is nothing to eat in the house.

Heep.—How dreadful! (Aside.) The very man for my purpose. (Explanation. At this moment there is a noise heard on the landing. Micawber himself rushes into the room, slamming the door behind him.)

Micawber.—(Not seeing Heep.) The clouds have gathered, the storm has broken, and the thunderbolt has fallen on the devoted head of Wilkins Micawber! Emma, my dear, the die is cast. All is over. Leave me in my misery!

Mrs. Mic.—I'll never desert my Micawber!

Mic.—In the words of the immortal Plato, "It must be so, Cato!" But no man is without a friend when he is possessed of courage and shaving materials! Emma, my love, fetch me my razors! (Recovers himself) sh—sh! We are not alone! (Gayly) Oh, Mr. Heep! Delighted to see you, my young friend! Ah, my dear young attorney-general, in prospective, if I had only known you when my troubles commenced, my creditors would have been a great deal better managed than they were! You will pardon the momentary laceration of a wounded spirit, made sensitive by a recent collision with a minion of the law,—in short, with a ribald turncock attached to the waterworks. Emma, my love, our supply of water has been cut off. Hope has sunk beneath the horizon! Bring me a pint of laudanum!

Heep.—Mr. Micawber, would you be willing to tell me the amount of your indebtedness?

Mic.—It is only a small matter for nutriment, beef, mutton, etc., some trifle, seven and six pence ha'penny.

Heep.—I'll pay it for you.

Mic.—My dear friend! You overpower me with obligation! Shall I admit the officer? (Turns and goes to the door, opens it.) Enter myrmidon! Hats off, in the presence of a solvent debtor and a lady. (Heeps pays the officer and dismisses him.)

Heep.—Now, Mr. Micawber, I suppose you have no objection to giving me your I.O.U. for the amount.

Mic.—Certainly not. I am always ready to put my name to any species of negotiable paper, from twenty shillings upward. Excuse me, Heep, I'll write it. (Goes through motion of writing it on leaf of memo, book. Tears it out and hands it to Heep.) I suppose this is renewable on the usual term?

Heep.—Better. You can work it out. I come to offer you the position of clerk in my partner's office—the firm of Wickfield and Heep.

Mic.—What! A clerk! Emma, my love, I believe I may have no hesitation in saying something has at last turned up!

Heep.—You will excuse me, Mrs. Micawber, but I should like to speak a few words to your husband in private.

Mrs. Mic.—Certainly! Wilkins, my love, go on and prosper!

Mic.—My dear, I shall endeavor to do so to an unlimited extent! Ah, the sun has again risen—the clouds have passed—the sky is clear, and another score may be begun at the butcher's.—Heep, precede me. Emma, my love. Au Revoir.

(A gallant bow to Mrs. Micawber.)

A SCENE FROM DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Introduction.—The scene is the interior of the "Old Ark"; the time is evening. The rain is falling outside, yet inside the old ark all is snug and comfortable. The fire is burning brightly on the hearth, and Mother Gummidge sits by it knitting. Ham has gone out to fetch little Em'ly home from her work,—and the old fisherman sits smoking his evening pipe by the table near the window. They are expecting Steerforth and Copperfield in to spend the evening. Presently a knock is heard and David enters. Old Peggotty gets up to greet him.

Old Peg.—Why! It's Mas'r Davy? Glad to see you, Mas'r Davy, you're the first of the lot! Take off that cloak of yours if it's wet and draw right up to the fire. Don't you mind Mawther Gummidge, Mas'r Davy; she's a-thinkin' of the old 'un. She allers do be thinkin of the old 'un when there's a storm a-comin' up, along of his havin' been drowned at sea. Well, now, I must go and light up accordin' to custom. (He lights a candle and puts it on the table by the window.) Theer we are! Theer we are! A-lighted up accordin' to custom. Now, Mas'r Davy, you're a-wonderin' what that little candle is for, ain't yer? Well, I'll tell yer. It's for my little Em'ly. You see, the path ain't o'er light or cheerful arter dark, so when I'm home here along the time that Little Em'ly comes home from her work, I allers lights the little candle and puts it there on the table in the winder, and it serves two purposes,—first, Em'ly sees it and she says: "Theer's home," and likewise, "Theer's Uncle," fur if I ain't here I never have no light showed. Theer! Now you're laughin' at me, Mas'r Davy! You're a sayin' as how I'm a babby. Well, I don't know but I am. (Walks towards table.) Not a babby to look at, but a babby to consider on. A babby in the form of a Sea Porky-pine.

See the candle sparkle! I can hear it say—"Em'ly's lookin' at me! Little Em'ly's comin'!" Right I am for here she is! (He goes to the door to meet her; the door opens and Ham comes staggering in.)

Ham.—She's gone! Her that I'd a died fur, and will die fur even now! She's gone!

Peggotty.—Gone!!

Ham.—Gone! She's run away! And think how she's run away when I pray my good and gracious God to strike her down dead, sooner than let her come to disgrace and shame.

Peggotty.—Em'ly gone! I'll not believe it. I must have proof—proof.

Ham.—Read that writin'.

Peggotty.—No! I won't read that writin'—read it you, Mas'r Davy. Slow, please. I don't know as I can understand.

David.—(Reads) "When you see this I shall be far away."

Peggotty.—Stop theer, Mas'r Davy! Stop theer! Fur away! My Little Em'ly fur away! Well?

David.—(Reads) "Never to come back again unless he brings me back a lady. Don't remember, Ham, that we were to be married, but try to think of me as if I had died long ago, and was buried somewhere. My last love and last tears for Uncle."

Peggotty.—Who's the man? What's his name? I want to know the man's name.

Ham.—It warn't no fault of yours, Mas'r Davy, that I know.

Peggotty.—What! You don't mean his name's Steerforth, do you?

Ham.—Yes! His name is Steerforth, and he's a cursed villain!

Peggotty.—Where's my coat? Give me my coat! Help me on with it, Mas'r Davy. Now bear a hand theer with my hat.

David.—Where are you going, Mr. Peggotty?

Peggotty.—I'm a goin' to seek fur my little Em'ly. First, I'm going to stave in that theer boat and sink it where I'd a drownded him, as I'm a living soul; if I'd a known what he had in him! I'd a drownded him, and thought I was doin' right! Now I'm going to seek fur my Little Em'ly throughout the wide wurrety!

A SCENE FROM THE SHAUGHRAUN.

Introduction.—This scene introduces the following characters:—Conn, the Shaughraun, a reckless, devil-may-care, true-hearted young vagabond, who is continually in a scrape from his desire to help a friend and his love of fun; his mother, Mrs. O'Kelly; his sweetheart, Moya Dolan, niece of the parish priest.

It is evening. Moya is alone in the kitchen. She has just put the kettle on the fire when Mrs. O'Kelly, Conn's mother, enters.

Mrs. O'K.—Is it yourself, Moya? I've come to see if that vagabond of mine has been around this way.

Moya.—Why should he be here, Mrs. O'Kelly? Hasn't he a home of his own?

Mrs. O'K.—The Shebeen is his home when he is not in jail. His father died o' drink, and Conn will go the same way.

Moya.—I thought your husband was drowned at sea?

Mrs. O'K.—And bless him, so he was.

Moya.—Well, that's a quare way o' dying o' drink.

Mrs. O'K.—The best of men he was, when he was sober—a betther never drhawed the breath o' life.

Moya.—But you say he never was sober.

Mrs. O'K.—Niver! An' Conn takes afther him!

Moya.—Mother, I'm afeared I shall take afther Conn.

Mrs. O'K.—Heaven forbid, and purtect you agin him! You a good dacent gurl, and desarve the best of husbands.

Moya.—Them's the only ones that gets the worst. More betoken yoursilf, Mrs. O'Kelly.

Mrs. O'K.—Conn niver did an honest day's work in his life—but dhrinkin' and fishin', an' shootin', an' sportin', and love-makin'.

Moya.—Sure, that's how the quality pass their lives.

Mrs. O'K.—That's it. A poor man that sports the sowl of a gintleman is called a blackguard.

(At this moment Conn appears in the doorway.)

Conn.—(At left.) Some one is talkin' about me! Ah, Moya, Darlin', come here. (Business as if he reached out his hands to Moya as he comes forward to meet her, and passes her over to his left so he seems to stand in center between Moya on left and Mrs. O'Kelly on right.) Was the old Mother thryin' to make little o' me? Don't you belave a word that comes out o' her! She's jealous o' me. (Laughing as he shakes his finger at his mother.) Yes, ye are! You're chokin' wid it this very minute! Oh, Moya darlin', she's jealous to see my two arms about ye. But she's proud o' me. Oh, she's proud o' me as an old him that's got a duck for a chicken. Howld your whist now Mother! Wipe your mouth and give me a kiss.

Mrs. O'K.—Oh, Conn, what have you been afther? The polls have been in the cabin today about ye. They say you stole Squire Foley's horse.

Conn.—Stole his horse! Sure the baste is safe and sound in his paddock this minute.

Mrs. O'K.—But he says you stole it for the day to go huntin'?

Conn.—Well, here's a purty thing, for a horse to run away wid a man's characther like this! Oh, Wurra! may I never die in sin, but this was the way of it. I was standin' by owld Foley's gate, whin I heard the cry of the hounds coming across the tail of the bog, an' there they wor, my dear, spread out like the tail of a paycock, an' the finest dog fox ye ever seen a sailin' ahead of thim up the boreen, and right across the churchyard. It was enough to raise the inhabitints out of the ground! Well, as I looked, who should come and put her head over the gate besoide me but the Squire's brown mare, small blame to her. Divil a word I said to her, nor she to me, for the hounds had lost their scent, we knew by their yelp and whine as they hunted among the gravestones. When, whist! the fox went by us. I leapt upon the gate, an' gave a shriek of a view-halloo to the whip; in a minute the pack caught the scent again, an' the whole field came roaring past.

The mare lost her head entoirely and tore at the gate. "Stop," says I, "ye divil!" an' I slipt a taste of a rope over her head an' into her mouth. Now mind the cunnin' of the baste, she was quiet in a minute. "Come home, now," ses I. "aisy!" an' I threw my leg across her.

Be jabbers! No sooner was I on her back than—Whoo! Holy Rocket! she was over the gate, an' tearin' afther the hounds loike mad. "Yoicks!" ses I; "Come back you thafe of the world, where you takin' me to?" as she carried me through the huntin' field, an' landed me by the soide of the masther of the hounds, Squire Foley himself.

He turned the color of his leather breeches.

"Mother o'Moses!" ses he, "Is that Conn, the Shaughraun, on my brown mare?"

"Bad luck to me!" ses I, "It's no one else!"

"You sthole my horse," ses the Squire.

"That's a lie!" ses I, "for it was your horse sthole me!"

Moya.—(Laughing.) And what did he say to that, Conn?

Conn.—I couldn't stop to hear, Moya, for just then we took a stone wall together an' I left him behind in the ditch.

Mrs. O'K.—You'll get a month in jail for this.

Conn.—Well, it was worth it.

BOUCICAULT.