Cast of the Characters
As sustained at the Coburg Theatre.
| Ambrose Gwinett | Mr. Cobham. |
| Ned Grayling (The Prison Smith.) | Mr. Davidge. |
| Gilbert (Waiter at the Blake’s Head.) | Mr. Sloman. |
| Collins (Landlord of the Blake’s Head.) | Mr. Mortimer. |
| Label (an Itinerant Barber Surgeon.) | Mr. E. L. Lewis. |
| George (a Smuggler condemned to Die.) | Mr. Gale. |
| Blackthorn | Mr. H. George. |
| Will Ash | Mr. Gann. |
| Bolt (a Gaoler.) | Mr. Porteus. |
| 1st Villager | Mr. J. George. |
| 2nd Ditto | Mr. Waters. |
| Officer | Mr. Worrell. |
| Reef | Mr. Elsgood. |
| 1st Sailor | Mr. Saunders. |
| Lucy Fairlove | Miss Watson. |
| Jenny | Mrs. Congreve. |
| Mary | Miss Boden. |
| Child | Master Meyers. |
A Lapse of Eighteen Years is supposed to have taken Place between
the Second and Third Acts.
ACT. I.
SCENE I.—View of the Country.
Enter Grayling and Collins. R.
Gray. Softly, master Collins, softly,—come, there is life in you yet, man.
Col. To be thrown from a horse after my experience—
Gray. Oh, the best man may be thrown, and the best horse throw too; but come, you have no bones broken. Had any man but myself, Ned Grayling, shoed your horse, I should have said something had been amiss with his irons—but that couldn’t be.
Col. No matter, I can now make my way homeward: but, hark’ye, not a word about this accident, not a syllable, or I shall never be able to sit in a saddle again, without first hearing a lecture from my wife and Lucy.
Gray. Lucy—aye, master Collins, she has a tender heart I warrant—I could work at my forge all day in the hottest June, so that Lucy would but smile, when—
Col. There must be no more of this. You know I have told you more than a hundred times that Lucy cannot love you.
Gray. How do you know that?
Col. She has said so, and do you suppose she would speak any thing but truth?
Gray. Why, perhaps she would, and perhaps she wouldn’t. I tell you, master Collins, my heart’s set upon the girl—if she refuse me—why I know the end on’t.—Ned Grayling, once the sober and industrious smith, will become an outcast and a vagabond.
Col. This is all folly—a stout able fellow turning whimperer.
Gray. Stout, able,—yes, I was, and might be so again; but thoughts will sometimes come across me, and I feel—I tell you once more, master Collins, my heart is set upon the girl.
Col. You’ll get the better of this, think no more of her: nothing so easy.
Gray. There are some matters very, very easy. It is easy for you, a man well in trade, with children flourishing about you, and all the world looking with a sunny face upon you—it is easy for you to say to a man like me, “You are poor and friendless—you have placed your affections on a being, to sweeten the bitterness of your lot, to cheer and bless you on the road of life, yet she can never be yours—think no more of her,” this is easy—“nothing so easy.”
Col. Farewell, good fellow, I meant not to insult or offend you. If you can obtain my niece’s consent, why, to prove that I love honesty, for its own sake, I’ll give you whatever help my means afford. If, however, the girl refuses, strive to forget her. Believe me, there is scarcely a more pitiable object than a man following with spaniel-like humility, the woman who despises him.
[Exit L.
Gray. Despises!—did she ever say,—no! no! she couldn’t, yet when I met her last, though she uttered not a sound, her eyes looked hate—as they flashed upon me, I felt humbled—a wretch! a very worm.
Enter Gilbert R. (singing.) “A merry little plough Boy.”
Gil. Well, now master’s gone out, I think I have a little time to see my Jenny—master and mistress have no compassion for us lovers—always work, work; they think once a week is quite enough for lovers to see one another, and unfortunately my fellow servant is in love as well as I am; and being obliged to keep house, I could only get out once a fortnight, if it wasn’t for Lucy.
Gray. (starting.) Lucy! who said any thing about Lucy?
Gil. I did! It’s a good Christian name, isn’t it? and no treason in it.
Gray. No, no, but you startled me.
Gil. I should like to know what right a man has to be startled when I say Lucy—why one would think you were married, and it was the name of your wife.
Gray. Lucy my wife, no, no.
Gil. No, I should think not indeed.
Gray. And why should you think? but I’m wrong to be so passionate—think no more of it, good Gilbert.
Gil. A cool way of settling matters: you first fly at a man like a dragon—make his heart jump like a tennis ball—and then say, think nothing of it, good Gilbert.
Gray. I confess I am very foolish.
Gil. Oh, spare your confession: people will judge for themselves.
Gray. (aside.) I am almost ashamed to do it, yet I will.
Gil. Why, what’s the matter? you are looking at me as if, like a highwayman, you were considering which pocket I carried my money in.
Gray. Pray, good Gilbert, tell me, do you know whether Miss Lucy has any admirers?
Gil. Admirers! to be sure she has.
Gray. She has!
Gil. Hundreds—don’t the whole town admire her? don’t all our customers say pretty things to her? don’t I admire her? and hav’n’t I seen you looking at her?
Gray. Looking at her!—how?
Gil. How, why like a dog that had once been well kicked, and was afraid of being known a second time.
Gray. Villain! do you make mirth of my sufferings? am I sport for fools? answer my question, or I’ll shake your soul out on the wind—tell me—
Gil. If the fox had never ventured where he had no business, he’d have kept his tail.
Gray. What mean you?
Gil. If you had minded your own affairs, you’d not have lost your temper.
Gray. Answer—
Gil. Not a word; if you are inclined to ask questions, a little farther on there’s a finger post—when you have read one side, you know you can walk round to the other.
Gray. I shall but make my agitation the more apparent. Never till this moment did I feel the fulness of my passion. Come, rouse man, stand no longer like a coward, eying the game, but take the dice, and at one bold throw, decide your fate.
[Exit L.
Gil. Aye, it’s all no use, master Grayling; Lucy Fairlove is no match for you. No, no, if I mistake not there’s another, smoother faced young man has been asking if any body’s at home at the heart of Lucy—but mum—I’m sworn to secrecy,—and now for Jenny! dear me, I’ve been loitering so long, and have so much to say to her—then I’ve so much to do—for the Judges are coming down to-morrow to make a clear place of the prison—and then there’s—but stop, whilst I am running to Jenny, I can think of these matters by the way.
[Exit L.
SCENE II.—Wood.
Enter Ambrose Gwinett. (running.) L.
Gwin. I’ve distanced them—but i’faith I’ve had to run for it.—No, no, fair gentlemen, I hope yet to have many a blithe day ashore—high winds, roaring seas, and the middle-watch have no relish for Gwinett—make a sailor of me, what, and leave Lucy Fairlove?—I’ve hurt my wrist in the struggle with one of the gang—(takes his handkerchief, which is stained with blood, from around his arm.) It is but a scratch—if I bind it up again it may excite the alarm of Lucy—no, Time is the best surgeon, and to him I trust it. (puts the handkerchief in his pocket.) Eh! who have we here? by all my hopes, Lucy herself.
Enter Lucy Fairlove. R.
Lucy. Ambrose.
Gwin. Come, this is kind of you—nay, it is more than I deserve.
Lucy. What is kind or more than you deserve?
Gwin. Why coming to meet me through this lone road!
Lucy. Meet you—what vanity—not I indeed, I was merely taking my morning’s walk, thinking of—of—
Gwin. Come, come, confess it.
Lucy. Well then I do confess, I wished to meet you, to tell you that—
Gwin. You have spoken to your uncle?
Lucy. On the contrary—to desire you to defer—
Gwin. Why, do you fear a refusal? Why should he refuse—have I not every prospect—will not my character—
Lucy. Yes, more than satisfy him, but—
Gwin. Or perhaps Lucy there is another whom you would prefer to make this proposal.
Lucy. This is unkind—you do not believe so.
Gwin. Well, be it as you will: I believe nought but truth, but innocence in Lucy Fairlove, and by this kiss—
Grayling looking from wing. R.
Gray. Hem! holloa! there.
Gwin. How now—what want you?
Gray. Want! (aside.) Oh! Lucy, Lucy! nothing.
Gwin. Then wherefore did you call?
Gray. Because it pleased me: a man may use his own lungs I trow.
Lucy. (aside.) Alas! I fear some violence.
Gwin. Aye and his own legs, they cannot do him better service than by removing him from where he is not wanted.
Gray. (Coming between them, folding his arms, and looking doggedly at Gwinett.) Now I sha’n’t go.
Gwin. Would you quarrel, fellow?
Gray. Aye—yes—come will you fight with me?
Lucy. (Interposing.) For heaven’s sake! subdue this rashness—Gwinett—Grayling—good kind Master Grayling—
Gray. Good kind Master Grayling—you speak falsely Lucy Fairlove—
Gwin. Falsely?
Gray. Aye, Falsely! she thinks me neither good nor kind—but I see how it is—I have thought so a long time, (after eying Gwinett and Lucy with extreme malice.) I see how it is—ha! ha! ha! (Laughing sarcastically.)
Gwin. Fellow, look not with such devilish malice but give your venom utterance.
Gray. Venom—aye—the right word, venom,—and yet who’d have thought we should have found it where all looked so purely.
Gwin. Wretch! would you say—
Gray. Nothing—nothing—where we have facts what need of words? the artless timid Lucy, she who moves about the town with closed lips and downcast eyes—who flutters and blushes at a stranger’s look—can steal into a wood—oh! shame—shame.
Gwin. Shame! villain! but no, to infamy so black as this, the best return is the silent loathing of contempt.
Gray. What! would you go with him, Lucy?
Lucy. Grayling, never again, in town or field, under my uncle’s roof, or beneath the open sky, that you have so lately made a witness to your infamy, dare to pronounce my name; there is a poison festering in your lips, and all that passes through is tainting—your words fall like a blight upon the best and purest—to be named by you, is to be scandalised—once whilst I turned from, I pitied you—you are now become the lowest, the most abject of created things—the libeller, the hateful heartless libeller of an innocent woman. Farewell, if you can never more be happy, at least strive to be good.
[Exit with Gwinett. L.
Gray. Lucy, Lucy, upon my knees—I meant not what I said—’twas passion—madness—eh, what—now she takes him by the arm—they’re gone—I feel as I had drank a draught of poison—never sound her name again? yes, and I deserve it—I am a wretch!—a ruffian,—to breathe a blight over so fair a flower. I feel as if all the world,—the sky, the fields, the bright sun were passing from me, and I stood fettered in a dark and loathsome den—my heart is numbed, and my brain palsied.
Reef. A plague take these woods, I see no good in ’em—there’s no looking out a head the length of a bow sprit; I know he run down here.
1 Sail. That’s what I said at first, and if you had taken my advice we should have come here without staying beating about the bushes like a parcel of harriers.
Reef. He was a smart clean fellow, and would have done credit to the captain’s gig.—Eh! who have we here?—come, one man is as good as another, and this fellow seems a strong one.
Gray. How now!—what would you?
Reef. What would we?—why, what do you think of topping your boom—pulling your halyards taut, and turning sailor?
Gray. Sailor!
Reef. Aye—why you look as surprised as if we wanted to make you port admiral at once.
Gray. Turn sailor?
Reef. Sailor—what’s the use of turning the word over so with your tongue—I said sailor—it’s a useless gentility with us to ask you—because if you don’t like us, I can tell you we have taken a very great liking to you.
Gray. With all my heart—Lucy is gone for ever—this place is hateful to me—amid the perils of the ocean, I may find my best relief—come.
Reef. That’s right my hearty—come, scud away—eh, what have you brought yourself up with a round turn for?
Gray. Then I leave my rival to the undisturbed possession of—oh, the thought is withering—no, no, I cannot.
Reef. Cannot! we’re not to be put off, and by a landsman—so come, there’s one fellow already has outsailed us, piloting among these breakers,—one follow this morning—
Gray. This morning—what kind of man?
Reef. Why, to say the truth, messmate, he was a trim taut-rigged craft, and a devilish deal better looking than you are.
Gray. And he escaped from you?
Reef. Yes, but that’s more than we intend to let you do, so come.
Gray. Oh it will be a sweet revenge—one moment—how stands your pocket?
Reef. Why not a shot in the locker.
Gray. Here. (takes out a purse.)
Reef. Eh! how did you come by all that? you hav’nt run a pistol against a traveller’s head, eh?
Gray. These are the savings of a life of toil—I had hoarded them up for a far different purpose—but so that they buy me revenge—
Reef. Aye, that’s a bad commodity; for when people are inclined to purchase, they’ll do it at any rate; but I say, no foul tricks you know.
Gray. You say one man escaped you this morning, now I’ll lead you to him; moreover, if you secure him, this purse shall be your reward.
Reef. Shall it! we are the boys; and what’s more, we don’t mind giving you your discharge into the bargain.
Gray. Come on then; follow me into the town, and when the night comes on, I’ll find means to throw your victim into your hands; bear him away with as little noise as possible.
Reef. Oh, never fear—if he attempts to hallo, we’ll put a stopper in his mouth to spoil his music.
Gray. ’Tis well—thus I shall be revenged—Lucy, if you are resolved to hate, at least you shall have ample reason for it.
[Exit with Sailors. L.
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—
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?
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.
SCENE IV.—Another Room in the Blake’s Head.
Enter Gilbert, with lamp. R.
Gil. Well, I’ve looked all through the house, fastened the doors, hung up the keys, and now have nothing to do but to go and sleep until called up by the cock. Well I never saw love make so much alteration in any poor mortal as in master Grayling—he used to be a quiet, plain spoken civil fellow—but now he comes into a house like a hurricane. I wonder what that letter was about, it bothers me strangely—well, no matter—I’ll now go to bed—I’ll go across the stable yard to my loft, and sleep so fast that I’ll get ten hours into six.
[Exit L.
Enter Collins from C.D. in flat.
Col. A plague take that doctor, he has bound my arm up rarely—scarcely had I got into bed, than the bandage falling off, the blood gushed freshly from the wound; if I can reach Gilbert, he will assist me to stop it—or stay, had I not better return to master Gwinett, who as yet knows nothing of the matter? no, I’ll even make my way to Gilbert, and then to bed again.
[Exit L.
Enter Gwinett, from door in flat.
Gwin. I have armed myself—and am determined to meet the appointment; if there be any foul play intended, they will find me prepared, if not, the precaution is still a reasonable one—the latch is broken, said the landlord, the knife however will stead me.
[Exit R.
[Collins cries without, “Murder! murder! within—Lucy! Gilbert! murder! murder!”—Lucy screams without, and rushes through door in flat, then runs on exclaiming
Lucy. Oh, heaven! my uncle’s murdered!
Servants and others run on. R.
Omnes. What say you, murdered! where?—how?—
Lucy. I know not—hearing his cries, I rushed into his room—he was not there, but his bed was steeped in blood.
Enter Grayling and Gilbert. L.
Gray. What cries are these? master Collins murdered! where is Gwinett?
Lucy. Alas! oh, heaven—he is—
Gray. Ah! let search be made.
Enter Gwinett. R.
Gray. He is the assassin.
Gwin. Villain! (rushes at Grayling—they struggle; Grayling wrenches a knife from Gwinett’s grasp; his coat files open, and the handkerchief stained with blood, falls out.)
Gray. Ah! this knife—
Lucy. It is my uncle’s—
Gray. Your uncle’s—behold the murderer!
[Gwinett stands petrified with horror, Lucy shrieks and turns away from him; Gilbert picks up the handkerchief stained with blood, and holds it at one side of Gwinett, whilst Grayling on the other, points to the knife with looks of mingled detestation and revenge.—Characters form themselves at back, &c.—End of Act I.