ACT SECOND.
Scene. Same as Act 1. (John Gale, seated at fireplace. R., smoking; Mrs. Gale sitting, L., knitting. March on stool, C.)
March. Now, isn’t this a nice little family party? Since Sept. found his father, the house has been about as lively as a funeral. Daddy Gale is as cross as Julius Cæsar, and Mother Gale as dumb as an oyster. Sept. doesn’t seem to take kindly to his new position; and Miss Kate acts as though she had lost a mother, instead of finding a brother. Nobody seems to have any life, except Kitty; and she’s busy flirting with that Capt. Dandelion—confound him. I say, Mother Gale?
Mrs. Gale. Well?
March. Where’s Sept.?
Mrs. Gale. Don’no, and don’t care.
March. Daddy Gale?
John. Well?
March. Where’s Sept.?
John. Don’no, and don’t care?
March. Dry weather, ain’t it?
John (fiercely). Now, what’s the use of talking about the weather?
March. So I say: what’s the use of talking at all? I like singing better (sings),—
“Oh, my name was Capt. Kyd.”
| John Gale | } (together). | Stop that confounded squalling! |
| Mrs. Gale | Heavens and airth, yelling again! |
March. (Aside.) I thought that would fetch them.
Mrs. Gale. If John Gale was any kind of a man, he’d soon put an end to sich nonsense.
John. Now, what’s the use of telling about John Gale? You spilt the boys! you know you did.
Mrs. Gale. Gracious goodness! the man is crazy: I spiled ’em?
John. Yes, you.
Mrs. Gale. John Gale, you’re a brute.
John. You’re another.
March. (Aside.) Hallo! it’s getting squally here.
John. Here I find these ’ere lads left to die on the shore: and, in the goodness of my heart, I brings ’em home, and tries to make good, honest men on ’em; but what have you done? You’ve made one a fine gentleman, that don’t know us; and the other a sassy chap, that’s eternally squalling when we want peace and quiet.
Mrs. Gale. Well, I never, John Gale! if I had a skillet, I’d comb your hair for you, you brute. (Enter Sept., C.)
Sept. Hallo! hallo! what’s the matter now? Silent! no word of welcome for me! Well, well, what’s gone wrong, father? what’s gone wrong?
John Gale. Now, what’s the use of calling me father? I ain’t yer father. You’ve got a rich father, rolling in riches; and you’re a great man now. Of course you look down on us poor fishing-folks: it’s what we expected.
Sept. Indeed!
Mrs. Gale. Yes: poor folks must remember their station now.
Sept. Ay, mother, that they must. If they are honest and true, loving God and their fellow-men, their station is the proudest and the noblest among mankind: for the hands they raise to heaven bear the proof-marks of their kinship to Nature’s first nobleman, Father Adam; and their hearts are rolls of honor, ever brightened by inscriptions of good works and noble heroism.
Mrs. Gale. Heavens and airth! do hear that boy talk!
Sept. Pray heaven, I may never forget mine,—never forget the kind benefactors who in my helplessness rescued me from the fury of the storm, who took me to their hearts, watched over me in sickness, guided my feet in the path of duty, and made a man of me. It may be as you say,—that I have found a father, one who claims me by right of birth; but my heart beats with no such feeling of love, of reverence, and of duty, towards him, as it does for the honest, true-hearted old fisherman, John Gale (takes John Gale’s hand).
John. God bless you, Sept.! God bless you, boy! I knew you were true as steel; but the old lady—
Mrs. Gale. Now, stop, John Gale! don’t you go to slandering.
Sept. And a mother! where shall I find her? They tell me, that, long ago, she found a grave beneath the wave; but my heart tells me she is here,—here, where my childhood was passed; here among the rocks and sands, where the wild winds roar their loudest and the dark waves beat their fiercest. At the feet of her who first taught me the name of mother, I lay a son’s love and duty, which she, and she alone, has right to claim (kneels at Mrs. Gale’s feet).
Mrs. Gale. O Sept., Sept.! my dear, dear, boy: we thought we were going to lose you now you are rich and high in the world.
Sept. Never fear, mother, never fear. Come what will, this is my home. We have weathered it together when the clouds of adversity gathered thick about, and we’ll share together the sunshine of prosperity which now breaks upon us.
Mrs. Gale. Dear me, dear me! what does ail my glasses? I can’t see. There, I’ve dropped another stitch; and good gracious! where’s my handkercher? I declare, I’ve dropped it somewhere—I never did see such careless— (Exit, L.)
John Gale. Hang me if I don’t believe something, run into my pipe, and put it out. Well, Sept., here’s my hand: you’re an honor to us, and all you’ve got is rightly yours; you deserve it. Come, March, let’s go down and look arter the boats. (Exit, C. March has been sitting staring at Sept. with mouth open.)
Sept. Hallo, March, who are you staring at?
March. At a chap that’s got a father. It’s a wonderful curiosity to me. I say, Sept., how does it feel?
Sept. Well, March, thus far I can’t say I like it.
March. Don’t like it? what a queer chap you are! I wish I was in your shoes.
Sept. I wish with all my heart you were.
March. A rich father and a beautiful sister!
Sept. Sister! Ah, there’s the sting!
March. Why, you don’t mean to say—oh? good gracious! why, you were dead in love with her—you can’t marry her now, you know.
Sept. No: all my fond dreams of happiness are dispelled by this unfortunate affair.
March. Unfortunate! well, you are a queer one. Don’t I wish it was me? wouldn’t I make the money fly?
John Gale (outside, C.). March, March, must I wait all day for you, hay?
March. Hallo! I forgot I had a job on hand. Good-by Sept.,—poor unfortunate son of a millionnaire. (Exit, C.)
Sept. Sister! can I ever call her by that name; must I forever relinquish the hope of claiming her by a dearer title. No, no: I bear to her something warmer than a brother’s love. This cannot be: this man Raymond treated with scorn my overtures for the hand of his daughter. He can have no proof that I am his son,—nothing but the fact that his infant child was a passenger in the vessel that left me on the sands. He cannot claim me upon such a mere thread as this. Perhaps it is a plot to keep me quiet until his daughter is married to some wealthy suitor; and then how easy to discover his mistake, and cast me adrift in the world. Ah! here is Kate. (Kate, R.) Good-morning, sister.
Kate. Sister?
Sept. It sounds strange from my lips, does it not?
Kate. Indeed, it does, Sept.: you know I have never been called so before; and—and—
Sept. You expected once that I should use a dearer title.
Kate. Once—O Sept., Sept.! this is so strange. We were so happy yesterday, it seems like awakening from a glorious dream. That you should be fated to call me by the name of sister—it is cruel. I awoke last night, and saw the moonbeams stream in at my window. I arose, and looked out upon the night! the waters were calm and peaceful; the moon glistened upon the rocks, lighting the very spot where you and I sat last night, telling our future hopes. I know it was wicked; but I was so wretched, so miserable, I wished I was sleeping calm and still beneath the waves from which you rescued me, ere I had awakened to such misery as this.
Sept. Be calm, dear Kate: all will yet be well; I am not your brother.
Kate. Not my brother! you jest now. My father has claimed you.
Sept. But there is something here that revolts at the kinship. Why should he claim me as his son? There are no proofs, no likeness to him, or her he calls my mother. Nothing but the mere fact that I was found after the wreck of the vessel in which his wife sailed.
Kate. No, no! Sept., he must be right. He does see a resemblance to his lost wife in your face. No, no! it must be true.
Sept. I will not believe it without further proof. I do not feel towards him as I know I should were he my father; and as for a brother’s love, the love within my heart for you is of a higher and a holier nature than even that of brother. Kate, you told me last night that you loved me, that you would one day be my wife: will you still keep your promise?
Kate. O Sept.! it is impossible!
Sept. If this should be a trick,—a trick to rob me of you,—this claim put forward to keep me from your path until you had wed a richer suitor—
Kate. Why, Sept., you cannot believe my father so base as that: you are mad?
Sept. Yes, Kate! I am mad,—madly in love with you. Believe me, I am not your brother. This is, at the best, a mere suspicion.
Kate. Suspicion! yes: it is a suspicion, but one that must forever separate us. It may be you are right, and something at my heart tells me you are; but this suspicion will forever darken my life. No, Sept.; much as I love you, it were better we should forever dismiss the hope. For, whether further proof should be found or not, every hope of happiness would be blasted by the fear—the dread—that you might be my brother. Sept., you shall always find in me a sister, a loving sister; ever watchful for your comfort, ever praying for your happiness; but, for Heaven’s sake, no more of a warmer tie. (Exit, R.)
Sept. Have I lost her? What can I do? where turn to escape from this bewildering maze? Upon this I am determined: I will not accept this man’s bounty, or acknowledge his claim. (Enter Raymond, C.)
Mr. R. My dear boy, I’ve just despatched a messenger to town with the glad tidings; and to-morrow we’ll leave this barren spot, and hie to the gay scenes of city-life. Gad! boy, we’ll make a gentleman of you. You must drop that outlandish name of September: you shall be Alden Raymond, jr.
Sept. You go to town?
Ray. Yes, to-morrow: I’m impatient to show my city friends the fine lad I found down by the sea.
Sept. I cannot share your gratification, sir, for I shall remain here.
Ray. Remain here! what for?
Sept. Because I belong here. Mr. Raymond, I am extremely obliged to you for the kind interest you have manifested in me; but I cannot accept your claim. I do not believe I am your son.
Ray. Not my son! why, boy, you are crazy. There cannot be the least doubt of it: you came in the vessel with my wife; there was no other infant on board.
Sept. That you are not certain of.
Ray. Certain! of course I am. I tell you, boy, there can be no mistake.
Sept. There may be; there must be. I do not feel towards you the love of a son for his father; and, until some other proof is found, I shall remain here, and bear the only name to which I feel I have a right,—that of September Gale. (Exit, L.)
Ray. But, boy—Sept., come here. Confound him! Here’s a pretty predicament. Here’s an ungrateful scamp who refuses to acknowledge his father. I’ll disinherit him—oh, pshaw! what does he care for that? He’s a noble fellow, and he must be my son. (Exit, R. Enter Captain, C., with Kitty on his arm.)
Kitty. Well, I declare, Captain, you are the most delightfulest beau that ever I saw.
Capt. No, wealy: ’pon honor, you overwhelm me; you do, wealy, you dear, delightful little nymph of the sea.
Kitty. You’re the sweetest man: your conversation is so sugary.
Capt. Yes, jest so: ’pon my honor, I don’t know the weason, but the ladies in the city are very fond of me. I am quite a flower in the city.
Kitty. (Aside.) A sunflower! Oh, I do wish that March could see us!
Capt. Yaas, you should go to the city; such a beautiful cweature is wasting her sweetness on the desert air in this howid place, that smells so of fish.
Kitty. Now, do you think so, Captain? Well, I’ve always thought I was born for a higher sphere.
Capt. You were, weally. Your beauty would be the admiration of the whole city: it would, weally.
Kitty. O Captain! you flatter now.
Capt. Flatter? ’pon honor, no. Do let me take you to the city in my wacht: the trip would be delightful.
Kitty. What! (Aside.) I do believe the man wants me to run away with him. (Enter March, C.)
Capt. Yaas, we could slip away from here, go to the city, see all the sights, and return, without any of these people being the wiser.
March. (Aside.) Confound his picture! he’s trying to run off with Kitty.
Kitty. Why, what an idea! I run off with a man!—
Capt. Who loves you to distraction; he does, weally.
Kitty. What would Miss Kate say?
Capt. Who cares what she says? ’Tis you I love, you whom I adore.
Kitty. Why, what would March say?
March. (Coming between them.) He’ll be cursed if you do any thing of the kind.
Kitty. March! you here?
Capt. That howid fisherman!
March. Yes, that howid fisherman, you confounded old goggle-eyed sculpin! And as for you, Kitty Sands, I’m ashamed of you. A pretty pair you are! Want to run off, do you?
Capt. Come, come, sir! you’re impertinent.
March. Oh! I’m impertinent, am I? Wall, I ain’t near-sighted, and I don’t wear eye-glasses, and I can see your nose plainly. (Takes off his coat, and rolls up his sleeves.)
Kitty. Why, March! what are you doing?
March. I’m just going to open your nose in the most approved style of the manly art! (Squares off.)
Capt. Lord, gwacious! I believe the fellah’s going to fight!
Kitty. March, if you touch him, I’ll call father just as loud as ever I can.
March. Well, you call: you’ll get a pretty talking to, I tell you. (Advances to Capt.)
Capt. Here, you stop, you fellah! Stop, I say! (Retreating towards door, C.)
March. I’ll teach you to skulk round here with your airs! (Advances.)
Kitty. Father, father! quick, quick!
Capt. That’s right: call your father, or I’m a dead man! (Enter, C., Jean Grapeau with a large bundle.)
Grap. Ha! ze top of ze morning, gentlefolks! How you vas? how you vas?
Kitty. A peddler.
March. Hallo, Frenchy! where did you drop from?
Capt. (Aside.) They seem to be busy: I’ll just step out. (Exit, L.)
Grap. Ah, sacre! I am ver mouch fatigue, ver mouch all ovar. I have travel all ze day wiz my pack, and not sell ze fust thing; and I see your door open, and I slip in to show you my goods. You pardon me ver mouch.
March. Well, old chap, sit down. I’ve got a little job here. Why, the Captain’s gone!
Kitty. Yes, he has gone. You’re a pretty fellow, you are!—scared him about to death.
March. I’ll scare him if I catch him!
Kitty. No, you won’t!
March. Yes, I will! Making love to you, darn him!
Kitty. Pooh! I don’t care for him. I’m only amusing myself while Bige Parker’s away.
March. Bige Parker? Confound him! I’ll lick him, too!
Kitty. Oh! will you? You tried that once before, you know.
Grap. Sacre! what for you scold, hey? You ver mouch angry, ver mouch. Now, you jest keep yourself quiet, and I sal show you what I has in my pack. Silks for ze leetle girl and shawls for ze leetle girl, brazelets for ze leetle girl.
Kitty. Oh, do let me see them!
March. See! Why, you’ve got no money to buy.
Grap. Nevar mind, nevar mind. I will show zem all ze same for ze plesure I have to please ze leetle girl. Ha, sacre! I be ver mouch fatigue. My old legs, zay have what you call ze shakes. Parbleu! I remember ze time when I vas ver spry,—ver active,—ver robust. In mine own France, ven I vas young, I vas ze great acrobat. I dance on ze cord elastique, zis way,—you see,—zis way! (Imitating.) Oh, sacre! it is what you call no go, ver mouch. My legs be very old.
March. How long you been here?
Grap. I have ben in zis country, let me see, ten—twenty—more years ago. I have leave my own home wiz ze grand acrobatic trope zat nevar reach ze land,—nevar.
March. Acrobats! why, them’s circus chaps!
Grap. Circus chaps! vat you call circus chaps, hey? I no comprend circus chaps.
March. Why, the fellers that turn flip-flaps in the tan.
Grap. Flip-flaps in ze tan? what for, hey?
March. Oh! no matter: let’s see your goods.
Grap. (Attempts to untie bundle.) Sacre! my pack has ze ver hard knot. I must take off my coat! (Takes off coat). Parbleu! I am grow old ver fast ver much.
Mrs. Gale (outside, L.). Kitty! Kitty!
Kitty. Oh, gracious! there’s mother. What shall we do? She can’t abide peddlers.
March. That she can’t. Old gent, you’ll have to tramp.
Grap. Tramp! what for I tramp?
March. You’ll get broomed out if you don’t. Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!
Grap. Keetle of fish? I see no keetle of fish. (Enter Mrs. Gale, L.)
Mrs. Gale. What! a peddler in my house! Get out of this, quick! Out of this, I say!
Kitty. It’s only a poor old Frenchman.
Mrs. Gale. But he’s a peddler; and I won’t have a peddler in my house. Start! Where’s my broom? (Exit, L.)
Grap. What for she get her broom, hey?
March. You’ll find out: quick, run for it!
Grap. What for I run for it? Oh, sacre! I see ze old woman wiz ze broom, and I comprend, I comprend! (Darts out door, C. Enter Mrs. Gale, with broom, L.)
Mrs. Gale. Where is he? where is he? (Darts out door, C.)
Kitty. Hide the old gentleman’s pack, March, quick! Mother will pitch it into the water. (March carries it off, L., as Mrs. Gale enters.)
Mrs. Gale. The idea of a peddler! I’ve had enough on ’em; but they won’t cheat me again in a hurry, I can tell ’em. (Exit, L.)
Kitty. What a blind, silly goose March Gale is!—fighting Bige Parker, and going to fight the Captain, because I encourage their attentions, and can’t see that it’s all to make him speak. So jealous of everybody! If he loves me, why don’t he tell me so? (Enter Capt., C.)
Capt. Ah, ha, my little beauty! you see I have returned.
Kitty. Like a dear, charming Captain, as you are.
Capt. Where’s that howid fisherman?
Kitty. Oh! you needn’t be afraid of him: he’s gone.
Capt. Gone, has he? and left the coast clear? What a chawming opportunity!
Kitty. Charming opportunity for what?
Capt. To tell you, divine cweecher, how I love you.
Kitty. You’ve told me that a hundred times.
Capt. Let me tell you a hundred times more. (Sees Grapeau’s coat.) Hold! what’s that?
Kitty. Why, your coat,—isn’t it?
Capt. Mine? what an howid idea! The idea of my wearing such a coat as that! (Slips it on.) And such a hat! good gracious! (Puts on hat.) Don’t I look queer!
Kitty. Oh, my! what a queer-looking chap you are! You wouldn’t feel much like making love in that suit,—would you, Captain?
Capt. Make love to you, my chawmer! Yes, in any dress.
Kitty. Oh, capital! It would be so jolly to have a lover on his knees at my feet, dressed as you are!
Capt. On my knees!
Kitty. Yes, on your knees. (Aside.) Don’t I wish March could catch him there! Down on your knees! Quick, or I’ll run off!
Capt. (L.) Well, then, here I am. (Kneels.) What a howid idea! (Enter Mrs. Gale, with broom.)
Mrs. Gale. That horrid old peddler here again?
Capt. Beautiful nymph of the sparkling sea!
Mrs. Gale. I declare, he’s sparking our Kitty!
Capt. Captivating cweecher! I do love you,—’pon my honor, I do! Your beauty charms me! your bewitching manner stwikes—stwikes—stwikes—st—
Mrs. Gale. (Rushes at him, knocks his hat over his eyes with broom.) I’ll strike you, you tarnal varmint! Get out of my house I say!
Capt. (Gets on his feet, tries to get hat off.) Murder! murder!
Mrs. Gale. (Strikes his hat down again.) Out of my house! You scamp, you villain, you cheat! (Beats him off, R., the Captain yelling “Murder!”)
Kitty. (Sinking into chair.) Ha, ha, ha! what a comical figure the Captain does cut! He won’t make love to me again in a hurry. (Enter Grapeau, C.)
Grap. Whist, leetle girl! I have come back for my pack and mine hat and mine coat. Sacre! I have run ver much from ze old lady wiz ze broom. Where she be, hey?
Kitty. (Aside.) Oh, dear! what shall I say?—the Captain’s run off with them. (Aloud.) My brother has put them away somewhere: you must wait till he returns.
Grap. Sacre! I sal get me head break ver much, if I stay here.
Kitty. No, mother has just gone out.
Grap. Oh! the old lady have gone out? Parbleu! I feel all ze better, ver much; I feel quite ze comfortable. Ha, you be ver pretty girl!
Kitty. Oh, pshaw!
Grap. What for you say ‘pshaw’? You know I speaks ze truth all ze time! You break ze young men’s hearts all to pieces ver much.
Kitty. No, I don’t, Mr. Frenchman.
Grap. Ah, ma chere, but you do, you leetle rogue! Did I not see ze young man viz ze red hair? He be ver much in love all over.
Kitty. He,—March—in love with me! You are quite mistaken.
Grap. Ah, but he be ver much. I see it in his eyes. (Enter March, C.)
Kitty. March love me? No, sir! He’s a selfish—
Grap. Take care, ma chere,—take care! You leetle rogue, you love him,—you know you do!
Kitty. I don’t, one bit.
Grap. Ha, you do! Vat for you plague him so if you no love him? Ha! your eyes,—zay tell ze tale.
Kitty. I don’t care if I do: he’s a booby! He don’t love me.
March. (Aside.) Don’t I, though!
Grap. Vat for you say that, hey?
Kitty. Because he never told me.
March. (Rushing down C.) Then, by jingo! he tells you so now. Kitty Sands, you’re the idol of my heart. There’s a devouring passion in my bosom that gnaws—Oh, pshaw! I can’t imitate the Captain. But, Kitty Gale, I do truly and sincerely love you.
Kitty. Why, March Gale! you’ve been listening.
March. A little bit, Kitty,—just enough to find out what a fool I’ve been: but it’s all right now. And you’ll marry me one of these days.
Kitty. One of these days? When?
March. Well, when I find my father.
Kitty. Oh, yes, I’ll marry you then, never fear.
Grap. Ha! zat is good,—zat is very much better.
Kitty. Oh, dear, March! here’s mother coming again.
Grap. Ze old lady wiz ze broom? Sacre! I sall get my head broke ver much!
March. Old gentleman, you’ll have to make a run of it.
Grap. But I have not ze coat nor ze hat. I will catch ze death of cold in mine head! (Sneezes.) Sacre! I have him now! (Sneezes.)
March. Where is his hat and coat, Kitty?
Kitty. I don’t know, but I suspect mother has them now.
Grap. Ze old lady wiz my coat? Sacre! zat is ver much too bad,—ver much too bad!
March. Run and hide him somewhere,—in the wash-room,—anywhere; for here comes Mother Gale.
Kitty. Come, old gentleman! I’ll hide you. (Exit, with Jean, L.)
March. What a confounded ninny I have been! If I had known this before, I might have saved Bige Parker the trouble of giving me the thrashing I intended for him. But ain’t it jolly! I’m so happy I could sing for joy! (Sings.)
“Oh, my name was Captain Kyd.”
(Enter Mrs. Gale, R., with broom, which she claps upon March’s head.)
Mrs. Gale. I’ll Kyd you!
March. Mother Gale, what are you about?
Mrs. Gale. About mad. Where’s Kitty? Such a caper! Oh dear, oh dear! I’ve been and chased and chased that confounded peddler way down to the water; and when he gets there, he strips off his coat and hat, and—would you believe it?—it was the Captain!
March. Why, Mother Gale! what have you done? what will he say?
Mrs. Gale. He didn’t stop to say any thing: he jest gave one leap into the water, and swam for his yacht!
March. This is bad. What will Daddy Gale say?
John Gale. (Outside, C.) Now, what’s the use of talking about Sept.?
Mr. Raymond. (Outside.) But I tell you I will be obeyed! (Both enter, C.)
March. Hallo! here’s a breeze.
Ray. It’s all your doing, you rusty old sea-horse! You’ve made the boy disobey his father.
John Gale. I tell you, Sept. is his own master; and, if he doesn’t choose to go, why here he stays.
Ray. It’s a conspiracy to defraud me of my son, and I won’t stand it!
Mrs. Gale. What’s the matter?
John Gale. Matter? Matter enough! Sept. won’t own his father: that’s what’s the matter!
Ray. By your advice! Now, don’t tell me! I know it’s your doing. You envy me the possession of such a son, and you try all you can to keep him here. (Enter Sept., C.)
John Gale. Do I? Well, here’s the boy now to speak for himself. Look here, Sept. Gale, you’re an ungrateful young scamp! Here’s a father boiling over with love, and rich as an alderman, waiting to take you to his arms. He says I’m trying to keep you here.
Sept. Mr. Raymond knows well you have nothing to do with it. I do not acknowledge his claim, because I see no proof. (Enter Kate, C.)
Kate. What’s the matter, father?
Ray. Matter? Your brother refuses to acknowledge me as his father, or you as his sister.
Kate. Indeed!
Ray. Yes, indeed! But I’ll find a way to make him. Hark you, Kate! Capt. Dandelion has again proposed for your hand, to me this time, and I have accepted him: so you can look upon him as your future husband.
Kate. Capt. Dandelion!—my husband?
Sept. Her husband! I thought it would come to that.
Ray. Yes, your husband! You cannot object to the match: he is rich and highly accomplished.
Kate. But I do object. He is rich; but, when I marry, it shall be a man, and not a money-bag.
Ray. You refuse to obey me?
Kate. In this, yes. You have ever found me an obedient child, ready and eager to obey you: but this is a matter in which the heart commands; and mine bids me obey a higher law, which not even a father has power to set aside.
Ray. Well, here’s another! The son refuses to acknowledge his father, the daughter her husband! I tell you, girl, you shall marry this man!
Kate. I will not! I love another.
Ray. And that other?—
Kate. September Gale.
Sept. True, true as steel.
SITUATION.
(Kate, R. Raymond, R. C. Sept., C. John Gale, L. C. March, L. C. Mrs. Gale, L. Enter Kitty and Grapeau, L., Kitty trying to screen him as they creep toward door, C. March attracts Mrs. G.’s attention, who seems inclined to turn around.)
Ray. Your brother. Confound it, you’re all crazy! Do you want to drive me mad?
Kate. He is not my brother.
Ray. But I say he is: every circumstance goes to prove it,—“The Diana,” the wreck, the child found upon the sands. I tell you he must be my son.
John Gale. Now, what’s the use of talking about the wreck? Wa’n’t there two on ’em? Couldn’t there have been a baby born on board? Couldn’t your wife have made a mistake in the vessel? I don’t see your proof. She might have sailed in “The Gladiator.” (Grap. rushes down, C.)
Grap. “Ze Gladiator?” What for you say “Ze Gladiator”?
John Gale. Hallo! who’s this?
March. The old Frenchman’s caught.
Mrs. Gale. That plaguy peddler here! Where’s my broom?
March. Hold on, Mother Gale! The old gentleman has done me a service, and I’ll stand by him.
Ray. What does he know of “The Gladiator”?
Grap. “Ze Gladiator”? Sacre! I have know “Ze Gladiator” too much,—ver too much. I have sailed from my own France ever so long ago in ze ship call “Ze Gladiator.”
John Gale. When was that?
Grap. Oh, sacre! ten, twenty-one, two, three years ago.
Ray. Twenty-three years ago?
Grap. Oui, oui! But, sacre? she was vat you call wreck; she all go to ze pieces on ze sands, and I have to make ze passage on ze leetle frail hen-coop.
March. Oh, it’s coming,—it’s coming! Say, old man,—Frenchy,—look here! where was this?
Grap. Parbleu! I do not know ze place. I have sail on ze hen-coop far, far away from ze wreck before I picks myself up.
March. But—O Lord! somebody hold me!—the passengers?—any babies aboard?
Grap. Babies? passengers? Oui, oui! zere vas ze passengers,—ze lady and ze little baby; but ze poor lady die before ze ship all go to ze pieces.
Ray. Died! This lady,—do you know her name?
Grap. Oh, sacre, no! ze membrance fail me ver much. Ze beautiful lady,—she was so pale and so young, mine heart feel ver much for her. Her name—sacre!—oh, it have gone from me. She was ze kind lady, for I vas ver sick. Her name—She was ze light—ze light—Oh, sacre! I have ze name. What ze sun do when he shine,—when he shine? He shoot—he shoot de—de—oh, sacre! my poor old head!—He shoots de—
Kitty. Rays?
Grap. Ha, ze little rogue,—ze pooty leetle girl! Zat vas her name,—Ray—Ray—Ray—
Ray. Heavens, man, speak! Was it Raymond?
Grap. Oui, oui! Ze Raymond,—ze beautiful Madam Raymond!
Ray. Gracious heavens! My wife! But the child, old man?—the child?
Grap. Ze child? ah, ze poor lady,—she have made ze grand mistake: she have engage a passage in ze oder ship vich sail ze same day; but ze stupid driver take her to ze wrong ship, too late for her too make ze change. Ze fatal mistake; for ze unlucky ship met wiz disaster upon disaster,—ze very long passage, and ze wreck at last.
John Gale. Long passage! I should think so; six months behind time!
Ray. But the child?
Grap. Oui, ze child! Ven ze poor lady die, ze capitan, he take ze leetle boy, and he say, “I do not know zis child or his mozar, but ze child sall be remembered.” So, wiz ze needle and ze ink, he prick upon ze leetle arm of ze leetle boy ze leetle red anchor.
Ray. Sept. Gale, speak the truth! Have you such a mark upon your arm?
Sept. No, no,—thank Heaven, no!
March. (Rushing to C.) One minute! Just somebody watch me, for I know it’s coming! (Throws off his coat and rolls up his sleeves.) It’s no use trying to deceive me any longer! I am the child! See the little red anchor!
All. The anchor!
Ray. My boy, my boy!
| John Gale. | } Our March! |
| Mrs. Gale. |
Sept. Heaven be praised!
Kate. My dear, dear brother!
Grap. (Patting March on the back.) Ha! ze leetle baby have grown ver much,—ver much. Zis is vat you call jolly.
March. Jolly, old Frenchy? That’s so, and I owe it all to you. But where’s Kitty?
Kitty. (Up stage, C.) Here, March.
March. What are you skulking back there for? You know what you told me to-day.
Kitty. But I didn’t think you’d ever find your father; and now you’re rich, and I’m only a poor girl.
March. Father, you’ve found a son to-day, and that son has found a wife. You must take both, or neither: which shall it be?
Mrs. Gale. What! our Kitty!
John Gale. Yes, our Kitty.
Ray. Well, I don’t know. I must have time to consider.
March. No, you mustn’t. Speak quick, or you lose us. I wanted a father bad enough; but thus far I have done without one, and I rather think—
Ray. Now, stop! don’t you disobey me. I’ll take you both.
Kate. That’s a dear father! I know I shall love Kitty dearly; and March and I have been like brother and sister,—haven’t we, March?
March. Ay, that we have,—you and I and Sept. By the by, what’s to become of Sept.? Where’s his father?
Sept. Don’t trouble yourself about me. I’ve got a father here in John Gale.
Ray. And here’s another, if you’ll own him. Sept., here’s my daughter, who refused to obey me. I’d give her to you, only, as she has refused to obey me, and—
Kate. Dear father, I wouldn’t refuse again for the world.
Ray. Then take her, Sept. You deserve her. Well, John Gale, what have you got to say to this?
John Gale. Now, what’s the use talking about what I’ve got to say? What will the Captain have to say? (Enter Capt., C.)
Capt. Quite a family party, I declare!
Ray. Why, Captain! where have you been?
Capt. I’ve just been aboard my wacht, to change my clothing; that’s all. ’Twas a little chilly.
Mrs. Gale. Why, Captain! you looked warm enough when I saw you last.
Capt. That howid old woman!—she’s poking fun at me: I know she is.
Ray. Well, Captain, I mentioned your proposal to my daughter; but she positively refuses to marry you.
Capt. I’m doosed glad of it; for I’ve found a beautiful cweecher, who suits me better.
Ray. Who is that, pray?
Capt. Miss Kitty Gale.
March. You’re too late, Captain: she’s engaged to me.
Capt. You?—a howid fisherman!
Ray. You are mistaken. This young man is my son. It’s all out at last.
Capt. Well, it’s doosed plain that I’m out too: so I’ll get up anchor, and off for the city again in my wacht.
Grap. Ze Capitan seems what zay call ver much over ze come.
John Gale. Old lady, it strikes me, if we are to have any dinner to-day—
Mrs. Gale. Land sakes! I forgot all about it. You, March, run—Oh, dear! what shall I do without March?
John Gale. Never mind March: we’ve got Sept. left.
Kate. But suppose I take him away?
John Gale. O Lord! what shall we do without Sept.?
Sept. You shan’t do without him. We began life here in the old shanty; and, whatever fortune may have in store for him, this is his home.
Ray. I begin to like this place. We’ll set the men at work, and put up a house on the bluffs, large and roomy.
John Gale. That’s right; for this union of the Gales will be likely to end in a squall.
Ray. It shall be a family house, with room enough for Sept. and his wife, March and his wife, John Gale and his wife, I and the Captain; and, once a year at least, we’ll all meet there, to talk over old times, and return thanksgiving for the treasures found down by the sea.
DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS:
R. Kate, Sept., Capt., Ray., John Gale, Mrs. Gale, March, Kitty, L.