SCENE II.
Justice Headstrong’s Study.
(He appears in his nightgown and cap, with his gouty foot upon a stool—a table and chocolate beside him—Lucy is leaning on the arm of his chair.)
Just. Well, well, my darling, presently; I’ll see him presently.
Lucy. Whilst you are drinking your chocolate, papa?
Just. No, no, no—I never see anybody till I have done my chocolate, darling. (He tastes his chocolate.) There’s no sugar in this, child.
Lucy. Yes, indeed, papa.
Just. No, child—there’s no sugar, I tell you; that poz!
Lucy. Oh, but, papa, I assure you I put in two lumps myself.
Just. There’s no sugar, I say; why will you contradict me, child, for ever? There’s no sugar, I say.
(Lucy leans over him playfully, and with his teaspoon pulls out two lumps of sugar.)
Lucy. What’s this, papa?
Just. Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw!—it is not melted, child—it is the same as no sugar.—Oh, my foot, girl, my foot!—you kill me. Go, go, I’m busy. I’ve business to do. Go and send William to me; do you hear, love?
Lucy. And the old man, papa?
Just. What old man? I tell you what, I’ve been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man. If he can’t wait, let him go about his business. Don’t you know, child, I never see anybody till I’ve drunk my chocolate; and I never will, if it were a duke—that’s poz! Why, it has but just struck twelve; if he can’t wait, he can go about his business, can’t he?
Lucy. Oh, sir, he can wait. It was not he who was impatient. (She comes back playfully.) It was only I, papa; don’t be angry.
Just. Well, well, well (finishing his cup of chocolate, and pushing his dish away); and at anyrate there was not sugar enough. Send William, send William, child; and I’ll finish my own business, and then—
(Exit Lucy, dancing, “And then!—and then!”)
Justice, alone.
Just. Oh, this foot of mine!—(twinges)—Oh, this foot! Ay, if Dr. Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I should think something of him; but, as to my leaving off my bottle of port, it’s nonsense; it’s all nonsense; I can’t do it; I can’t, and won’t, for all the Dr. Spareribs in Christendom; that’s poz!
Enter William.
Just. William—oh! ay! hey! what answer, pray, did you bring from the “Saracen’s Head”? Did you see Mrs. Bustle herself, as I bid you?
Will. Yes, sir, I saw the landlady herself; she said she would come up immediately, sir.
Just. Ah, that’s well—immediately?
Will. Yes, sir, and I hear her voice below now.
Just. Oh, show her up; show Mrs. Bustle in.
Enter Mrs. Bustle, the landlady of the “Saracen’s Head.”
Land. Good morrow to your worship! I’m glad to see your worship look so purely. I came up with all speed (taking breath). Our pie is in the oven; that was what you sent for me about, I take it.
Just. True; true; sit down, good Mrs. Bustle, pray—
Land. Oh, your worship’s always very good (settling her apron). I came up just as I was—only threw my shawl over me. I thought your worship would excuse—I’m quite, as it were, rejoiced to see your worship look so purely, and to find you up so hearty—
Just. Oh, I’m very hearty (coughing), always hearty, and thankful for it. I hope to see many Christmas doings yet, Mrs. Bustle. And so our pie is in the oven, I think you say?
Land. In the oven it is. I put it in with my own hands; and if we have but good luck in the baking, it will be as pretty a goose-pie—though I say it that should not say it—as pretty a goose-pie as ever your worship set your eyes upon.
Just. Will you take a glass of anything this morning, Mrs. Bustle?—I have some nice usquebaugh.
Land. Oh, no, your worship!—I thank your worship, though, as much as if I took it; but I just took my luncheon before I came up; or more proper, my sandwich, I should say, for the fashion’s sake, to be sure. A luncheon won’t go down with nobody nowadays (laughs). I expect hostler and boots will be calling for their sandwiches just now (laughs again). I’m sure I beg your worship’s pardon for mentioning a luncheon.
Just. Oh, Mrs. Bustle, the word’s a good word, for it means a good thing—ha! ha! ha! (pulls out his watch); but pray, is it luncheon time. Why, it’s past one, I declare; and I thought I was up in remarkably good time, too.
Land. Well, and to be sure so it was, remarkably good time for your worship; but folks in our way must be up betimes, you know. I’ve been up and about these seven hours!
Just. (stretching). Seven hours!
Land. Ay, indeed—eight, I might say, for I am an early little body; though I say it that should not say it—I am an early little body.
Just. An early little body, as you say, Mrs. Bustle; so I shall have my goose-pie for dinner, hey?
Land. For dinner, as sure as the clock strikes four—but I mustn’t stay prating, for it may be spoiling if I’m away; so I must wish your worship a good morning. (She curtsies.)
Just. No ceremony—no ceremony; good Mrs. Bustle, your servant.
Enter William, to take away the chocolate. The Landlady is putting on her shawl.
Just. You may let that man know, William, that I have dispatched my own business, and am at leisure for his now (taking a pinch of snuff). Hum! pray, William (Justice leans back gravely), what sort of a looking fellow is he, pray?
Will. Most like a sort of travelling man, in my opinion, sir—or something that way, I take it.
(At these words the landlady turns round inquisitively, and delays, that she may listen, while she is putting on and pinning her shawl.)
Just. Hum! a sort of a travelling man. Hum! lay my books out open at the title Vagrant; and, William, tell the cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me the goose-pie for dinner. Four o’clock, do you hear? And show the old man in now.
(The Landlady looks eagerly towards the door, as it opens, and exclaims,)
Land. My old gentleman, as I hope to breathe!
Enter the Old Man.
(Lucy follows the Old Man on tiptoe—The Justice leans back and looks consequential—The Landlady sets her arms akimbo—The Old Man starts as he sees her.)
Just. What stops you, friend? Come forward, if you please.
Land. (advancing). So, sir, is it you, sir? Ay, you little thought, I warrant ye, to meet me here with his worship; but there you reckoned without your host—Out of the frying-pan into the fire.
Just. What is all this? What is this?
Land. (running on). None of your flummery stuff will go down with his worship no more than with me, I give you warning; so you may go further and fare worse, and spare your breath to cool your porridge.
Just. (waves his hand with dignity). Mrs. Bustle, good Mrs. Bustle, remember where you are. Silence! silence! Come forward, sir, and let me hear what you have to say.
(The Old Man comes forward.)
Just. Who and what may you be, friend, and what is your business with me?
Land. Sir, if your worship will give me leave—
(Justice makes a sign to her to be silent).
Old M. Please, your worship, I am an old soldier.
Land. (interrupting). An old hypocrite, say.
Just. Mrs. Bustle, pray, I desire, let the man speak.
Old M. For these two years past—ever since, please your worship—I wasn’t able to work any longer; for in my youth I did work as well as the best of them.
Land. (eager to interrupt). You work—you—
Just. Let him finish his story, I say.
Lucy. Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray, Mrs. Bustle—
Land. (turning suddenly round to Lucy). Miss, a good morrow to you, ma’am. I humbly beg your apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.
(Justice nods to the Old Man, who goes on.)
Old Man. But please your worship, it pleased God to take away the use of my left arm; and since that I have never been able to work.
Land. Flummery! flummery!
Just. (angrily). Mrs. Bustle, I have desired silence, and I will have it, that’s poz! You shall have your turn presently.
Old M. For these two years past (for why should I be ashamed to tell the truth?) I have lived upon charity, and I scraped together a guinea and a half and upwards, and I was travelling with it to my grandson, in the north, with him to end my days—but (sighing)—
Just. But what? Proceed, pray, to the point.
Old M. But last night I slept here in town, please your worship, at the “Saracen’s Head.”
Land. (in a rage). At the “Saracen’s Head”! Yes, forsooth! none such ever slept at the “Saracen’s Head” afore, or shall afterwards, as long as my name’s Bustle, and the “Saracen’s Head” is the “Saracen’s Head.”
Just. Again! again! Mrs. Landlady, this is downright—I have said you should speak presently. He shall speak first, since I’ve said it—that’s poz! Speak on, friend. You slept last night at the “Saracen’s Head.”
Old M. Yes, please your worship, and I accuse nobody; but at night I had my little money safe, and in the morning it was gone.
Land. Gone!—gone, indeed, in my house! and this is the way I’m to be treated! Is it so? I couldn’t but speak, your worship, to such an inhuman like, out o’ the way, scandalous charge, if King George and all the Royal Family were sitting in your worship’s chair, beside you, to silence me (turning to the Old Man). And this is your gratitude, forsooth! Didn’t you tell me that any hole in my house was good enough for you, wheedling hypocrite? And the thanks I receive is to call me and mine a pack of thieves.
Old M. Oh, no, no, no, No—a pack of thieves, by no means.
Land. Ay, I thought when I came to speak we should have you upon your marrow-bones in—
Just. (imperiously). Silence! Five times have I commanded silence, and five times in vain; and I won’t command anything five times in vain—that’s poz!
Land. (in a pet, aside). Old Poz! (aloud). Then, your worship, I don’t see any business I have to be waiting here; the folks want me at home (returning and whispering). Shall I send the goose-pie up, your worship, if it’s ready?
Just. (with magnanimity). I care not for the goose-pie, Mrs. Bustle. Do not talk to me of goose-pies; this is no place to talk of pies.
Land. Oh, for that matter, your worship knows best, to be sure.
(Exit Landlady, angry.)