BOBBINS looks at MRS. BROWN, sighs, and goes out, C. to L.
Seductive old gentleman! Very well, then, Rebecca, I shall expect you to-morrow.
REBECCA. Yes, ma’am.
MRS. BROWN. (to herself, as she leaves the stage) When shall I hear from my poor Vandyke?
Exit, C. to R.
REBECCA. Oh, that wicked old master of mine!
Exit, R. D.
The C. D. opens very quietly, and VANDYKE BROWN enters, stealthily, wearing a Crimean beard and moustachios, his throat bare, and an artist’s steeple crowned hat, with a broad brim.
VAN. There’s nobody here! Come, that’s lucky—her surprise will be the greater. I’ve been watching at the corner of the street for the last half hour, and contrived to slip in as the door was ajar, while the servant stepped over the way. My heart beats like one of the drums I left behind me, at the thought of meeting my wife again after the best part of a twelvemonth’s chequered absence in the Crimea—driven from my native land and the cultivation of the classic style of art, by the detestable envy of the Royal Academicians, the cupidity of the butcher, and the rapacity of the baker. A pretty life I had of it in the camp—sometimes photographic artist, sometimes—tell it not ye muses—a mixture of cook, valet, military secretary, and volunteer. However, I should soon have made my fortune, for I took more portraits in the Crimea in a day, than I ever did in London in a year. When one unlucky evening, just as I was going to raise my terms, I ventured too far on the Woronzoff Road for the purpose of making a sketch of some outworks, and all of a sudden, when I least expected it—crack, whiz, crack! half a dozen minie balls whistled about my ears, and a party of Russians sallied out of the flank of the Redan, and succeeded in carrying me into the town—luckily it didn’t last long, for at the end of a month, there was an exchange of prisoners, and I had the good fortune to be swopped for the favourite jackass of a Russian officer that had fallen, by accident, into the hands of the allies; so here I am, just arrived from Portsmouth, totally unknown to my wife, once again in my own lodgings. What the deuce! fresh paper—Brussels carpet—and all this French polished mahogany! Upon my word! why, my wife must have gone mad, or else she must be driving a rare trade in the Berlin wool and fancy line. Stay, here she comes! I’ll get under the table and give her a surprise. How delighted she’ll be to see me! (goes towards table, L.) No, it’s not my wife. Why, good gracious, she keeps an assistant, I’ll be bound.
Enter REBECCA, R. D.