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.