Gaunt. Arethusa, this is no place for you.
Arethusa. No, father.
Gaunt. I wish you had been spared this sight; but look at him, child, since you are here; look at God’s image, so debased. And you, young man (to Kit), you have proved that I was right. Are you the husband for this innocent maid?
Kit. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. Terror is your last word; you’re bitter hard upon poor sinners, bitter hard and black—you that were a sinner yourself. These are not the true colours; don’t deceive yourself; you’re out of your course.
Gaunt. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, Christopher. It is not I; it’s God’s law that is of iron. Think! if the blow were to fall now, some cord to snap within you, some enemy to plunge a knife into your heart; this room, with its poor taper light, to vanish; this world to disappear like a drowning man into the great ocean; and you, your brain still whirling, to be snatched into the presence of the Eternal Judge: Christopher French, what answer would you make? For these gifts wasted, for this rich mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings of your better angel—what have you to say?
Kit. Well, sir, I want my word with you, and by your leave I’ll have it out.
Arethusa. Kit, for pity’s sake!
Kit. Arethusa, I don’t speak to you, my dear: you’ve got my ring, and I know what that means. The man I speak to is Captain Gaunt. I came to-day as happy a man as ever stepped, and with as fair a lookout. What did you care? what was your reply? None of your flesh and blood, you said, should lie at the mercy of a wretch like me! Am I not flesh and blood that you should trample on me like that? Is that charity, to stamp the hope out of a poor soul?
Gaunt. You speak wildly; or the devil of drink that is in you speaks instead.