Bel. It is a simple process; simple, but yet how beautiful! One thing is certain—Cheviot may marry any day, despite my precautions, and then I shall be penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be penniless. Belinda has £500 a year; it is not much, but it would, at least, save me from starvation.
[Exit Belvawney.
Enter Symperson and Cheviot Hill over bridge. They both show signs of damage—their hats are beaten in and their clothes disordered through the accident.
Sym. Well, here we are at last——
Ch. Yes; here we are at last, and a pretty state I’m in, to be sure.
Sym. My dear nephew, you would travel third class, and this is the consequence. After all, there’s not much harm done.
Ch. Not much harm? What d’ye call that? (Showing his hat.) Ten and ninepence at one operation! My gloves split—one and four! My coat ruined—eighteen and six! It’s a coarse and brutal nature that recognizes no harm that don’t involve loss of blood. I’m reduced by this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human being, to a moral pulp—a mash—a poultice. Damme, sir, that’s what I am! I’m a poultice!
Sym. Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the accident you were speaking to me on a very interesting subject.
Ch. Was I? I forget what it was. The accident has knocked it clean out of my head.
Sym. You were saying that you were a man of good position and fortune; that you derived £2000 a year from your bank; that you thought it was time you settled. You then reminded me that I should come into Belvawney’s £1000 a year on your marriage, and I’m not sure, but I rather think you mentioned, casually, that my daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light.