Dan. Ay, best let him bide. I’m a poor thing of skin and bone; and this here arm, which made light of a forty-pound hammer four years since, is but a soft-roed thing now; but when muscle went out, devil come in; steer clear o’ me, and let me bide.
Mar. Thou’rt sadly changed: it’s fearsome to see a good, honest, hearty soul changed into the white-faced ghost of what he was. Time was when every beggar had the pulling of thy poor purse-strings, and none were turned empty away from the door. To think that Jonas Marple should have earned the name of miser!
Dan. Does it seem so strange to thee? Hast thou e’er known what it is to set thy heart night and day on one object, to dream of it, sleepin’ and wakin’, to find the hope of it flavouring thy meat and drink, and weavin’ itself so into thy life that every thought o’ thy brain is born of it, and every deed o’ thy hand has some bearin’ on it? And havin’ done all this, and so fashioned, and twisted, and turned, and trimmed the chances at thy hand that the one hope of thy soul shall be helped on by it, hast thou known what it is to find, at one bitter, black blow, thy hope made hopeless, thy love loveless, thy life lifeless? So did I hope and pray to be blessed with a little child—so was my hope withered when I thought it sure of fulfilment. I had a store of love in my battered heart to set on some one thing of my creating; it was there for that end, and for none other. When she left me (curse him!) I knew, for certain, that one thing would never be of flesh and blood, and it never will, for the love of my heart is given over to the next best thing—gold and silver, gold and silver. Ay, brother, I love my gold as other men love their bairns; it’s of my making, and I love it, I love it! A mean and sordid love, maybe, but hard, and bad, and base as thou thinkest me, I’ve prayed a thousand times that my gold might take a living form, that the one harmless old hope of my wrecked life might come true.
Mar. The age of miracles is past, Jonas. Well, I’ve said my say and done my do. Stay where thou art, and Heaven forgive thee, Jonas Marple.
Dan. (sternly). He’s dead!
Mar. (warmly). He is; dead to the call of reason, dead to the voice of human love, dead to everything that marks a reasoning man off from the beasts that perish. Thou hast well said, Jonas Marple is dead—rest his soul!
Dan. Amen! Now go.
[Marple, after a pause, shrugs his shoulders, and exit with Ripley.
Dan. Ay, he’s dead, dead, dead! He died then, that the blackest devil that ever cursed this earth might put her right with the world. Heaven send he has done so! And the bairn! It was promised to me,—promised, but the promise was a lie, a damned black lie—not hers, no, no! not hers, but the double-dyed devil who stole her from me. (Opens a hole in the floor in front of stool, and takes out a bag of money.) This is my bairn now (handling the money); see, here’s another day to thy life, another inch to thy height; grow as thou growest, child, and thou’lt be a golden beauty ere long. Gold, the best thing in the world; “as good as gold,”—why, it’s a saying; the best thing on earth to make a bairn of! Here’s a child that’ll never grow up to bring sorrow on its dad’s head, that costs nowt to keep, and never grows so big but you wish it bigger—my bairn! I’ve worked for thee and starved for thee that I might see thee grow, and thou hast growed, growed right royally! Lie here, my beauty, lie there in peace; I’ll never wake thee but to add to thy life, my bairn, my beautiful golden bairn!
[The door is suddenly burst open, and Sir Jasper Combe enters hurriedly, followed by Reuben as if pursued. They are both very ragged and dirty, dressed in torn and faded Royalist uniforms; Sir Jasper, an officer, Reuben, a sergeant. Reuben carries a child of three or four years of age, wrapped in a cloak, so as not to be seen by Dan’l. They close the door hurriedly, and listen for their pursuers. Reuben places child on locker.