Reu. Credit him not, sir, for he lieth. He was in the very nick of departure when I interposed, and with stern upbraiding, withering invective, and threat of instant death, did bid him await your honour’s commands. The palsied coward trembled and obeyed.
Dan. Nay, sir, this man—this traitorous man—offered to keep the matter from you for ever if I would consent to give him the child to wife. She will herself bear witness to this.
Jas. (to Reuben). Art thou indeed guilty of this treachery?
Reu. Why, sir, there is a measure of truth even in this fellow’s speech, inasmuch as I did indeed say it; but (herein lurks the humour of the thing) I did it but to try him. It was, as it were, a subtle essay or delicate test, prepared and carried out to the life with much ingenuity, in pursuit of the grandest of all studies—the conduct of a man under the influence of extraordinary temptation. I am a philosopher!
Jas. Thy philosophy shall be severely tried. Deliver thy books and papers to Master Geoffrey Wynyard, whom I appoint steward in thy place. Thy stewardship is at an end. Begone!
Reu. But, sir—consider——
Jas. Begone, I say, and let me see thee no more!
Reu. (at door). I am a philosopher!
Jas. Begone! (Exit Reuben, dolefully.) Now, Dan’l Druce, if thou hast aught to say in defence of thy conduct, I am prepared to hear it.
Dan. Aught to say? No, sir, I’ve naught to say worth saying. Thou’st seen the maiden—thou’st seen how fair she is—how good she is—how pure, and gentle, and tender, and true she is. That says more for me than I could say for myself. She softened my stubborn heart—she made me a man. I’ve learnt to look on her as my daughter—she on me as her father. We’ve bin all in all to each other; and at the thought o’ losin’ of her my poor old heart’s ’most broken in twain. I dunno as I’ve any more for to say. No, sir, that’s all. (Sighing.)