|
No Thoroughfare: A Drama
[correct first edition] – by Charles Dickens and Wilkie
Collins (1867) |
A carefully-posed cast photo showing Joey Ladle (Benjamin Webster), Sally Goldstraw (Mrs. Alfred Mellon), George Vendale (Henry G. Neville), Jules Obenreizer (Charles Albert Fechter), Marguerite (Carlotta Leclercq), Walter Wilding (John Billington), and Bintrey (George G. Belmore).
|
Foreword |
|
What
was the most successful play Dickens worked on? How much did he contribute to
it? And, why has text of the play gone unseen until today? The
first question has an easy answer—the most successful play claiming Dickens
as playwright was No Thoroughfare. The piece was a dramatization of
the short story of the same name, which had appeared in the Christmas Number
of All the Year Round the same year. The Christmas Story and
the play are always credited to “Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins”, but the
drama was, in fact, written almost entirely by Collins, working under
Dickens’s long-distance supervision. Also assisting in the adaptation was the
actor Charles Albert Fechter, a mutual friend to the two authors, whose role
as the villainous Obenreizer would be the great hit of the performance. A
letter from Dickens to an American publisher tells how he initiated events (1
Nov 1867): I will bring you out the early
proof of the Xmas No. We publish it here on the 12th. of December. I am
planning it out into a play for Wilkie Collins to manipulate after I sail,
and have arranged for Fechter to go to the Adelphi Theatre and play a Swiss
in it. It will be brought out, the day after Christmas Day. –
Pilgrim 11:469 Dickens did soon set sail for his second trip to
America (9 Nov), and kept in touch concerning the planned play. It looked as
if he would be able to sell the theatrical version in the U.S., and he wrote
Collins (28 Nov): …I have
little doubt of being able to make a good thing of the Drama, and, if
necessary, I will get it up. But what I shall want as soon as I can
possibly have them, are: 1. A
detailed Scene Plot from Fechter 2. His
notion of the Dresses 3. A copy
of the Play itself, Act by Act, as you do it. 4.
together with any stage Directions that Fechter has in his mind. –
Pilgrim 11:491–92 Fifteen years later, in “Wilkie Collins’s Recollections of Charles Fechter”, Collins gave his own slightly different version of how the play came about. He starts by describing the short story: I had the
honor of writing the Christmas story called “No Thoroughfare” in literary
association with Charles Dickens. We invented the story at Gadshill, in the
Swiss châlet which had been Fechter’s gift to Dickens. When our last page of
manuscript had been set up in type, I returned to other literary labors which
had been suspended in favor of “No Thoroughfare,” and which kept me so closely
employed that I saw nothing of my brethren in art for some little time.
During this interval Fechter had read the proof-sheets, had (to use his own
phrase) “fallen madly in love with the subject,” and had prepared a scenario
or outline of a dramatic adaptation of the story, under Dickens’s
superintendence and approval. This done, Dickens took his departure for the
United States, leaving the destinies of the unwritten play safe, as he kindly
said, in my hands. Fechter next presented himself with the scenario,
laid the manuscript on my desk, offered me a pen with a low bow, and said:
“Dickens has gone away for six months; he will find ‘No Thoroughfare’ running
when he comes back.” For once, in this case, a modern prophecy was actually
fulfilled. –
Field, 163 More of Collins’s recollections, of the play’s
opening night, and of Fechter’s stomach-wrenching stage fright, appear in the
Afterword. Wilkie
Collins did, as requested, mail Dickens each act of the play as it was
completed (see Adrian, below). Dickens’s response to the final act has
survived. Collins had written a letter, raising a few issues, and leaving
matters up to Dickens’s “sole discretion” (Pilgrim 11:520). Dickens’s
suggestions were all incorporated into the printed version. Presumably there
was some such correspondence for each of the five acts. No
Thoroughfare debuted at the Adelphi Theatre on 26 Dec 1867, while Dickens
was still in America. Despite his doubts, it was a big hit; it ran for 151
performances (finishing on 16 May 1868), after which the production moved to
the Standard Theatre in Shoreditch, and kept right on performing (beginning
27 June 1868). According to Collins, the play eventually reached 200
performances. The play as a whole was well received, though some papers complained
about its length. The first notice Dickens saw was from the London Times;
this is reprinted in its entirely in the Afterword. From another interesting
review: In the
fourth act the excitement of the play culminates. The first scene is laid in
the room in the Swiss inn, where Obenreizer tries to drug his victim, and
secure his papers; the second, perhaps the finest bit of realistic scenery
which the skilled hand of Mr. Grieve has ever placed upon the stage is the
mountain pass where Obenreizer taunts Vendale with his approaching doom,
until the latter, to foil his would-be robber, springs over the precipice.
This scene was acted with the greatest spirit by Mr. Fechter and Mr. Neville;
and the manner in which the leap was taken by the last-named gentleman, was
highly artistic and effective….The weight of the piece lies mainly on the
shoulders of Mr. Fechter, who, for the first time since his sojurn in
England, has been fitted with a part in which his foreign accent is in his
favour. He played throughout with the greatest earnestness and skill, and
while the softer passages of his love-making were as graceful and tender as
ever, he gave due emphasis to the darker side of the character. – Daily Telegraph,
27 Dec 1867, quoted in Bolton Dickens, by now an experienced amateur theatre
manager, had planned the much-praised mountain scenery together with Grieve (Pilgrim
12:17). Dickens, Collins, and Fechter had also decided on the cast together (Pilgrim
11:520). Georgina
Hogarth, Dickens’s sister-in-law and housekeeper, wrote about her reaction to
the play, and also about the long-distance interaction between the two
authors. Her letter has been quoted recently: The
letter [17 Jan 1868] goes on to describe Georgina’s reaction after she and
Mamie had seen No Thoroughfare at the Adelphi. Although Fechter had
acted in it ‘most admirably’ and it was ‘admirably put on the stage’,
she imagines ‘how much better it would have been with the Master Hand—on
getting it out!’ Even though Dickens had collaborated on it, ‘it was too long
and laboured—as usual poor Wilkie Collins—the same thing explained to his
audience (whom he always seems to consider a collection of infant boobies)
over and over again. We really wondered at it because we hear it has been
greatly cut about twice the first night—and now it marches more quietly and
slightly. Charles would, I know, be most especially surprised at its success
for he seems to have had little hope of it, from what he says in his letter.
Of course, he had the piece sent out to him in acts, as Wilkie wrote
it—[Charles considered it] hopeless, although done with such great
pain—[he thought] that it wanted life (as it does!) in short that it
“doesn’t walk but goes about in a run”. However, it has taken and seems to be
the Christmas success—the house is crammed every night—and the places are all
let as far as a fortnight in advance’. – quoted
in Adrian, 10 Dickens
soon returned to London (2 May), saw the play acted, and happily did not feel
that it was quite hopeless. He wrote to an American friend (14 May): “I have
seen No Thoroughfare twice. Excellent things in it; but it drags—to my
thinking. It is, however, a great success in the country, and is now getting
up with great force in Paris” (Pilgrim 12:108). Wilkie Collins, by
contrast, had been thrilled with the piece. He wrote Dickens (10 Jan),
describing Fechter’s performance in “the most glowing terms”, saying “Here
Fechter is magnificent…Here his superb playing brings the house down…I should
call even his exit in the last act one of the subtlest and finest things he
does in the piece…You can hardly imagine what he gets out of the part, or
what he makes of his passionate love for Marguerite” (Pilgrim 12:57). No
Thoroughfare: A Drama was, as noted, a hit, and was revived in many forms
for years to come. Many variants were written, staged and published. The
first Collins/Dickens effort was revived in Liverpool (1868) and Boston
(1871). The play was translated into French as L’Abîme, and staged in
Paris; Fechter was producer, but did not act. Dickens himself visited to
assist during rehearsals (May 1868). Oddly enough, this French version was
translated back into English again, and given in New York City (1873).
Pirated versions began to appear four days after the London premiere, and were
staged in Boston (1867), Brooklyn (1868), Broadway (1869), and more. Two
burlesque parodies were put on (1868, 1869). Various versions continued to
show up in New York, Boston, London, and Philadelphia (through 1891), but for
these—indeed, for every performance—we can never be quite certain which
variant was staged. A newly-written stage adaptation was produced at
Islington (1903), but since then, no productions are known; and in fact, the
story has never appeared in any form on television or in the cinema.
Furthermore, it has almost never been the subject of critical study. One
reason for the sharp drop-off in popularity, of course, is that the play is
exuberantly stagey and melodramatic, and will not always appeal to modern
tastes. But there is another much more subtle factor at work. The first
edition of No Thoroughfare: A Drama was first published in 1867. It
was privately printed by the Offices of All the Year Round, and was
quite a rare collector’s item. No version of the play appeared in any
collected edition of Dickens until 1908, when B.W. Matz included it in his
National Edition of Dickens’s works. But Matz did not have access to the
first edition. Apparently the text Matz used was a New York pamphlet, one of
De Witt’s acting plays, from 1868. The text varies in every line from the
first edition. It is the kind of corrupt text which comes about when a
corrupt actor or stagehand tries to reconstruct an entire play from memory,
and then reuse it. It appears to trace back to one of the many pirated productions
which were so popular in America. The DeWitt/Matz text was reprinted in turn
in a few more anthologies, and has been the standard version for almost a
century now. (We have made the DeWitt/Matz version available on-line as an
e-text, separately, for comparison and historical purposes.) The correct play
has been long neglected, in part simply because this degraded version was so
bad. While
preparing new editions of Dickens’s plays for the Internet, this editor
examined all versions available, and was surprised to find that the
Chadwyck-Healey Literature Online database contained an entirely different
and better version of No Thoroughfare: A Drama—a version based on a
first edition. A true first edition of the play was located, a rigorous
electronic text was prepared, and the results now await you. The first
edition is reprinted here through the courtesy of the Department of Special
Collections, Stanford University Libraries. Thus enough of
history, scholarship, and research; now it’s time for mystery, menace,
romance, and suspense, as our hero strives to foil a faithless forger, and
struggles to cross a treacherous pass in the frozen Alps, all to find the
rightful heir to a legacy, and win the hand of a beautiful Swiss maid. We are
proud to present No Thoroughfare, a long-hidden work by Wilkie Collins
and Charles Dickens, in a correct text now made widely available for the
first time ever. Let the show begin. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
[ENTERED AT STATIONERS’ HALL.]
|
PERSONS
OF THE DRAMA. |
||
|
——·—— |
||
|
|
|
|
|
|
WALTER WILDING. |
|
|
|
GEORGE VENDALE. |
|
|
|
BINTREY. |
|
|
|
OBENREIZER. |
|
|
|
JOEY LADLE. |
|
|
|
MAÎTRE VOIGHT. |
|
|
|
MONK. |
|
|
Visitors
(Ladies and Gentlemen), Servants, Monks, |
||
|
Guides,
&c. &c. &c. |
||
|
———— |
||
|
|
MARGUERITE. |
|
|
|
THE LADY. |
|
|
|
SALLY GOLDSTRAW. |
|
|
|
MADAME DOR. |
|
|
———— |
||
|
Scene of the first
Three Acts—London. Scene
of the last Two Acts—Switzerland. |
||
|
|
||
|
Period—The
Present Century. |
||
NO THOROUGHFARE.
————
ACT I.
(In Three Scenes.)
FIRST SCENE.—The exterior of the Foundling Hospital. A dark night. The wind heard moaning. “THE LADY,” plainly dressed, is discovered waiting at the door by which the nurses of the Foundling enter and leave the institution. THE LADY listens at the door, then takes a turn on the stage, and returns to the door. At the same moment two or three nurses pass out. THE LADY, after eyeing them carefully, one by one, under the lamp which is over the door, lets them go, without speaking to them. A pause after the last nurse has gone out. SALLY GOLDSTRAW appears at the door. THE LADY recognises and stops her. The dialogue begins.
The Lady. Stop!
Sally. What do you want, ma’am?
The Lady. A word with you in private.
Sally. Are you mistaking me for somebody else? I have never seen you before.
The Lady. I saw you this morning. You were pointed out to me by a friend who was willing to assist me so far. You are known here as Sally Goldstraw. And you first entered this institution, on this very day, twelve years since. It was impossible for me to speak to you this morning, for it was impossible for me to see you in private. I must speak to you now.
Sally. You seem to know all about me, ma’am. Might I make so bold as to ask, who you are?
The Lady. Come and look at me under the lamp.
Sally (looking at her under the lamp). I don’t know you. I never saw you before to-night.
The Lady. Do I look like a happy woman?
Sally. No, ma’am. You look as if you had something on your mind.
The Lady. I have something on my mind. I am one of the many miserable mothers who have never known what a mother’s happiness is. If my child is still living, he is in the Foundling Hospital—he has grown to be a boy, and I have never seen him!
Sally. I am heartily sorry for you, ma’am. But what can I do?
The Lady. You can carry your memory back through twelve years. You can recal the day when you first entered that house.
Sally. Twelve years is a long time, ma’am.
The Lady. Is it long to you? Think how long it has been to me! Through all those years I have paid the penalty of disgracing my family. Through all those years I have lived in foreign lands—lived on the one condition that I should not be seen again in England. Only a week since I found myself independent of that condition—placed in the possession of a fortune—free to come back to my own country. Sally Goldstraw! I have come back with one hope. It lies in your power to make a happy woman of me.
Sally. How can I do that, ma’am?
The Lady. Here are two guineas in this paper. Take my poor little present, and I will tell you.
Sally. You may know my face, ma’am; but you don’t know me. There is not a person in all the Foundling who hasn’t a good word for Sally. Could I be so well thought of if I was to be bought?
The Lady. I do not mean to buy you. I only mean to reward you very slightly.
Sally. If helping you is right, ma’am, I desire no reward for doing it. What do you want?
The Lady. I want you to look back through the past time. The day when you first entered the Foundling must be a marked day in your memory.
Sally. It is a marked day.
The Lady. You may have forgotten many things that happened since. You must remember everything that happened on that day.
Sally. Everything!
The Lady. Do you remember a baby being received into the Foundling when you were first employed there?
Sally. I remember it well.
The Lady. Is the child living?
Sally. Living, and hearty, thank God!
The Lady. Perhaps, you took care of him when he was a baby?
Sally. No, ma’am. The baby was sent to our institution in the country; and I was kept here to learn the ways of the house.
The Lady. I have learnt the ways of the house, too. The baby was christened in the chapel here, before it was sent away to the country?
Sally. Yes, ma’am. And I saw the christening.
The Lady. They gave the child a name—a christian name and a surname. What was it?
Sally. Don’t ask me! We are not allowed to tell.
The Lady. The child was my child! You must tell me! (SALLY turns away.) Come back! come back! You may one day marry. As you hope to be a respected wife—as you hope to be a proud mother—as you are a living, loving woman, tell me the name! (Falls on her knees.)
Sally. Don’t, don’t, ma’am! You are trying to make me do wrong!
The Lady. Only his name, Sally! Only his name!
Sally. Oh, dear! dear! I ought to say No—and I feel as if I was going to say Yes. Do let me go!
The Lady. His name, Sally! His name!
Sally (relenting). Will you promise?
The Lady (rising). Anything!
Sally. Put your two hands in mine. Promise you will never ask me to tell you more than the christian name and surname which they gave to the child?
The Lady. I promise!
Sally. Walter Wilding.
(THE LADY embraces her in silence. The two go out at different sides of the stage. The scene changes.)
SECOND SCENE.—The Boys’ dining-room at the Foundling. The boys at dinner. A bright, cheerful scene. Visitors—ladies and gentlemen—present, looking on. Among the visitors, THE LADY. She passes down the table—which crosses the stage obliquely, and is lost to view behind the scene—looking anxiously at the boys one by one. SALLY GOLDSTRAW is among the nurses in attendance. THE LADY keeps out of her way, and SALLY is too busy to notice her. Two of the visitors, a husband and wife, come down to the front.
Wife. Mr. Jones, what do you mean by bringing me here?
Husband. You wanted to come here, dear.
Wife. I consider this place to be a sink of iniquity. How dare you to tell me I wanted to come to a sink of iniquity.
Husband. It seems to be pretty cheerful for a sink, dear.
Wife. When I think of the histories of these wretched children, I blush for human nature.
Husband. Human nature ought to be much obliged to you, dear.
Wife. A Foundling Hospital is an encouragement to vice. A man who brings his wife into a place which encourages vice, is a man lost to the commonest sense of decency. Give me your arm directly.
Husband. Yes, dear.
Wife. Mr. Jones, you are a fool!
Husband. Considering that I have married you, dear, perhaps you had better keep that opinion to yourself.
(Exeunt.) (A second husband and wife come forward.)
2nd Wife. Mr. Brown, this is the most interesting sight I ever saw in my life. I should like to kiss every one of those boys.
2nd Husband. Think of our own boys, my dear. They wouldn’t thank you for kissing them at dinner-time.
2nd Wife. I hope these poor little fellows are happy! It’s so sad to think that they never knew a mother’s love, and never climbed on a father’s knee!
2nd Husband. Look at them, my dear! Our own boys couldn’t eat a better dinner than that.
2nd Wife This is a noble charity! This is helping the helpless as Christians should.
2nd Husband. A noble charity, as you say. I have counted forty boys in this room, my dear, who are every one of them as fat as our Tom!
(They walk up, and join the other visitors. In the vacant space left on the stage, SALLY GOLDSTRAW and THE LADY suddenly meet.)
Sally. You here again! What did you promise me last night?
The Lady. I said I would never ask you to tell me more than you told me then. I don’t ask you to say another word. You can add to the debt of gratitude that I owe you, without speaking. Good Sally! Kind Sally! Show me my boy!
Sally (aside). Oh, dear, dear! I’m going wrong again!
The Lady. My heart is breaking, among all these children. Oh, think that my boy is here, and that I don’t know him!
Sally. Hush! not so loud. I am going to pass down the table. Follow me with your eyes. The boy that I stop and speak to, will not be your boy. But the boy that I touch will be Walter Wilding.
(She passes down the table. Speaks to one boy, and touches the boy next to him, keeping her hand on his shoulder, and patting it. Both boys are seated with their backs to the audience. SALLY, after lifting her hand from the boy, looks for the last time significantly at THE LADY, and goes out, following the line of the table, which is lost to view behind the scenes. THE LADY approaches the boy, and speaks to him.)
The Lady (stooping over him). How old are you?
The Boy. I am twelve, ma’am.
The Lady. Are you well and happy?
The Boy. Yes, ma’am.
The Lady. Would you like to be well provided for, and to be your own master when you grow up?
The Boy. Yes, ma’am.
The Lady. Would you like a home of your own? Would you like to find your mother who loves you?
The Boy. Oh yes, ma’am, dearly!
(THE LADY kisses him, and turns away to hide her tears. At the same moment three strokes are heard on the end of the table hidden behind the scenes. A voice says, “Silence, for grace!” The boys all rise. The men among the visitors remove their hats. The grace is sung by boys’ voices off the stage, to a simple hymn tune. At the last notes a double curtain closes slowly over the scene. On each division of the curtain is inscribed in large letters, visible to the whole audience: “TWELVE YEARS ELAPSE.” After a short interval, filled up by appropriate music, the curtain is withdrawn again, and the next scene opens on events which are supposed to occur, after the lapse of twelve years.)
THIRD SCENE.—The Court-yard in the establishment of WILDING AND CO., wine merchants, of Cripple Corner. A large counting-house with an open door, on one side. An entrance to the cellars, down steps. A large door in the flat, with a smaller door near it, various objects connected with the wine trade scattered about the yard. WALTER WILDING, dressed in mourning, and BINTREY, discovered seated at a little table in the court-yard, with a bottle of wine between them.
Wilding. Excuse my receiving you in the open air, Mr. Bintrey. What with the anxieties I have had lately, and what with the heat of the weather, I have been a good deal troubled with a giddiness in my head, and a singing in my ears.
Bintrey. And the fresh air clears your head, and quiets your ears? Just so, Mr. Walter Wilding—just so!
Wilding. Do you like this “forty-five,” sir?
Bintrey. (smacking his lips). Like it? I am a lawyer. Did you ever hear of a lawyer who didn’t like port? Capital wine, sir! In your place I shouldn’t be quite so free in giving such wine away, even to my lawyer!
Wilding. And now, as to my affairs, Mr. Bintrey. I think we have got everything straight. A partner secured.
Bintrey. A partner secured.
Wilding. A housekeeper advertised for—
Bintrey. Housekeeper advertised for. “Apply personally at Cripple Corner, Great Tower-street, from ten to twelve—” to-day.
Wilding. My late dear mother’s affairs wound up, and all charges paid—
Bintrey. And all charges paid. Without taxing the bill, which is the drollest professional circumstance I ever met with! (Observes WILDING looking through the counting-house door, and looks that way too.) I see you have had the portrait of your mother hung in the counting-house?
Wilding. My dear mother, as you know, placed me in this business, Mr. Bintrey. I have two portraits of her. One I keep in my own room. The other I hang in my counting-house, in remembrance of all that she has done for me. It seems like yesterday, when she came to the Foundling, and asked me if I should like to live in a home of my own, with the mother who loved me. From that time I became her confidentially acknowledged son. From that time, we were never separated till death took her from me, six months ago. Everything that I have—everything that may come to me in the future—I owe to her love. I hope my love consoled her for all that she had suffered in her earlier life. She had been cruelly deceived, Mr. Bintrey. But she never spoke of it—she never betrayed her betrayer!
Bintrey. She had made up her mind, and she could hold her peace. A devilish deal better than ever you will!
Wilding. I can no longer show my love and honour for her; but I can show that I am not ashamed of her. I mean, that I am not ashamed of having been a Foundling. I, who never knew a father of my own, can be a father now to all in my employment. I shall expect my new partner, I shall expect my new housekeeper, to help me in keeping this resolution. We will revive the good old times, when the head of a business, and the clerks and servants of a business, all lived together as one family. I have told my people that they shall lodge here under the same roof with me, and eat here at the same table with me.
(JOEY LADLE appears, from the cellars.)
Joey. Respecting this same boarding and lodging, young Master Wilding?
Bintrey. (to WILDING). Here is one of your new family. (Pointing to JOEY’S leathern apron and bib.) This boy’s pinafore won’t want much washing, and won’t wear out in a hurry!
Wilding. Well, Joey?
Joey. Speaking for myself, young Master Wilding, if you want to board me and lodge me, take me. I can peck as well as most men. Where I peck, ain’t so high a object with me as what I peck. And that ain’t as high a object as how much I peck.
Bintrey. You ought to have been a lawyer, Mr. Joey. Where we peck isn’t as high an object with us as what we peck, and how much we peck. Victuals in your case, and fees in ours. Human nature is the same in all professions, Mr. Wilding. I’ll take another glass of the forty-five port.
Joey. Are we all to live in the house, young Master Wilding? The two other cellarmen, the three porters, the two ’prentices, and the odd men?
Wilding. Yes, Joey. I hope we shall all be an united family.
Joey. Ah! I hope they may be.
Wilding. They? Rather say we, Joey.
Joey. Don’t look to me to make “We” on it, young Master Wilding. Don’t look to me to put a lively face on anything. It’s all very well, gentlemen, for you that has been accustomed to take your wine into your systems by the convivial channel of your throttles, to put a lively face on it. But I have been accustomed to take my wine in at the pores of the skin—and, took that way, it acts depressing. It’s one thing to charge your glasses in a dining-room with a Hip—Hip—Hooray, and a Jolly Companions Everyone. And it’s another thing to be charged yourself, through the pores, in a low dark cellar and a mouldy atmosphere. I have been a cellarman my life through—and what’s the consequence? I’m as muddled and as molloncolly a man as lives. A pecking-machine, sir, is all that I am capable of proving myself, out of my cellars. But that you’re welcome to, if it’s worth your while to keep such a thing on your premises.
Bintrey. I don’t want to interrupt the flow of Mr. Joey’s philosophy. But it’s past ten o’clock—and the housekeepers will be coming to apply for the vacant place.
Wilding. Let them come, and welcome. My good friend, George Vendale, has undertaken to see them for me, and to pick out the woman whom he thinks will suit me best. (BINTREY nods, and turns to go out.) You’re not going?
Bintrey. I have an appointment in court. I’ll look in on my way back, and hear what you have done.
(Exit.)
Joey. So, you’ve been and taken young Master George Vendale partner into the old business?
Wilding. Yes, Joey. My old friend George Vendale begins, as my partner, to-day.
Joey. Don’t change the name of the Firm again, young Master Wilding. It was bad luck enough to make it Yourself and Co. Better by far have left the old name of the old Firm—Pebbleson Nephew. Good luck always stuck to Pebbleson Nephew. You should never change luck when it’s good, sir.
Enter GEORGE VENDALE, from the house.
Vendale. I have seen the housekeepers, Walter. There is only one woman in the whole collection who isn’t a Gorgon. I like her face and her manner—and she is coming here to be presented to you. Her name is Sarah Goldstraw.
Wilding. Goldstraw! Surely I have heard that name before?
Vendale. If she is an old acquaintance, so much the better (Looking towards the house.) This way, Miss Goldstraw. Here is Mr. Wilding!
Enter SALLY GOLDSTRAW.
Sally (aside). Wilding!
Joey (aside). I agree with Master George. That’s a sound woman, outside and in!
Vendale. (to WILDING). This is a busy morning with me. I am going to the Docks—then back again to the house, to speak to the gas-fitter about the new light in the dining-room. Good-bye, for the present!
(Exit through the counting-house.)
Wilding. (to SALLY). Will you step into the counting-house, if you please? (Aside.) Her face is familiar to me! Where did I see it last?
Sally (advancing a few steps, and stopping thoughtfully). Wilding!—No, no, it can’t be? Wilding’s a common name. How foolish I am!
Joey (to WILDING). Take her, young Master Wilding! You won’t find the match of Sarah Goldstraw in a hurry. (Aside, returning to the cellars.) I feel as if I had taken something new in at the pores. (Looking back at SALLY). Has that pleasant woman brought a streak of sunshine with her into this moloncolly place? And am I a-walking in it on my way back to the cellars?
(Exit into the cellars.)
Wilding. Let me show you the way into the counting-house.
Sally (rousing herself). I beg your pardon, sir.
(She goes on to the counting-house—and is about to enter the door, when she suddenly starts back with a scream, and sinks on a bench in the yard.)
Wilding. What’s the matter? what have you seen to frighten you?
Sally. Nothing!
Wilding. Nothing?
Sally. Might I ask——? there’s a portrait in the counting-house, sir——
Wilding. The portrait of my late mother. What is there in that to frighten you?
Sally (aside). His mother. The lady who spoke to me twelve years since! (Rising and addressing WILDING.) I hope you will excuse me, sir, I would rather not take up your time. I—I don’t think the place would suit me.
(Attempts to retire.)
Wilding. (stopping her). Wait a minute. There’s something wrong here—there’s something I don’t understand. Your face puzzles me; your name puzzles me—good Heavens! I have it! You were the nurse at the Foundling, when I was one of the boys there twelve years since!
Sally (aside). What am I to say to him?
Wilding. You were the woman who took
pity on my poor mother. She often talked of it to me. A nurse told her my name,
and pointed me out to her at dinner. You were that nurse.
Sally (sinking back on the bench). Heaven forgive me, sir, I was that nurse!
Wilding. Heaven forgive you? What do you
mean? Speak out!
Sally. Oh, sir, don’t ask me to speak
out! I may make you rue the day when you first let me into your house.
Wilding. You can do nothing worse than
frighten me as you are frightening me now.
Sally. Compose yourself, sir! If I must speak, I will. You said a minute since that
the lady——
Wilding. She calls my mother “the lady!”
When you talk of my mother, why don’t you call her my mother?
Sally