Ambrose Gwinett; or, a sea-side story: a melo-drama, in three acts

Enter Bolt, the Gaoler.  L.

A good-day to you, master Bolt.

Bolt.  A good-day—you are late, master Grayling—you will have scarcely sufficient time to perform your task.

Gray.  Oh, plenty—I have an old set of chains in hand; an hour’s work will make them fit for any body—so let me at once measure the prisoner.

Bolt.  The prisoner! do you not know that there are two to suffer?

Gray.  Two!

Bolt.  Aye; we have to day received an order that “mad George,” as he is called, who was last Sessions convicted for shooting an Exciseman, is to suffer with poor Ambrose Gwinett.

Gray.  Poor Ambrose Gwinett—you are mightily compassionate, master Bolt.

Bolt.  Why, for the matter of that, if a man’s a gaoler, I see no reason why his heart should be of a piece with the prison wall.

Gray.  But is he not an assassin?—a midnight murderer?

Bolt.  True; and yet I cannot but doubt—I do not think a man with blood upon his head, could sleep so soundly and smile so in his slumbers, as does master Gwinett; the whole country feels for him.

Gray.  Aye, it is the fashion now-a-days—let a knave only rob an orchard, and he’s whipped and cried at for a villain—let him spill blood, and it’s marvellous the compassion that awaits him.

Bolt.  Why, how now, master Grayling? once you would not have talked in this manner—you had one time a heart as tender as a girl’s—I have seen you drop a tear upon the hand of a prisoner, as you have fitted the iron upon it.  Methinks you are strangely changed of late.

Gray.  I am—no matter for that—let me to my work, for time speeds on.

Bolt.  Well, you can first begin with mad George.

Gray.  And why not with Gwinett?—with Gwinett, I say, the murderer?

Gray.  Well, well, delay no longer.

Bolt.  (calls without.)  Holloa! Tom, bring poor George hither.  Poor fellow, he had begun to hope for pardon just as the warrant came down.

Enter George and Turnkey.  R.

Geo.  Now, what further, good master Bolt?

Bolt.  Why, there is another little ceremony—you know the sentence is—

Geo.  Aye, I remember, to be placed as a scarecrow to my brother smugglers,—well, no matter, they’ll let me, I hope, hang over the beach with the salt spray sometimes dashing upon me, and the sea-gull screaming around.

Gray.  Give me your hand, friend; so, (shakes hands.) this is an ugly task of mine, but you bear no malice?

Geo.  I never knew it when I was a free and happy man, and should never feel it in my dying hour—and to prove to you that the fear of death has not wasted my powers,—there, bend that arm before you measure it—stronger men than you, I take it, have tried in vain.—(Grayling takes hold of George’s arm, and with a slight effort, bends it.)  Ah! there was but one man who could do this—he who did it when a boy—surely you are not—yes, it is—Grayling!

Gray.  Eh! George—George Wildrove—my earliest, my best of friends, (they embrace.)  Oh! and to meet you now, and in such a place—and I—the wretch employed to—

Geo.  Nay, Grayling, this is weak—your task is not a free one, ’tis, I know, imposed upon you—to the work, and whilst you measure the limbs of mad George, the felon, think not, for I would not think of him—think not of George Wildrove, the school-boy.

[Music.—Grayling, after a struggle, advances to George—he turns up one of his sleeves, and is about to measure the arm, when his eye falls upon George’s wrist.  Grayling, starting back with horror.]

No, no, not if these prison walls were turned to gold, and I by fulfilling this hateful task, might become the whole possessor, I would not do it—as I have a soul, I would not.

Gray.  Your wrist, George.

Geo.  Well—

Gray.  Do you not see?

Geo.  What?

Gray.  That scar—in that scar I read the preservation of my life—alas! now worthless—can I forget that the knife aimed at my heart, struck there—there—

Geo.  Oh, a schoolboy frolic, go on, good Ned.

Gray.  Never!  Oh, George, I am a wretch, a poor forlorn discarded wretch—the earth has lost its sweetness to me—I am hopeless, aimless—I had thought my heart was wholly changed to stone—I find there is one—one pulse left, that beats with gratitude, with more than early friendship.

Bolt.  Come, master Grayling, you know there is another prisoner.

Gray.  Ah! I had forgotten—gaoler, chains for this man, to be made an Emperor, I could not forge—if you will, say so to the governor: for the other prisoner, I’ll work—oh, how I’ll toil—but come a moment, George—let my heart give a short time to friendship, ’ere again ’tis yielded up to hate.

[Exeunt Grayling and George.  L.

Enter Ambrose Gwinett.  R.

Gwin.  I feel as if within these two days, infirm old age had crept upon me—my blood is chilled, and courses through my veins with lazy coldness—my brain is stunned—my eyes discern not clearly—my very hair feels grey and blasted; alas! ’tis no wonder, I have within these few hours been hurled from a throne of earthly happiness—snatched from the regions of ideal bliss—and cast, bound, and fettered within a prison’s walls—and my name—my innocent name, stamped in the book of infamy—oh! was man to contemplate at one view the evil he’s to suffer, madness would seize on half his kind—but misery, day by day works on, laying at intervals such weights upon us, which, if placed at once would crush us out of life.—Ah! the gaoler!

Bolt.  A good-day to you, master Ambrose.

Gwin.  “Good-day” friend! let good days pass between those happy men, who freely may exchange them beneath the eye of heaven.—“Good-day” to a wretch like me! it has a sound of mockery.

Bolt.  And yet believe me, Sir, I meant not so.

Bolt.  Poor fellow, he forgets—but good master Gwinett—

Gwin.  Well—be quick—for my minutes are counted—I must play the miser with them.

Bolt.  Do you not remember the sentence?

Gwin.  Remember?

Bolt.  But the whole of it?

Gwin.  The—oh, heavens, the thoughts like fire flash into my brain.—I had forgotten—there is no—no grave for me.

Bolt.  Poor fellow, I could almost cry to look at him.

Gwin.  Well, what does it matter; it is but in imagination—nothing more.

Bolt.  That’s right—come, look boldly on it.

Gwin.  Where is the place, that—my heart swells as it would burst its prison—the—you understand.

Bolt.  Why, at the corner of the meadow, just by One-Tree Farm.

Gwin.  (with great passion.)  What!—at—oh!—if there be one touch of mercy in my judges’ hearts, I beseech (throws himself at Bolt’s feet.)  I implore you—any other spot—but there—there—

Bolt.  And why not there, master Ambrose?

Gwin.  Why not!—the cottage wherein I was born looks out on the place—many a summer’s day, when a child, a little happy child, close by my mother’s side, my hand in her’s, I have wandered there picking the wild flowers springing up around us—oh! what a multitude of recollections crowd upon me—that meadow!—many a summer’s night have I with my little sisters, sat waiting my father’s coming—and when he turned that hedge, to see his eyes, how they kindled up, when the happy shout burst from his children’s lips—ah! his eyes are now fixed closely on me—and that shout is ringing in my ears!

Bolt.  Come, come, be more composed.

Gwin.  There I cannot die in peace: in one brief minute I should see all the actions of my infant life, as in a glass—there, there, I cannot die—is there no help?

Enter Lucy.  R.

Lucy.  Oh! dearest Ambrose—is there no hope?

Gwin.  Hope, Lucy, none—my hour is at hand, and the once happy and respected Gwinett, will ’ere sunset die the death of a felon! a murderer! a murderer!—Oh, heavens! to be pointed, gazed at, executed as the inhuman, heartless assassin—the midnight bloodshedder!

Lucy.  Bloodshedder! oh, Gwinett.

Gwin.  But tell me, dearest Lucy, what say my fellow townsmen of the hapless Ambrose; do they all, all believe me guilty?

Lucy.  Ob, no—some there are who, when your name is mentioned, sigh and breathe a prayer for your deliverance,—and some—

Gwin.  Aye, there it is, they class me with those desperate wretches, who—oh, would the hour were come—I shall go mad—become a raving maniac: what a life had my imagination pictured: blessed with thee Lucy, I had hoped to travel onward, halting at the grave, an old grey headed happy man, and now, the scaffold—the executioner—can I think upon them, and not feel my heart grow palsied, my sinews fall away, and my life’s breath ebb—but no, I think, and still I live to suffer.

Lucy.  There yet remains a hope—your judges are petitioned, they may relent—then years of happiness may yet be ours.

Gwin.  Happiness—alas, no; my very dreams are but a counterpart of my waking horrors.—Last night, harassed, I threw me down to rest—a leaden slumber fell upon me, and then I dreamt, Lucy, that thou and I had at the altar sworn a lasting faith.

Lucy.  Did you so?  Ambrose, did you so?—Oh! ’tis a happy presage: the dream was sent from heaven to bid you not despair.

Lucy.  Oh! heavens.

Gwin.  Such was the forerunner of the coming horror—so will ten thousand glut their eyes upon my misery—and then the hangman—

[Lucy, who during the former and present speech of Gwinett, has been growing gradually insensible; here shrieks out, and rushes to him.

Lucy.  Oh! speak it not—think it not—my heart is broken.  (falls into his arms.)

Gwin.  Wretch! fool that I am, thus forgetful in my miseries to torture this sweet sufferer.

Lucy.  (recovering.)  There is then no hope—no, think not to deceive me, the terrible certainty frowns upon me, and every earthly joy fades beneath the gloom!  I shall not long survive you—a short time to waste myself in tears upon your grave.

Gwin.  (aside.)  My grave!—oh madness! even this last solace is deprived me—she’ll never weep o’er me—never pluck the weeds from off my tomb—but if she’d seek the corse of Gwinett—there! hung round with rattling chains, and shaking in the wind, a loathsome spectacle to all men—there she must, shuddering, say her fitful prayer.—Oh! I’m phrenzied, mad,—Lucy thus distracted, locked in each others arms, we’ll seek for death.  (they embrace.)

[Music.—Enter Bolt and Grayling.  R.; Grayling on seeing Gwinett and Lucy, is about to rush down upon them, when he is held back by Bolt: he at length approaches Gwinett, who, on beholding him, staggers back with horror—Grayling folds his arms and looks at Gwinett with an eye of malice.

Gwin.  Wretch! monster! what do you here? come you to glut your vengeance on my dying pangs?

Lucy.  Grayling, if e’er you felt one touch of pity, in mercy leave us, cheat me not of one moment, with—(Lucy lifts her hands imploringly to Grayling—his eye rests upon the ring on her finger.)

Gray.  (passionately.)  Thy husband?

Lucy.  Aye, my husband, I swore to be his and none but his—my oath was taken when the world looked brightly on us both—the world changed, but my oath remained; and here, but an hour since, within a prison’s walls, with none but hard-faced pitiless gaolers to behold our wretched nuptials; here I kept my vow—here I gave my hand to the chained, the despised, the dying Gwinett; and whilst I gave it, whilst I swore to love and honour the outcast wretched felon, I felt a stronger pride than if I’d wedded with an ermined king.  (embracing Gwinett; Grayling, who, during this speech, is become quite overpowered—by an effort rouses himself, exclaiming wildly—

Gray.  Tear them apart, gaoler, tear them apart, I say.

Bolt.  For shame! for shame, master Grayling, have you no pity?

Gray.  (incoherently.)  Pity—havn’t I to do my work—havn’t I to measure the culprit—havn’t I to—

Gwin.  Hold! hold! she knows not—spare her.

Gray.  Spare! and why should I spare?  Hasn’t she wirled, despised me? isn’t she Mrs. Lucy Gwinett, the wife of the murderer, Gwinett? hasn’t she spoken words that pierced me through and through? and why should I spare?—Felon, you know your sentence; come, let me measure you for the irons, that—

Gwin.  Wretch! heartless ruffian!

[As Grayling approaches Gwinett, he seizes the rod of iron held by Grayling, and they struggle—Gwinett throws Grayling down, and is about to strike him with the iron, when the prison bell tolls, Gwinett’s arm falls paralyzed; Grayling looks at him with malicious joy; Lucy sinks on her knees, raising her hands to heaven.  At this moment, a cry is set up without, “a reprieve! a reprieve!”—Officer, and neighbours enter.  L.  Grayling springing on his feet, tears the paper from the Officer’s hand, Lucy at the same time exclaims, “A reprieve! say—for Ambrose!”

Gray.  (eagerly.)  The murderer’s fate is—

Offi.  Death!

[The prison bell again tolls, Lucy falls to the earth, Gwinett sinks into a state of stupifaction, Grayling looks at him with an air of triumph; characters at the back lift their hands imploringly to heaven, and the Scene closes.—End of Act II.

ACT III.

SCENE I.—The Blake’s Head.

Enter Gilbert and Jenny, as landlord and landlady.  L.

Gil.  I tell thee, Jenny, I can’t help it; ever as this day comes round, I’m melancholy, spite of reasoning.

Jenny.  Well, well; but it’s so long ago.

Gil.  But not the less to be remembered—it is now eighteen years this very day, since poor Ambrose Gwinett died the death of a murderer!—I’m sure he was innocent—I’d lay my life on it.

Jenny.  But there’s no occasion to be so violent.

Gil.  I tell you I can’t think with calmness and speak on it.  A fine open hearted youth, and see the end of it.  Not one of his accusers but is come to shame.  Look at Grayling—Ned Grayling the smith—don’t good folks shake the head, and the little children point at him as he goes by—and then those two churls who scoffed at him, as he was on the road to death—has either of them had a good crop since?—havn’t their cattle died?—their haystacks took fire—with all kinds of mischief falling on them?

Jenny.  Yes, and poor Lucy.

Gil.  And there again; Lucy, Gwinett’s widow, though almost broken hearted—doesn’t she keep a cheerful face, and look smilingly—whilst her husband’s accusers are ashamed to shew their heads—I say again, I know he was innocent.  I know the true murderers will some day be brought to light.

Jenny.  I’m sure I hope they will; but in the mean time, we musn’t stand talking about it, or no one will come to the Blake’s Head.

Jenny.  Well I declare this is all waste of time—we’ve the house full of customers, and here we’re standing talking as—

Gil.  You know we used to do Jenny, some eighteen years ago; then I was waiter and ostler here, and you were dairy maid at squire—

Jenny.  Well that’s all past, where is the use of looking back.

Gil.  A great deal: when a man gets to the top of the hill by honest industry, I say he deserves to be taken by the neck and hurled down again, if he’s ashamed to turn about and look at the lowly road along which he once travelled.

Jenny.  Well, I didn’t mean that.

Gil.  No no, I know you meant no harm, Jenny—but you will talk—well I shall go and take a round.

Jenny.  You’re going to the meadow, at One-Tree-Farm to mope yourself to death.

Gil.  Why perhaps I may take a turn that way—but I shall be back soon—eh! who’s this?

Jenny.  Why it’s the servant of the rich old gentleman, from the Indies.

Gil.  Oh!—what he in the Dolphin?

Enter Label, dressed as servant.  L.  Jenny curtseys and Exit.  L.

Label.  Servant, Sir,—you are the landlord.

Gil.  Yes—hope your master slept well—I wasn’t at home last night when you put up, or I should have paid my respects:—he’s from India I hear.

Label.  From India!—and as rich, and as liberal as an emperor.

Gil.  You’ve been some time in his service, I suppose?

Label.  Some twelve years.

Gil.  Has he any friends in these parts?

Label.  He had when he left, or rather when he was dragged from this country, some eighteen years ago.

Gil.  Dragged from the country!

Gil.  I’ll attend him directly—and then I’ll go and take my melancholy round.

[Exit.  R.

Label.  Nobody knows me—no one sees the valet in the steward, the late Label, barber and doctor—and only think that I should meet with Master Collins—a man who was thought murdered—alive and flourishing in India—poor Gwinett—poor Ambrose—I have never had the courage to tell my master that sad story—he little thinks that an innocent man has been hanged on his account—somehow I wish I had told him—and yet what would have been the use; he couldn’t have brought the dead man alive again, and it would only have made him miserable.  But now he can’t long escape hearing the whole tale, and then what will become of me—no matter; I must put a bright face upon the business, and trust to chances.

[Exit.  R.

SCENE II.—View of Deal—the Sea.

Enter Gwinett.  L.—Grayling following, carrying portmanteau.

Gwin.  Unless my memory deceives me, yonder must be our path.

Gray.  That would have been the road once—but ’tis many years since that was blocked up.

Gwin.  I thought I could not be deceived.

Gray.  You are no stranger then to the town?

Gwin.  No; it is my native place—that is, I lived in it some years ago.—Have you been long here?

Gray.  Ever since I was born.

Gwin.  And are doubtless well acquainted with the history of most of its inhabitants.

Gray.  Aye, history, yes, I have seen proud knaves grovelling in the dust, and poor industry raised to wealth.

Gwin.  You, my friend, do not seem to have belonged to the fortunate class.

Gray.  No matter for that; but, Sir, take my word, you had better not put up at the Blake’s Head.

Gwin.  And why not?

Gray.  ’Tis full of company.  The judges are now in the town to try the prisoners.

Gray.  Murder!—no—’tis now eighteen years—eighteen years this very day since—

Gwin.  (abstractedly.)  Eighteen years—it is—it is the day.

Gray.  Oh you remember it then.

Gwin.  No, no; to your story.

Gray.  I was about to say it was eighteen years since the last execution for murder happened in these parts.

Gwin.  And the culprit’s name was—

Gray.  (fiercely.)  Gwinett—Ambrose Gwinett—ha! ha!

Gwin.  Were there not, if I remember rightly, some doubts of Gwinett’s guilt?

Gray.  Doubts!—There might have been among those who are touched with a demure look; but no, he was guilty—guilty of the murder—and I saw him die the death of an assassin.

Gwin.  Pray was not part of his sentence by some means evaded?

Gray.  It was.

Gwin.  I have heard but a confused account of the transaction.

Gray.  (eagerly.)  I can tell you the whole—every word of it.  He was sentenced to be hung in chains—another that was to suffer with him, was pardoned; so the murderer died alone.  Never shall I forget the morning.—Though eighteen years ago, it is now as fresh in my memory as though it was the work of yesterday: I saw the last convulsive struggle of the murderer—nay, I assisted in rivetting the irons on the corse—’twas hung at the destined spot; but, when the morning came, the body was not there.

Gwin.  Was no enquiry instituted?

Gray.  Yes; it was supposed the relations of the murderer had stolen the body to give it burial: the murderer’s uncle, and wife were examined—but after a time, no further stir was made.—Curse upon the trick, it cost me my bread.

Gwin.  How so?

Gray.  Why I was the prison-smith—had the irons fitted the corse, it must have been cut to pieces, ’ere it could have been removed.

Gwin.  Gracious heavens! your name is—

Gwin.  (snatching the portmanteau from him.)  Wretch! begone—you serve me not.

Gray.  Wretch! well, granted—it is true: I am a houseless, pennyless, broken-hearted wretch!  I have seen every earthly happiness snatched from me—I have sunk little by little, from an honest industrious man, to the poor crawling, famishing, drunkard—I am become hateful to the world—loathsome even to myself.  You will not then suffer me to be your porter?

Gwin.  No! begone.

Gray.  Well, ’tis all one; yet you might, I think, let a starving fellow creature earn a trifle.

Gwin.  Starving!

Gray.  I have scarcely broken bread these two days.

Gwin.  Unhappy creature—here—(gives money—Grayling offers to take portmanteau.) no, I will not trouble you.  Go, get food, and reform your way of life.

[Exit.  L.

Gray.  Reform! too late—too late.  Had I the will time would not let me; a few months—nay, weeks, days—and the passenger may pause at the lifeless corse of Grayling stretched in the highway.  Every eye looks scorn upon me—every hand shrinks at my touch—every head’s averted from me, as though a pestilence were in my glance.—Intemperance and fierce passion have brought upon me premature old age—my limbs are palsied, and my eyesight fails.—What’s this, alms—alms—won by wretched supplication? well, ’twill buy me a short forgetfulness—oblivion is now my only happiness.

[Exit.  L.

Enter Blackthorn and Will Ash.  R.

Black.  You were wrong to let him pass you: had you but watched my motions, he could not have escaped.

Ash.  But in the day time?

Black.  Day time! day is night if no one sees.  He’s gone to the Blake’s Head.

Ash.  Aye, I never pass the door, but my heart beats and my knees tremble.

Black.  What! hav’n’t eighteen years cured you of that trick?

Black.  Still whining, still complaining, what good could the money do to the dead?

Ash.  And what good has it done us? but let’s not talk about it.

Black.  That’s right, and now listen to me.  We must have a peep into that portmanteau.

Ash.  Impossible!

Black.  Not so, we’ll to the Inn: where can Grayling be?

Ash.  Not far off I warrant.

Black.  Well, no matter, we can even do this job without him; but one lucky hit and we are made men.

Ash.  Aye, this has been your cry year after year—luck!  I think I see our luck in every tree, and in every rope.

Black.  Well, farewell, for the present, but meet me round the lane, leading to the back part of the house.

Ash.  Round by the lane—no, that I can’t do: I must pass my wife and children’s graves—I have not dared to look upon them this many a day.

Black.  You refuse then?

Ash.  No; I’ll meet you, but for the path, that I’ll chuse myself.

[Exeunt R.

SCENE III.—Interior of the Blake’s Head.

Enter Lucy and Gilbert.  L.

Gil.  Nay, but you must see him; I promised you should.

Lucy.  You were wrong, good Gilbert, I cannot see him.

Gil.  No, ’tis you are wrong, Mrs. Lucy Gwinett, how do you know but he may bring you good news?

Lucy.  Can he make the dead live again?  Good news!

Gil.  Well, now for my sake, see the gentleman.

Lucy.  I cannot refuse you.  Heaven knows what would have been my fate, had I not found a friend—a protector in you.

Gil.  You’ll see him then?  Ah I knew you’d think better of it.  He’s a very pleasant kind of gentleman; and asked after you so earnestly, that I’m sure he cannot mean but kind.

Enter Grayling, (abruptly.)  L.

Well, and what do you want?

Gil.  I don’t know, but you do!—Is there nobody here that you are ashamed to gaze upon?

Gray.  No; I see nobody but you and Mrs. Lucy—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Lucy Gwinett.

Gil.  Villain!

Gray.  Thou liest—stop—there was a time, when at such a word, I’d seen thee sprawling at my feet; but now, I can’t tell how it is—I cannot strike thee.

Gil.  But I’ll tell you how it is—the title’s a just one—you feel it sink into your heart—and your arm is palsied; once more, leave my house.

Gray.  And why is my money not as good as a finer customer’s? why can’t you take my money?

[During this scene, Blackthorn and Ash enter behind P. S. and exeunt through door in flat.  R.

Gil.  Why, in truth, Grayling, I’m afraid ’tis gained by too foul a business.

Gray.  Ha! ha! the conscience of an innkeeper.

Gil.  Grayling, leave the house; at any time I’d sooner look upon a field of blighted corn, than see you cross my threshold; but on this day, beyond all—

Gray.  This day,—and why (sarcastically, and looking at Lucy.) oh, I had forgotten; yes, it is the very day—

Lucy.  Oh! good Gilbert.

Gil.  Stay but one moment longer, and as I am a man, I’ll send thee headforemost into the street.

Gray.  Fine words!

Gil.  We’ll try then.

(Gilbert is rushing at Grayling, when Lucy comes between them, Gwinett enters hastily at this moment, and starts on beholding Lucy; Grayling sees Gwinett, exchanges a look of defiance with Gilbert and Lucy, and goes sullenly off.  P. S.)

Gwin.  (aside.)  ’Tis she! oh, heavens! all my dangers are repaid.

Gil.  An unruly customer, Sir, that’s all—I’ll take care he does not disturb you.  (To Lucy.)  This is the gentleman who would speak to you.

Lucy.  Do not leave me.

[Exit R.

Gwin.  (aside.)  Let me be calm, lest too suddenly the secret burst upon her—she knows me not—time and peril have wrought this change.

Lucy.  You would speak to me, Sir?

Gwin.  I would, Madam; is there no one within hearing?

Lucy.  No one—but why such caution?

Gwin.  ’Tis necessary for the memory of one you once loved.

Lucy.  Whom mean you?

Gwin.  Ambrose!

Lucy.  Oh! in mercy speak not that name—I dare not breathe it to myself; once loved—oh! this agony—you probe into a breaking heart.

Gwin.  But not recklessly believe me.

Lucy.  Alas, what avails this now—let the dead rest unspoken of—break not the silence of my Gwinett’s grave.

Gwin.  His grave!

Lucy.  Oh! you wake a thousand horrors in my soul; he has no grave; they stole him from me—they robbed the widow of her last bitter consolation.

Gwin.  Perhaps it was the deed of friends.

Lucy.  Friends!—But to your errand, Sir, what would you say? speak it quickly, lest my reason desert me, and you talk to madness:—I was told you brought me comfort, I smiled at the word; it seems my unbelief was right.

Gwin.  I do bring you comfort—News of your husband.

Lucy.  Ah! perhaps, yes, I see it—you can tell me where they laid his cold remains—can lead me to his grave, where I may find a refuge too.—You weep, nay then I know your mission is one of kindness—of charily to the widow of that unhappy guiltless soul, who died a felon’s death on yonder hill.

Gwin.  I would speak of Ambrose—but, start not—he died not at the hour men think.

Lucy.  Died not?

Gwin.  As you loved your husband living, and weep him dead, I charge you conjure up all the firmness springing from woman’s love, nor let one sound or breath escape you to publish the sad history I’m about to tell.

Gwin.  Many years after, the whole world believed him dead—your husband lived.  (Lucy by a violent effort maintains her silence.)  You know ’twas thought the body had been stolen for interment.—Listen, I knew your husband—met him abroad: to me, he confided the secret of his escape; to me, he described the frightful scene—the thronging multitude—the agonies of death!  The dreadful ordeal past, the ministers of justice executed the remaining part of the sentence—the body was suspended in chains.  Whether it was from the inexperience of the executioner, or the hurried manner in which the sad tragedy was performed, I know not,—but your husband still lived—the fresh airs of night blew upon him, and he revived—revived and found himself hanging.—Oh! my blood thickens as I think upon the torture that was his—fortunately, the irons that supported him, hung loosely about him; by a slight effort he freed his limbs, and dropping to the earth, hastened with all speed, to another part of the coast, took ship and quitted England.

Lucy.  (incoherently.)  And I!—I not to know of this—unkind.

Gwin.  Often he strove to inform you—often wrote, but ne’er received an answer,—twelve years ago he set out, resolved to dare all hazards and seek you, when he was taken by the Moors and sold for a slave—I knew him whilst a captive.

Lucy.  And did he die in slavery—oh, your looks declare it—unhappy wretched Gwinett,—but no, happy, thrice happy, he died not on a scaffold.  Did he hope you would ever see his miserable widow?

Gwin.  He did, and gave me this locket—it contains your hair.

Lucy.  Oh, give it me—oh, well do I remember when I saw it last, Gwinett was gazing at it with tearful eyes, when the prison bell—oh, that sound! ’tis here still—I’m sick at heart.  (Falls on Gwinett’s shoulder.)

Gwin.  Still she knows me not—how to discover myself!—oh Lucy, what a ruin has sorrow made of thee.

Lucy.  (reviving.)  Ah!—what was that?—no no, I wander—yes, it is—(recognizing him.) oh heavens it is my husband! (falls into his arms.)

Gwin.  Within there—

assist me to remove her—she will recover shortly—come, madam.

[Exeunt.  R.

Enter Grayling cautiously.  R.

Gray.  So! no one here—I can see nothing of Blackthorn or Will Ash—well, all the better, I may be spared some mischief—and then how to live?—live, can I call this life—a dreadful respite from day to day—hunger and disgrace dogging my steps—what do I here?—there is a charm that holds me to this spot, and spite of the taunts, the rebukes that’s showered upon me, I cannot quit it, nor ever whilst Lucy is—eh! who have we here?

Enter Blackthorn and Will Ash cautiously from door in flat with Gwinett’s portmanteau.

Blackthorn!—Ash!

Black.  (whispering.)  Hush—not a word.

Gray.  What have you there?

Black.  Plunder, and good booty too I take it.

Gray.  And what would you do with it?

Black.  What!—that question from Grayling?—come let’s away.

Ash.  We cannot—the portmanteau will be missed, and we instantly pursued.

Black.  Stay—is there no surer way—I have it—we’ll even shake its contents a bit, and leave the trunk here—what say you, Grayling?

Gray.  As you will—I’m fit for any work.

Black.  Come then and assist—(puts portmanteau on table and opens it.) eh—he’s well provided—(takes out a pair of pistols and puts them on table.) ah!—here’s gold—(takes out purse.)  Dos’t hear it chink?—Grayling, come and assist, man.

Gray.  (approaching the table, and recognising portmanteau.)  Hold for your lives—you must not, shall not, touch this.

Black.  Eh!—how does the wind blow now?—and why not I pray?

Black.  Ah, this may be all very well.

Gray.  Blackthorn—Ash—dare but to lay a robber’s hand on a single doit, and I’ll alarm the house.

Black.  Tush.

Gray.  To the trial then.

(Grayling advances to table and seizes hold of part of the contents of the portmanteau from the hand of Blackthorn—they struggle—Blackthorn regains the purse and Grayling is about to pursue him, when his eye falls upon a packet of letters that still remains in his hand—he stands petrified—Blackthorn and Ash are about to go of at the opposite wings, when Label and Gilbert come in from behind, and each taking a pistol from table, come down and prevent the escape of the robbers—Grayling in a state of agitation unmindful of every thing but the papers, which he hastily looks over.)

Gil.  So my brave fellows, here you are—three knaves between a parenthesis of bullets.

Black.  Why what’s the matter? it’s all a mistake.

Gil.  A mistake—yes, I suppose you intended to be a very honest fellow, but by accident are become a convicted scoundrel.

Black.  Well,—there’s the money—now we’re clear.

Gil.  Clear!—and you, Grayling, are you not ashamed?—do you not fear the gallows?

Gray.  (madly.)  Gallows!—no, all was lost—good name—hopes—happiness—but yet I had revenge—I hugged it to my heart—’tis gone, and Grayling has nought to live for.

Gil.  Give me those papers.

Gray.  Did I say revenge was gone?—no, it rages again with redoubled fury—he shall not foil me—this time his death is sure.

Gil.  Unhappy wretch—give me those papers.

Gray.  Millions should not buy them, till they had served my purpose—oh, it all bursts on my maddened brain—relieved—pitied by him!—

Gil.  Grayling—yield ere your fate is certain.

Gray.  Never!

Gil.  Call in assistance.  (Label goes up stage and beckons on neighbours, &c.  Gwinett and Lucy come on.  L.)

There, secure the prisoner.

Offi.  Which is he?

Gil.  There—Grayling the robber.

Gray.  No—not Grayling the robber—but, there, Gwinett the convicted murderer.

Omnes.  Gwinett?

Gil.  Gwinett!—Ambrose Gwinett!—it can’t be.

Gwin.  It is even so, good Gilbert—though wonderful ’tis true.

Gil.  He’s innocent—I knew he was innocent—good friends—kind neighbours—let not this be spoken of—heaven has by a miracle preserved a guiltless man—you will all be secret—no one here will tell the tale.

Gray.  Yes—here is one.

Gil.  You will not be that wretch.

Lucy.  (falling at Grayling’s feet.)  Mercy! mercy!

Gray.  Are you there, Lucy Gwinett—think of my agonies—my hopes all blighted—my affections spurned—think of my sufferings for eighteen years—look at me—can you kneel before the ruin which your scorn has made—but now, new I triumph—seize upon the murderer.  (all indicate unwillingness.)  Nay then, I will proclaim the tale throughout the town.  (Is rushing up stage, when Gilbert seizes him by the throat.)

Gil.  You stir not a foot—if a murderer must be hanged, it shall be for strangling such a serpent.

Grayling and Gilbert struggle, Grayling throws Gilbert from him, and with the rest of the characters following, rushes up the stage.  As he is about to exit at back, the folding doors fly open, and Collins, an old grey-headed man, presents himself at the entrance; a general exclamation of “Collins” from all the characters who recoil in amazement.

Gray.  See—his ghost, the ghost of the victim rises from the grave to claim the murderer—I am revenged—I triumph—ha! ha! ha!

(falls exhausted.)

Col.  My friends.  Lucy.

Lucy.  My uncle!

Gwin.  He lives! he lives! the world beholds me innocent! beholds me free from the stain of blood!

Gil.  Master—oh! day of wonders!—the dead come back.

Col.  Wonders, indeed! Gwinett, ’tis but within this past half hour, I have heard the story of your sufferings.

Col.  Another time; it is a tedious story, the night you thought me killed, I had left my chamber to procure assistance to staunch a wound—scarcely had I crossed the threshold, than I was seized by a press-gang, and hurried—but see to yon unhappy man.

(They raise Grayling, who is dying; his face is pale, his eyes set, and his lips and hands stained as though he had burst a blood-vessel.)

Gray.  (seeing Collins.)  There still—not gone yet?

Col.  How fares it now, Grayling?

Gray.  And speaks—lives—then Gwinett, Gwinett the husband of Lucy—my Lucy, for I loved her first—is no murderer.

Lucy.  Grayling.

Gray.  Oh!  Lucy, that voice, my heart leaps to it—leaps to it as it did—but all’s past; Lucy, you will not curse me when I’m dead—there are those who will—but let them—you will not: the earth is sliding from beneath my feet—my eyes are dark—what are these?—tears—Lucy’s tears!—I am happy.

[Sinks backward.

DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN.