Arethusa. And you come in your sleep to look at them. O, poor father! I understand — I understand you now.

  Gaunt. In my sleep? Ay? do I so? My Hester!

  Arethusa. And why, why did you not tell me? I thought — I was like the rest! — I feared you were a miser. O, you should have told me; I should have been so proud — so proud and happy. I knew you loved her; but not this, not this.

  Gaunt. Why should I have spoken? It was all between my Hester and me.

  Arethusa. Father, may I speak? May I tell you what my heart tells me? You do not understand about my mother. You loved her — O, as few men can love. And she loved you: think how she loved you! In this world, you know — you have told me — there is nothing perfect. All we men and women have our sins; and they are a pain to those that love us, and the deeper the love, the crueller the pain. That is life; and it is life we ask, not heaven; and what matter for the pain, if only the love holds on? Her love held: then she was happy. Her love was immortal; and when she died, her one grief was to be parted from you, her one hope to welcome you again.

  Gaunt. And you, Arethusa: I was to bring her little maid.

  Arethusa. God bless her, yes, and me! But, father, can you not see that she was blessed among women?

  Gaunt. Child, child, you speak in ignorance; you touch upon griefs you cannot fathom.

  Arethusa. No, dearest, no. She loved you, loved you and died of it. Why else do women live? What would I ask but just to love my Kit, and die for him, and look down from heaven, and see him keep my memory holy and live the nobler for my sake?

  Gaunt. Ay, do you so love him?

  Arethusa. Even as my mother loved my father.

  Gaunt. Ay? Then we will see. What right have I — — You are your mother’s child: better, tenderer, wiser than I. Let us seek guidance in prayer. Good-night, my little maid.

  Arethusa. O father, I know you at last.

  SCENE II

  Gaunt and Arethusa go out L., carrying the candles. Stage dark. A distant clock chimes the quarters, and strikes one. Then the tap-tapping of Pew’s stick is heard without; the key is put into the lock; and enter Pew, C.; he pockets key, and is followed by Kit, with dark lantern

  Pew. Quiet, you lubber! Can’t you foot it soft, you that has daylights and a glim?

  Kit. All right, old boy. How the devil did we get through the door? Shall I knock him up?

  Pew. Stow your gab (seizing his wrist). Under your breath!

  Kit. Avast that! You’re a savage dog, aren’t you?

  Pew. Turn on that glim.

  Kit. It’s as right as a trivet, Pew. What next? By George, Pew, I’ll make your fortune.

  Pew. Here, now, look round this room, and sharp. D’ye see a old sea-chest?

  Kit. See it, Pew? why, d’ye think I’m blind?

  Pew. Take me across, and let me feel of her. Mum; catch my hand. Ah, that’s her (feeling the chest), that’s the Golden Mary. Now, see here, my bo, if you’ve the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, this girl is yours; if you hain’t, and think to sheer off, I’m blind, but I’m deadly.

  Kit. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head all the same. I’ll take threats from nobody, blind or not. Let’s knock up the Admiral and be done with it. What I want is to get rid of this dark lantern. It makes me feel like a housebreaker, by George.

  Pew (seated on chest). You follow this. I’m sick of drinking bilge, when I might be rolling in my coach, and I’m dog-sick of Jack Gaunt. Who’s he to be wallowing in gold, when a better man is groping crusts in the gutter and spunging for rum? Now, here, in this blasted chest, is the gold to make men of us for life: gold, ay, gobs of it; and writin’s too — things that if I had the proof of ‘em I’d hold Jack Gaunt to the grindstone till his face was flat. I’d have done it single-handed; but I’m blind, worse luck: I’m all in the damned dark here, poking with a stick — Lord, burn up with lime the eyes that saw it! That’s why I raked up you. Come, out with your iron, and prise the lid off. You shall touch your snack, and have the wench for nothing; ay, and fling her in the street, when done.

  Kit. So you brought me here to steal, did you?

  Pew. Ay did I; and you shall. I’m a biter: I bring blood.

  Kit. Now, Pew, you came here on my promise, or I’d kill you like a rat. As it is, out of that door! One, two, three (drawing his cutlass), and off!

  Pew (leaping at his throat and with a great voice). Help! murder! thieves!

  SCENE III

  To these, Arethusa, Gaunt, with lights. Stage light, Pew has Kit down, and is throttling him

  Pew. I’ve got him, Cap’n. What, kill my old commander, and rob him of his blessed child? Not with old Pew!

  Gaunt. Get up, David; can’t you see you’re killing him? Unhand, I say.

  Arethusa. In heaven’s name, who is it?

  Pew. It’s a damned villain, my pretty; and his name, to the best of my belief, is French.

  Arethusa. Kit? Kit French? Never.

  Kit (rising). He’s done for me. (Falls on chest.)

  Pew. Don’t you take on about him, ducky; he ain’t worth it. Cap’n Gaunt, I took him and I give him up. You was ‘ard on me this morning, Cap’n: this is my way — Pew’s way, this is — of paying of you out.

  Arethusa. Father, this is the blind man that came while you were abroad. Sure you’ll not listen to him. And you, Kit, you, what is this?

  Kit. Captain Gaunt, that blind devil has half-throttled me. He brought me here — I can’t speak — he has almost killed me — and I’d been drinking too.

  Gaunt. And you, David Pew, what do you say?

  Pew. Cap’n, the rights of it is this. Me and that young man there was partaking in a friendly drop of rum at the “Admiral Benbow” inn; and I’d just proposed his blessed Majesty, when the young man he ups and says to me: “Pew,” he says, “I like you, Pew: you’re a true seaman,” he says; “and I’m one as sticks at nothing; and damme, Pew,” he says, “I’ll make your fortune.” (Can he deny as them was his words? Look at him, you as has eyes: no, he cannot. “Come along of me,” he says, “and, damme, I’ll make your fortune.”) Well, Cap’n, he lights a dark lantern (which you’ll find it somewhere on the floor, I reckon), and out we goes, me follerin’ his lead, as I thought was ‘art-of-oak and a true-blue mariner; and the next I knows is, here we was in here, and him a-askin’ me to ‘old the glim, while he prised the lid off of your old sea-chest with his cutlass.

  Gaunt. The chest? (He leaps, R., and examines chest.) Ah!

  Pew. Leastways, I was to ‘elp him, by his account of it, while he nailed the rhino, and then took and carried off that lovely maid of yours; for a lovely maid she is, and one as touched old Pew’s ‘art. Cap’n, when I ‘eard that, my blood biled. “Young man,” I says, “you don’t know David Pew,” I says; and with that I ups and does my dooty by him, cutlass and all, like a lion-’arted seaman, though blind. (And then in comes you, and I gives him up: as you know for a fack is true, and I’ll subscribe at the Assizes. And that, if you was to cut me into junks, is the truth, the ‘ole truth, and nothing but the truth, world without end, so help me, amen; and if you’ll ‘and me over the ‘oly Bible, me not having such a thing about me at the moment, why, I’ll put a oath upon it like a man.)

  Arethusa. Father, have you heard?

  Gaunt. I know this man, Arethusa, and the truth is not in him.

  Arethusa. Well, and why do we wait? We know Kit, do we not?

  Kit. Ay, Captain, you know the pair of us, and you can see his face and mine.

  Gaunt. Christopher, the facts are all against you. I find you here in my house at midnight: you who at least had eyes to see, and must have known whither you were going. It was this man, not you, who called me up: and when I came in, it was he who was uppermost and who gave you up to justice. This unsheathed cutlass is yours; there hangs the scabbard, empty; and as for the dark lantern, of what use is light to the blind? and who could have trimmed and lighted it but you?

  Pew. Ah, Cap’n, what a ‘ed for argyment!

  Kit. And now, sir, now that you have spoken, I claim the liberty to speak on my side.

  Gaunt. Not so. I will first have done with this man. David Pew, it were too simple to believe your story as you tell it; but I can find no testimony against you. From whatever reason, assuredly you have done me service. Here are five guineas to set you on your way. Begone at once; and while it is yet time, think upon your repentance.

  Pew. Cap’n, here’s my respecks. You’ve turned a pious man, Cap’n; it does my ‘art good to ‘ear you. But you ain’t the only one. O no! I came about and paid off on the other tack before you, I reckon: you ask the Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called me on the quarter-deck before old Admiral ‘Awke himself (touching his hat), my old commander. (“David Pew,” he says, “five-and-thirty year have I been in this trade, man and boy,” that chaplain says, “and damme, Pew,” says he, “if ever I seen the seaman that could rattle off his catechism within fifty mile of you. Here’s five guineas out of my own pocket,” he says; “and what’s more to the p’int,” he says, “I’ll speak to my reverend brother-in-law, the Bishop of Dover,” he says; “and if ever you leave the sea, and wants a place as beadle, why, damme,” says he, “you go to him, for you’re the man for him and him for you.”)

  Gaunt. David Pew, you never set your foot on a King’s ship in all your life. There lies the road.

  Pew. Ah, you was always a ‘ard man, Cap’n, and a ‘ard man to believe, like Didymus the ‘Ebrew prophet. But it’s time for me to go, and I’ll be going. My service to you, Cap’n: and I kiss my ‘and to that lovely female. (Singing) —

  “Time for us to go,

  Time for us to go,

  And when we’d clapped the hatches on,

  ‘Twas time for us to go.”

  SCENE IV

  Kit, Arethusa, Gaunt

  Arethusa. Now, Kit?

  Kit. Well, sir, and now?

  Gaunt. I find you here in my house at this untimely and unseemly hour; I find you there in company with one who, to my assured knowledge, should long since have swung in the wind at Execution Dock. What brought you? Why did you open my door while I slept to such a companion? Christopher French, I have two treasures. One (laying his hand on Arethusa’s shoulder) I know you covet: Christopher, is this your love?

  Kit. Sir, I have been fooled and trapped. That man declared he knew you, declared he could make you change your mind about our marriage. I was drunk, sir, and I believed him: heaven knows I am sober now, and can see my folly; but I believed him then, and followed him. He brought me here, he told me your chest was full of gold that would make men of us for life. At that I saw my fault, sir, and drew my cutlass; and he, in the wink of an eye, roared out for help, leaped at my throat like a weasel, and had me rolling on the floor. He was quick, and I, as I tell you, sir, was off my balance.

  Gaunt. Is this man, Pew, your enemy?

  Kit. No, sir; I never saw him till to-night.

  Gaunt. Then, if you must stand the justice of your country, come to the proof with a better plea. What? lantern and cutlass yours; you the one that knew the house; you the one that saw; you the one overtaken and denounced; and you spin me a galley yarn like that? If that is all your defence, you’ll hang, sir, hang.

  Arethusa. Ah!... Father, I give him up: I will never see him, never speak to him, never think of him again; I take him from my heart; I give myself wholly up to you and to my mother; I will obey you in every point — O, not at a word merely — at a finger raised! I will do all this; I will do anything — anything you bid me; I swear it in the face of heaven. Only — Kit! I love him, father, I love him. Let him go.

  Gaunt. Go?

  Arethusa. You let the other. Open the door again for my sake, father — in my mother’s name — O, open the door and let him go.

  Kit. Let me go? My girl, if you had cast me out this morning, good and well: I would have left you, though it broke my heart. But it’s a changed story now; now I’m down on my luck, and you come and stab me from behind. I ask no favour, and I’ll take none; I stand here on my innocence, and God helping me I’ll clear my good name, and get your love again, if it’s love worth having. Now, Captain Gaunt, I’ve said my say, and you may do your pleasure. I am my father’s son, and I never feared to face the truth.

  Gaunt. You have spoken like a man, French, and you may go. I leave you free.

  Kit. Nay, sir, not so: not with my will. I’m accused and counted guilty; the proofs are against me; the girl I love has turned upon me. I’ll accept no mercy at your hands. Captain Gaunt, I am your prisoner.

  Arethusa. Kit, dear Kit — —

  Gaunt. Silence! Young man, I have offered you liberty without bond or condition. You refuse. You shall be judged. Meanwhile (opening the door, R.), you will go in here. I keep your cutlass. The night brings counsel: to-morrow shall decide. (He locks Kit in, leaving the key in the door.)

  SCENE V

  Gaunt, Arethusa, afterwards Pew

  Arethusa. Father, you believe in him; you do; I know you do.

  Gaunt. Child, I am not given to be hasty. I will pray and sleep upon this matter. (A knocking at the door, C.) Who knocks so late? (He opens.)

  Pew (entering). Cap’n, shall I fetch the constable?

  Gaunt. No.

  Pew. No? Have ye killed him?

  Gaunt. My man, I’ll see you into the road. (He takes Pew by the arm, and goes out with him.)

  SCENE VI

  Arethusa

  Arethusa. (Listens; then running to door, R.) Kit — dearest Kit! wait! I will come to you soon. (Gaunt re-enters, C., as the drop falls.)

  ACT IV

  The Stage represents the Admiral’s house, as in Acts I. and III. A chair, L., in front. As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark. Enter Arethusa, L., with candle; she lights another; and passes to door, R., which she unbolts. Stage light

  SCENE I

  Arethusa, Kit

  Arethusa. Come, dear Kit, come!

  Kit. Well, I’m here.

  Arethusa. O Kit, you are not angry with me.

  Kit. Have I reason to be pleased?

  Arethusa. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me.

  Kit. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant it kindly; but there are some kindnesses a man would rather die than take a gift of. When a man is accused, Arethusa, it is not that he fears the gallows — it’s the shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, the way to help was to stand to your belief. You should have nailed my colours to the mast, not spoke of striking them. If I were to be hanged to-morrow, and your love there, and a free pardon and a dukedom on the other side — which would I choose?

  Arethusa. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was not my life that was at stake, it was yours. Had it been mine — mine, Kit — what had you done, then?

  Kit. I am a downright fool; I saw it inside out. Why, give you up, by George!

  Arethusa. Ah, you see! Now you understand. It was all pure love. When he said that word — O! death and that disgrace!... But I know my father. He fears nothing so much as the goodness of his heart; and yet it conquers. He would pray, he said; and to-night, and by the kindness of his voice, I knew he was convinced already. All that is wanted is that you should forgive me.

  Kit. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that I’d forgive you piracy on the high seas. I was only sulky; I was boxed up there in the black dark, and couldn’t see my hand. It made me pity that blind man, by George.

  Arethusa. O, that blind man! The fiend! He came back, Kit: did you hear him? he thought we had killed you — you!

  Kit. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping company with such a swab.

  Arethusa. One thing puzzles me: how did you get in? I saw my father lock the door.

  Kit. Ah, how? That’s just it. I was a sheet in the wind, you see. How did we? He did it somehow.... By George, he had a key! He can get in again.

  Arethusa. Again? that man!

  Kit. Ay can he! Again! When he likes!

  Arethusa. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill my father.

  Kit. Afraid. I’m glad of that. Now, you’ll see I’m worth my salt at something. Ten to one he’s back to Mrs. Drake’s. I’ll after, and lay him aboard.

  Arethusa. O Kit, he is too strong for you.

  Kit. Arethusa, that’s below the belt! Never you fear; I’ll give a good account of him.

  Arethusa (taking cutlass from wall). You’ll be none the worse for this, dear.

  Kit. That’s so (making cuts). All the same, I’m half ashamed to draw on a blind man; it’s too much odds. (He leans suddenly against the table.) Ah!

  Arethusa. Kit! are you ill?

  Kit. My head’s like a humming top; it serves me right for drinking.

  Arethusa. Oh, and the blind man! (She runs, L., to the corner cupboard, brings a bottle and glass, and fills and offers glass.) Here, lad, drink that.

  Kit. To you! That’s better. (Bottle and glass remain on Gaunt’s table.)

  Arethusa. Suppose you miss him?

  Kit. Miss him! The road is straight; and I can hear the tap-tapping of that stick a mile away.

  Arethusa (listening). ‘St! my father stirring in his room!

  Kit. Let me get clear; tell him why when I’m gone. The door — — ?

  Arethusa. Locked!

  Kit. The window!

  Arethusa. Quick, quick! (She unfastens R. window, by which Kit goes out.)

  SCENE II