You have shown extraordinary courage for a girl of eighteen. Have you got any of that courage left?
MAG. I know what you would say. I must give up Frank; but I can't--(impetuously)--I won't give him up; no, not if a thousand fathers ask me!
CLARE. I am only one father--and, what's more, I don't ask you.
MAG. You don't? (advances as if to embrace him.)
CLARE (puts her back). Hug Frank, not me. I haven't done with you yet. Sit down and compose yourself.
MAG. Well, sir? (sinks into a seat, R.)
CLARE. Are you ready? Then listen to me. I don't ask you to give up Frank; I only ask you to wait. Will you bid him go to China? You hesitate. I don't pretend to enter into your feelings, I only state plain truths. It is one truth that you can't marry till you have money to support you, it is another that I can't give it to you, and that Frank's only chance of getting it is by setting off for China. Will you send him there?
MAG. (after a pause). Have pity, sir, a little pity on me. I have lost father, mother, fortune, and now, am I to lose him? You don't like women, I know, but try to help me with a little pity. I don't say it's not for his interests he should go there, I only say it's hard, it's very hard on me.
CLARE. I don't deny your case is a hard one, and I don't want to make it harder; but it's not the less true that the fortune you were to have brought him has suddenly changed hands, and----
MAG. (impetuously). And may change hands again!
CLARE. What do you say?
MAG. Well, nothing, sir; only my own thoughts.
CLARE. Hear me out. I can read the thoughts of both of you better than you can yourselves. Let Frank remain here, and only give him time enough to hug, pester, cry, and plead to you, and the end will be, you'll marry him.
MAG. (rising proudly). You don't know me, sir; you don't know how I love, and how I can suffer for your son. He shall never marry me till I can be what my father said I should be--the making of his fortune. He shall go, sir, if my heart breaks in bidding him; he shall go to-morrow. But, if I promise this, may I not ask something in return?
CLARE. Anything in reason.
MAG. He is to be absent for five years. (pausing) Suppose, sir, there should be some change for the better in that interval?
CLARE. Some change?
MAG. Suppose I should be able to come to him--as my father promised I should come--with my hands full, and not as they are now, empty--will you consent that he comes back before the five years are out?
CLARE. I will; but still, I should like to know your meaning.
MAG. Leave that to time.
CLARE. You have some scheme in your head, I fancy, in regard to Michael Vanstone; but it's hopeless.
MAG. It may be so.
CLARE. You will never soften that obdurate man, whose selfishness is hardened by old age and hatred. You will only waste your time, my child, you will only appeal to him to find that----
A SERVANT enters with card. SERVANT. A gentleman, Miss Magdalen, has just left this with kind inquiries.
MAG. (reading it). Captain Wragge.
[Exit SERVANT, C.
CLARE. Wragge! that fellow again!
MAG. Some distant connection, I think, of my mother's.
CLARE. Yes; who knew her secret, and made her bribe him with an annuity to keep it. A scamp of the first order, who has lived all his life on some imposture, and yet a fellow who is as full of talent as he is of necessities and vices.
MAG. (aside). Then he might be the man to aid me.
CLARE. And now we understand each other. You promise me that Frank shall set off for China to-morrow, and I promise you that if ever you are in a position to defend you both from beggary, that day he shall be summoned home. Good-bye, my child. Heaven bless you!
[Exit, C.
MAG. And I swear to both of you that he shall return, and speedily; that the wealth which has been torn from me, shall again come into my hands! (attitude of defiance, C. -- Music)
QUICK CURTAIN.
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ACT II. SCENE I.--The walk on the walls of York, in 1st grooves.
CAPTAIN WRAGGE enters, L., taking out his spectacles.
CAPTAIN WRAGGE. Now, I'm alone, let me see what is the substance of this handbill, which a traveler dropped at the station, and which I felt it my duty to pick up. (reads bill) "Fifty pounds reward." Come, that's a good beginning. "Left her home in London, on the morning of September the 23rd, a young lady"--Oho, a case of elopement, I suppose--"age, eighteen; dress," um, um; "personal appearance," um, um; "name on under-clothing, Magdalen Vanstone!" Why it can't be possible--and yet it is. "Supposed to have joined, or to be on her way to join, a theatrical company at York." At York? Why, then, she is here, "Information to be given to Pendril, Guilt and Guilt," um, um. Well, now, really, how very kind of her, to make up her mind to run away, and to run to this particular city, where she will enable me to pocket a sum which I am so particularly in need of. This is a family matter--a family matter; my connection with her mother's blood gives me the right to look on this poor girl in the light of a relation; yes, in the light of a sort of niece, and under that conviction I must consider this affair in all its bearings. Let me see, now, three courses are before me; the first is, to do nothing in this matter. Inadmissible for fifty reasons. The second is, to deserve the gratitude of my niece's friends according to terms of handbill. The third is, to warn my niece, and deserve her own gratitude instead. The second seems the safest course, and yet, the last might be the best. There's fifty pounds if I betray her; she might give me a hundred if I didn't. It's really a difficult question, and considering the relation that I stand in, that of the poor girl's sort of uncle, it's a struggle that's very painful. There is only one thing to be done, I must go to her--but where? Not at the theatre, it's not open yet; not at the Minster, that must be closed; not at the hotels, she'd never stop at those places; nor in the streets, she'd never stop there.