A Rough Diamond

BLEN. If you request me to leave the house, I can only obey.

MAR. No, no, you mustn’t go – take him to your husband and say right out, “My dear, this is my old sweetheart, and you must not be jealous, and though I did like him once, what o’ that? I’m your wife now, and he can only be a friend, and there’s no harm in a friend coming to see me.” Be upright and downright, my dear – it’s the best way – for where there’s nothing concealed nothing can pop out.

LADY P. There are positions that exact great discretion from us – that absolutely render concealment a necessity, if only to avoid those explanations and confessions that must lead to mortification, if not to unhappiness.

BLEN. May I not exchange one word with you?

LADY P. If you will then immediately leave me, defer your visit here till another day, and not expose me to an embarrassment that will be most painful. Where’s my lord?

MAR. I don’t know, aunt – he’s somewhere about.

LADY P. In the house?

MAR. I think so – talking over the state of the nation with my husband.

LADY P. I must seek him instantly. (to BLENHEIM) Pray do not follow me. (to MARGERY) Say nothing of this meeting, I beg.

BLEN. Listen to me but for one moment, and I will do all that you desire.

LADY PLATO goes up the Stage as if uncertain which way to go, till she hurries off by the R.H. door, followed by BLENHEIM.

MAR. Well, I say nothing, but if aunt really wants to find her husband she’s gone quite the wrong way, and I’m to say nothing about it. Well, I’m no tell-tale, but I don’t like it. (goes to the flower-stand, L.H., and trims the flowers) Lord bless us! what a deal o’ trouble people get themselves into when once they begin having secrets from one another.

COUSIN JOE appears at the back

JOE. This must be the house – I found the gate open, and the Nag’s Head told me this was Sir William’s, and he’s the gentleman that married my cousin, and – What, Margery! lord bless us!

MAR. What, Joe, is it you? how d’ye do, Joe? Well, I am glad to see you! (shakes hands heartily with JOE) More old friends meeting, but this is the best of all. Well, and how are you, cousin Joe?

JOE. Oh, I’m very well, thank ye!

MAR. What’s brought you here? come to see me?

JOE. Yes.

MAR. That’s right.

JOE. I’m going up to a place in London. You see, mother knows somebody there, and as I didn’t care much about farming, and always had a kind o’ sort o’ notion of being a bit of a gentleman, why, they said I was cut out for sarvice, and the end of it is, I’m going to London to be page to a fine lady.

MAR. Lord, Joe!

JOE. The very thing for a genteel youth like me, they say. I ain’t to wear these clothes then. No, I’m to be all over buttons, and have a hat with gold lace, and my hair is to be curled every morning, and I’m to carry letters in to missus on a silver plate, and walk arter her with the lap-dog in the street, and take care nobody’s sarcy to her.

MAR. Can’t you stop here a day or two before you go to your place? we would have such fun – for though my husband has often said that none of my family must come here, as he wanted me to forget all their ways, yet as you are here, I think I could coax him to let you stop. Sit down, Joe – here’s a chair. Well, and so – and how’s your mother?

JOE. Hearty.

MAR. And what’s the news? – tell me all you can think of. Has Tom Dixon married Lizzey Turvey yet?

JOE. No; they were going to be married only a week ago, and when they got to the church Tom took fright and ran all the way home again, and left Lizzey Turvey crying her eyes out at the porch door.

MAR. You don’t say so! Well, I always said Tom was a fool. Come close, Joe, don’t be shy – and, oh Joe! how comfortable this is, to have somebody to talk to in one’s own fashion! I do feel so free and easy again! Well, and tell me, Joe, is Dame Willows living?

JOE. No – died six months ago.

MAR. Did she leave all her money to her nephew, Jem Porter?

JOE. No, bless your life! Oh, there’s such work!

MAR. Come quite close – quite close, and tell me.

JOE. You see, Jem made sure of the money, and lived in such style – bought a horse and shay, and went to races, and played nine-pins – when, lo and behold! the old lady died and he found it was all left to a smooth-faced fellow that nobody never heard on, that got somehow or other into the old lady’s good books and she had it writ down. It was all because Jem one day kicked her favorite dog, that used to fly at everybody’s legs – now the dog’s gone to live with a baker, and Jem’s in prison for debt.

MAR. And Harry Bacon, what’s become of him?

JOE. Gone to sea, because Mary Brown took up with a tailor what opened a shop from London. And you recollect Tom Hammer the blacksmith?

MAR. Yes.

JOE. Well, if he ain’t gone and bought all Merryweather’s pigs I’m a Dutchman! And Merryweather’s gone to America, and the eldest daughter’s married Sam Holloway the cutler, and folks say it ain’t a good match, because he was a widow with three children all ready and she might have had Master Pollard the schoolmaster, and he’s gone and turned serious and won’t let the boys play at no games, and so they’re all going away to a new man that’ll let ’em do just what they like; and Will Twig has been found out stealing chickens, and he’s in prison; and Johnny Trotter the postman has opened a grocer’s shop; and they’ve pulled down the old parsonage and are building a new ’un; and the doctor’s got a large lamp over his door with big blue and red bull’s eyes; and there’s a new beadle, and all the parish children have got the hooping-cough, and Mrs. Jenkins’ cow’s dead, and – that’s all!

MAR. Oh, Joe! I can shut my eyes and see everything and everybody you’ve been talking about, oh so plain! and to see you again does seem so like old times.

JOE. And didn’t we have games? when you used to climb up the cherry-tree, and call out to me, “Joe, come and help me, or I shall tumble down and break something!”

MAR. Yes! and Joe, when my father used to take you and I to market, and we used to sit at the bottom of the cart and eat apples!

JOE. And when sometimes I used to try to give you a kiss, what knocks on my nose you used to give me!

MAR. Ah! didn’t I?

JOE. And when I got savage how I used to kick you wi’ my hob-nail shoes! Oh! how friendly we was – wasn’t we?

MAR. And how we did sing!

JOE. And dance!

MAR. And were so happy!

JOE. Oh, Margery!

MAR. Oh, Joe!

JOE catches her in his arms and kisses her – At the same moment, SIR WILLIAM and LORD PLATO appear at the back, and stand in astonishment.

SIR W. Heavens!

PLATO. Sir William!

MAR. (to JOE) Don’t go away – it’s only my husband.

SIR W. Who is this fellow, and what is he doing here?

JOE, still seated, stares at SIR WILLIAM and makes him a bow —SIR WILLIAM repeats the question.

MAR. It’s my cousin Joe. He was only giving me a kiss just now – and I was so glad to see him, and he was so glad to see me, that we – we couldn’t help it.

JOE. No, we couldn’t help it.

PLATO. Exceedingly ingenious!

SIR W. (to MARGERY) Oblige me by retiring to your room – and you, fellow, leave this place immediately.

MAR. Don’t send him away yet – we haven’t had half a talk together.

JOE. No, we haven’t had half a talk together.

MAR. Don’t you go, Joe.

JOE. I don’t mean to!

SIR W. Your conduct, Madam, is most unbecoming! you forget your station – you forget that you are my wife!

MAR. I’m sure I don’t, and I’m sure you take good care that I sha’n’t.

JOE. You take good care that she sha’n’t.

MAR. Hold your tongue, Sir! how dare you speak? I won’t be tethered so tight any longer, I can tell you – and I will be myself again! I’ve tried to be somebody else, and I can’t, and I’ll go and put on my old country clothes again – for I’ve no comfort in these – and then I can do as I like – kiss Joe, and you, and even that old gentleman – though I shouldn’t much like it.

JOE. (after staring at LORD PLATO) I shouldn’t like to kiss him.

PLATO. Really! (going up)

SIR W. Margaret, I – (turns sharply to JOE, who wears his hat) Take off your hat, Sir!

JOE. Eh?

SIR W. (pointing to his hat) Take off your hat, Sir!

MAR. I don’t want to quarrel, and I won’t quarrel, if you’ll only be kind to me; but I will be myself again, for since I’ve been married I feel as if my head, and my arms, and my legs were all put on the wrong way; and when I am myself again, if you don’t like me I had better go back to my father, he’ll be fond of me if you won’t – so come along, Joe!

She runs off, followed by JOE, L.H.

SIR W. I give it up! I can no longer pursue my darling theory – it’s all labour in vain!

PLATO. I told you so, my dear Sir William, I told you so when you described the humble person you were about to honor with your hand – that the union could not be a happy one.

SIR W. I admired her simplicity, her frankness – and I fondly imagined that if I could unite such qualities with education, with refinement, that I should create, as it were, a woman of perfection.

PLATO. You now perceive the error of your speculation – the inutility of striving to elevate humanity from its natural position. There must exist separate grades of society – the patrician, the commoner, and the plebeian – seek not to amalgamate, – the process may be very well in a railroad, but with human nature it must ever create incongruities. Where’s Lady P.? Ah, there! could you have found another woman like that, how different would have been your fate! Well, as we have discussed the state of the nation, I must seek her – she’s in the house, no doubt fatigued with her journey. Don’t look so downcast, Sir William, there’s no help for it now – make the best of a bad bargain, for it’s an excellent observation, that there’s no making a silk purse – I need say no more.

Exit at back.

SIR W. I am sorry, very sorry, to see this sad result of all my labour, and fear that much unhappiness is in store for both of us. How can I introduce my wife to society? how can I pass my leisure in the company of one so utterly uninformed, so incapable of conversation? Ah! my uncle is indeed happy! Blessed with a woman of intellect, whose natural graces harmonise so sweetly with her accomplishments, whose refinement is so exquisite, his life will pass like a dream of bliss – like a – Eh? (looking off R.H.U.E.) my friend Augustus with a lady? with my – no; yes, with my aunt! They are in earnest conversation – she seems embarrassed, is weeping – what does it mean? He clasps her hand, and she does not withdraw it – they come this way. I – I feel in a very awkward situation! I would not for the world let them be aware that I had seen them together – I had better retire, and not notice them. I will; I feel as if I had not the moral courage to face them. (he is about to go off at the back – he stops) They will see me if I go that way. I quite tremble! they’re here! I’ll conceal myself, and slip away as quickly as possible.

He passes behind the stand of flowers, L.H., and remains there unperceived by BLENHEIM and LADY PLATO, who enter R.H.D. at the same moment.

BLEN. Permit me at least to write occasionally to you.

LADY P. If you will bring every philosophical argument, every delicate sophistry, to prove that one may have a confiding friend to whom one may unfold the heart’s dearest secrets, every emotion of the soul, every joy, and every sorrow, not only with safety, but propriety, you may, if you are discreet, periodically correspond with me.

BLEN. Then I am happy! and, though my blighted hopes must ever be my theme, yet —

SIR WILLIAM steals from his place of concealment towards a statue near the door.

LADY P. Heavens! what’s that? I heard a footstep!

BLEN. ’Tis no one! – why are you so alarmed, so agitated?

LADY P. Leave me now! you have not been seen; go out again by the gate we saw near the shrubbery – it opens into the road. You returned here on foot?

BLEN. I did.

LADY P. Go then, I implore you! and, when you again arrive, no one need know that we have had this interview.

BLEN. Adieu! for the last time I press your hand to my lips!

Enter MARGERY, L.H.D., in the dress of a country girl

MAR. (entering) Now I am comfortable – now I do feel myself again! (seeing BLENHEIM and LADY PLATO) Oh!

BLENHEIM disappears, R.H.D. – LADY PLATO seems confused

– Oh! don’t mind me! I’m so glad I’ve caught you, though, for if such a well-behaved gentleman as that is, can kiss my aunt’s hand, there can be no harm in my cousin kissing me.

LADY P. Listen, my dear friend. I do not wish it to transpire that I have had an interview with the gentleman you saw just now – it would but cause explanations that must lead to disagreeables, and they had better be avoided. I shall therefore rely on your discretion.

MAR. On my what?

LADY P. Your keeping my secret.

MAR. Oh, I won’t tell, if you mean that.

LADY P. Where’s his lordship?

MAR. (pointing L.H.) With my husband.

LADY P. Remember!

MAR. But stop, Polly – wouldn’t it be better not to mind anybody knowing anything? because it don’t seem loving and cosy to be sly, and to be frightened every minute in case somebody should say something about somebody that would make somebody else angry, and get everybody into trouble, and set everybody quarrelling with everybody. I don’t like it, Polly dear! where there’s secrets there’s no happiness, and no love – ah! and no goodness, if you come to that.

LADY P. Dear Margery, I feel your reproof, sincerely feel it – oblige me but for this once, and never, never will I again place myself in a position that shall cause me to conceal one thought or action – I will not, indeed!

MAR. Then you’re a good girl, and I’ll do my best this time, because I know you’ll keep your word with me. Good bye for the present. (shakes hands with her)

Exit LADY PLATO at back.

– I just now felt so comfortable when I found myself once more in my old clothes, and was going to be so happy and so free, and now I’m in trouble again! I don’t like there being any secrets, and I know I’m the worst in the world to keep one – and as to my not telling about the Captain and my aunt having seen one another, I may try not to say a word, but it’s sure to slip out after dinner. What’s Polly afraid of? why does she want to make believe not to know her old sweetheart? and I’m to help her in the make believe! I don’t like it! and I feel now as if I had stolen something, and had got it in my pocket, and that somebody was coming to search me.

JOE. (without) I don’t care! I’m as good as you are, any day!

Enter JOE

MAR. Why, Joe, what’s the matter now?

JOE. What’s the matter? why, when you put me in that room full o’ pictur’s, and left me staring at ’em while you went to take off your grand clothes, your fine husband came in. “Hallo!” says he, “don’t stand in the chairs.” “How can I see the pictures if I don’t?” says I. “Sit down,” says he. Well, I did sit down – then he was at me again, and told me to go out of the room, and I said I shouldn’t – that my cousin had took me in, and neither he nor six of his servants should take me out.

MAR. That was wrong, Joe.

JOE. Then one word brought up another till I said something and then he said something, and then I said something, and then he took me by the collar of my coat and kicked me down stairs.

MAR. And served you just right.

JOE. Eh?

MAR. You had no business to be impudent to my husband, if you are my cousin. What did you say?

JOE. I didn’t say much, only he bothered me so that I up and called him —

MAR. What?

JOE. A d – d fool!

MAR. You did?

JOE. Yes; and why didn’t he come down and fight it out on the grass like a man? I’d ha’ soon ha’ ’molished him.

MAR. You would? and did you dare to call my husband names, and such a name? There, there, there, and there!

She seizes him by the collar with her left hand, and thrashes him with her right, and finishes by knocking his hat over his eyes, as SIR WILLIAM and LORD and LADY PLATO appear at the back.

– (running to SIR WILLIAM) I’m so glad you’ve come, my dear – he won’t behave bad any more, I can promise – I’ve given him such a thrashing!

JOE. I won’t come here again, I know! I came to see my cousin that was once so fond o’ me, only to bid her good bye, and I haven’t been in the house more nor half-an-hour, and I’ve been kicked and thumped about by everybody. I shall go to my new place with, a black eye, I know.

SIR W. My dear Margery, there was no necessity for being so severe with your cousin, I had sufficiently corrected him, though I must confess that I have not witnessed this proof of the openness of your heart, and the striking simplicity of your nature, without a feeling of gratification.

Enter BLENHEIM, at the back

BLEN. Ah, Sir William! I am afraid I am a little over my time. I beg your pardon – I was not aware you had strangers.

SIR W. (confused) My uncle, and – and his wife. I thought you might be already acquainted.

PLATO. And so we are, now I look again – ’tis Captain Blenheim, the son of an old friend. Allow me to introduce you to Lady Plato, my dear – you will be charmed to make the lady’s acquaintance.

LADY P. (curtseying with gravity) I shall at all times be delighted at an introduction to any friend of my husband.

SIR W. (aside) I’m perfectly astonished!

MAR. (aside) I couldn’t make believe like that.

PLATO. (to SIR WILLIAM) You see, my dear nephew! you perceive what sweetness, what refined obedience. Ah! a thousand pities you did not make such a selection; but, as we say in the classics – “a fronte præcipitium a tergo lupus,” – I need say no more.

SIR W. (aside) Indeed you needn’t! I am perfectly satisfied with my unfortunate choice. What dissimulation! (aloud) Margaret, my dear, will you kiss me?

MAR. Oh, won’t I? There!

SIR W. And there! (embracing her) You don’t want to kiss cousin Joe now, I hope?

JOE. I wouldn’t let her if she did.

MAR. Bless his heart! I think no more of kissing him than I should my grandmother – but he must not forget himself.

SIR W. I forgive him; and, if agreeable, he may remain and dine with us.

MAR. There, Joe, you may stay and dine with us if you will.

JOE. Well, then, I will; and I’ll be revenged on his wittels, if I can’t on him – ha, ha!

SIR W. (to MARGERY) And you are happier in your homely attire?

MAR. Oh, much happier! if only because ’twas what I wore when you first loved me.

SIR W. And you will be much happier still if I leave you to follow the dictates of your own heart and feelings, without the direction of masters or of books?

MAR. Oh, that I shall! yet I will try my hardest to be as you would wish me, if you but let me try in my own way; and I am sure, in time, you will not be ashamed of me. Don’t give me masters, don’t give me books, but when you want me to learn, teach me yourself– a loving word and gentle patience, and all from you, will make us both happy, and me I hope sincere. (to Audience) And, what will be better still, let but the Rough Diamond be firmly set in your golden opinion, and she will be sufficiently polished to shine as long as you will permit her.

CURTAIN