ACT III.
SCENE.--_A garret-room_. MATTIE. SUSAN.
_Mat_. At the worst we've got to die some day, Sue, and I don't know but
hunger may be as easy a way as another.
_Sus_. I'd rather have a choice, though. And it's not hunger I would
choose.
_Mat_. There are worse ways.
_Sus_. Never mind: we don't seem likely to be bothered wi' choosin'.
_Mat_. There's that button-hole done. (_Lays down her work with a
sigh, and leans bade in her chair_.)
_Sus_. I'll take it to old Nathan. It'll be a chop a-piece. It's
wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up.
_Mat_. I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content
with bread, I think.
_Sus_. Bread, indeed!
_Mat_. Well, it's something to eat.
_Sus_. Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone?
_Mat_. Bread's very good with a cup of tea.
_Sus_. Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!--If you'd
mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now!
_Mat_. I never tasted lobster-salad.
_Sus_. I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don't care
about your wittles: _I_ do. When I'm hungry, I'm not at all comfortable.
_Mat_. Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard.
_Sus_. I _can't_ eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain't dyin' of
'unger. It's only I'm peckish. _Very_ peckish, though. I could eat--let
me see what I _could_ eat:--I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen
oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken--if it
was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it--and a Bath-bun, and a
sandwich; and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except just that
crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle of
champagne.
_Mat_. I don't know what one of those things tastes like--scarce one;
and I don't believe you do either.
_Sus_. Don't I?--I never did taste champagne, but I've seen them eating
lobster-salad many a time;--girls not half so good-lookin' as you or me,
Mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. Oh dear! I _am_ so
hungry! Think of having your supper with a real gentleman as talks to
you as if you was fit to talk to--not like them Jew-tailors, as tosses
your work about as if it dirtied their fingers--and them none so clean
for all their fine rings!
_Mat_. I saw Nathan's Joseph in a pastrycook's last Saturday, and a very
pretty girl with him, poor thing!
_Sus_. Oh the hussy to let that beast pay for her!
_Mat_. I suppose she was hungry.
_Sus_. I'd die before I let a snob like that treat _me_. No, Mattie! I
spoke of a _real_ gentleman.
_Mat_. Are you sure you wouldn't take Nathan's Joseph for a gentleman if
he was civil to you?
_Sus_. Thank you, miss! I know a sham from a real gentleman the moment I
set eyes on him.
_Mat_. What do you mean by a real gentleman, Susan?
_Sus_. A gentleman as makes a lady of his girl.
_Mat_. But what sort of lady, Sue? The poor girl may fancy herself a
lady, but only till she's left in the dirt. That sort of gentleman makes
fine speeches to your face, and calls you horrid names behind your back.
Sue, dear, don't have a word to say to one of them--if he speaks ever so
soft.
_Sus_. Lawks, Mattie! they ain't all one sort.
_Mat_. You won't have more than one sort to choose from. They may be
rough or civil, good-natured or bad, but they're all the same in this,
that not one of them cares a pin more for you than if you was a
horse--no--nor half a quarter so much. Don't for God's sake have a word
to say to one of them. If I die, Susan--
_Sus_. If you do, Matilda--if you go and do that thing, I'll take to
gin--that's what I'll do. Don't say I didn't act fair, and tell you
beforehand.
_Mat_. How can I help dying, Susan?
_Sus_. I say, Don't do it, Mattie. We'll fall out, if you do. Don't do
it, Matilda--La! there's that lumping Bill again--_al_ways a comin' up
the stair when you don't want him!
_Enter_ BILL.
_Mat_. Well, Bill, how have you been getting on?
_Bill_. Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can't go on so. (_Holds out his
stool_.) It ain't respectable.
_Mat_. What ain't respectable? Everything's respectable that's honest.
_Bill_. Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin' about with a
three-legged stool for a blackin' box? It ain't the thing. The rig'lars
chaffs me fit to throw it at their 'eads, they does--only there's too
many on 'em, an' I've got to dror it mild. A box I must have, or a
feller's ockypation's gone. Look ye here! One bob, one tanner, and a
joey! There! that's what comes of never condescending to an 'a'penny.
_Sus_. Bless us! what mighty fine words we've got a waitin' on us!
_Bill_. If I 'ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it's for the right word in
the right place--as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him
up for purfane swearin'.--When a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, I
axes him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige me by givin'
of it to the first beggar he may 'ave the good fort'n to meet. _Some_
on 'em throws down the 'a'penny. Most on 'em makes it a penny.--But I
say, Mattie, you don't want nobody arter you--do you now?
_Mat_. I don't know what you mean by that, Bill.
_Bill_. You don't want a father--do you now? Do she, Susan?
_Sus_. We want no father a hectorin' here, Bill. You 'ain't seen one
about, have you?
_Bill_. I seen a rig'lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow.
_Mat_. What do you mean, Bill? Bill. A rig'lar swell--I repeats it--a
astin' arter a young woman by the name o' Mattie.
_Sus_. (_pulling him aside_). Hold your tongue, Bill! You'll kill her!
You young viper! Hold your tongue, or I'll twist your neck. Don't you
see how white she is?
_Mat_. What was he like? Do tell me, Bill.
_Bill_. A long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane with
a hivory 'andle.
_Sus_. He's a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can't abide him. If you tell him
where she is, she'll never speak to you again.
_Mat_. Oh, Susan! what _shall_ I do? Don't bring him here, Bill. I shall
have to run away again; and I can't, for we owe a week's rent.
_Sus_. There, Bill!
_Bill_. Don't you be afeard, Mattie. He shan't touch you. Nor the old
one neither.
_Mat_. There wasn't an old man with him?--not an old man with a long
stick?
_Bill_. Not with _him_. Daddy was on his own hook?
_Mat_. It must have been my father, Susan. (_Sinks back on her chair_.)
_Sus_. 'Tain't the least likely.--There, Bill! I always said you was no
good! You've killed her.
_Bill_. Mattie! Mattie! I didn't tell him where you was.
_Mat_. (_reviving_). Run and fetch him, Bill--there's a dear! Oh! how
proud I've been! If mother did say a hard word, she didn't mean it--not
for long. Run, Bill, run and fetch him.
_Bill_. Mattie, I was a fetchin' of him, but he wouldn't trust me. And
didn't he cut up crusty, and collar me tight! He's a game old cock--he
is, Mattie.
_Mat_. (_getting up and pacing about the room_). Oh, Susan! my heart'll
break. To think he's somewhere near and I can't get to him! Oh my side!
_Don't_ you know where he is, Bill?
_Bill_. He's someveres about, and blow me if I don't, find him!--a
respectable old party in a white pinny, an' 'peared as if he'd go on a
walkin' till he walked hisself up staudin'. A scrumptious old party!
_Mat_. Had he a stick, Bill?
_Bill_. Yes--a knobby stick--leastways a stick wi' knobs all over it.
_Mat_. That's him, Susan!
_Bill_. I could swear to the stick. I was too near gittin' at the taste
on it not to know it again.
_Mat_. When was it you saw him, Bill?
_Bill_. Yesterday, Mattie--jest arter you give me the tart. I sawr him
again this mornin', but he wouldn't place no confidence in me.
_Mat_. Oh dear! Why didn't you come straight to me, Bill?
_Bill_. If I'd only ha' known as you wanted him! But that was sech a
_un_likely thing! It's werry perwokin'! I uses my judgment, an' puts
my hoof in it! I _am_ sorry, Mattie. But I didn't know no better
(_crying_).
_Mat_. Don't cry, Bill. You'll find him for me yet--won't you?
_Bill_. I'm off this indentical minute. But you see--
_Sus_. There! there!--now you mizzle. _I_ don't want no fathers
here--goodness knows; but the poor girl's took a fancy to hers, and
she'll die if she don't get him. Run now--there's a good boy! (_Exit_
BILL.) You 'ain't forgotten who's a comin', Mattie?
_Mat_. No, indeed.
_Sus_. Well, I hope she'll be civil, or I'll just give her a bit of my
mind.
_Mat_. Not enough to change hers, I'm afraid. That sort of thing never
does any good.
_Sus_. And am I to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs, and sayin' _yes, ma'am_,
an' _no, ma'am_? Not if I knows it, Matilda!
_Mat_. You will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of
us.
_Sus_. An' what's that to me?
_Mat_. Well, I don't like to be thought a thief. Besides, Mrs. Clifford
has been kind to us.
_Sus_. She's paid us for work done; so has old Nathan.
_Mat_. Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took home
his slops?
_Sus_. Oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she takes it out in
kingdom-come.
_Mat_. You're unfair, Susan.
_Sus_. Well, it's little fairness I get.
_Mat_. And to set that right you're unfair yourself! What you call
speaking your mind, is as cheap, and as nasty, as the worst shoddy old
Nathan ever got gobble-stitched into coats and trousers.
_Sus_. Very well, Miss Matilda! (_rising and snatching her bonnet_). The
sooner we part the better! You stick by your fine friends! I don't care
_that_ for them! (_snapping her fingers_)--and you may tell 'em so! I
can make a livin' without them or you either. Goodness gracious knows it
ain't much of a livin' I've made sin' I come across _you_, Miss! _Exit_.
_Mat (_trying to rise_). Susan! Susan! (_Lays her head on the table_).
_A tap at the door, and enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD, _with_ JAMES _behind_.
MATTIE _rises_.
_Mrs. C._ Wait on the landing, James.
_James_. Yes, ma'am.
_Exit_ JAMES, _leaving the door a little ajar_.
_Mrs. C._ Well, Miss Pearson! (_Mattie offers a chair_.) No, thank you.
That person is still with you, I see!
_Mat_. Indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl.
_Mrs. C._ She is a low creature, and capable of anything. I advise you
to get rid of her.
_Mat_. Was she rude on the stair, ma'am?
_Mrs. C._ Rude! Vulgar--quite vulgar! Insulting!
_Mat_. I am very sorry. But, believe me, ma'am, she is an honest girl,
and never pawned that work. It was done--every stitch of it; and the
loss of the money is hard upon us too. Indeed, ma'am, she did lose the
parcel.
_Mrs. C._ You have only her word for it. If you don't give _her_ up, I
give _you_ up.
_Mat_. I can't, ma'am. She might go into bad ways if I did.
_Mrs. C._ She can't well get into worse. Her language! You would do ever
so much better without her.
_Mat_. I daren't, ma'am. I should never get it off my conscience.
_Mrs. C._ Your conscience indeed! (_rising_). I wish you a good morning,
Miss Pearson.--(_Sound of a blow, followed by scuffling_.)--What is
that? I fear I have got into an improper place.
SUSAN _bursts in_.
_Sus_. Yes, ma'am, and that you have! It's a _wery_ improper place for
the likes o' you, ma'am--as believes all sorts o' wicked things of
people as is poor. Who are you to bring your low flunkies a-listenin'
at honest girls' doors! (_Turning to James in the doorway_.) Get out,
will you? Let me catch you here again, and I'll mark you that the devil
wouldn't know his own! You dirty Paul Pry--you! (_Falls on her knees to
Mattie_.) Mattie, you angel!
_Mat_. (_trying to make her get up_) Never mind. It's all right between
you and me, Susan.
_Mrs. C._ I see! I thought as much!
_Sus_. (_starting up_) As much as what, then, my lady? Oh, _I_ know you
and your sort--well enough! We're the dirt under your feet--lucky if we
stick to your shoes! But this room's mine.
_Mrs. C._ That linen was mine, young woman, I believe.
_Sus_. An' it's for that miserable parcel you come a-talkin', an'
abusin' as no lady ought to! How dare you look that angel in the face
there an' say she stole it--which you're not fit to lace her boots for
her! There!
_Mat_. Susan! Susan! do be quiet.
_Sus_. It's all very well for the likes o' me (_courtesying
spitefully_)--which I'm no better'n I should be, and a great deal worse,
if I'm on my oath to your ladyship--that's neither here nor there!--but
_she's_ better'n a van-load o' sich ladies as you, pryin' into other
people's houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' yer flunkies!
_I_ know ye! I _do_!
_Mat_. Don't, Susan.
_Sus_. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye
good manners? I been better brought up myself.
_Mrs. C._ I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the matter
over to the police.
_Sus_. The perlice, indeed!--You get out of this, ma'am, or I'll make
you!--you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in
the face through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with
your--_insolence_--that's your word!
_Exit_ MRS. CLIFFORD.
_Mat_. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us?
_Sus_. She daren't do it--the old scrooge! But just let her try it on!
See if I don't show her up afore the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work ray
fingers to the bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let me.
I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger,
which it's as true as gospel.
_Mat_. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey.
_Sus_. There _must_ be some good people somewheres, Mattie.
_Mat_. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, Sukey.
_Sus_. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women ha' done it afore.
It's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out--and they
shouldn't me. There's ne'er a one o' the redcoats 'ill cut up rougher
'n I shall--barrin' the beard, and _that_ don't go for much now-a-days.
_Mat_. And what should I do without you, Susan?
_Sus_. Do you care to have me, then?
_Mat_. That I do, indeed. But you shouldn't have talked like that to
Mrs. Clifford. Ladies ain't used to such words. They sound worse than
they are--quite dreadful, to them. She don't know your kind heart as I
do. Besides, the _look_ of things is against us. Ain't it now? Say
yourself.
_Sus_. (_starting up_) I'll go and beg her pardon. I'll go direckly--I
will. I swear I will. I can't abear her, but I'll do it. I believe
hunger has nigh drove me mad.
_Mat_. It takes all the madness out of me.--No, Susan; we must bear it
now. Come along. We can be miserable just as well working. There's your
sleeve. I'll thread your needle for you. Don't cry--there's a dear!
_Sus_. I _will_ cry. It's all I ever could do to my own mind, and it's
all as is left me. But if I could get my claws on that lovyer o' yours,
I wouldn't cry then. He's at the bottom of it! I don't see myself what's
the use of fallin' in love. One man's as much of a fool as another to
me. But you must go to bed. You ain't fit. You'll be easier when you've
got your frock off. There! Why, child, you're all of a tremble!--And no
wonder, wi' nothing on her blessed body but her frock and her shimmy!
_Mat_. Don't take off my frock, Sue. I must get on with my work.
_Sus_. Lie down a bit, anyhow. I'll lie at your back, and you'll soon be
as warm's a toast. (MAT. _lies down_.) O Lord! she's dead! Her heart's
stopped beatin'. (_Runs out of the room_.)
_A moment of silence. A tap at the door_.
CONSTANCE _peeps in, then enters, with a basket_.
_Con_. Miss Pearson!--She's asleep. (_Goes near_.) Good heavens!
(_Lays her hand on her_.) No. (_Takes a bottle from her basket, finds
a cup, and pours into it_.) Take this, Miss Pearson; it will do you
good. There now! You'll find something else in the basket.
_Mat_. I don't want anything. I had so nearly got away! Why did you
bring me back?
_Con_. Life is good!
_Mat_. It is _not_ good. How dare you do it? Why keep a miserable
creature alive? Life ain't to us what it is to you. The grave is the
only place _we_ have any right to.
_Con_. If I could make your life worth something to you--
_Mat_. You make my life worth to me! You don't know what you're saying,
miss. (_Sitting up_.)
_Con_. I think I do.
_Mat_. I will _not_ owe my life to you. I _could_ love you, though--your
hands are so white, and your look so brave. That's what comes of being
born a lady. We never have a chance.
_Con_. Miss Pearson--Mattie, I would call you, if you wouldn't be
offended--
_Mat_. Me offended, miss!--I've not got life enough for it. I only want
my father and my mother, and a long sleep.--If I had been born rich--
_Con_. You might have been miserable all the same. Listen, Mattie. I
will tell you _my_ story--I was once as badly off as you--worse in some
ways--ran about the streets without shoes to my feet, and hardly a frock
to cover me.
_Mat_. La, miss! you don't say so! It's not possible! Look at you!
_Con_. Indeed, I tell you the truth. I know what hunger is too--well
enough. My father was a silkweaver in Spitalfields. When he died, I
didn't know where to go. But a gentleman--
_Mat_. Oh! a gentleman!--(_Fiercely_.) Why couldn't you be content with
_one_, then?
_Con_. I don't understand you.
_Mat_. I dare say not! There! take your basket. I'll die afore a morsel
passes _my_ lips. There! Go away, miss.
_Con_. (_aside_). Poor girl! she is delirious. I must ask William to
fetch a doctor. _Exit_.
_Mat_. I wish my hands were as white as hers.
_Enter_ SUSAN, _followed by_ COL. G. CONSTANCE _behind_.
_Sus_. Mattie! dear Mattie! this gentleman--don't be vexed--I couldn't
help him bein' a gentleman; I was cryin' that bad, and I didn't see no
one come up to me, and when he spoke to me, it made me jump, and I
couldn't help answerin' of him--he spoke so civil and soft like, and
me nigh mad! I thought you was dead, Mattie. He says he'll see us
righted, Mattie.
_Col. G._ I'll do what I can, if you will tell me what's amiss.
_Sus_. Oh, everything's amiss--everything!--Who was that went out,
Mattie--this minute--as we come in?
_Mat_. Miss Lacordère.
_Sus_. Her imperence! Well! I should die of shame if I was her.
_Mat_. She's an angel, Susan. There's her basket. I told her to take
it away, but she would leave it.
_Sus_. (_peeping into the basket_). Oh, my! Ain't this nice? You
_must_ have a bit, Mattie.
_Mat_. Not one mouthful. You wouldn't have me, Susan!
_Sus_. _I_ ain't so peticlar (_eating a great mouthful_). You really
must, Mattie. (_Goes on eating_.)
_Col. G._ Don't tease her. We'll get something for her presently. And
don't you eat too much--all at once.
_Sus_. I think she'd like a chop, sir.--There's that boy, Bill,
again!--Always when he ain't wanted!
_Enter_ BILL.
_Bill_ (_aside to Susan_). What's the row? What's that 'ere gent up
to? I've been an' had enough o' gents. They're a bad lot. I been too
much for one on 'em, though. I ha' run _him_ down.--And, Mattie, I've
found the old gen'leman.
_Mat_. My father, Bill?
_Bill_. That's it percisely! Right as a trivet--he is!
_Mat_. Susan! take hold of me. My heart's going again.
_Bill_. Lord! what's up wi' Mattie? She do look dreadful.
_Sus_. You been an' upset her, you clumsy boy! Here--run and fetch a
sausage or two, and a--
_Col. G._ No, no! That will never do.
_Sus_. Them's for Bill and me, sir. I was a goin' on, sir.--And, Bill,
a chop--a nice chop. But Lord! how are we to cook it, with never a
fryin'-pan, or a bit o' fire to set it on!
_Col. G._ You'd never think of doing a chop for an invalid in the
frying-pan?
_Sus_. Certainly not, sir--we 'ain't got one. Everything's up the
spout an' over the top. Run, Bill. A bit of cold chicken, and two
pints o' bottled stout. There's the money the gen'leman give me.--'T
'ain't no Miss Lackodare's, Mattie.
_Bill_. I'll trouble no gen'leman to perwide for _my_ family--obleeged
all the same, sir. Mattie never wos a dub at dewourin', but I'll get
her some'at toothsome. I favours grub myself.
_Col. G._ I'll go with you, Bill. I want to talk to you.
_Bill_. Well, I 'ain't no objection--so be you wants to talk friendly,
sir.
_Col. G._ Good night. I'll come and see you to-morrow.
_Sus_. God bless you, sir. You've saved both on our lives. I _was_ a
goin' to drown myself, Mattie--I really was this time. Wasn't I, sir?
_Col. G._ Well, you looked like it--that is all I can say. You shall
do it next time--so far as I'm concerned.
_Sus_. I won't never no more again, sir--not if Mattie don't drive me
to it.
_Con_. (_to_ COL. G.). Come back for me in a little while.
_Col. G._ Yes, miss. Come, Bill. _Exit_.
_Bill_. All right, sir. I'm a follerin', as the cat said to the
pigeon. _Exit_.
_Sus_. I'll just go and get you a cup o' tea. Mrs. Jones's kettle's
sure to be a bilin'. That's what you would like.
_Exit_. Constance steps aside, and Susan passes without seeing her_.
_Mat_. Oh! to be a baby again in my mother's arms! But it'll soon be
over now.
CONSTANCE _comes forward_.
_Con_. I hope you're a little better now?
_Mat_. You're very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon for speaking to
you as I did.
_Con_. Don't say a word about it. You didn't quite know what you were
saying. I'm in trouble myself. I don't know how soon I may be worse
off than you.
_Mat_. Why, miss, I thought you were going to be married!
_Con_. No, I am not.
_Mat_. Why, miss, what's happened. He's never going to play _you_
false--is he?
_Con_. I don't mean ever to speak to him again?
_Mat_. What has he done to offend you, miss?
_Con_. Nothing. Only I know now I don't like him. To tell you the
truth, Mattie, he's not a gentleman.
_Mat_. Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so?
_Con_. Do _you_ know anything about him? Did you ever see him?
_Mat_. Yes.
_Con_. Where?
_Mat_. Once at your house.
_Con_. Oh! I remember--that time! I begin to--It couldn't be at the
sight of him you fainted, Mattie?--You knew him? Tell me! tell me!
Make me sure of it.
_Mat_. To give you your revenge! No. It's a mean spite to say he ain't
a gentleman.
_Con_. Perhaps you and I have different ideas of what goes to make a
gentleman.
_Mat_. Very likely.
_Con_. Oh! don't be vexed, Mattie. I didn't mean to hurt you.
_Mat_. Oh! I dare say!
_Con_. If you talk to me like that, I must go.
_Mat_. I never asked you to come.
_Con_. Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I wouldn't hurt you
for the world.
_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) I beg your pardon, miss. I'm behaving
like a brute. But you must forgive me; my heart is breaking.
_Con_. Poor dear! (_kissing her_) So is mine almost. Let us be
friends. Where's Susan gone?
_Mat_. To fetch me a cup of tea. She'll be back directly.
_Con_. Don't let her say bad words: I can't bear them. I think it's
because I was so used to them once--in the streets, I mean--not at
home--never at home.
_Mat_. She don't often, miss. She's a good-hearted creature. It's only
when hunger makes her cross. She don't like to be hungry.
_Con_. I should think not, poor girl!
_Mat_. Don't mind what she says, please. If you say nothing, she'll
come all right. When she's spoken her mind, she feels better. Here she
comes!
_Re-enter_ SUSAN. _It begins to grow dark_.
_Sus_. Well, and who have we got here?
_Mat_. Miss Lacordère, Sukey.
_Sus_. There's no lack o' dare about _her_, to come here!
_Mat_. It's very kind of her to come, Susan.
_Sus_. I tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole. It _was_ stole,
miss!--stole from me--an' that angel there a dyin' in the street!
_Con_. I'm quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought anything else.
_Sus_. Not but I allow it was a pity, miss!--I'm very sorry. But,
bless you! (_lighting a candle_)--with all _your_ fine clothes--! My!
you look like a theayter-queen--you do, miss! If you was to send
_them_ up the spout now!--My! what a lot they'd let you have on that
silk!
_Con_. The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe. It's an Indian
one--all needlework.
_Sus_. And the bee-utiful silk! Laws, miss! just shouldn't I like to
wear a frock like that! I _should_ be hard up before I pledged _that_!
But the shawl! If I was you, miss, I would send 'most everything up
before that!--things inside, you know, miss--where it don't matter so
much.
_Con_. (_laughing_) The shawl would be the first thing I should part
with. I would rather be nice inside than out.
_Sus_. Lawk, miss! I shouldn't wonder if that was one of the differs
now! Well, I never! It ain't seen! It must be one o' the differs!
_Con_. What differs? I don't understand you.
_Sus_. The differs 'tween girls an' ladies--girls like me an' real
ladies like you.
_Con_. Oh, I see! But how dark it has got! What can be keeping
William? I must go at once, or what will my aunt say! Would you mind
going with me a little bit, Susan?
_Sus_. I'll go with pleasure, miss.
_Con_. Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the wide streets. You
couldn't lend me an old cloak, could you?
_Sus_. I 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what I stand up in--'cep' it
be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket-'an'kercher. Nobody 'ill know you.
_Con_. But I oughtn't to be out dressed like this.
_Sus_. You've only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss.
_Con_. (_drawing up her skirt_) I never thought of that!
_Sus_. Well, I never!
_Con_. What's the matter?
_Sus_. Only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my breath away, miss.
It ain't no use turnin' of _it_ up: you'll look like a lady whatever
you do to hide it. But never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as
you don't look down on the rest of us. There, miss! There you are--fit
for a play! Come along; I'll take care of you. Lawks! I'm as good as a
man--_I_ am!
_Con_. Good-bye then, Mattie.
_Mat_. Good-bye, miss. God bless you.
_Exeunt_.
END OF ACT III.
