Rach.. The sun is almost set, and yet I...

Rach.. The sun is almost set, and yet I see not Martin. Oh! my dear husband! my poor children! heaven be kind to us, — for I've almost lost all other hope. — Ha! Martin! Martin!

Martin Haywood appears at the stile :•— crosses it

Martin. Rachel here! — Why did you leave the farm?

Rach. I could not stay there and you. away. Our children, Martin ; they cried for you. I could not speak to them; I could not stay. Now, Martin, your friend?

Mar. {with bitterness.) Friend!

Rach. Oh! do not look so — do not.

Mar. I have done that to-day I never did before; I have wished myself dead! ay, dead! that I might be quit of all.

Racit. And our children, Martin?

Mar. 'Twould be better for 'em. There's some spell upon me! Do what I will it does not thrive! Why, 'tis certain there's some curse upon me !

Rach. Be patient, dear Martin!

Mar. Patient! I have been patient. Harvest after harvest's failed; — flock after flock has died; yet have I smiled upon't, and gone whistling 'bout the fields. I have been hunted by landlord — threatened by the taxman — yet I've put a stout heart upon't, and never drooped. Rachel Heywood, you see me now without a shilling^ — without a home — ^my children with not a week's food be- fore them*--my wife starving — and yet I'm patient.

Rach. I never saw you so till now. Martin, what has happened?

Mar. I may sit down and see my little ones pine day by day; I may feel their wasting limbs^ and hear them scream for bread; and I may stare in their white faces, and tell them to be patient. Patient !

Rach. Look not so fiercely at me, Martin. Are they not my children — mine? Am I not their mother? Can your love be more than mine? But no; you did not mean that. Come, Martin, be not so hasty. What has happened?

Mar. No matter; let it rest with me.

Rach. But it must not, Martin. How many a time have you said that you could have no secret from Rachel ?

Mar. I don't remember that.

Rach. Look there, Martin, {pointing to the stile.) — How often have we met at yonder stile ; bow often have we waited there for hours, and talked of our wedding-day and all our hopes? — then you have said

Mar. Ay, those were gi^ days! Then, life seemed full of promise, as a field of ripened corn. Those were happy times!

Rach. They will come back^ never fear it Now tell me, Martin, have you been to your friend?

Mar« I have been to Harry Wilson« The same Harry Wilson to whom my grandfather lent good guineas to begin the world.

Rach. You asked him to lend you the money for a time?

Mar. I stammered it out somehow.

Rach. And did he?

Mar. Damn him!

Rach. Oh, Martin!

Mar, I thought I was talking to a brother. I told him all, Rachel, all! — ^And he heard me, with a smile on his face, and said, he was sorry !

Rach. Then he could not assist us?

MAr. No. His money was laid out in ventBres* — he had lost by lendings — but he was very sorry!

Rach. And he offered nothing?

Mar. When I told him we had not a guinea, — not a home that we could caU ows, — not a certain meal, — the tears came' into my eyes, and I felt like a thief whilst I said all this; — well, he wouldn’t lend me a farthing: but, kind soul! he bade me take a glass of wine, and hope for better days ! I took the wine, and pouring it upcm the floor, wished that my bipod might be so poured out from my heart if ever again I stood beneath his roof; and so I left him !

Rach. And your other friend?

Mar. No : I asked no other. One denial was enough.

Rach. Then every hope is gone!

Mar. No ; there is one hope yet. And yet I cannot bear to think of it. Rachel> our children must not starve. — What say you shall we cross the sea?

Rach. What! leave the farm?

Mar. I am offered a place <m an estate, far away in the Indies. What say you?

Rach. Leave this place?

Mar. Why not? We shall find sun and sky and gre^A fields there*

Rach. But not our own fields, not our own sky, — not the friends who love us, not the neighbours who respect us. Oh! think not of it. Our children! they would die there! Die amongst strangers! Martin, would you quit our home?

Mar. Our home! where is it? — the work-house! — Ha! ha! — Our home! Rachel, it shall be. We'll not be pointed at as beggars. We'll be no burden to the parish. We'll take our children in our arms, and leave this place for ever--

Douglas Jerrold. The Rent Day (Second Edition, 1832). p.16-19.