ARETHUSA. Admiral Guinea? Now Kit, if you are to be true lover of mine, you shall not use that name. His name is Captain Gaunt. As for fearing him, Kit French, you’re not the man for me, if you fear anything but sin. He’s a stern man because he’s in the right.
KIT. He is a man of God; I am what he calls a child of perdition. I was a privateersman—serving my country, I say; but he calls it pirate. He is thrifty and sober; he has a treasure, they say, and it lies so near his heart that he tumbles up in his sleep to stand watch over it. What has a harum-scarum dog like me to expect from a man like him? He won’t see I’m starving for a chance to mend; ‘Mend,’ he’ll say; ‘I’ll be shot if you mend at the expense of my daughter;’ and the worst of it is, you see, he’ll be right.
ARETHUSA. Kit, if you dare to say that faint-hearted word again, I’ll take my ring off. What are we here for but to grow better or grow worse? Do you think Arethusa French will be the same as Arethusa Gaunt?
KIT. Hark, here he is! By George, it’s neck or nothing now. Stand by to back me up.
KIT (_with_ ARETHUSA’S _hand_). Captain Gaunt, I have come to ask you for your daughter.
GAUNT. Hum. (_He sits in his chair_, _L._)
KIT. I love her, and she loves me, sir. I’ve left the privateering. I’ve enough to set me up and buy a tidy sloop—Jack Lee’s; you know the boat, Captain; clinker built, not four years old, eighty tons burthen, steers like a child. I’ve put my mother’s ring on Arethusa’s finger; and if you’ll give us your blessing, I’ll engage to turn over a new leaf, and make her a good husband.
GAUNT. In whose strength, Christopher French?
KIT. In the strength of my good, honest love for her: as you did for her mother, and my father for mine. And you know, Captain, a man can’t command the wind; but (excuse me, sir) he can always lie the best course possible, and that’s what I’ll do, so God help me.
GAUNT. Arethusa, you at least are the child of many prayers; your eyes have been unsealed; and to you the world stands naked, a morning watch for duration, a thing spun of cobwebs for solidity. In the presence of an angry God, I ask you: have you heard this man?
ARETHUSA. Father, I know Kit, and I love him.
GAUNT. I say it solemnly, this is no Christian union. To you, Christopher French, I will speak nothing of eternal truths: I will speak to you the language of this world. You have been trained among sinners who gloried in their sin: in your whole life you never saved one farthing; and now, when your pockets are full, you think you can begin, poor dupe, in your own strength. You are a roysterer, a jovial companion; you mean no harm—you are nobody’s enemy but your own. No doubt you tell this girl of mine, and no doubt you tell yourself, that you can change. Christopher, speaking under correction, I defy you! You ask me for this child of many supplications, for this brand plucked from the burning: I look at you; I read you through and through; and I tell you—no! (_Striking table with his fist_.)