University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A parlour in Mr. Melmoth's house.
Time—morning.
[Mr. Melmoth alone. Walks about the room in great agitation, stopping every now and then as if to listen.]
[Mr. M.]
How long he stays!—And yet, I fear, I fear
His coming will but crush the last fond hope
I weakly cling to—feeble, faint indeed,
But still—'tis hope!—Hark!—'twas her chamber-door
That opened then—I hear a step—'tis his—

Enter Physician.
Mr. M.
Well, Doctor! well, my friend! you're come at last!
You've seen your patient?—I expect to hear
Good tidings of her.—You shall tell them me
In a few moments—now, you look fatigued
With your long walk—you found her better, though?
But you shall tell me presently.—I'll ring
For some refreshment.

Phy.
None, my friend, for me—
I am not weary, but—

Mr. M.
This sultry day
Oppresses you—She feels it dreadfully!
But so do I and ev'ry one—I think—
If she can bear the voyage.—

Phy.
She cannot bear it—
Rest and quiet now.

Mr. M.
You're of opinion, then,
Twere best defer it till—

Phy.
Alas, my friend!—
Your child will never—What a task is mine!

Mr. M.
(After a pause.)
Why, speak it out—for I have felt it long—
Have known and felt it—yet—this old weak heart!
And must I lay my darling in the grave?
My last surviving child!—God's will be done.

Phy.
May He sustain you, my unhappy friend,
Through this great trial—her, He takes away
By such a merciful summons!—'tis, in truth,
A Father's loving call to a dear child—
So mild! so gentle!

Mr. M.
I can bear it now—
I can bear all the truth—I pray you, therefore,
Tell me as near as you can calculate—
With a friend's frankness, I beseech you, tell me,)
How long my Editha has yet to live.

Phy.
'Tis hard to say—her malady is such—
So ling'ring, so illusive, it defies
All human calculation to assign
The probable period of its fatal triumph—
These sultry days, and more oppressive nights
Try her severely—should these heats continue.—
But she is strong—the principle of life
Is strong within her yet—if she survive
The falling leaf, she may—'tis like she will
Live thro' the winter: but when Spring returns—

Mr. M.
Aye, she was born in Spring, the 10th of April:
Therefore, of all the year, I've ever loved
That season, and that month, that gave her to me:
My dutiful, affectionate, good child!
And I shall lay my blossom in the earth
When the first flowers—her own sweet fav'rite flowers,
Wake from their wintry death.—Poor Edmund Wilmot!
Thou art returning full of joy and hope
To claim thy bride

Phy.
Indeed! do you expect him?

Mr. M.
With the next India ships, and ev'ry day
The fleet is looked for—the next hour perhaps
May bring him here. You must remember Edmund;
My sister's orphan boy? I took him home,
After his parent's death, and reared him up
With my own children, till the eldest two
Fell victims to this fatal malady,
Following, within three years, their mother's path
To the same grave. My little Editha
Became my only earthly comfort then,
With this dear boy.—She was his darling too,
His charge, his plaything—he watched over her
With all an elder brother's tender care,
Oft calling her, in sport, his little wife.
No wonder as she grew to womanhood,
That their young hearts were woven into one,
And the boy's jesting claims assumed, e'er long,
The pleading earnestness of serious hope.
He knew my heart, he knew its warmest wish
Was to behold my Editha his wife;
But she was portionless, and he too poor
To think of marriage for some years at least.
A good appointment offered in the East,
And full of hope, and full of his return
With golden fruits of a few bustling years,
Edmund accepted it, and parted from us.
More than fulfilled his sanguine hopes have been;
And he returns at last to claim his bride,
Whose image has been with him (so he writes)
In all his sad and solitary hours,
In times of disappointment and distress,
Peril and sickness; like a smiling angel,
Cheering his heart, with looks of peace and love.
He comes, poor youth! with all these flushing hopes,
And I must tell him—Oh! my friend, 'tis hard
To stab with such a welcome the young heart
That meets one in the glow of expectation.

Phy.
'Tis hard, indeed! too painfully I've learnt
From sad experience, how to feel for you.
Will you walk with me on my homeward way?
My time is portioned.

Mr. M.
The more readily
That I'm expecting ev'ry hour and minute
Th' approach of Edmund by that very road,
And I would meet the trial, that must come.

[Exeunt.