University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A Room in the Dolphin Tavern.
Enter Lord Moreton and Beauchamp, R. H. Servants arrange Chairs.
More.
Wine, here—some of your oldest. Should a gentleman
Desire to see me, let him be admitted. [Exit Drawer.]

[To Beauchamp.]
I do not altogether like your plan.

Beau.
Why not?

More.
'Tis easy, when we have stolen the prize,
To render compensation,—gone, 'tis valueless.

Beau.
Who steals when he may purchase? you mistake:
The value of a thing, when it is gone,
If not indeed enhanc'd, suggests a price
More than its worth: steal but a worthless pebble,
The owner swears it was a diamond.
Cannot we test the man? if he be flaw'd,
You gain your point at once.

More.
If not?

Beau.
You stand
In a position better than before.
He cannot say but you have fairly warn'd him,
But do not deem him so inflexible;
I never yet knew man, but poverty
Could bend him. Once I kept a pride myself,—
But it was too expensive, so we parted.

More.
Beauchamp, I think you do not know the man.
This Hargrave is a soldier, and a brave one,
Who serv'd, while yet a boy, at Nottingham
With Rupert—fought, a very devil, at Edgehill,
And left two horses dead on Chaldgrave field.
Espousing the King's cause, it seems, unfledg'd,
This bird forsook his patrimonial nest,
Which some full-feathered Roundhead still enjoys.
He, meanwhile, comes to London, plies the Council,
Nay, even the King himself, for restitution,
Or failing that, for some equivalent
In shape of office, money, or commission,
Which, between us, he scarce will get; for Charles—
Whom Heaven preserve—preserves such claims for Heaven;
And so with heart-sick hope the man still pines.

Beau.
My lord, there seems no difficulty here.
He is a soldier—is he poor?—

More.
He is,—

Beau.
As pride can make him, doubtless; which ne'er plunges
A man into a slough, but she still leaves him
For meanness to draw forth. Make yourself easy;
Hargrave may bluster for a while, but, trust me,
His noisy sense of wrong will soon subside,
Lull'd by your golden music.

More.
He shall have it,—
And freely, too.

Beau.
Well, you are generous:
It saves sometimes a world of after-trouble.

Enter Drawer, R. H. with Wine, &c.
Draw.
My lord, one Master Hargrave—

More.
Let him come up. [Exit Drawer.]

He's here. [To Beau.]


Beau.
Leave him to me—I'll cast the plummet,
And sound the depths and shallows of his soul,
Though it were turbid as an autumn flood.

More.
Softly:—he comes.

Enter Hargrave, R. H.
Har.
Lord Moreton?—

More.
I am he.
My friend, and yours. [Introduces Beauchamp.]

Let us be seated:—Come, sir. [They sit.]

You'll pardon my presumption, Captain Hargrave,
But I have long been anxious for the honour
Of knowing you—your name I have long known.
Let me be plain:—the little interest
That I can fairly boast, when it is join'd
To the commanding influence of others,—
As 'tis now join'd—supported by your claims,
Which justice cannot wink at, must avail you;—
Nay, shall—I think so—let us not be sanguine,
And so miscount our strength.
[Turning to Beauchamp.]
'Sdeath! is it not
A hard case, that a noble gentleman,
One who has serv'd his king, should be forgotten,
Whilst others, aliens to fame and honour,
Are but too well remember'd?

Beau.
So it is.

More.
But, doubt not, I shall raise you,—if not so high
As your deserts, yet to the eminence
You fell from—or from which you were displac'd.

Har.
I am much bound to you.

More.
Nay,—not at all.
Meanwhile, for restitution travels slowly,
Even at its fastest, pray command my purse—
Let me request you will accept— [Offers Hargrave a purse.]


Har.
My lord!
I seek not alms—

More.
Pshaw!—neither do I think so,
Or tender it as such—but, from a friend—

Har.
I should be loth to baulk your generous nature
By any show of an unseemly humour,
As though I should disdain or slight an act
Prompted by friendship, but—

More.
You are too proud.
No? then accept this loan—for 'tis a loan,—
Which some not distant day you shall return.

Har.
Well, my lord, I thank you.

More.
Put it up: that's well.
No more of it. [Moreton and Beauchamp exchange glances.]

For a few minutes' space,
I fear that I must leave you. I am bound
To meet a certain Duke, whom to engage
In your affairs, (and he is apt, I know)
Is now my present aim. Beauchamp, to you
I leave our friend: you'll entertain him, will you?
I shall be hither straight.

Beau.
We shall expect you.
[Exit Moreton, R. H.
Come, Captain, let us sit: this wine must not
Grow older ere we taste it. [He pours out wine.]

What say you, sir?
His Lordship is a very noble fellow,
One who will wear a coronet as proudly
As his old father, and not dim its brightness.
Let us, then, pledge his health.

Har.
With all my heart. [They drink.]


Beau.
But yet this stripling has his faults of nature,
Which to us older men suggest a smile,
Remembering when we ourselves were younger.
He's of the court, where licence is the rule,
And pleasure, Fortune's Ganymede, attends
With an o'erbrimming goblet.

Har.
Let him quaff it.
Better these idle vanities of sense
To know, than to avoid; their emptiness
Once seen, the real blessings that invite us
Are worthier priz'd.

Beau,
True: but this young gallant.
Shot through by a bright eye, is quite destroy'd.
Why, sir, the memory of a smile will last him
For months to swear by:—he is too weak in this.

Har.
It is almost the privilege of youth
To be so: 'tis a giddy flame, whose fire
Will one day burn more clear, and warm, and steadfast.

Beau.
You are married, Captain Hargrave.

Har.
I have a wife, sir.

Beau.
She's fair:—oh, what a term is that for beauty—
A very angel, Captain!

Har.
She will pass;
And might, indeed, be deem'd a very angel,
Were all to judge as you,—from mere surmise.

Beau.
But I have seen her.

Har.
Ha!

Beau.
And he has seen her—
My lord—

Har.
Indeed!

Beau.
Why, how you look! what marvel?
She's beautiful, and we had eyes to see it:
There is nought strange in that. But, come, more wine.
This is much nearer to my heart than beauty. [They drink.]

Be not offended, sir, when I e'en tell you,
That we have spoken with her.

Har.
Sir! you're merry.
I hope so.

Beau.
No.

Har.
You jest.

Beau.
No, by my life—
As serious as a straight-haired Puritan.
But, what! you look disturb'd.

Har.
No,—not at all.
Yet it is strange.

Beau.
Well, to accost a lady
In the open street is rude, I grant;—not strange,
In these times—and we knew not 'twas your wife.

Har.
But now that you do know it—

Beau.
There's the plague!
Moreton, poor wretch! must sigh, and sigh in vain.

Har.
I do not understand—what do you mean?

Beau.
Shall I be frank with you?

Har.
I shall like it best,
'Tis as I speak sometimes—a soldier's trick.

Beau.
Well, then: I have conceiv'd a friendship for you,
Born of your praise, which, to say truth, his lordship
Makes his still constant theme: and if strong zeal
Had ready tools to work with, and could act
On pliable materials, he'd serve you.
But he, I think, miscalculates his power;
Rather, mis rates the patient tedious skill,
Whereby right must be wrested from the strong,
Who, having, keep,—though it belong to others.
Well, he is young, capricious—you or I,
Might seek and press him strong in your behalf,
Just on the heel of some rebuff;—he'd chafe—
Conceive disgust—perhaps throw up the office
He undertook in friendship:—see you not?
Now, if your wife—

Har.
Aye—

Beau.
You were about to speak?

Har.
I said but ‘aye’—proceed.

Beau.
Well, if your wife
Would undertake to move in this affair—
(Persuasion is a woman's element),
Would sue him every hour;—should he relax,
Urge him more warmly—in a word, o'ercome him;
Beauty has done this oft, and Mistress Hargrave
Will meet an easy conquest in my lord,
Who is already vanquish'd by her eyes.
[During this speech Hargrave has risen, and paces the Stage.
[Aside.]
He has taken the bait! Captain, are you not well?

Har.
A sudden giddiness—the wine has flush'd me—
I shall be better soon—
[Hargrave seats himself, and after a pause speaks.
You think so?

Beau.
What?

Har.
That were my wife to mediate—to go
Between us, as you say, 'twere better than—

Beau.
Than you or I, or any other man.
I have heard him hint, indeed, that did you please,
You need not fear advancement.

Har.
How?

Beau.
Guess.

Har.
I cannot.

Beau.
Your wife—

Har.
Ha, ha! I see; you know the world—
Wise—wise: will it be long ere he return?

Beau.
He stays too long already; when he comes
You can speak to him.

Har.
I can speak to him?
True: I will speak to him.

Beau.
Oh! here he is.

Enter Moreton, R. H.
More.
You have not miss'd me, gentlemen, I hope.
I was detain'd.

Har.
Oh, but, my lord, we have.
Your hand, my lord.

More.
With pleasure.

Har.
Take that again.
[Drops the purse into the hand of Moreton
And seek some man whom fortune has depriv'd
Of all, save what she could not take—his honour:
Tempt him with that—bid high, and you may win him:
If he prove obstinate as some men will be
Who have a feeling on that score—bid higher—
Be liberal with your gold, and when you've won him,
Bring him to me, and I will spit upon him.

More.
What mystery is here? why this to me?
What is the meaning, Beauchamp, of this phrenzy?

Beau.
What! Captain—

Har.
Oh, you are there? Come hither.
[Hargrave seizes Beauchamp and leads him to Moreton
Who is this creature you have left with me?
What wretch is this? You said he was your friend—
Your friend?

More.
He is.

Har.
Dishonourable boy!
How I blush for you, that you do not blush.
Have you no shame—no thought—feeling or fear—
That you thus dare to put this outrage on me?
When next you'd have a serpent do your baseness,
Chose not a worm—a trailing worm like this.

[Thrusts Beauchamp from him.
More.
You're insolent! I wear a sword—

Har.
I use one—
And sometimes quickly. Do not tempt me. Hence!

Beau.
[To More.]
Let us be gone. You must not quarrel with him;
It may be dangerous. By Heaven! I thought
The man was our's.

More.
Unhand me, Beauchamp! now
Will I chastise this mouthing blusterer,
Whose threats are his chief danger.

Har.
Hear me, sir—
I have been, if I am not now, a soldier,
And have withstood the iron men of Fairfax;
Rush'd mid the thick of death, where I have heard
Red carnage bowl for blood, which all the while
Was peopling heaven with souls—and would you stop me
What reed next for a weapon? I have spoken—
Begone!

Beau.
(To Moreton.)
He is not worthy of your sword:
Leave him; we shall yet find the means to cross him.

More.
Nay, I will not—

Har.
Touch but your sword-hilt, Lord,
Advance one step—but one—and the next moment
Shall see your father childless. Be advis'd—
Take council of your friend—once it may serve you.

Beau.
Come, you must hence.

More.
You're right. I was too hasty.
[To Hargrave.]
You shall hear of me, sir again.

Har.
Well, well:
When I hear of your courage, time enough—
You may be older then.
[Beauchamp forces Moreton out, R. H.
I was a fool to vent myself upon
A trivial boy like this. Oh, Poverty!
The roof of thatch—the lowly threshold claims thee;
The sons of labour know thee; and content
Sit in thy shade; but when thou com'st abroad
To visit pride, and at his table sit'st,
With insult to wait on thee, and directest
His service to thine host, then art thou—Stop!
Did he not say that he had seen her? Ha!
And spoken to her? where? when? how? but, no—
That cannot be: my Margaret, they belie thee—
Whose heart is as a glass, in which I see
Myself reflected always: [He muses.]

What if fortune,
(Such things have been) should grind her spirit down
To the level of dishonour? Out upon it!
I will not yet believe that lie—yet?—never!

[Exit, R. H.