University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—An Ante-chamber in Maynard's House.
Enter Mrs. Hargrave. R. H. D. F.
Mrs. H.
'Tis late, and he returns not. Well, the hour,
So it bring hope with it, shall yet be early.
The children are asleep, or I would read
Their eyes, as stars, whose soft auspicious beams,
Should be to me as potent as the lore,
Writ, as some say, on the eternal roof
Of Heaven. Their prattle would beguile me now,
When time moves not a pinion, but I hear it
Drowsily flagging. Hark! no—it has pass'd
The door: 'twas not his step. I will go in,
And study patience.

[She goes in
Enter Hargrave, L. H.
Har.
She is not here: wearied, perchance, of watching.

Re-enter Mrs, Hargrave, D. F.
Mrs. H.
Oh! you are come—'tis strange I did not hear you.

Har.
'Tis very late, is't not? and I stept softly.
Where are the Maynards?

Mrs. H.
They have retir'd to rest.

Har.
That's well.

Mrs. H.
They waited for you until midnight,
Anxious to hear how you had sped.

Har.
To-morrow
Will do for that.

Mrs. H.
But may I not forestal
Their pleasure?

Har.
'Twill keep,
Nor need a second telling.

Mrs. H.
You are unkind,
Or so unus'd to fortune, you would fain
Dally awhile with it before you give
Its golden plumage to the general air,
For the sun's beams to light on.

Har.
Margaret,
To bear, and to do nought beside but bear,
Is thankless toil: to row against a tide,
Whose strength mocks human strength—this is fool's labour:
Ease takes the stream reclines, and is rewarded.
That lesson's not too late.

Mrs. H.
Now, it is idle—
This prelude to a tale which I must hear,
And which shall speak of good. It is not well
To trifle thus with one who loves you better
Than fortune can—and who but cares for fortune
So it may make you happy.

Har.
Dearest wife,—
I think that if it lay within your power
To serve me, you would do so—would you not?

Mrs. H.
You know I would.

Har.
Well, I believe you, girl.
And what if fate—so strange the instruments
She calls in aid to raise us—should make choice
Of you to do that office, you would do it?

Mrs. H.
You never yet had cause to doubt me, Henry,
And shall not now: but how am I to serve you?
Trust me, I thought it hard, when I had been
So oft your special agent to the Council
To learn its pleasure, and had almost deem'd,
As zeal is prone to do, that I alone
Should be the happy bearer of your fortunes,
To find another rob me of my pains.
I must forgive him, though.

Har.
And there is nothing
You would not cope with—so it might advance me!

Mrs. H.
Nothing.

Har.
You would do anything to please me?

Mrs. H.
Aye,—anything.
[Hargrave turns aside, and walks to the back of the stage.
Why do you turn away?

Har.
Margaret, have you not seen two gentlemen,
On these your special errands to the Council—
A stripling one, and one of middle age,—
They have spoken to you.

Mrs. H.
I do remember,
Two persons did accost me—

Har.
One was handsome,—

Mrs. H.
I did not note him, and indeed return'd
Such brief reply as his unlicens'd speech
Left me no choice but give: but what of these?

Har.
Lord Moreton and his friend.

Mrs H.
Indeed!

Har.
Indeed.
And mark me, wife, out of such dross as this,
Men make their riches now; this is the world:
Not the weak fiction of a poet's dream,
All that was ever fancied and ne'er felt,
Ne'er seen, but sung about: this is a world
Of trials, of endurance while they last,
And when occasion serves—of compromise.
We of ourselves are nothing—can gain nothing—
Without two others, time and opportunity,
Which often meet, and sought, are often seen.
Time is propitious—opportunity
Waits but the word, and it is yours to speak it.

Mrs. H.
This is new doctrine from your lips.

Har.
Learn'd lately,
But not too late.

Mrs. H.
What must I say?

Har.
Why, listen.
This lord has seen you—loves you—in one word—
Thus stands the case—I am poor, and you can raise me.

Mrs. H.
Can I believe?—why, Henry! Henry Hargrave!
You cannot mean what yet I fear you mean,
And dare not give a name to. [She pauses.]

Gracious Heaven!
You cannot—nay, take your fix'd gaze from off me—
Lest you should see into my heart, and there
Read how I hate you. What a change is this!
But a few hours ago I would have smil'd
The wretch to scorn, who should have breath'd this lie—
For then it were a lie! But now, you come,
And with a set face, and a casual voice
Speak your own infamy. Even now perhaps,
Your children dream of you, and when they wake,
Go, tell them how their dreams have wrong'd their father.
Oh! shame upon you, added to the shame
You have confess'd—and leave me—never more
Can I look on you.

Har.
Hear me, Margaret—

Mrs. H.
(Bursting into tears, and falling on Hargrave's neck.]
Oh, my dear husband! do not break my heart—
For it will break—you are not this vile creature!
Upon my knees, let me implore you, pause
Ere you sink down to baseness. We are poor,
Let us remain so; anything but this:
I cannot bear to think of it—how act
The thing we dare not ponder. Oh, my husband!
Honour shines bright in darkness, as the stars,
And it is crown'd with stars—but infamy,
Deck'd out in all the gauds that wealth can offer,
Is still set round with a conspicuous shame,
Blighting the brow it circles.

Har.
Rise, dear wife:
And pardon me that, not to satisfy
Misgivings of mine own, but to acquit you,
From my stung soul, of others' doubts, which henceforth
They shall not speak and live, I have thus tried you.

Mrs. H.
Then it was cruel to have tried me thus.
But I will say no more. What, insult, love,
Has this man dared to offer?

Har.
Dared?—true, true—
Why we are poor, my Margaret—that word
Draws obloquy towards it, as the magnet
Attracts the steel—the steel? that is well thought on—
I have a sword yet—

Mrs. H.
Tell me, what has happen'd?

Har.
Come in, and you shall hear: yet I can pardon
All that has chanc'd; for never, until now,
The blessings that remain to me were known,
Or priz'd as blessings. Come—

[Exeunt R. H.