University of Virginia Library

ACT II

SCENE I.

—An Apartment in Maynard's House.
Enter Hargrave, followed by Maynard, R. H.
May.
Well, but be calm.—

Har.
I cannot.

May.
And why not?
What cause? what do you fear—what do you doubt?

Har.
It is because I do not doubt, I fear,—
Doubt has still ground to tread on, though uneven,—
But vague surmise, the plaything of the air,
Is wafted to and fro, blind and in darkness.

May.
Your wife is not returned,—is that so strange?
She may have been detained,—she may have paid
A visit to a friend.—

Har.
A friend,—what friends?
Poverty has no friends; forgive me, Maynard,
It was ill spoken;—why, then, is she not
Here, where her husband and her friends expect her?

May.
And so she will, no doubt,—and when she comes
I'll warrant your conjectures will have travell'd
Further than she;—you're not yourself to day,—
What is't you doubt or fear?

Har.
I'll tell you, sir.
You have heard the—shall I term it? contract, sought
To have been sign'd between this lord and me,
And how I cancell'd it: when I return'd,
'Twas late, last night—not out of jealousy,
For that my nature scorns—but even as one
Owning a pearl, and hearing it decried,
Again assures himself 'tis orient,
Though conscious of its worth,—even so I tried her:
Hinting that, did she please, she might become
The keystone of my fortune.

May.
You did?

Har.
I did.

May.
What then?

Har.
With flush'd face and with streaming eyes,
And voice whose tones spoke virtue, she rebuk'd me;
I rais'd, and undeceiv'd her,—ask'd her pardon,
For having tempted her with idle words,
Whose breath was their sole life.

May.
And this she granted?

Har.
At once.—

May.
'Twas like her.

Har.
Why, 'twas like her, Maynard.
And yet, perhaps— [He pauses, but presently continues.]

Stung by the indignity
Offer'd by Moreton,—'tis a price that honour
Pays for the privilege of being poor—
I told my wife that I would go this evening,
And learn the last decision of the Council,
And on their fiat, this way or the other,—
Rest, or awake to action: 'twas not approv'd:—
On the pretext—I will not say pretext,—
Well, on the plea, that should I stir abroad,
I might by chance encounter my new Patron,
Whence danger might arise—she bade me send her.—
Urg'd me to charge her with a letter from me,
Which she would bear to the Council,—now, what think you?

May.
She is gone thither, then?

Har.
I hope so. Tell me.
Could I do otherwise? not for myself,
How should I fear this trifler? I consented,—
But to give strength and force, and emphasis,
To the belief which yet I entertain,
That virtue of itself, and in itself,
Is fenc'd with safety—needing no help from Heaven,
Which Heaven has not a ready granted it,
To dash the front of license.

May.
Why, this is true, and is most true of her,
Whose absence, which has rais'd such causeless doubts,
When she returns one word explains, and ends them.

Har.
(After a pause—during which he appears absorbed in reflection.]
Maynard, I cannot think it.

May.
What?

Har.
And yet,
Hypocrisy, the subtle thief that wears
The garb of virtue flauntingly, and makes
Her stolen robe a cloak,—for ornament
Sometimes,—sometimes for use:—do you not mark?
There is the danger:—

May.
Which I do not see.
And trust me, Hargrave! 'tis as weak and vile
To stare at nothing, making out of nothing
A shadow to be fear'd, as to be blind
To wrongs, when they confront us.

Har.
'Tis well spoken.
So true, so trite, and so inapplicable.
Then you would have me wink at injuries,
See my own honour vanish like a shadow,
And when some gross material wrong approaches,
Some damning outrage thrust into my fac
Open my sleepy eyes, and yawn redress

May.
Tush, tush, what talk is this? you're mad or childish
Take not the snake suspicion to your breast,
Which warm'd, will sting you: my life on't, you are wrong,
What cause, or no cause, growing out of fancy,
Has thus possess'd you suddenly?

Har.
No cause?
Look at me,—look at me well, and see the cause.
This thing, myself, is this the man you knew me?
Is this vile wreck the vessel that of yore
Spread all its gay sails to the gallant air,
And held its way in sunshine? do you think,
Love, like the ivy, grows and clings to ruins
No, no,—even she must hate,—even she must oathe me.
And, think you, 'tis in woman to resist
Temptation, which with double power persuades,
When it can hint the good that may be won,
By pointing to the ills to be escaped?

May.
You dream'd not this last night; and grant one moment
Your wife—for now I see to what you tend—
Has lent an ear to Moreton—you mean that?

Har.
And that you think—

May.
Nay, Heaven forbid I should—
I said, but grant it,—well, what use, what end,
In feigning anger, as you say she did,
When she might coldly acquiesce?

Har.
Guile, guile:
She knew that I but feign'd, and feign'd in concert.
'Twas wisely done.—

Enter Mrs. Maynard, L. H.
May.
Now, wife, what news do you bring?
The servants are return'd?

Mrs. M.
They are, but yet
Have found no clue or trace of her, 'tis strange:
They have sought every where: nor friends nor neighbours,
Have seen her once to day.

Har.
Thanks, my good sister:
Your trouble has been vain, I knew 'twould be so;
This is a mystery which I alone,
Must see to,—yes, must fathom; in an hour,
I will return.

May.
And with your wife, I hope.

Har.
It may be so.

May.
But be not rash or hasty.

Har.
Be sure, I will be neither;—oh! my friend,
My soul sinks, and my very blood is cold,
As is a winter stream, which slowly creeps
Itself to ice, then moves not; should it be so—
Then—then—but fare ye well!

[Exit R. H.
Mrs. M.
This is most strange!
My brother is much mov'd.

May.
Nor do I wonder.
It is the first time I have ever known her,
Cause even a breath of merest idleness,
As “she stays long,” or, “strange she comes not sooner;”
She has been hitherto so staid, so prudent—
Indeed, I have oft thought too circumspect,
As though she fear'd to give her nature scope
Even in our presence.

Mrs. M.
True, I have observ'd it.

May.
Recal to memory,
When you and she have walk'd abroad together,
As you have often done,—have you remark'd
A look, a glance, a gesture, anything,
Which, for a moment, swerving from the limit
Which matron modesty prescribes, suggested
Constructive evil of her?

Mrs. M.
Maynard, no.
'Tis true, her beauty has beguil'd the eyes
Of many, till they lost the reverence
Her sweetness might have claim'd,—but the swift blush,
Wrought from the sense of her superior honour,
Which, while it conquer'd, trembled, has chastis'd
The gaze of folly: no, if virtue ever
Dwelt by the side of beauty, it resides
With her, and in the light of her pure soul
Sits, like a shining angel.

May.
Indeed, I think so.—
I spoke not doubtingly of her, but doubting,
How on the face of such a sky, such clouds
Should suddenly be blown.

Mrs. M.
They will disperse:
For trust me, Maynard, I will never live
To wear the world's opinion, if she be not
As white as chrystal.

May.
I am sure she'll prove so.

[Exeunt R. H.

SCENE II.

—An Apartment in Lord Moreton's House.
Enter Moreton and Beauchamp, R. H.
More.
'Tis past belief we should so soon surprize her.
Fortune lends many chances that we see not,
But this unseen, ere we had laid the snare,
Is better than design.

Beau.
I am glad you think so.
But is't not worth a moment's thought, my lord,
How to retain your capture, now you've seized it?
Force suggests force, and such a culverin
As Hargrave, scarce will cease till he has blown
Our very souls from out us.

More.
Pshaw! you think not
I fear the man; a politic retreat,
Effected without loss, is the best valour;
The event has prov'd it so. 'Tis very likely,
Hargrave will seek redress for his lost honour
At the King's hands,—or he may threaten it:
Should he do this, 'tis hardly a grave question,
To ask if Charles will interpose, or no;
'Twill be but food for laughter, and besides,
The fellow's importunity of claim,
Enforc'd in such strong language to the Council,
Has, I well know, induced a feeling there,
That makes his name a discord. I will hold her,
Despite this fiery soldier;—we have only
To play with skill the game that skill has fashion'd.

Beau.
You may command my aid.

More.
Where is De Grave?
May we rely upon her?

Beau.
You may: she has not taken her degrees
In knavery yet—were she too ripe, she'd fall—
But she is full of promise: the poor rogue
Has but one fault—afflicted with a conscience,
Which, like a cold, is troublesome sometimes,
But easily got rid of.

More.
Call her hither.
[Exit Beauchamp.
The hate I bear him, and my love for her,
Add zest to this design:—a double triumph.

Re-enter Beauchamp with Madame De Grave, C. D.
More.
How have you left your charge?

De G.
She is more calm:
And weeps in silence, broken but by sobs,
'Tis piteous to hear.

Beau.
My lord, the heart
Of this good creature here, is soft and tender;
Perhaps, a weakness of the nerves: your gold
Braces sometimes.

More.
(Giving De Grave a purse.)
Take this, and tell me, Madam,
Did this unhappy lady, whom 'tis fit
You should by every gentle means console,
Make overtures to you, as of escape,
From this—she thinks it so—constrain'd detention.

De G.
My lord, when first, obedient to your order,
I waited on her, she was proud and sullen,
And sat as one confounded; answering nought
To words of comfort I addressed to her;
But presently, starting as from a dream,
She rose, and seeing, read me with her eyes
And then approach'd: I trembled at the tone
In which she charg'd me with,—she term'd it baseness,
In thus abetting an unlawful act,
Fraught, as she said, with vengeance,—I was dumb,—
But motion'd her to be appeas'd,—and then
She sank upon her knees, imploring mercy;
Besought me to release her, said, her friends,
Though she herself was poor, at any cost
Would gladly recompence me for my goodness
In aiding her escape;—I was unmov'd;—
And then she sank in tears.

Beau.
A moving tale.

De G.
But why, my lord, is she kept here, believe me,
I should be loth to further any baseness,
Or make myself a party—

More.
Fear not, Madam.
No such intent is now on foot; 'tis fit
For her own safety,—you shall know betimes.
Meanwhile, no sum her friends could tender you,
But shall be tripled for your services.
Return to her; a few soft soothing words,
May not be out of season; tell her also,
A gentleman, a friend, will wait upon her;
I shall attend in an adjoining room,
And when you have prepar'd her for my presence,
Will be at hand. Your friend is my best surety,
That my intent is honourable.

Beau.
Truly.
[Exeunt Moreton, and De Grave, D. F. U. E. R. H.
But sureties must be paid to be kept sure,
They are but sorry trust else; now if ever,
On the completion of this enterprise,
Must this young lord and I sign, seal, and strike.
I must not live, a thing of accident,
A stray of fortune, to caprice indebted
Alike for promises, reward, or blows.
My talents here are hidden, or but glimmer
Through a crack'd half-peck measure, 'Sdeath! as well
Be a proud thread-bare Captain, like poor Hargrave.
Soft, who comes here?

Enter Hargrave, with his sword drawn, L. H.
Har.
The villains would have stay'd me.
But I have scar'd them hence. Oh, sir, I know you,—
You are the friend of my Lord Moreton; speak,
And speak at once, and truly, lest your master
Lose your good offices,—where is my wife?

Beau.
(Aside.)
The servants should be near.
Good Captain Hargrave,
I am not bound to satisfy your doubts;
You, sir, are not my master; but I'll even
Humour your fancy once: where is your wife?
'Twere hard to say; not being mine, I know not:
For aught I know she may be here; for aught
I care, she may be there;—or anywhere—
One thing is sure enough—she knows her way.

Har.
(Seizing Beauchamp.)
Dog!—but that name exalts you:—cringing coward,
Bold only against Heaven, is your vile life
Worth one truth's purchase? speak then, or your silence
Shall be as still as death.

Beau.
Help! Murder! Help!

Enter Madame De Grave, D. F. who rushes between them.
De G.
What outcry's this? for mercy's sake, forbear:
A stranger arm'd

Beau.
This fellow, whom I know
A reckless villain, would have sought my life.

Har.
A wretched prize to seek – not worth the finding.
Tarry for justice; hence, thou lies and life—
One shall destroy the other in due time.

Beau.
(Aside to De Grave, as he goes out.)
Remember! both our fortunes rest upon it.

[Exit R. H.
De G.
Who are you, sir? what do you want? reflect
What trouble you may draw upon yourself
By brawling in this household;—pray, begone.

Har.
Madam, you should be true, for you are fair;
But that's no sign, come hither;—tell me, tell me,—
Is not a lady here? nay, I am calm.

De G.
Your words are so, and yet your looks are wild;
Put up your sword first

Har.
Well I ask your pardon.
Now, Madam,—she is here.—

De G.
She has been here.

Har.
Who has been here? I say that she is here.

De G.
She may be.

Har.
Hah!—nay, nay, I will not harm you.
Oh! you are strange to falsehood; you must learn
To blush when you speak truth: where is she?—where?

De G.
I must confess there is a lady here,
Whom you would see, but must not; 'tis her order.
Her visits have been frequent, sir,—but now
That she has left her friends; she says, for ever,
She would not they should strive to force her hence.
You must not see her.

Har.
Very well:—I will not.
She has been often here?

De G.
Often, sir.

Har.
Often?

De G.
Yes, many times.

Har.
Then fear is prophecy.
She has been here, and many times been here?
Let me look in your face: By Heaven, 'tis calm
As summer waters in the still of noon,
On which the sunbeams fret not: but are gather'd
Into the perfect shadow, seen below.
Swear it.

De G.
Well, so I can.

Har.
And you can swear
To this, that makes truth madness? You shall not swear it;
For, should you swear, and should you falsely swear,
Your oath new forg'd, full-charg'd with fate, would drop,
Out of the skies and crush you; and 'twould fall
In thunder; therefore, woman, do not swear.

De G.
I pray you, sir, begone: I have spoken truly,
And as you wish'd;—I would not for the world,
You were seen here.

Har.
What is the world to me?
Gone by—gone by—: why should vice mock the heavens,
By seeming like the angels? she seem'd an angel;—
An angel, did I say?—and so she was:
The very fiends were angels once, what wonder,
If human souls tend downward?

De G.
Be more calm;
Collect yourself; oh, sir, I pity you;
If pity were assistance. I could aid you.

Har.
Often?—can it be so?—it is not so—
And yet, why not? what leaf or blossom hangs
Upon a blighted tree? she is here now.
And has been often here: why, you have sworn it.

De G.
I have spoken true.

Har.
Aye,—'tis a hideous thing.
Not for myself but for her sake, whose soul
Is hastening unto ruin. I could wish
This had not been.

De G.
Let me persuade you, sir.
Depart at once: stand not absorb'd in thought,
But hear me: there are creatures in this house
Who heed not blood: go home.

Har.
What did you say?
Go home? aye, so I will: this is a dream,
A foolish dream:—go home—yes, yes, but how?
Can shame walk undetected? will not scorn
Stare at me through the darkness, and with gibes
Hoot me to infamy?

De G.
No,—'tis but fancy:
You are not well.

Har.
I am not what I was: Poverty, poverty,—
'Tis there I feel it—there—it has undone me:
Which was the way I came? tell me, I know not.
Aye, true,—there.—
[Going—returns.]
But mark me, not a word—hush, hush, no word
Of what has happen'd now: you must not tell her—
Her whom you have amongst you, I have been here.
Say not that I shed tears—did I shed tears?
And that I told you I should come again,
When least they look to see me, and perchance,
Shed—no, not tears.

[Exit L. H.
Enter Beauchamp, R. H. from the opposite side.
Beau.
So, he is gone: the door has closed upon him.
That's past my hopes. What has he said to you?

De G.
I know not: Beauchamp, you have cozen'd me
Into a plot which, should it come to ill,
You must endure the brunt of,—

Beau.
So I shall.

De G.
Who is this man? and wherefore was I prompted
To utter falsehoods which have made him mad.
And the sweet lady, who is she?

Beau.
What matter?
Would you take wages, and refuse to earn them?
They who once enter on such work as this,
Must blink the name, and do it. Virtue or vice—
There is no medium: choose this, or that.
Dive, and you pluck up gold,—ascend to virtue,
And starve—What noise was that?

De G.
I heard no noise.

Beau.
No—all is still. Come, you may be requir'd.
No faltering: but be firm, and we are made.

De G.
Yet it is base to live by means like these.

Beau.
Yet we must live;—means are at fortune's option

[Exeunt R. H.

SCENE III.

—An Apartment in Maynard's House.
Enter Maynard, followed by a Servant, R. H.
May.
Bring me my hat and cloak; and get you ready
To go with me; first, call your mistress hither.
[Exit Servant.
Which way to turn I know not—what to do,
I know not—every way I'm at a loss.
What if I call upon Lord Moreton,—learn
If Hargrave has been there? but, no, that might
Cause more suspicion, which is all too rife
Already—yet I must go forth, and seek him.

Enter Mrs. Maynard, L. H.
Mrs M.
Oh, Maynard, he is come.

May.
Alone?

Mrs. M.
Alone.

May.
Where is he?

Mrs. May.
Entering at the door, I met him.
He pass'd in silence,—so, I follow'd him.
Halting upon the stairs, he sat him down
In a recess, as one quite lost in thought,
Or lost to memory: I took his hand,
And spoke, not once or twice, but many times,—
Still he return'd no answer.

May.
I'll go to him:
He must not be left thus.

Mrs. May.
Hark,—here he comes.
How wan and haggard! in my life I never
Saw him look thus, before.

May.
Peace—peace,—he speaks.

Enter Hargrave, L. H.
Har.
She loves me still; or she had never set
Her lord to buy my honour: oh! I thank her;
And shall repay her in due season.

May.
Hargrave!

Har.
You know a man who is call'd Henry Hargrave?

May.
I do,—and am his friend.

Har.
Be so no longer.
For he has liv'd to see his honour die,
Who would have died to know that it might live:
Yes, he has borne patiently the despite
Of fortune, that was nought—his inward wealth,—
The present here, and the reversion hence—
Gone, gone—

May.
What do you mean?

Har.
Do you not see?
Is it not written on my forehead, deep
As shame can brand it? Oh, it sears my brain!
But, no—the mark is gone: it has sunk deeper,—
Deeper,—'tis grain'd in, into me, and through me.
I am become one mass of infamy,
Whom Honesty must shun. Where is my sister?

Mrs. M.
I am here, dear brother.

Har.
Oh! could you both know
What I have heard; they were too wise for me—
Too close—too secret—why, they met but once—
By chance—

May.
Who?

Har.
But she must die. Is it not time
Already, to strip up the sleeve of murder,
To whet the knife, and to imbrue the hand?
She must die first, and he—yet I could weep—
I could weep, Maynard, but to think upon it.
Remember: such a woman as she was,—
No, 'tis a lie, as she was not—for never,
Had she been true, could she have fallen so low—
So from the stars to hell, as this,

Mrs. M.
Oh, Maynard,
He knows not what he says—he is distracted.
Shall I go fetch his children?—they, perhaps,
May touch his heart. If he could weep—

Har.
'Twere well.
But do not bring the wretches to me now,
Lest I should tear them piecemeal. Keep them from me—
They are too like their mother—but, no, no,—

May.
(Apart to his wife.)
Fetch them at once, and quickly.

[Exit Mrs. Maynard, L. H.
Har.
Where is she gone?

May.
She will return directly.

Har.
You shall know all, Maynard—you shall know all—
You must advise me what to do. I'm cool
As cowardice—I know you'll stand my friend.

May.
You know I will.

Har.
Yes, yes—it must be done
Coldly—no heat, lest it should look like vengeance,
Which is imperial justice newly bath'd,
And rob'd in purple.

Mrs. Hargrave rushes in L. H. followed by Mrs. Maynard.
Mrs. H.
Where is my husband?
Oh, save me! save me! [She clings to Hargrave.]


Har.
Who is this woman? take her
Away from me! Stand back! where is my sword?
[Hargrave is about to unsheath his sword—Maynard stays him.
I cannot kill her. Could I draw this weapon—
Which yet I cannot do—I could not kill her.
See, how she looks: 'tis virtue only dies—
Go, pray for death.

Mrs. H.
(To Mrs. Maynard.)
Oh, madam, speak to him.
Pity me, Hargrave—oh, take pity on me.
When you know all you will—I am sure you will.
First hear me, and then kill me—but you will not
When you have heard me.

Mrs. M.
Brother, if you ever
Lov'd her—and if you ever lov'd your sister—
Hear her: upon my life she's innocent.

May.
I would stake mine, she is so.

Har.
Why, say on.
If she be so—and yet that cannot be—
Proceed.

Mrs. H.
It is a tale of horror, Henry,
Yet I must tell it. When I left this morning—
Oh, it seems ages since!—I made all speed
To execute my mission. Ere I reach'd
My destination, suddenly two men
Rush'd from behind, and held me fast, and thrust me
Into a carriage, which drove off and stopt
I know not where—'twas at a house—and then
They dragg'd me to a room, in which they left me
Alone, I think for hours: at length a female—

Har.
A Frenchwoman?

Mrs. H.
She was.

Har.
Oh, Heaven! Proceed.

Mrs. H.
Enter'd, and brought refreshments—strove to soothe me—
Telling me that a gentleman, a friend,
Would wait upon me soon: he came at last.

Har.
Moreton?

Mrs. H.
The man you spoke of yesternight.

Har.
And this is true? It is! Oh, Maynard, Maynard!
What a weak gull was I? I saw it not.

Mrs. H.
You will not hate me when I tell you all?
Oh, madam, pity me! I cannot speak it—
And yet it must be told.

Har.
Go on—go on.

Mrs. H.
He came at last, and with respect address'd me—
But presently, grown bolder, he approach'd,
And would have clasp'd me. With a shriek I broke
Away from him, and fled: the door was lock'd—
Again he siez'd me! Oh, I cannot—

Har.
Ha!
I see him dead before me! Why do you tremble?
How I must kill him—hew him into pieces!
Come hither to me, wife: ere you say more
Embrace me—there. Maynard, my sister, stand
Apart from us—now—now, my poor wrong'd girl,
If there is something horrible to tell—
I know there is—whisper it—whisper it now
It will not make me mad.

Mrs. H.
'Tis horrible,
But 'tis not shame—upon that wasted brow
No shame, like shame, shall sit. I struggled with him,
With strength that madness lends—upon the table
There lay a knife—I—

Har.
Kill'd him—he's dead—say that—

Mrs. H.
Alas, I fear—

Har.
Ha, ha! that's well—that's well.
Why, this is justice—justice. How got you here?

Mrs. H.
I know not. Oh, support me!

Mrs. M.
She has fainted!

Har.
Maynard, what crown that might adorn a queen,
But would look dim and rayless on that brow.
Soft—she revives.

Mrs. H.
Where am I?

Har.
With friends, my sweet one.

May.
This is no place for you. You must away
Instantly. Who comes here? too late—too late!

Enter Beauchamp, with Officers.
Mrs. H.
(Clinging to Hargrave.)
Save me from him! I know him!

Har.
So do I,
And know him for a villain!

May.
Let me speak.
How is it, sirs, that at this time of night,
You forcibly make entrance to the house
And chamber of a peaceful citizen?

Beau.
Are you the master of this house?

May.
I am.

Beau.
Then, my good friend, not to offend the laws,
But to uphold the laws, are we come hither.
There is a woman here who has committed
A most foul murder. That is she—secure her!

[The Officers advance
Mrs. H.
They will not take me from you!

Har.
No, they shall not.
We will attend you. Gentlemen, stand off—
I shall conduct her hence. Nay, all is well—
Tremble not so. Maynard, you will assist me?
Thank you. Poor girl! 'tis a hard trial for you.
[To Beau.]
For you, sir, look for justice.

Beau.
I await it,
And am prepared to meet it. Come, lead on.

Har.
(To his Wife.)
Compose yourself—be not afraid—remember,
'Tis not the act, but cause which makes the act,
Or bad, or good. Come, that is well—so, so—

[Exeunt L. H.