University of Virginia Library

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.