University of Virginia Library

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.