University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—An Apartment in Maynard's House.
Hargrave and Mrs. Maynard discovered.
Mrs. M.
Nay, sit awhile: this ferment of your spirits—

Har.
Must be kept up,—should I stand still one moment,
Their retrocession would o'erwhelm me, Mary.
That portrait of my father, which you shew'd me—
How many years since I have seen it? twelve—
'Tis like him.

Mrs. M.
Very.

Har.
Yes, the hale old man,
With winter on his brow, but midsummer
Upon his cheek and lip.

Mrs. M.
And then his eye,
That used to play his tongue false when he chid us,
And spoke the love his words conceal'd—

Har.
Yes, yes,—
I well remember.

Mrs. M.
Do you remember, Henry,
Once when we stray'd from home, and my poor mother,—

Har.
Speak not of her.

Mrs. M.
Oh! those were happy days—
Or is it but our mental alchymy,
Which turns the past to gold. making e'en sorrow,
Assume the presence and the hue of joy?
I know not; well, but they were happy days;
Even to deem they were so makes them so,
Now they are gone. You do not heed me, brother—

Har.
What?—
Was not that a sound of acclamation
In the street just now? pr'ythee, look from the window,
And see if they be coming.
I had not thought,
That anything in all the world could move,
As circumstance now sways me. Do you see them?

Mrs. M.
I do not: by and by they will be here;
Meanwhile forget, if it be possible,
What yet awaits you.

Har.
Enter Maynard, L. H.

May.
Hargrave, I must not speak.
Oh! be compos'd.

Har.
I am.

May.
And fear the worst.

Har.
I do—not knowing what you deem the worst.
One word,—I ask no more: one word, at once;
My wife has been—

May.
Condemn'd.

Har.
Condemn'd!—condemn'd!
What do you mean?
[To Mrs. May.]
Why do you clasp my hand?
I am quite calm. Condemn'd! for what? for virtue?
For being virtuous?—the atonement?

May.
Death.

Har.
This is a cruel jest, if it be one.
It is, I know it is—you cannot mean—
She is below—she is—how? no! d'ye say so?
[To Mrs. May.]
Go to him: bid him tell me plainly, briefly,
Ere my brain burst asunder Why do you look
So piteously upon me? go to him.

May.
This is the heaviest day that ever fell upon us all.

Har.
Yes, yes— [Impatiently.]


May.
Through perjury,
Horrible perjury, is she condemn'd.
The villain Beauchamp, and De Grave, a woman
Whom you once saw, have sworn, your wife and Moreton
Were intimate; on manifold occasions
That she had jewels from him, and obtained
Money, which fear of your revenge extorted:
And that upon the fatal night, unable
By strong persuasions and by threats to move him
To further gifts, (and this, so they have sworn,
The man upon his dying bed averr'd)
She murder'd him.

Mrs. M.
Oh, dreadful wickedness!

May.
Peace,—peace.

Mrs. M.
It was not well to tell him this
At such a time: see, how he stands. Oh, Maynard!
You have made him mad. My dear, dear brother, speak;
Speak; in the name of mercy, speak to us.

Har.
I cannot: there is something here that chokes me,
And will not let me speak: presently—presently—
Stand you away from me—let me have air,
[Tears open his shirt.
Aye, that is better. I have heard it all.
A thief! money and jewels—presents—gifts—
What hell will hold this man who dying, lies
That thieves may live by lying? Why, I could laugh
At this. They have treated you harshly, my poor wife.
In what impossible corner of the earth
Does Justice dwell? where is her sword? 'tis stolen,
And felons murder with it safely, safely.

May.
What can I say to him? Command yourself;
Shake off this stupor—all may yet be well.

Har,
Nay, all is well. Think you this world of ours,
This little all of slaves, comprises all?
I must go to her—she will wish
To see me in this hour of heavy trial.

Mrs. M.
You will not leave us yet.

Har.
I had forgotten:
No, no—one moment more.
[He goes into an inner room, and returns with his sword.
Maynard, in all my life—and I have liv'd
Too many years, since I have liv'd 'till now—
I never knew but one firm constant friend,
And you are he. I thank you, Maynard,
I thank you, and that word includes my heart.
My good, kind sister,
I would say much to you, but cannot speak it.
They'll want a mother soon, will you be one
To them? Your hand has told me so—enough.
The blessings of the earth be on ye both,
The light of heaven for ever! Fare ye well. [Going.]


May.
May we not go with you?

Har.
I would go alone.
I have that to say to her you must not hear.
You wish, I know, to see her once again
Before—well, well, you may come after me—
In half an hour—yes, 'twill be time enough.

[Exit L. H.
Mrs. M.
I cannot weep; this blow has stunn'd my senses.
Where is he gone? His heart is broken, Maynard;
It is not safe that he should go alone.
How came this change to be—this sudden change?
You had no fear of this—no doubt—no thought?

May.
I had not, and know nothing but that life—
My life, or your's, or any one's, remains
For every slave to lie and swear away.

Mrs. M.
But is there, then, no chance—no human means
Whereby she may be sav'd?

May.
You must not hope it—
There is no chance. Cast water on the ground,
And hope to conjure every several drop
Back to the vessel whence you threw it, then
Expect she may be sav'd. Now, as I breathe,
I would give all I have, and all I hope for
On this side death—almost my life itself—
That this had never chang'd. I love your brother
As though he were mine own; his gentle nature
Won me long since, and never, as I think,
A truer woman liv'd than she we pray for.

Madame De G.
(Without.)
But I must see him!
Madame de Grave rushes in, L. H.
Where is her husband? where is Captain Hargrave?
Oh, sir! I know you now.
You should remember me, too.

May.
Madame de Grave?

De G.
Aye, and the recent wife of that base villain
Whom I have left, never to see again

May.
What is your present purpose? you would see—

De G.
Her husband whom our oaths have falsely charg'd.

May.
Hah! you shall see him.

De G.
You are his friends?

Mrs. M.
We are.

May.
Peace—let me speak. What would you say to him?

De G.
I know not how I bore that dreadful trial
With her meek eyes upon me; Heaven spoke through them,
And bade me think of a more fearful trial,
And I the culprit. Oh, sir, pardon me.
Lord Moreton told us nothing; when we sought him,
We found him dead; the jewels, which we swore
He gave her, I possess, and can produce them.
The whole is false. Oh! ere it be too late,
Take me where all may be confess'd,—my heart
Will break else.

Mrs. M.
Oh, unlook'd-for happiness!
Blessings attend you, madam. Heaven has done this.

May.
It is indeed the work of Heaven. Come, madam,
You will go with me: Mary, dry your tears;
Prepare to bear us instant company.
You are willing, madam, to make full confession,
Before a judge, of this?

De G.
I am—I am—
And shall be happy then.

May.
No harm shall reach you.
Come, all is well—'twill be a fair day yet.
Mary, your hand.

Mrs. M.
Let us make haste to join them.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—The interior of a Prison.
Mrs. Hargrave discovered lying on a couch at the back of the Stage. Enter Hargrave.
Har.
She sleeps. Now, mercy with thy sacred balm,
Anoint her soul, and the sweet dew of peace
Drop on her heart, that she may glow of Heaven,
Ere Heaven receive her pure and gentle spirit.

[Mrs. H. rises, and perceiving her husband, approaches him.
Mrs. H.
I have wish'd to see you, Henry; they have made me
Guiltier than truth could make me—they have sought
My life, and they will take my life, by means
That even murder's self would shudder at.
One fear, and only one, remains: can you
Believe me the vile wretch they falsely make me?

Har.
I have deserv'd this at your hands, and feel
The deep reproach. Oh, Margaret, Margaret,
My words are words that have no space to hold
The feelings that oppress me. Could my soul speak,
You had not ask'd that question.

Mrs. H.
It has spoken.
Thank God for that. Forgive me—I am happy.

Har.
Can you be happy in an hour like this?

Mrs. H.
I could—but to leave you and the dear children—
This is death's bitterness.

Har.
They are protected.

Mrs. H.
And you, dear Henry?

Har.
Heaven will not desert me.

Mrs. H.
In whom I trust. Oh, Henry, I have pray'd,
And have not pray'd in vain. No heart so weak,
But Heaven can fill it with an angel's strength:
That strength, my husband, is effus'd from prayer.
The world, which once, I fear, we lov'd too well,
Thought of too much—applied ourselves too long
In vain to satisfy, is pass'd away,
Like a thin shadow—which it is—'tis vanish'd,
Melted, and all my hopes are gone before me,
To the one kingdom.

Har.
Why, 'tis well—'tis well.
You have done with a most worthless world—'tis well—
And through the wide and ever-open gate
Of death, would pass to glory—but the death,—
You have not thought of that—the ignominy,
The hideous shame, whose engines cauterize
Our name for ever: that might be escap'd.
Might it not be escap'd? I would out-tire
A thousand years in prison, so that this
Dishonour might be spar'd.

Mrs. H.
Do not talk thus:
Pray for me, rather, that my nature fail not
In the last dreadful moment.

Har.
I cannot.
The time is near at hand, and I must speak.
This shall not be; I should go mad to know it—
I must not see you perish on the scaffold,
A public spectacle of shame—a show,
For myriads to gaze upon with horror.

Mrs. H.
Speak not thus wildly to me—it must be—
My life is forfeit to the laws, and I
Must pay the penalty.

Har.
Yes, but how? but how?
Forestall the act—anticipate the doom,—
We have the precious means in our own hands.

Mrs. H.
What means are these?

Har.
Here! [Produces a phial.]
Let us die together.

Mrs. H.
Oh, weak, rash man! what is a shameful death,
If this is glorious? Because the night is dark,
Who tempts the lightning? Do you wish to die
Because you fear to live, and yet would rush
Into a world of never-ending life,
And endless woe to those that came unsought.
Promise me this—swear to me you will live.
We are not as ourselves, but as our keepers
In trust for others, dearer than ourselves,
And for their sake—

Har.
You torture me in vain.
I cannot bear the thought—must not endure it.
You plead as ever, like yourself and virtue,
But now your words rebound from my full heart,
And fall unheeded.

Mrs. H.
Yet reflect, reflect—
The power that has permitted the event
Forecasts the issue. Trust that—mistrust yourself.

May.
(Without.)
Where are they? Conduct me to them instantly.

Har.
They come to take their last farewell of you:
The time's at hand, and they will bear you hence,
To instant execution. I will not live
To see it. [Hargrave is about to take the poison, when Mrs. Hargrave, with a shriek, snatches it from his hand.]


Enter Maynard, followed by his Wife.
May.
I have such tidings for you.

Mrs. H.
Oh, speak them—speak them!

May.
The woman has confess'd—Beauchamp's secur'd—
A respite has been granted—the King's pardon
Will follow it betimes.

[Hargrave drops upon his knees.
Mrs. A.
(After a pause.)
Oh, my friends—
Your timely news has sav'd two lives—perhaps,
Two souls—but that must not be dwelt on now.
My husband!

Har.
Margaret!

[They embrace]
Mrs. H.
Let none with impious doubt,
Suggest to Providence the way to guide him
Which when he least perceives, and would defy her,
Is then most prompt to serve him.