University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—A Room in Maynard's House.
Enter Maynard, Mrs. Maynard, and Hargrave, R. H.
May.
Leave us! do you hear the man? Mary, speak to him:
These high-flown fancies are beyond the reach
Of a plain merchant, like myself: speak to him.

Mrs. M.
Dear brother, be persuaded. Let not pride,
The weakness of great natures, and of mean ones
The poor disguise, find entrance in your bosom,
Displacing worthier inmates. Still be just
To us who love you, and your own noble heart:
We know what you would say; leave it unsaid,—
And what you really think us, shew indeed,
By liberal acquiescence.

Har.
My dear sister,—
And Maynard, trusty and most trusted friend,
Lend me a moment's patience. Full two years
Have we been shelter'd by your roof, partaken
Your hospitable board, shar'd your free purse,
And for all benefits, of word, or deed,
Or of those nameless courtesies that make
The vital air of friendship, have been still
Your grateful debtors: well, but hear me, Maynard.
I have beseech'd, nay, have besieg'd the Council,
That they would lend an ear to my just claims;
I would recover my estate,—'tis mine
As truly as the King's crown his,—by blood;
Blood which was shed, and freely, in his cause.
My claims are not allow'd; well, what remains?
I cannot stay with you: too long already
Have I been wrapp'd in a deceitful hope,
Which is now worn to a shred: my sword alone
Must help me now, and it points out a road
To honourable service.

May.
When we see
The road you speak of, will I stay you? No.
Like a tir'd host I'll show you to the door,
Aye, hold the stirrup for you, and with smiles
Bid you good speed. Look you, proud Captain Hargrave:—
Seated once more in your estate, which yet
I must believe you will be, and once more
First of the shire, with your broad lands before you,
O'er which the crow flies wearily to roost,
On your old tree-tops, you may hug your pride
As closely as you will, but here you shall not.

Har.
Maynard, it is not pride—

May.
I'll warrant now,
Should fortune suddenly with one hand raise you,
And with the other thrust me to the earth,—
And shou'd your sister here, and I, come to you,
With piteous tale of bankruptcy and ruin,
You would receive us with cool scorn—nay, bid us
Trace back the path we came.

Har.
You do not think so:
You know me better, Maynard.

Mrs. M.
He but jests—
Forgive him, brother.

May.
What, then, you would house us?
You'd entertain us for a month, a year,
Would you?—a longer time, perhaps?

Har.
For ever,—
Or were I not the vilest slave alive.
What! could I see my sister and yourself
In want, and I in want of heart to serve you,—
To bid you welcome to my house and lands,
And ask you share them? Sir, you wrong me.

May.
Well, then:
What pride is this that takes not, but must give;
And, asking sufferance for the thing it is,
Denies it to another. Come, no more—
I shall be angry else.

Har.
But one word—

May.
No.

Mrs. M.
I was about to quench this friendly heat,
But here comes one, shall, like a gentle air,
Extinguish it at once.

Enter Mrs. Hargrave, R. H.
May.
Ha! Madam, welcome.
You're come in time: your husband here and I,
Cannot yet understand each others' hearts,
And were about to call our tongues to witness
That we were fools alike.

Mrs. H.
But let me hope,
No serious disagreement has occurr'd:
Some trifle, surely,—what is it?

May.
Why, nothing.
And since we cannot make it less, I'll even
See to my books and bales: come with me, wife.
Hargrave, no more of that—

Har.
Well, be it so.

[Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Maynard, L. H.
Mrs. H.
But what has chanc'd 'twixt you and Maynard, Henry?

Har.
An amicable contest,—nothing more.
The worthy fellow and my sister urge
Our longer stay with them, and will, perforce
Insist upon it,—yet I like it not.

Mrs. H.
Wherefore? they love you, and respect us both;
Feel not what you feel, know not you should feel it,
Nor need your thanks, their hearts have thank'd them for us.

Har.
Why, it is true,—and yet I like it not.
Oh, Margaret, I am weary of this state
Of voluntary bondage, drudging still
To do the work of patience, which exacts
Yet never satisfies:—the clouds around us
Thicken, and threaten tempest.

Mrs. H.
Yet, be sure,
A light will soon break through to cheer you on.

Har.
Aye, so it does sometimes,—but does not cheer me.
'Tis like the beam shot from a clouded moon,
Borrow'd,—and spent on darkness. There's not a beggar,
Whose only hopes are sunshine and a crust,
But has a stronger purchase on his fate
Than I have, Margaret.

Mrs. H.
You must not say so.
Think of the children—

Har.
And yourself—I do so:
And that it is which presses on my heart:
But, pardon me, this is the idleness
That comes of hope deferr'd.

Enter Maynard, L. H.
May.
I am here again,
You see: my zeal outruns my manners often.
I have brought a letter for you, left but now
By a tall stripling page—a budding courtier
Putting forth smiles and bows. The seal is noble,
And has a look of promise with it. Take it—
My life on't, it will banish megrim, Hargrave.

Har.
(Takes the letter.)
I will retire and read

May.
By your favour,
I claim friends' privilege, and mean to be
As curious in the business that concerns
Yourself, as though 'twere mine: so, let me hear it.
What say you, madam? [To Mrs. Hargrave.]


Mrs. H.
Certainly.

Har.
You shall. [Hargrave reads.]

“To the right valiant Captain Hargrave.” Um!
'Tis a fair superscription,—fortune grant
So honour'd a commencement be not marr'd
Ere we arrive at its conclusion.
[Opens letter and reads.

“Sir,—I have heard of your claims, which I am advised are valid, and of your noble bearing in the late war, which, were they otherwise, should make them so. I have interest in a certain quarter (not to be here named) which shall, I think, stand you in sufficient stead. Will you pleasure me by an interview at the Dolphin, over against Paul's—where we shall talk of this matter. I await you there; and meanwhile, must make bold to call myself your friend. Moreton.”

May.
Why, this is well: who said that hope had died
And left no heir? I knew your time would come,
Though, to say truth, it has been slow of foot.

Har.
I have heard of the Lord Moreton.

May.
Who has not?
He is the Earl of Belmont's only son;
One of the larger planets of the court,
Receiving light from Charles, which he in turn
Dispenses unto others; now, dispatch,—
Go to him, and partake his beams.

Har.
If justice
Must be awak'd by the soft tones that flow
Out of a courtier's mouth, and will not listen
To my plain speech, well,—be it so,—enough
That truth is spoken,—and besides, my hopes
Have ground to tread on now—for 'twas at Naseby
I sav'd the life of the Lord Moreton's father.

May.
For which the son shall owe you thanks, and pay
In more substantial coin. Come, get ye gone,
We long for your return.

Mrs. H.
I always said,
Fortune would make amends.

Har.
And so you did.
And for your sake, dear wife, your prophecy
Must be made good but I am gone. Farewell.
[Exit Hargrave, L. H.

May.
My wife must hear of this: during his absence
We'll steal a march on time, and know beforehand
How he intends to raise us.

Mrs. H.
And I hope
Conjecture will be speedy certainty.

May.
You shall not doubt it.

[Exeunt. R. H.

SCENE II.

—A Room in the Dolphin Tavern.
Enter Lord Moreton and Beauchamp, R. H. Servants arrange Chairs.
More.
Wine, here—some of your oldest. Should a gentleman
Desire to see me, let him be admitted. [Exit Drawer.]

[To Beauchamp.]
I do not altogether like your plan.

Beau.
Why not?

More.
'Tis easy, when we have stolen the prize,
To render compensation,—gone, 'tis valueless.

Beau.
Who steals when he may purchase? you mistake:
The value of a thing, when it is gone,
If not indeed enhanc'd, suggests a price
More than its worth: steal but a worthless pebble,
The owner swears it was a diamond.
Cannot we test the man? if he be flaw'd,
You gain your point at once.

More.
If not?

Beau.
You stand
In a position better than before.
He cannot say but you have fairly warn'd him,
But do not deem him so inflexible;
I never yet knew man, but poverty
Could bend him. Once I kept a pride myself,—
But it was too expensive, so we parted.

More.
Beauchamp, I think you do not know the man.
This Hargrave is a soldier, and a brave one,
Who serv'd, while yet a boy, at Nottingham
With Rupert—fought, a very devil, at Edgehill,
And left two horses dead on Chaldgrave field.
Espousing the King's cause, it seems, unfledg'd,
This bird forsook his patrimonial nest,
Which some full-feathered Roundhead still enjoys.
He, meanwhile, comes to London, plies the Council,
Nay, even the King himself, for restitution,
Or failing that, for some equivalent
In shape of office, money, or commission,
Which, between us, he scarce will get; for Charles—
Whom Heaven preserve—preserves such claims for Heaven;
And so with heart-sick hope the man still pines.

Beau.
My lord, there seems no difficulty here.
He is a soldier—is he poor?—

More.
He is,—

Beau.
As pride can make him, doubtless; which ne'er plunges
A man into a slough, but she still leaves him
For meanness to draw forth. Make yourself easy;
Hargrave may bluster for a while, but, trust me,
His noisy sense of wrong will soon subside,
Lull'd by your golden music.

More.
He shall have it,—
And freely, too.

Beau.
Well, you are generous:
It saves sometimes a world of after-trouble.

Enter Drawer, R. H. with Wine, &c.
Draw.
My lord, one Master Hargrave—

More.
Let him come up. [Exit Drawer.]

He's here. [To Beau.]


Beau.
Leave him to me—I'll cast the plummet,
And sound the depths and shallows of his soul,
Though it were turbid as an autumn flood.

More.
Softly:—he comes.

Enter Hargrave, R. H.
Har.
Lord Moreton?—

More.
I am he.
My friend, and yours. [Introduces Beauchamp.]

Let us be seated:—Come, sir. [They sit.]

You'll pardon my presumption, Captain Hargrave,
But I have long been anxious for the honour
Of knowing you—your name I have long known.
Let me be plain:—the little interest
That I can fairly boast, when it is join'd
To the commanding influence of others,—
As 'tis now join'd—supported by your claims,
Which justice cannot wink at, must avail you;—
Nay, shall—I think so—let us not be sanguine,
And so miscount our strength.
[Turning to Beauchamp.]
'Sdeath! is it not
A hard case, that a noble gentleman,
One who has serv'd his king, should be forgotten,
Whilst others, aliens to fame and honour,
Are but too well remember'd?

Beau.
So it is.

More.
But, doubt not, I shall raise you,—if not so high
As your deserts, yet to the eminence
You fell from—or from which you were displac'd.

Har.
I am much bound to you.

More.
Nay,—not at all.
Meanwhile, for restitution travels slowly,
Even at its fastest, pray command my purse—
Let me request you will accept— [Offers Hargrave a purse.]


Har.
My lord!
I seek not alms—

More.
Pshaw!—neither do I think so,
Or tender it as such—but, from a friend—

Har.
I should be loth to baulk your generous nature
By any show of an unseemly humour,
As though I should disdain or slight an act
Prompted by friendship, but—

More.
You are too proud.
No? then accept this loan—for 'tis a loan,—
Which some not distant day you shall return.

Har.
Well, my lord, I thank you.

More.
Put it up: that's well.
No more of it. [Moreton and Beauchamp exchange glances.]

For a few minutes' space,
I fear that I must leave you. I am bound
To meet a certain Duke, whom to engage
In your affairs, (and he is apt, I know)
Is now my present aim. Beauchamp, to you
I leave our friend: you'll entertain him, will you?
I shall be hither straight.

Beau.
We shall expect you.
[Exit Moreton, R. H.
Come, Captain, let us sit: this wine must not
Grow older ere we taste it. [He pours out wine.]

What say you, sir?
His Lordship is a very noble fellow,
One who will wear a coronet as proudly
As his old father, and not dim its brightness.
Let us, then, pledge his health.

Har.
With all my heart. [They drink.]


Beau.
But yet this stripling has his faults of nature,
Which to us older men suggest a smile,
Remembering when we ourselves were younger.
He's of the court, where licence is the rule,
And pleasure, Fortune's Ganymede, attends
With an o'erbrimming goblet.

Har.
Let him quaff it.
Better these idle vanities of sense
To know, than to avoid; their emptiness
Once seen, the real blessings that invite us
Are worthier priz'd.

Beau,
True: but this young gallant.
Shot through by a bright eye, is quite destroy'd.
Why, sir, the memory of a smile will last him
For months to swear by:—he is too weak in this.

Har.
It is almost the privilege of youth
To be so: 'tis a giddy flame, whose fire
Will one day burn more clear, and warm, and steadfast.

Beau.
You are married, Captain Hargrave.

Har.
I have a wife, sir.

Beau.
She's fair:—oh, what a term is that for beauty—
A very angel, Captain!

Har.
She will pass;
And might, indeed, be deem'd a very angel,
Were all to judge as you,—from mere surmise.

Beau.
But I have seen her.

Har.
Ha!

Beau.
And he has seen her—
My lord—

Har.
Indeed!

Beau.
Why, how you look! what marvel?
She's beautiful, and we had eyes to see it:
There is nought strange in that. But, come, more wine.
This is much nearer to my heart than beauty. [They drink.]

Be not offended, sir, when I e'en tell you,
That we have spoken with her.

Har.
Sir! you're merry.
I hope so.

Beau.
No.

Har.
You jest.

Beau.
No, by my life—
As serious as a straight-haired Puritan.
But, what! you look disturb'd.

Har.
No,—not at all.
Yet it is strange.

Beau.
Well, to accost a lady
In the open street is rude, I grant;—not strange,
In these times—and we knew not 'twas your wife.

Har.
But now that you do know it—

Beau.
There's the plague!
Moreton, poor wretch! must sigh, and sigh in vain.

Har.
I do not understand—what do you mean?

Beau.
Shall I be frank with you?

Har.
I shall like it best,
'Tis as I speak sometimes—a soldier's trick.

Beau.
Well, then: I have conceiv'd a friendship for you,
Born of your praise, which, to say truth, his lordship
Makes his still constant theme: and if strong zeal
Had ready tools to work with, and could act
On pliable materials, he'd serve you.
But he, I think, miscalculates his power;
Rather, mis rates the patient tedious skill,
Whereby right must be wrested from the strong,
Who, having, keep,—though it belong to others.
Well, he is young, capricious—you or I,
Might seek and press him strong in your behalf,
Just on the heel of some rebuff;—he'd chafe—
Conceive disgust—perhaps throw up the office
He undertook in friendship:—see you not?
Now, if your wife—

Har.
Aye—

Beau.
You were about to speak?

Har.
I said but ‘aye’—proceed.

Beau.
Well, if your wife
Would undertake to move in this affair—
(Persuasion is a woman's element),
Would sue him every hour;—should he relax,
Urge him more warmly—in a word, o'ercome him;
Beauty has done this oft, and Mistress Hargrave
Will meet an easy conquest in my lord,
Who is already vanquish'd by her eyes.
[During this speech Hargrave has risen, and paces the Stage.
[Aside.]
He has taken the bait! Captain, are you not well?

Har.
A sudden giddiness—the wine has flush'd me—
I shall be better soon—
[Hargrave seats himself, and after a pause speaks.
You think so?

Beau.
What?

Har.
That were my wife to mediate—to go
Between us, as you say, 'twere better than—

Beau.
Than you or I, or any other man.
I have heard him hint, indeed, that did you please,
You need not fear advancement.

Har.
How?

Beau.
Guess.

Har.
I cannot.

Beau.
Your wife—

Har.
Ha, ha! I see; you know the world—
Wise—wise: will it be long ere he return?

Beau.
He stays too long already; when he comes
You can speak to him.

Har.
I can speak to him?
True: I will speak to him.

Beau.
Oh! here he is.

Enter Moreton, R. H.
More.
You have not miss'd me, gentlemen, I hope.
I was detain'd.

Har.
Oh, but, my lord, we have.
Your hand, my lord.

More.
With pleasure.

Har.
Take that again.
[Drops the purse into the hand of Moreton
And seek some man whom fortune has depriv'd
Of all, save what she could not take—his honour:
Tempt him with that—bid high, and you may win him:
If he prove obstinate as some men will be
Who have a feeling on that score—bid higher—
Be liberal with your gold, and when you've won him,
Bring him to me, and I will spit upon him.

More.
What mystery is here? why this to me?
What is the meaning, Beauchamp, of this phrenzy?

Beau.
What! Captain—

Har.
Oh, you are there? Come hither.
[Hargrave seizes Beauchamp and leads him to Moreton
Who is this creature you have left with me?
What wretch is this? You said he was your friend—
Your friend?

More.
He is.

Har.
Dishonourable boy!
How I blush for you, that you do not blush.
Have you no shame—no thought—feeling or fear—
That you thus dare to put this outrage on me?
When next you'd have a serpent do your baseness,
Chose not a worm—a trailing worm like this.

[Thrusts Beauchamp from him.
More.
You're insolent! I wear a sword—

Har.
I use one—
And sometimes quickly. Do not tempt me. Hence!

Beau.
[To More.]
Let us be gone. You must not quarrel with him;
It may be dangerous. By Heaven! I thought
The man was our's.

More.
Unhand me, Beauchamp! now
Will I chastise this mouthing blusterer,
Whose threats are his chief danger.

Har.
Hear me, sir—
I have been, if I am not now, a soldier,
And have withstood the iron men of Fairfax;
Rush'd mid the thick of death, where I have heard
Red carnage bowl for blood, which all the while
Was peopling heaven with souls—and would you stop me
What reed next for a weapon? I have spoken—
Begone!

Beau.
(To Moreton.)
He is not worthy of your sword:
Leave him; we shall yet find the means to cross him.

More.
Nay, I will not—

Har.
Touch but your sword-hilt, Lord,
Advance one step—but one—and the next moment
Shall see your father childless. Be advis'd—
Take council of your friend—once it may serve you.

Beau.
Come, you must hence.

More.
You're right. I was too hasty.
[To Hargrave.]
You shall hear of me, sir again.

Har.
Well, well:
When I hear of your courage, time enough—
You may be older then.
[Beauchamp forces Moreton out, R. H.
I was a fool to vent myself upon
A trivial boy like this. Oh, Poverty!
The roof of thatch—the lowly threshold claims thee;
The sons of labour know thee; and content
Sit in thy shade; but when thou com'st abroad
To visit pride, and at his table sit'st,
With insult to wait on thee, and directest
His service to thine host, then art thou—Stop!
Did he not say that he had seen her? Ha!
And spoken to her? where? when? how? but, no—
That cannot be: my Margaret, they belie thee—
Whose heart is as a glass, in which I see
Myself reflected always: [He muses.]

What if fortune,
(Such things have been) should grind her spirit down
To the level of dishonour? Out upon it!
I will not yet believe that lie—yet?—never!

[Exit, R. H.

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.