University of Virginia Library

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.