University of Virginia Library

ACT THIRD.

SCENE I.

St James's Park. Seats, &c. Time—Sunset.
Enter Blount.
BLOUNT.
So the parson is found and the cottage is hired—
Every fear was dispelled when my rival retired.
Ev'n my stern mother country must spare from my life
A brief moon of that honey one tastes with a wife!
And then strong as a giant, recruited by sleep,
On corruption and Walpole my fury shall sweep.
'Mid the cheers of the House I will state in my place
How the bribes that he proffered were flung in his face.
Men shall class me amid those examples of worth
Which, alas! become daily more rare on this earth;
And Posterity, setting its brand on the front
Of a Walpole, select for its homage a Blount.

(Enter Bellair, singing gaily.)

SCENE II.

Blount, Bellair.
BELLAIR.
“The dove builds where the leaves are still green on the tree—”

BLOUNT
(rising).
Ha!

BELLAIR.
“For May and December can never agree.”

BLOUNT.
I am glad you've so quickly got over that blow.

BELLAIR.
Fallala!

BLOUNT
(aside).
What this levity means I must know.
The friend I best loved was your father, Bellair—
Let me hope your strange mirth is no laugh of despair.

BELLAIR.
On the wit of the wisest man it is no stigma
If the heart of a girl is to him an enigma;
That my Lucy was lost to my arms you believed—
Wish me joy, my dear Blount, you were grossly deceived.
She is mine!—What on earth are you thinking about?
Do you hear?

BLOUNT.
I am racked!

BELLAIR.
What?

BLOUNT.
A twinge of the gout.
(Reseating himself.)
Pray excuse me.

BELLAIR.
Nay, rather myself I reproach
For not heeding your pain. Let me call you a coach.

BLOUNT.
Nay, nay, it is gone. I am eager to hear
How I've been thus deceived—make my blunder more clear.
You have seen her?

BELLAIR.
Of course. From her own lips I gather
That your good Mr Jones might be Lucy's grandfather.
Childish fear, or of Vizard—who seems a virago—
Or the old man himself—

BLOUNT.
Oh!

BELLAIR.
You groan?

BLOUNT.
The lumbago!

BELLAIR.
Ah! they say gout is shifty—now here and now there.

BLOUNT.
Pooh;—continue. The girl then—

BELLAIR.
I found in despair.
But no matter—all's happily settled at last.

BLOUNT.
Ah! eloped from the house?

BELLAIR.
No, the door was made fast.
But to-night I would ask you a favour.

BLOUNT.
What? Say.

BELLAIR.
If your pain should have left you, to give her away.
For myself it is meet that I take every care
That my kinsfolk shall hail the new Lady Bellair.
I've induced my two aunts (who are prudish) to grace
With their presence my house, where the nuptials take place.
And to act as her father there's no man so fit
As yourself, dear old Blount, if the gout will permit.

BLOUNT.
'Tis an honour—

BELLAIR.
Say pleasure.

BLOUNT.
Great pleasure! Proceed.
How is she, if the door is still fast, to be freed?
Is the house to be stormed?

BELLAIR.
Nay; I told you before
That a house has its windows as well as its door.
And a stone at the pane for a signal suffices,
While a ladder—

BLOUNT.
I see. (Aside.)
What infernal devices!
Has she no maiden fear—

BELLAIR.
From the ladder to fall?
Ask her that—when we meet at my house in Whitehall.

(Enter 1st Jacobite Lord.)

SCENE III.

Blount, Bellair, 1st Jacobite, afterwards Veasey.
JACOBITE LORD
(giving note to BELLAIR).
If I err not, I speak to Sir Sidney Bellair?
Pray vouchsafe me one moment in private.

(Draws him aside.)
BLOUNT.
Despair!
How prevent?—how forestall? Could I win but delay,
I might yet brush this stinging fly out of my way.

(While he speaks, enter Veasey in the background.)
VEASEY.
Ha! Bellair whispering close with that Jacobite lord—
Are they hatching some plot?

(Hides behind the trees—listening.)
BELLAIR
(reading).
So he's safely on board—

JACOBITE LORD.
And should Fortune shake out other lots from her urn,
We, poor friends of the Stuart, might serve you in turn.
You were talking with Blount—Selden Blount—is he one
Of your friends?

BELLAIR.
Ay, the truest.

JACOBITE LORD.
Then warn him to shun
That vile Jezabel's man-trap—I know he goes there.
Whom she welcomes she sells.

BELLAIR.
I will bid him beware.

(Shakes hands. Exit Jacobite Lord.)
BELLAIR
(to BLOUNT).
I have just learned a secret, 'tis fit I should tell you.
Go no more to old Vizard's, or know she will sell you.
Nithsdale hid in her house when the scaffold he fled.
She received him, and went for the price on his head;
But—the drollest mistake—of that tale by-and-by—
He was freed; is safe now!

BLOUNT.
Who delivered him?

BELLAIR.
I.

BLOUNT.
Ha!—you did!

BELLAIR.
See, he sends me this letter of thanks.

BLOUNT
(reading).
Which invites you to join with the Jacobite ranks.
And when James has his kingdom—

BELLAIR.
That chance is remote;

BLOUNT.
Hints an earldom for you.

BELLAIR.
Bah!

BLOUNT.
Take care of this note.

(Appears to thrust it into Bellair's coat-pocket—lets it fall, and puts his foot on it.)
BELLAIR.
Had I guessed that the hag was so greedy of gold,
Long ago I had bought Lucy out of her hold;
But to-night the dear child will be free from her power.
Adieu! I expect you then.

BLOUNT.
Hold! at what hour?

BELLAIR.
By the window at ten, self and ladder await her;
The wedding—eleven; you will not be later.

(Exit.)
BLOUNT
(picking up the letter).
Nithsdale's letter. Bright thought!—and what luck! I see Veasey.

Re-enter Bellair.
BELLAIR.
Blount, I say, will old Jones be to-morrow uneasy?
Can't you fancy his face?

BLOUNT.
Yes; ha! ha!

BELLAIR.
I am off.

(Exit.)

SCENE IV.

Blount, Veasey.
Blount.
What! shall I, Selden Blount, be a popinjay's scoff?
Mr Veasey, your servant.

VEASEY.
I trust, on the whole,
That you've settled with Walpole the prices of coal.

BLOUNT.
Coals be—lighted below! Sir, the country's in danger.

VEASEY.
To that fact Walpole says that no patriot's a stranger.

BLOUNT.
With the safety of England myself I will task,
If you hold yourself licensed to grant what I ask.

VEASEY.
Whatsoever the terms of a patriot so stanch,
Walpole gives you—I speak as his proxy—carte blanche.

BLOUNT.
If I break private ties where the Public's at stake,
Still my friend is my friend: the condition I make
Is to keep him shut up from all share in rash strife,
And secure him from danger to fortune and life.

VEASEY.
Blount—agreed. And this friend? Scarce a moment ago
I marked Sidney Bellair in close talk with—

BLOUNT.
I know.
There's a plot to be checked ere it start into shape.
Hark! Bellair had a hand in Lord Nithsdale's escape!

VEASEY.
That's abetment of treason.

BLOUNT.
Read this, and attend.
(Gives Nithsdale's note to Bellair which Veasey reads.)
Snares atrocious are set to entrap my poor friend
In an outbreak to follow that Jacobite's flight—

VEASEY.
In an outbreak. Where?—when?

BLOUNT.
Hush! in London to-night.
He is thoughtless and young. Act on this information.
Quick—arrest him at once; and watch over the nation.

VEASEY.
No precaution too great against men disaffected.

BLOUNT.
And the law gives you leave to confine the suspected.

VEASEY.
Ay, this note will suffice for a warrant. Be sure,
Ere the clock strike the quarter, your friend is secure.
(Exit Veasey.)

BLOUNT.
Good; my rival to-night will be swept from my way,
And John Jones shall wake easy eno' the next day.
Do I still love this girl? No, my hate is so strong,
That to me, whom she mocks, she alone shall belong.
I need trust to that saleable Vizard no more.
Ha! I stand as Bellair the bride's window before.
Oh, when love comes so late how it maddens the brain,
Between shame for our folly, and rage at our pain!

(Exit.)

SCENE V.

Room in Walpole's house. (Lights.)
Enter Walpole.
So Lord Nithsdale's shipped off. There's an end of one trouble;
When his head's at Boulogne the reward shall be double.
(Seating himself, takes up a book— glances at it, and throws it down.)
Stuff! I wonder what lies the Historians will tell
When they babble of one Robert Walpole! Well, well,
Let them sneer at his blunders, declaim on his vices,
Cite the rogues whom he purchased, and rail at the prices,
They shall own that all lust for revenge he withstood;
And, if lavish of gold, he was sparing of blood;
That when England was threatened by France and by Rome,
He forced Peace from abroad and encamped her at home,
And the Freedom he left, rooted firm in mild laws,
May o'ershadow the faults of deeds done in her cause!

(Enter Veasey.)

SCENE VI.

Walpole, Veasey.
VEASEY
(giving note).
Famous news! See, Bellair has delivered himself
To your hands. He must go heart and soul with the Guelph,
And vote straight, or he's ruined.

WALPOLE
(reading).
This note makes it clear
That he's guilty of Nithsdale's escape.

VEASEY.
And I hear
That to-night he will head some tumultuous revolt,
Unless chained to his stall like a mischievous colt.

WALPOLE.
Your informant?

VEASEY.
Guess! Blount; but on promise to save
His young friend's life and fortune!

WALPOLE.
What Blount says is grave.
He would never thus speak if not sure of his fact.
(Signing warrant.)
Here, then, take my State warrant; but cautiously act.
Bid Bellair keep his house—forbid exits and entries;—
To make sure, at his door place a couple of sentries.
Say I mean him no ill; but these times will excuse
Much less gentle precautions than those which I use.
Stay, Dame Vizard is waiting without: to her den
Nithsdale fled. She came here to betray him.

VEASEY.
What then?

WALPOLE.
Why, I kept her, perforce, till I sent, on the sly,
To prevent her from hearing Lord Nithsdale's good-bye.
When my agent arrived, I'm delighted to say
That the cage-wires were broken,—the bird flown away;
But he found one poor captive imprisoned and weeping;
I must learn how that captive came into such keeping.
Now, then, off—nay, a moment; you would not be loth
Just to stay with Bellair?—I may send for you both.

VEASEY.
With a host more delightful no mortal could sup,
But a guest so unlooked for—

WALPOLE.
Will cheer the boy up!

(Exit Veasey.)
WALPOLE
(ringing hand-bell).
(Enter Servant.)
Usher in Mistress Vizard.

SCENE VII.

Walpole, Mrs Vizard.
WALPOLE.
Quite shocked to detain you,
But I knew a mistake, if there were one, would pain you.

MRS VIZARD.
Sir, mistake there is not; that vile creature is no man.

WALPOLE.
But you locked the door?

MRS VIZARD.
Fast.

WALPOLE.
Then, no doubt, 'tis a woman,
For she slipped thro' the window.

MRS VIZARD.
No woman durst!

WALPOLE.
Nay.
When did woman want courage to go her own way?

MRS VIZARD.
You jest, sir. To me 'tis no subject of laughter.

WALPOLE.
Do not weep. The reward?—we'll discuss that hereafter.

MRS VIZARD.
You'd not wrong a poor widow who brought you such news?

WALPOLE.
Wrong a widow!—there's oil to put in her cruse.
(Giving a pocket-book.)
Meanwhile, the tried agent despatched to your house,
In that trap found a poor little terrified mouse,
Which did call itself “Wilmot”—a name known to me.
Pray you, how in your trap did that mouse come to be?

MRS VIZARD
(hesitatingly).
Sir, believe me—

WALPOLE.
Speak truth—for your own sake you ought.

MRS VIZARD.
By a gentleman, sir, to my house she was brought.

WALPOLE.
Oh! some Jacobite kinsman perhaps?

MRS VIZARD.
Bless you, no;
A respectable Roundhead. You frighten me so!

WALPOLE.
A respectable Roundhead intrust to your care
A young girl, whom you guard as in prison!— Beware!
'Gainst decoy for vile purpose the law is severe.

MRS VIZARD.
Fie! you libel a saint, sir, of morals austere.

WALPOLE.
Do you mean Judith Vizard?

MRS VIZARD.
I mean Selden Blount.

WALPOLE.
I'm bewildered! But why does this saint (no affront)
To your pious retreat a fair damsel confide?

MRS VIZARD.
To protect her as ward till he claims her as bride.

WALPOLE.
Faith, his saintship does well until that day arrive
To imprison the maid he proposes to wive.
But these Roundheads are wont but with Roundheads to wed,
And the name of this lady is Wilmot, she said.
Every Wilmot I know of is to the backbone
A rank Jacobite; say, can that name be her own?

MRS VIZARD.
Not a doubt; more than once I have heard the girl say
That her father had fought for King James on the day
When the ranks of the Stuart were crushed at the Boyne.
He escaped from the slaughter, and fled to rejoin
At the Court of St Germain's his new-wedded bride.
Long their hearth without prattlers; a year ere he died,
Lucy came to console her who mourned him, bereft
Of all else in this world.

WALPOLE
(eagerly).
But the widow he left;
She lives still?

MRS VIZARD.
No; her child is now motherless.

WALPOLE
(aside).
Fled!
Fled again from us, sister! How stern are the dead!
Their dumb lips have no pardon! Tut! shall I build grief
On a guess that perchance only fools my belief?
This may not be her child. (Rings).

(Enter Servant.)
My coach waits?

SERVANT.
At the door.

WALPOLE.
Come; your house teems with secrets I long to explore.

(Exeunt Walpole and Mrs Vizard.)

SCENE VIII.

Mrs Vizard's house. A lamp on the table.
Enter Lucy from her room.
LUCY.
Mistress Vizard still out!
(Looking at the clock.)
What! so late? O my heart!—
How it beats! Have I promised in stealth to depart?
Trust him—yes! But will he, ah! long after this night,
Trust the wife wooed so briefly, and won but by flight?
My lost mother!
(Takes a miniature from her breast.)
Oh couldst thou yet counsel thy child!
No, this lip does not smile as it yesterday smiled.
From thine heaven can no warning voice come to mine ear;
Save thy child from herself;—'tis myself that I fear.

Enter Walpole and Mrs Vizard through the concealed door.
MRS VIZARD.
Lucy, love, in this gentleman (curtsy, my dear)
See a friend.

WALPOLE.
Peace, and leave us.

(Exit Mrs Vizard.)

SCENE IX.

Walpole, Lucy.
WALPOLE.
Fair girl, I would hear
From yourself, if your parents—

LUCY.
My parents; Oh say
Did you know them?—my mother?

WALPOLE.
The years roll away.
I behold a grey hall, backed by woodlands of pine;
I behold a fair face—eyes and tresses like thine—
By her side a rude boy full of turbulent life,
All impatient of rest, and all burning for strife—
They are brother and sister. Unconscious they stand—
On the spot where their paths shall divide—hand in hand.
Hush! a moment, and lo! as if lost amid night,
She is gone from his side, she is snatched from his sight.
Time has flowed on its course—that wild boy lives in me;
But the sister I lost! Does she bloom back in thee?
Speak—the name of thy mother, ere changing her own
For her lord's?—who her parents?

LUCY.
I never have known.
When she married my father, they spurned her, she said,
Bade her hold herself henceforth to them as the dead;
Slandered him in whose honour she gloried as wife,
Urged attaint on his name, plotted snares for his life;
And one day when I asked what her lineage, she sighed
“From the heart they so tortured their memory has died.”

WALPOLE.
Civil war slays all kindred—all mercy, all ruth.

LUCY.
Did you know her?—if so, was this like her in youth?

(Giving miniature.)
WALPOLE.
It is she; the lips speak! Oh, I knew it!—thou art
My lost sister restored!—to mine arms, to mine heart.
That wild brother the wrongs of his race shall atone;
He has stormed his way up to the foot of the throne.
Yes! thy mate thou shalt choose 'mid the chiefs of the land.
Dost thou shrink?—heard I right?—is it promised this hand,
And to one, too, of years so unsuited to thine?

LUCY.
Dare I tell you?

WALPOLE.
Speak, sure that thy choice shall be mine.

LUCY.
When my mother lay stricken in mind and in frame,
All our scant savings gone, to our succour there came
A rich stranger, who lodged at the inn whence they sought
To expel us as vagrants. Their mercy he bought;
Ever since I was left in the wide world alone,
I have owed to his pity this roof—

WALPOLE.
Will you own
What you gave in return?

LUCY.
Grateful reverence.

WALPOLE.
And so
He asked more!

LUCY.
Ah! that more was not mine to bestow.

WALPOLE.
What! your heart some one younger already had won.
Is he handsome?

LUCY.
Oh yes!

WALPOLE.
And a gentleman's son.

LUCY.
Sir, he looks it.

WALPOLE.
His name is—

LUCY.
Sir Sidney Bellair.

WALPOLE.
Eh! that brilliant Lothario? Dear Lucy, beware;
Men of temper so light may make love in mere sport.
Where on earth did you meet?—in what terms did he court?
Why so troubled? Why turn on the timepiece your eye?
Orphan, trust me.

LUCY.
I will. I half promised to fly—

WALPOLE.
With Bellair. (Aside.)
He shall answer for this with his life.
Fly to-night as his—what!

LUCY.
Turn your face—as his wife.

(Lucy sinks down, burying her face in her hands.)
WALPOLE
(going to the door).
Jasper—ho!
(Enter Servant as he writes on his tablets.)
Take my coach to Sir Sidney's, Whitehall.
Mr Veasey is there; give him this—that is all.
(Tearing out the leaf from the tablet and folding it up.)
Go out the back way; it is nearest my carriage.
(Opens the concealed door, through which exit Servant.)
I shall very soon know if the puppy means marriage.

LUCY.
Listen; ah! that's his signal!

WALPOLE.
A stone at the pane!
But it can't be Bellair—he is safe.

LUCY.
There, again!

WALPOLE
(peeps from the window).
Ho!—a ladder! Niece, do as I bid you; confide
In my word, and I promise Sir Sidney his bride!
Ope the window and whisper, “I'm chained to the floor;
Pray, come up and release me!”

LUCY
(out of the window).
“I'm chained to the floor;
Pray, come up and release me.”

WALPOLE.
I watch by this door.

(Enters Lucy's room and peeping out.)
(Blount enters through the window.)

SCENE X.

Blount, Lucy, Walpole at watch unobserved.
LUCY.
Saints in heaven, Mr Jones!

WALPOLE
(aside).
Selden Blount, by Old Nick!

BLOUNT.
What! you are not then chained! Must each word be a trick?
Ah! you looked for a gallant more dainty and trim;
He deputes me to say he abandons his whim;
By his special request I am here in his place—
Saving him from a crime and yourself from disgrace.
Still, ungrateful, excuse for your folly I make—
Still the prize he disdains to my heart I can take.
Fly with me, as with him you would rashly have fled;—
He but sought to degrade you, I seek but to wed.
Take revenge on the false heart, give bliss to the true!

LUCY.
If he's false to myself, I were falser to you,
Could I say I forget him;

BLOUNT.
You will, when my wife.

LUCY.
That can never be—

BLOUNT.
Never!

LUCY.
One love lasts thro' life!

BLOUNT.
Traitress! think not this insult can tamely be borne—
Hearts like mine are too proud for submission to scorn.
You are here at my mercy—that mercy has died;
You remain as my victim or part as my bride.
(Locks the door.)
See, escape is in his vain, and all others desert you;
Let these arms be your refuge.

WALPOLE
(tapping him on the shoulder).
Well said, Public Virtue!

(Blount, stupefied, drops the key, which Walpole takes up, stepping out into the balcony, to return as Blount, recovering himself, makes a rush at the window.)
WALPOLE
(stopping him).
As you justly observed, “See, escape is in vain”—
I have pushed down the ladder.

BLOUNT
(laying his hand on his sword).
'Sdeath! draw, sir!—

WALPOLE.
Abstain.
From that worst of all blunders, a profitless crime.
Cut my innocent throat? Fie! one sin at a time.

BLOUNT.
Sir, mock on, I deserve it; expose me to shame,
I've o'erthrown my life's labour,—an honest man's name.

LUCY
(stealing up to Blount).
No; a moment of madness can not sweep away
All I owed, and—forgive me—have failed to repay:
(To Walpole.)
Be that moment a secret.

WALPOLE.
If woman can keep one,
Then a secret's a secret. Gad, Blount, you're a deep one!

(Knock at the door; Walpole opens it.)
(Enter Bellair and Veasey, followed by Mrs Vizard.)

SCENE XI.

Walpole, Lucy, Blount, Veasey, Bellair, Mrs Vizard in the background.
BELLAIR
(not seeing Walpole, who is concealed behind the door which he opens, and hurrying to Blount).
Faithless man, canst thou look on my face undismayed?
Nithsdale's letter disclosed, and my friendship betrayed!
What! and here too! Why here?

BLOUNT
(aside).
I shall be the town's scoff.

WALPOLE
(to Bellair and Veasey).
Sirs, methinks that you see not that lady—hats off.
I requested your presence, Sir Sidney Bellair,
To make known what you owe to the friend who stands there.
For that letter disclosed, your harsh language recant—
It's condition your pardon;—full pardon I grant.
He is here—you ask why; 'tis to save you to-night
From degrading your bride by the scandal of flight.
(Drawing him aside.)
Or—hist!—did you intend (whisper close in my ear)
Honest wedlock with one so beneath you I fear?
You of lineage so ancient—

BELLAIR.
Must mean what I say.
Do their ancestors teach the Well-born to betray?

WALPOLE.
Wed her friendless and penniless?

BELLAIR.
Ay.

WALPOLE.
Strange caprice!
Deign to ask, then, from Walpole the hand of his niece.
Should he give his consent, thank the friend you abuse.

BELLAIR
(embracing Blount).
Best and noblest of men, my blind fury excuse!

WALPOLE.
Hark! her father's lost lands may yet serve for her dower.

BELLAIR.
All the earth has no lands worth the bloom of this flower.

LUCY.
Ah! too soon fades the flower.

BELLAIR.
True, I alter the name.
Be my perfect pure chrysolite—ever the same.

WALPOLE.
Hold! I know not a chrysolite from a carbuncle,
(With insinuating blandishment of voice and look.)
But my nephew-in-law should not vote out his uncle.

BELLAIR.
Robert Walpole, at last you have bought me, I fear.

WALPOLE.
Every man has his price. My majority's clear.
If,—
(Crossing quickly to Blount.)
Dear Blount, did your goodness not rank with the best,
What you feel as reproach, you would treat as a jest.
Raise your head—and with me keep a laugh for the ass
Who has never gone out of his wits for a lass:
Live again for your country—reflect on my bill.

BLOUNT
(with emotion, grasping Walpole's hand).
You are generous; I thank you. Vote with you?—I will!

VEASEY.
How dispersed are the clouds seeming lately so sinister!

WALPOLE.
Yes, I think that the glass stands at Fair—for the Minister.

VEASEY.
Ah! what more could you do for the People and Throne?

WALPOLE.
Now I'm safe in my office, I'd leave well alone.