A Part of Garden of Serafina's House.
Enter Antonio.
Ant.This friar's gown, which I have borrowed from my master, has proved most valuable. I never could have reached this spot, if I had not been thus disguised. (Opens his gown, and shows his face and clothes smeared with blood.) Here's blood enough. Noble, for all I know. I begged it from the barber. Thank Heaven, 'tis not mine own. Sancho will never know me. I see them coming in the distance. (Takes off the gown, and puts it behind the trees, and then lies down.) Now for self-murder. Lopez is no more.
Enter Sancho and Nina.
San.'Tis here that we fought, and hereabouts should be the body.
Nina.(fearfully pointing to the body.) What's that? Sancho, it is—it is my husband! (Bursts into tears.)
San.Why do you grieve? Did you not wish him dead?
Nina.Alas! we often wish what we do not really want, prompted by the anger of the moment. What, in our selfish views, seems nothing at the time, becomes most horrible in the reality. Alas, poor Lopez! (Weeps.)
San.Why, Nina, did he not basely leave you? Forgot his vow to love and cherish you? Holy Saint Petronila! why, then, do you love and cherish him? Come, dry your eyes, Nina; he's not worth a tear. (Kisses her hand.)
Nina.From no one, I will grant, except from me. But there's a feeling in the heart of woman, you cannot comprehend. Even when it is breaking from ill-treatment, ityearns towards her husband. I must go away, Sancho; I cannot bear to see him—nor you; for you did slay him.
San.Where are you going?
Nina.I'll meet you in the further walk. [Exit Nina, sobbing.
San.Here's a pretty mess! Women are never of one mind: change, and change, and change for ever. This rascal deserted her at Toledo, took all her money, and her very clothes—and yet she grieves for him. I should not wonder if she rejected me now, believing that I killed him. (Going up to Antonio.) How bloody he is! Thou filthy carcase of a filthy knave! I've a great mind to have a thrust at thee, that I may swear my sword went through thy body. Saint Petronila bless the idea! (Half drawing his sword.) There's some one coming; and if I am found here, with my naked sword, near this bloody corpse, I shall be apprehended for his murder. [Exit hastily.
(Antonio looks up and then lies down.)
Enter Beppa.
Bep.I cannot find my mistress. She came with me into the garden, worked up to desperation against Don Gaspar, and earnest for his death. Alas! the tide is turned, and now, in some sequestered spot, she weeps his falsehood. I must go seek her, and steel her heart by praising Isidora. What's here? the body of a man (going to Antonio). Why! 'tis Antonio, my worthless husband; alas! and called away without repentance, full of misdeeds and roguery. Heaven pardon him! Whose deed was this? that villain Garcias'?—if so, he hath but gained the sin; for I would sooner hug an adder, than listen to his wooing. I must seek my mistress; then will I return to give him honest burial, and pay for masses for his guilty soul. [Exit.
[Antonio rises slowly, resumes his friar's dress, and comes forward.]
Ant.That cowardly rascal, Sancho, had nearly broughtme to life again, instead of having killed me, as he said he had. Pitiful scoundrel, to thrust at a dead man! He'll never kill one living. Nina, I respect thee; yet must we part, for 'tis evident thou lov'st another. I'll meet them in this grove, and persuade them to marry. As for Beppa, if I am missing, 'tis clear she'll never look for me. [Exit.
Another Part of the Garden.
Enter Nina and Sancho.
Nina.Nay, no more, Sancho. To me there's something dreadful in such a hasty fresh espousal. My husband's body yet uninterred, still would you have me enter into fresh bonds.
San.He was no husband to you, Nina, but a worthless wretch, who deceived you. Remember, it is for years that I have loved you. Saint Petronila be my witness.
Nina.I know it, Sancho, and wish I had never married Lopez. Why did you leave me?
San.I could but leave you, when I followed my master: but remember, when we parted, I offered you my troth. You have been unjust to me, and owe some reparation; by Saint Petronila, you do!
Nina.And in good time I'll make it, Sancho.
San.The present is good time; now we are together, and my master is no more. Come, Nina, keep your promise, and the Saint will reward you.
Nina.Nay, Sancho, do not thus persuade me. Were I to yield to your wish, you would hate me after we were married.
San.Never; by this kiss (kisses her), I swear. I have you now, and will not part with you.
[Nina throws herself into his arms.
Enter Antonio in friar's gown and hood.Ant.(in a feigned voice). Good hugging people, are you man and wife?San.We are not yet, but soon we hope to be.Ant.The sooner it were better, for this dallianceIn the ev'ning, in a sequester'd grove,Is most unseemly, if not dangerous.Woman, lovest thou this man?—Nina.I do, most holy father.Ant.And I must tell thee, maiden, it were betterThat you delay no longer. I have witness'dYour stolen embraces; and, by Holy Church!I think it right that you be married straight,Ere vice usurps the throne that should be heldBy virtue only. Children, not far from henceThere is a chapel, where attending priestsChant holy masses for a soul's repose.There may you join your hands, and there receiveThe nuptial benediction.
San.Nina, you must obey this holy friar, and make me happy; Saint Petronila sent him.
Nina.It is against my wish that I consent; yet, father, you know best, although you know not all.
Ant.(aside). Indeed I do! (Aloud) Come with me, my children,I'll point you out the path, to where you may,By holy rites pronounced, become one flesh. [Exeunt.Enter Serafina and Beppa.Ser.My distracted mind, like some wild spendthrift,Has drawn upon my heart till it is bankrupt.God, how my soul is weary! I fear the swordOf that Don Felix may prevail against him.He is a man well knit in sinewy strength;Gaspar a boy. O spare him, gracious Heaven!Bep.To wed with Isidora, and with gibesMock at the tears of Donna Serafina!Madam, you've not the lofty soul of woman,Or you would act, and not thus vainly talk.He's lost to you for ever! I've discover'd,That since this noon he hath not left her house,And all's in preparation for their union.Ser.Have they been left together? Then, perchance,She hath been foolish too, and much too fond.Then will he quit her soon. Truant Gaspar,These arms shall win thee back!Bep.Oh, no!She is too wise, too prudent, and too good.Such charms of mind and body she possesses,That all do worship her; but not as oneOf us mere mortals. He dare not think of it.She is too perfect. Gaspar is hers alone,And you—are thrown aside for ever!Ser.Is it so?Don Gaspar hers! Never, never! by Heav'n,If I lose him, he shall be lost to her!If I must weep, her tears shall fall with mine!If my heart breaks, hers shall be riven too!If I must die,—and that I shall, I feel,Loves she as I do, they may dig her grave.Don Felix, may thy practised sword prove true!—And it will save me from a deed of horror.Bep.Now do you speak as a wrong'd woman should.Keep up this spirit—you will be avenged.We must retire; for soon they will appear. [Exeunt.
Another part of the Garden attached to the House of Donna Serafina.
Enter Anselmo.
I would that it were o'er! A heavy gloomHangs on my spirits, like some threat'ning cloudO'erspreading the wide firmament, withoutOne speck of blue, like hope, to cheer th' horizon.Yet, from what cause it springs, I cannot tell.His sword I fear not. It is mine estate,So promising. He that hath nought to lose,Is spurr'd to action with the hope of gain.He that is wealthy, and 'gainst fortune plays,Is like the gambler, who will risk his meansWith those who nothing have.Enter Felix.Felix.If you have waited for me long, Don Gaspar,It was against my will. I'm most impatientTo bring this meeting to a speedy issue.Ans.At your request, Don Felix, I am here;And if you please there should be strife between us,You'll find me not unnerved. To be sincere,—I do not wish this needless controversy.Recall your words, offensive, as untrue,And take my proffer'd hand. Then will I prove,And not till then, how greatly you have wrong'd me.Felix.That which is said, is said. I'll not retract.But were it false, which I cannot believe,You've slain my bosom friend, the brave Don Perez.Ans.He wrong'd me much. Upon my soul he did.I must not prove it now.Felix.Then prove yourself, and draw.For see, the sun is down, and daylight flies;We have no time for parley. (Draws.)[Beppa and Serafina pass behind from r. to l.Ans.(drawing). Then, whether you or I, Don Felix, liveTo hail that glorious orb, must now be tried.Don Felix, to your guard. Whate'er the issue,You will repent this most ungovern'd haste.[They fight. Don Felix is disarmed and he falls.Anselmo stands over him with his sword pointed to his breast.]Ans.You question'd if I'd manhood in my frame;Allow, Don Felix, that the question's answer'd.You call'd me an impostor,—name for thoseWho clothe themselves in borrow'd plumes, t'appearGreater, not less, than what they are. Then know,He you upbraided as of no parentage,Whose sword, impatient, waits its master's bidding,T'avenge the affront, is heir to Guzman's house,To which, in ancestry, thine own is nothing.This truth, Don Felix, I could not reveal,[Serafina and Beppa appear behind in the wood.]Till we had measured swords. Honour forbade it.Now manifest. I give you life, and proffer,If that you please, my hand in amity.[Felix rising, Anselmo presents him his sword.]Felix.Your actions prove that you are truly noble.I do regret the language which I used,And cheerfully retract what proves so false.Don Gaspar, are you satisfied? (offering hand).Ans.(taking Don Felix's hand). And happy.Now, Isidora, thou art surely mine;Vistas of bliss are opening to my view;My heart expands with gratitude to Heav'n,And tears would flow of penitence and joy,That one so little worthy, thus is bless'd.O, may my life be long, that I may proveTo gracious Heav'n, I'm worthy Isidora.Joy! joy! with lightning's speed, I fly——[Serafina, who has advanced, stabs Anselmo in the back.]Ser.To death! (Then wishing to rush to him, she holds outher arms and exclaims) Gaspar! Gaspar!
[Serafina is borne off fainting by Beppa and Garcias, who have entered. Anselmo leans against Don Felix, who supports him, and then gradually sinks out of his arms to the ground.]
Ans.I felt the blow would come. From whom, or where,Was hid in the obscure. 'Twas Serafina!I knew the voice, the knell——Felix.Where are you hurt?Ans.Don Felix, by that friendship we have pledgedSo newly, one kind office I request.Felix.Curs'd be the infuriate jealous wretch,That one so noble should so basely fall!Ans.Nay, curse her not, she is too curs'd already.Her future life will be a constant showerOf curses on herself. I do forgive her.And yet to die so young, and late so happy.More painful still to part from Isidora.Would she were here, that I might comfort her!My mother, too! O God! 'twill break her heart!
Enter Superior, Inez, Isidora, Nina, and Sancho. Inez and Isidora run to Anselmo and kneel down by him.
Inez.(to Felix). Wretch! that hath done this bloody, hateful deed,Receive a frantic mother's bitter curse!Ans.You are deceived, my mother; 'twas not heWho dealt the fatal blow. It was a woman.Inez.A woman! say you;Who was this treach'rous woman? Let me know her,That I may work on her a woman's vengeance.Isid.I ne'er have learn'd to curse—I wish I had:I can but weep. Look, mother, at his blood!Oh, staunch it, or he'll bleed to death.Inez.Are you much hurt, Anselmo?Ans.Mother, to death.'Tis useless to deceive you. You scarcely found meBut I am lost again: 'twill soon be over.(Faintly) E'en now the blood's collecting in my heartFor its last rally;—Isidora, I would tell theeWhat pain it is to part, but my strength fails,And my parch'd tongue cannot perform its duty.Isid.To part, Anselmo? Dost thou say to part?No, no; thou shalt not die,—we must not part.What false, already! How could'st thou utterThat which, to me, must be the knell of death?(Bursts into tears and embraces him.)Ans.Would that your gentle power o'er me was the sameIn death, as life: then should I live for ever.But—mother—fare you well—farewell—my Isidora.
[Groans and falls dead. Donna Inez faints, and is supported by Don Felix and Nina. Isidora, whose face was hidden in Anselmo's breast, lifts up her head and looks wildly at the body.
Isid.Anselmo! (More loudly) Anselmo! (Shrieks. Throws herself on the body. The rest of the characters group round the body, and the curtain falls.)
Men.Sir Gilbert Etheridge,An old Admiral.Captain Etheridge,His son; grave.Captain Mertoun;gay.Old Bargrove.Young Peter Bargrove,His son.William,The Admiral's sailor-footman.Bill,}}Gipsies.Dick,}Women.Lady Etheridge,The Admiral's wife.Agnes,Her daughter.Lucy,The daughter of Bargrove.Mrs Bargrove.Nelly,The gipsy.
Scene.—The Hall, the residence of Sir Gilbert, and the vicinity. Time that of acting.
A Room in a respectable country inn.—Enter Captain Etheridge and Captain Mertoun, ushered in by the Landlord.
Land.Will you be pleased to take anything, gentlemen?
Capt. Eth.I can answer for myself, nothing.
Capt. Mer.I agree, and disagree, with you; that is, I coincide with you in—nothing.
Capt. Eth.Then I trust, Mr Harness, that you will coincide with us in expediting the greasing of that radical wheel as soon as possible, and let us know when the horses are put to.
Land.Most certainly, Captain Etheridge; I will superintend it myself. [Exit Landlord.
Capt. Eth.An old butler of my father's, who set up many years ago with a few hundred pounds, and the Etheridge Arms as a sign. He has done well.
Capt. Mer.That is to say, the Etheridge Arms have put him on his legs, and drawing corks for your father has enabled him to draw beer for himself and his customers. Of course he married the lady's maid.
Capt. Eth.No, he did more wisely; he married the cook.
Capt. Mer.With a good fat portion of kitchen stuff, and a life interest of culinary knowledge. I have nodoubt but that he had a further benefit from your liberal father and mother.
Capt. Eth.By-the-bye, I have spoken to you of my father repeatedly, Edward; but you have not yet heard any remarks relative to my mother.
Capt. Mer.I take it for granted, from your report of your father, and my knowledge (bowing) of the offspring, that she must be equally amiable.
Capt. Eth.Had she been so, I should not have been silent; but as I have no secrets from you, I must say, she is not the—the very paragon of perfection.
Capt. Mer.I am sorry for it.
Capt. Eth.My father, disgusted with the matrimonial traps that were set for the post-captain, and baronet of ten thousand a year, resolved, as he imagined wisely, to marry a woman in inferior life; who, having no pretensions of her own, would be humble and domestic. He chose one of his tenant's daughters, who was demure to an excess. The soft paw of the cat conceals her talons. My mother turned out the very antipodes of his expectations.
Capt. Mer.Hum!
Capt. Eth.Without any advantages, excepting her alliance with my father, and a tolerable share of rural beauty, she is as proud as if descended from the house of Hapsburg—insults her equals, tramples on her inferiors, and—what is worse than all—treats my father very ill.
Capt. Mer.Treats him ill! what! he that was such a martinet, such a disciplinarian on board! She does not beat him?
Capt. Eth.No, not exactly; but so completely has she gained the upper hand, that the Admiral is as subdued as a dancing bear, obeying her orders with a growl, but still obeying them. At her command he goads himself into a passion with whomsoever she may point as the object of his violence.
Capt. Mer.How completely she must have mastered him! How can he submit to it?
Capt. Eth.Habit, my dear Mertoun, reconciles us too much; and he, at whose frown hundreds of gallant fellows trembled, is now afraid to meet the eye of a woman. To avoid anger with her, he affects anger with every one else. This I mention to you, that you may guide your conduct towards her. Aware of your partiality to my sister, it may be as well——
Capt. Mer.To hold the candle to the devil, you mean. Your pardon, Etheridge, for the grossness of the proverb.
Capt. Eth.No apology, my dear fellow. Hold the candle when you will, it will not burn before a saint, and that's the truth. Follow my advice, and I will insure you success. I only wish that my amatory concerns had so promising an appearance.
Capt. Mer.Why, I never knew that you were stricken.
Capt. Eth.The fact is, that I am not satisfied with myself; and when I am away from my Circe, I strive all I can to drive her from my memory. By change of scene, absence, and occupation, I contrive to forget her indifferent well. Add to all this, I have not committed myself by word or deed. I have now been three years in this way; but the moment I find myself within two miles of my fair one, as the towers of my home rise upon my sight, so rises the passion in my bosom; and what I supposed I had reasoned away to a mere dwarfish penchant, becomes at once a mighty sentiment.
Capt. Mer.That looks very like attachment. Three years, did you say? My dear brother in affliction, make me your confident.
Capt. Eth.I intended to do so, or I should not have originated the subject. My father brought up the daughter of our steward, Bargrove, with my sister Agnes. I have therefore known Lucy from her infancy; and ought I to be ashamed to say, how much I am in love with her?
Capt. Mer.Etheridge, this is a point on which, I am afraid, my advice would not be well received.
Capt. Eth.Of course you would imply that she must be renounced.
Capt. Mer.Most assuredly; that is my opinion on aprimâ facieview of the case. You have your father's example.
Capt. Eth.I have, but still there are many points in my favour. Bargrove is of a very old, though decayed family. Indeed, much more ancient than our own.
Capt. Mer.I grant you, there is one difficulty removed. But still your relative position. He is now your father's steward.
Capt. Eth.That is certainly a great obstacle; but on the other hand, she has been really well educated.
Capt. Mer.Another point in your favour, I grant.
Capt. Eth.With respect to Lucy herself, she is——
Capt. Mer.As your father thought your mother—perfection. Recollect, the soft paw of the cat conceals the talons.
Capt. Eth.Judge for yourself when you see and converse with her. I presume I am to consider myself blind. At all events, I have decided upon nothing; and have neither, by word or deed, allowed her to suppose an attachment on my part: still it is a source of great anxiety. I almost wish that she were happily married. By-the-bye, my mother hates her.
Capt. Mer.That's not in your favour, though it is in hers.
Capt. Eth.And my father doats upon her.
Capt. Mer.That's in favour of you both.
Capt. Eth.Now, you have the whole story, you may advise me as you please: but remember, I still preserve my veto.
Capt. Mer.My dear Etheridge, with your permission, I will not advise at all. Your father tried in the same lottery and drew a blank; you may gain the highest prize; but my hopes with your sister render it a most delicate subject for my opinion. Your own sense must guide you.
Capt. Eth.Unfortunately it often happens, that when a man takes his feelings for a guide, he walks too fast for good sense to keep pace with him.
Capt. Mer.At all events, be not precipitate; and do not advance one step, which, as a man of honour, you may not retrace.
Capt. Eth.I will not, if I can help it. But here comes Mr Harness.
Enter Landlord.
Land.The horses are to, Captain Etheridge, and the wheel is in order.
Capt. Eth.Come then, Edward, we shall not be long getting over these last eight miles. The boys know me well.
Capt. Mer.(Going out). Yes, and the length of your purse, I suspect, my dear fellow. (Exeunt ambo.)
A Wood in the back-ground, Gipsies' tents, etc. Gipsies come forward, group themselves, and sing.
The king will have his tax,Tithes to parsons fall,For rent the landlord racks,The tenant cheats them all;But the gipsy's claim'd right is more ancient yet,And that right he still gains by the help of his wit.Chorus (joining hands).Then your hands right and left, see saw,(All turn.)Turn your backs on the church and the law;Search all the world through,From the king on his throne,To the beggar—you'll ownThere are none like the gipsy crew.Wherever we rove,We're sure to find home;In field, lane, or grove,Then roam, boys, roam!'Tis only when walls his poor body surround,That homeless a free roving gipsy is found.(Chorus as before.)
The king will have his tax,Tithes to parsons fall,For rent the landlord racks,The tenant cheats them all;But the gipsy's claim'd right is more ancient yet,And that right he still gains by the help of his wit.
Chorus (joining hands).
Then your hands right and left, see saw,
(All turn.)
Turn your backs on the church and the law;Search all the world through,From the king on his throne,To the beggar—you'll ownThere are none like the gipsy crew.Wherever we rove,We're sure to find home;In field, lane, or grove,Then roam, boys, roam!'Tis only when walls his poor body surround,That homeless a free roving gipsy is found.
(Chorus as before.)
[Exeunt all the gipsies except Nelly, who, with Bill, comes forward; Bill, with a bundle on a pitchfork, over his shoulder. Throws down the bundle, and takes out a turkey.
Nelly.Is that all that thou hast gathered?
Bill.All! Enough too, did ye know the sarcumstances. Travelled last night good twelve miles before I could light on this here cretur. Never seed such a scarcity o' fowl. Farmers above tending sich like things now-a-days, dom pride! says I.
Nelly.But what kept ye out till morning?
Bill.'Cause why I was kept in. Lock'd up, by gosh! Why, arter dark, I'd just nabbed this here, when out pops on me the farmer's wife; and so she twists her scraggy neck round like a weathercock in a whirlwind, till at last she hears where Master Redcap wor a gobbling. I'd just time to creep under a cart, when up she comes; so down goes I on all fours and growls like a strange dog.
Nelly.And one day thou wilt be hung like one.
Bill.Every one gets his promotion in time. In goes the woman and calls her husband; and though on all fours, I warn't a match for two; so I slinks into a barn and twists the neck of the hanimal, that a might not peach. Well; farmer comes out, and seeing nought but barn door open, curses his man for a lazy hound and locks it, then walks home, leaving I fixed. Warn't that a good un?
Nelly.How did'st thou contrive to escape?
Bill.I burrowed into the back of the wheat. Two jockies came in at daylight to thrash——
Nelly.And they would have done well to have begun upon the rogue in grain.
Bill.Thank ye, mistress. But, howsomdever, the farmer came wi 'um, and a waundy big dog that stagged me, and barked like fury. "There be summut there," says farmer; so I squealed like a dozen rats in the wheat. "Rats agen," says he. "Tummus, go fetch the ferrets; and Bob, be you arter the terriers. I'll go get my breakfast, and then we'll rout un out. Come, Bully." But Bully wouldn't, till farmer gave un a kick that set un howling; and then out they all went, and about a minute arter I makes a bolt. Terrible fuss about a turkey; warn't it, Nell?
Nelly.Hast thou seen Richard?
Bill.Never put eyes on him since we parted last night; but, as his tongue is as well hung as he will be himself, he'll gie ye a triple bob major, for here he comes.
Enter Dick, pulls out two geese, and flings them down.
Dick.Ah, missus, I sha'n't last long. I shall soon be scragged. I'm growing honest. Out of a flock of forty, I've only prigged two. To make amends, I did gnaw off the heads of two more, and so the foxes will have the credit of the job.
Bill.That was well thought of, my pal.
Dick.May I one day grow honest, if I don't make up for last night's paltry prig. Come, let's have one roasted, missus—I prefers roast goose. Honest hanimal! only fit to be plucked and eaten. I say, missus, I stumbled on a cove this morning, that I thinks will prove a bleeding cull,—honest hanimal, only fit to be plucked——
Bill.And eaten, Dick?
Dick.Yes, with your dom'd jaw, and so cly it. This here cove sits him down under a tree, with his head a-one side, like a fowl with the pip, and, with a book in his hand talks a mortal deal of stuff about shaking spears and the moon. So, when I had spied enow, I gets up and walks straight to him, and axes him, could he tell where the great fortin-telling woman were to be found in the wood; she as knew the past, the present, and the future. Laid a coil for him, my girl. He be the son of the great Squire's steward, that lives at the Hall, and he says that he be mightily anxious to have his fortin told. He seems to be mortal simple.
Nelly.What didst thou hear him mouth about?
Dick.May I grow honest if I bees able to tell, 'tweresich outlandish gibberish. What have the rest done, missus?
Nelly.Why, like you, Richard, they're growing honest.
Dick.Ah! ware o' that. My grandam, who was the real seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, said of I, in my cradle, "The moment this here child grows honest, he'll be hung." I've done my best, all my life, to keep my neck out of the halter.
Nelly.So you have, Richard. I went up to the Hall to beg for the fragments off the rich man's table. Lady Bountiful, who was bountiful in nought but reviling, was the person whom I met. Bridewell and the stocks was the tune, and the big dog sang the chorus at my heels. But I'll be more than even with her. If I have the heart to feel an injury, she shall find that I've a head to help my heart to its revenge. Revenge—I love it!
Bill.That you do, missus; I'll answer for you there. If you be affronted, you be the most cantackerous hanimal that ever boiled a pot. Come, Dick, let's take the jacket off our customers, for fear of mischief. (Dick and Bill retire with the poultry.)
Nelly(assuming a more elevated manner). Heigho! how many things, long forgotten, come to my memory on this spot! Hard by I was brought up, and even from this place I can see where my father and mother lie buried. Here I was once innocent and happy. No, not happy, or I should have stayed, and still been innocent. But away with the useless thought! The steward's son—it must be young Bargrove. I did not meet him yesterday when I was at the village, but I saw and spoke to Lucy, his sister, who was nursed at this breast; and how I yearned to press her to it! Pretty creature, how she hath grown! Little did my lady think, when she drove me away, that I was the Nelly who used to be so much at the Hall, nursing Lucy, whilst Mrs Bargrove gave her breast to Miss Agnes. Little did Lucy, when she loaded my wallet with victuals, think that she had so long lain in these arms. Heigho! bye-gone is bye-gone! What ahaughty woman is that Lady Etheridge! And yet, she was once a farmer's daughter, but little better than myself. Could I be revenged on her! Ah! I may; I know every particular connected with the family; but here comes the lad. [Nelly retires
Enter Peter Bargrove, book in his hand.
Peter.O solitude—solitude! what a quiet thing is solitude! especially when you hold your tongue. I only wish that I had a dozen of my old schoolfellows here to enjoy it with me, for, as this divine Shakespeare says, it is so sweet to be alone. I wonder whether, if I were to take to study, if I could not in time write a Shakespeare myself? I'm blessed if I couldn't! How proud father ought to be of such a son! But father wouldn't care if I did: he thinks of nothing but the harvest: what a difference there is between father and me! I can't account for it. O, here comes the woman of fate. What a gaunt-looking body! What eyes! She can see through a post! Her looks go through me already.
Nelly(advancing). There is a bright leaf in the book of your fate, young sir, that waits only for my finger to turn it.
Peter.Then wet your thumb, good woman, and let's have the news in a twinkling.
Nelly.Not so fast, thou youth of lustrous fortunes! The time is not yet come. Time was, time is, and time shall be!
Peter.Bless me! how very prophetical!
Nelly.Meet me here, three hours hence; I shall then have communed with the astral influences!
Peter.Astral influences! I know of no such people hereabouts.
Nelly.The stars—the noonday stars!
Peter.The noonday stars! who can see the stars at noonday?
Nelly.The gifted.
Peter(looking up). Well, then, I ar'n't one of the gifted.
Nelly.Yes; but you might be, if you had but faith.
Peter.Well, I'm sure I've got plenty—try it.
Nelly.Very well; stand thus. Now wave your hands thus high in the air, then shade the sight, and close the left eye; look up, and tell me what thou seest there.
Peter.Three carrion crows.
Nelly.Nought else?
Peter.No.
Nelly.Not all the heavenly hosts?
Peter.Not a star as big as a sparkle from a red-hot horse-shoe.
Nelly(pointing up). Seest thou not those two bright stars, Castor and Pollux?
Peter.No, I can't, upon my honour.
Nelly.Not Copernicus, so fiery red? not the Great Bear?
Peter.Why, I don't know; I really think I do see something. No I don't, after all.
Nelly.Ah! then you want faith—you want faith. I, who see them all, must read them for you. Away; in three hours hence, you'll meet me here. (Turns away.)
Peter.Well, you might at least be civil; but that's not the custom of great people. What a wonderful woman, to see the stars at noonday! Well, I'll put my faith in her, at all events.
(Exit Peter. Dick and Bill come forward with the poultry picked.)
Dick.Well, missus, ban't he a soft cove?
Nelly.I have not done with him yet.
Bill.Now let's get our dinner ready. The fowls be a axing for the pot.
Dick.And goose to be roasted.
Bill.No, I say; they'd smell us a mile. Your liquorice chops will transport you yet.
Dick.Tell ye, Bill, goose shall be roasted. May I grow honest, but it shall. I'll give up a pint—I'll sacrifice sage and innions. Eh, missus?
Nelly.The sooner they are out of sight the better. [They retire; the scene closes.
A Drawing-Room in the Hall.
Enter Admiral and Lady Etheridge.
Lady Eth.Indeed, Admiral, I insist upon it, that you give the brutal seaman warning; or, to avoid such a plebeian mode of expression, advertise him to depart.
Adm.My dear, old Barnstaple has served me afloat and ashore these four-and-twenty years, and he's a little the worse for wear and tear. In a cutting-out affair his sword warded off the blow that would have sacrificed my life. We must overlook a little——
Lady Eth.Yes, that's always your way; always excusing. A serving man to appear fuddled in the presence of Lady Etheridge! faugh! And yet, not immediately to have his coat stripped off his back, and be kicked out of doors; or, to avoid the plebeian, expatriated from the portals.
Adm.Expatriated!
Lady Eth.How you take one up, Admiral. You know I meant to say expatiated.
Adm.Ah! that is mending the phrase, indeed. I grant that he was a little so so; but then, recollect, it was I who gave them the ale.
Lady Eth.Yes, that's your way, Sir Gilbert; you spoil them all. I shall never get a servant to show me proper respect. I may scold, scold, scold; or, to speak more aristocratically, vituperate, from morning till night.
Adm.Well, then, my dear, why trouble yourself to vituperate at all, as you call it? Keep them at a distance, and leave scolding to the housekeeper.
Lady Eth.Housekeeper, indeed! No, Sir Gilbert; she's just as bad as the rest. Once give her way, and she would treat me with disrespect, and cheat you in the bargain; or, less plebeianly, nefariously depropriate——
Adm.Appropriate, you mean, my dear.
Lady Eth.And appropriate I said, Admiral, did I not?
Adm.Why, really——
Lady Eth.(raising her voice). Did I not, Sir Gilbert?
Adm.Why, my dear, I suppose it was a mistake of mine. Well, my love, let them appropriate a little—I can afford it.
Lady Eth.You can't afford it, Sir Gilbert.
Adm.My dear Lady Etheridge, money can but buy us luxuries; and as I don't know a greater luxury than quiet, I am very willing to pay for it.
Lady Eth.You may be so, Admiral, but my duty as a wife will not permit me to suffer you to squander away your money so foolishly. Buy quiet, indeed! I would have you to know, Sir Gilbert, you must first consult your wife before you can make a purchase.
Adm.Yes, my lady, it is a fatal necessity.
Lady Eth.Fatal fal, lal. But, Sir Gilbert, you were always a spendthrift; witness the bringing up of the steward's children with your own, mixing the aristocratic streams with plebeian dregs! Sir Gilbert, the Bargroves are constantly intruding in our house, and Agnes will be no gainer by keeping such company.
Adm.Whose company, my dear? Do you mean Lucy Bargrove's? I wish all our fashionable acquaintance were only half so modest and so well-informed. She is a sweet girl, and an ornament to any society.
Lady Eth.Indeed, Sir Gilbert! Perhaps you intend to wear the ornament yourself. A second Lady Etheridge,—he, he, he! When you have vexed me to death, or, to speak more like a lady, when you have inurned my mortal remains.
Adm.Indeed, my lady, I have no idea of the kind. I don't want to break the fixed resolution that I have long since made, never to marry a second wife.
Lady Eth.I presume you mean to imply that you have had sufficient torment in the first?
Adm.I said not so, my dear; I only meant to remark, that I should not again venture on matrimony.
Lady Eth.I can take a hint, Sir Gilbert, though Idon't believe you. All husbands tell their wives they'll never marry again; but, as dead men tell no tales, so dead wives——
Adm.(Aside). Don't scold.
Lady Eth.What's that, Sir Gilbert?
Adm.Nothing—not worth repeating. But to revert to the Bargroves; I think, my dear, when you consider their father's long and faithful services, some gratitude on my part——
Lady Eth.Which they may live not to thank you for.
Adm.Recollect, my dear, that the Bargroves are a very old, though decayed family. One half of this estate was, at one time, the property of their ancestors. It was lost by a suit in chancery.
Lady Eth.Then it never was rightfully theirs.
Adm.I beg your pardon there, my dear; chancery will as often take the property from, as give it to, the rightful owner. Bargrove is of a good old family, and has some money to leave to his children.
Lady Eth.Out of your pocket, Sir Gilbert.
Adm.Not so; Bargrove has a property of his own, nearly three hundred acres, which has been in the family for many years.
Lady Eth.Ever since you afforded him the means of purchasing it.
Adm.I said many years, long before my name was added to the baronetage.
Lady Eth.Well, Admiral, it may be the case; but still there is no excuse for your folly: and mark me, Sir Gilbert, I will not have that pert minx, Lucy Bargrove, closeted with my daughter Agnes. As to the boy, it is a downright puppy and fool, or, to speak less plebeianly, is anon composite mentus.
Adm.Peter is not clever, but, without education, he would have been worse. It is not our fault if we are not blessed with talent. Lucy has wit enough for both.
Lady Eth.Lucy again! I declare, Admiral, my nerves are lacerated; or, to descend to your meanness of expression, it is quite shocking in a person of your age to become so infatuated with an artful hussy. Now, Sir Gilbert, am I to be protected, or am I to submit to insult? Is that sea-brute to remain, or am I to quit the house?
Adm.(Aside.) I should prefer the latter. (Aloud.) Why, my lady, if he must go——
Lady Eth.Must go? (rings the bell). Yes, Sir Gilbert, and with a proper lecture from you.
Enter William; Lady Etheridge sits down with a wave of her hand.
Lady Eth.Now, Admiral.
Adm.William, you—you ought to be ashamed of yourself, getting half-seas over, and behaving in that manner—but—to be sure, I sent you the ale.
Will.Yes, your honour, famous stuff it was!
Lady Eth.Sir Gilbert!
Adm.And that's no excuse. I did not tell you to get drunk, and the consequence is, that that, without a proper apology——
Will.Beg your pardon, Admiral, and yours too, my lady.
Lady Eth.Sir Gilbert!
Adm.The fact is, that without the apology, in one word, you, you (looking round at Lady Etheridge) must take warning, sir, you leave this house, sir.
Will.Leave, yer honour, arter twenty-five years' sarvitude!
Lady Eth.Sir Gilbert!
Adm.Yes, sir, leave the house—damme!
Will.If yer honour hadn't given the ale, I shouldn't have got into trouble.
Lady Eth.(Rising, and as she is leaving the room). Sir Gilbert, I am glad to perceive that you have a proper respect for me and for yourself. [Exit.
Adm.William, William, you must be aware that I cannot permit you to remain, when Lady Etheridge is displeased with you.
Will.First offence, yer honour.
Adm.But, however, I'll try and get you another place, as your general conduct has been correct.
Will.Thank you. I little thought, that after twenty-five years' sarvitude (wipes his eyes). I can always get a ship, Admiral.
Adm.Why, yes, and I only wish that I had one, in which to give you a good rating, my good fellow; but William, you must be aware——
Will.Yes, yer honour, I see how the cat jumps.
Adm.What do you mean?
Will.I sees that yer honour is no longer in command of your own ship.
Adm.You scoundrel! What do you mean?
Will.Lord, Sir Gilbert, we all knows how the matter be, and as how you can't call your soul your own. It warn't so in theMenelaus, when your little finger was enough to make every man jump out of his shoes. Youwerea bit of a tartar, that's sartin,—and, now you've cotched a tartar.
Adm.You insolent scoundrel!
Will.Your honour arn't angry, I hope, but we all pities ye, we do indeed!
Adm.Unbearable!
Will.And we says in the servants' hall—and we be all agreedthere—that you be the kindest master in the world—but, that as for my lady——
Adm.Silence, sir; what insolence is this? Out of the room immediately; now, if I had you on board, you scoundrel, I'd give you as good a four dozen as ever a fellow had in his life. I was just going to pension the blackguard, now I'll see him hanged first.
(The Admiral walks up and down the room in a rage, William still remains behind.)
Well, well, even my servants laugh at, pity me. Here I am, cooled down into the quietest man in the world, yet obliged to put myself in a passion whenever my wifepleases. It is very hard to lose my temper and my character at her bidding; but if I don't she would put herself into such a rage with me, that I should be even worse off;—of the two evils I must choose the least; but in falling in love, I was a great fool, and that's the truth.
Will.So you was, Admiral, that's sartin.
[The Admiral runs at him with a stick. William runs off.
Adm.Scoundrel! Well, it is the truth.
Enter Lady Etheridge, O.P.
Lady Eth.What is the truth, Sir Gilbert?
Adm.Truth, my lady? why, that when a man's intoxicated, he commits great folly.
Lady Eth.Yes, and ought to be punished for it.
Adm.(Aside.) I am sure that I have been.
Enter Agnes, who runs up and kisses her father.
Adm.Well, Agnes, my little clipper, where are you going this morning?
Agnes.Down to the homestead, papa, with Lucy Bargrove.
Lady Eth.I must request, Miss Etheridge, that you will be more select in your company. A steward's daughter is not the proper companion for the house of Etheridge.
Agnes.Indeed, mamma, the society of Lucy Bargrove will never be prejudicial to me. I wish you knew what an unassuming girl she is, and yet so clever and well informed. Besides, mamma, have we not been playmates since we have been children? It would be cruel to break with her now, even if we felt so inclined. I could not do it.
Lady Eth.There, Admiral, you feel the effect of your want of prudence, of your ridiculous good-nature. An unequal friendship insisted upon, and a mother treated with disrespect.
Agnes.Indeed, mamma, I had no such intention. I onlypleaded my own cause. If my father and you insist upon it, much as I regret it, it will be my duty to obey you.
Lady Eth.Miss Etheridge, we insist upon it.
Adm.Nay, Lady Etheridge, I do not,—that is exactly—(Lady Etheridge looks astonished and bounces out of the room.) My dearest Agnes, I must defend poor Lucy against the prejudices of your mother, if I can; but I'm afraid,—very much afraid. Your mother is an excellent woman, but her over anxiety for your welfare——
Agnes.There was no occasion to remind me of my mother's kindness. When a daughter looks into a parent's heart through the medium of her duty, she should see there no error, and believe no wrong.
Adm.That's a good girl. Now let us take a turn in the garden before dinner.
Agnes.Shall I ask mamma to accompany us?
Adm.No, no, my love, she's busy, depend upon it. [Exeunt ambo.
The Hall of an old-fashioned farming house.
Old Bar.(outside.) Don't take the saddle off her, boy, I'll be out again in ten minutes.
(Enter Bargrove.) Poof—this is, indeed, fine weather for the harvest. We can't cut fast enough—and such crops! (Seats himself.) My dear, where are you?
Mrs Bar.(outside.) I'm coming. [Enters.
Bar.Is dinner ready? No time, my dear, to wait. We are carrying at North Breck and Fifteen Acre. Good three miles off; the people will have dined before I'm back.
Mrs Bar.Lord bless you, Bargrove! don't fuss—can't they go on without you?
Bar.Yes, my dear, they can; but the question is, if they will. This fine weather mustn't be lost.
Mrs Bar.Nor your dinner either. It will be ready in five minutes.
Bar.Well, well,—where's Lucy?
Mrs Bar.Upstairs, with Miss Agnes. She's a sweet young lady.
Bar.Yes, and so mild, and so good-tempered.
Mrs Bar.That sweet temper of hers don't come from her mother, but from me.
Bar.From you?
Mrs Bar.Didn't I suckle her as well as Master Edward? 'Tis the milk makes the nature.
Bar.Good-natured you are, my dear, that's certain. There may be something in it, for look at Peter. He was nursed by that foolish woman, Sally Stone, when you put him away for Master Edward. I can make nothing of Peter, dame.
Mrs Bar.Well, really Mr Bargrove, I can't find much fault in him. Bating that he's idle, and extravagant, and won't mind what's said to him, and don't try to please you, and talks foolishly, I see no harm in the boy.
Bar.No harm—heh?
Mrs Bar.All this may appear improper in another, but somehow, it does not appear so very bad in one's own child.
Bar.He's his mother's child, that's plain; but I say (striking his stick upon the ground), he's a foolish, ungrateful, wicked boy.
Mrs Bar.Not wicked, Bargrove, don't say that. He is a little foolish, I grant, but then he's young; and, by-and-bye, he'll grow tired of being idle.
Bar.That's what no one was ever tired of, when he once took a liking to it. But, however, I will try if I can't bring him to his senses. Where is he now?
Mrs Bar.Heaven knows! He was up very early for him this morning, and took a book with him, so you see there are some signs of amendment.
Bar.Well, well,—we shall see. But I think dinner must be ready by this time. Come, my dear, time's precious.
[Exeunt ambo.
Enter Agnes, in a walking dress, with Lucy.
Agnes.Now, Lucy dear, I will stay no longer, for your dinner is ready.
Lucy.Indeed, Miss Agnes, I beg that you will not go so soon. Of what consequence is it when I dine? I dine every day, but every day I am not honoured with your company.
Agnes.Nonsense——honoured. How you have altered in your behaviour to me lately—so formal, and so stiff, now, I quite hate you.
Lucy.Indeed my heart is neither formal nor stiff; but when I was familiar with you, I was young, and knew not the difference of our situations. I do now, and only pay respect to whom respect is due.
Agnes.Then you have become very stupid, and I shall detest you. That's all your knowledge will have gained you, Miss Lucy; nay more, I will not come here so often if you do not treat me as you used to do, and call me Agnes.
Lucy.Rather than that you should stay away, I will obey you, but I still think that it is not right. Consider, when we used to learn and play together, I called your brother "Edward," but how improper it would be if I were to call him so now.
Agnes.I don't think that his objections would be very decided, Lucy, as you happen to be such a pretty girl: however, I'll ask him, when he comes home to-day.
Lucy.Ah, Miss Agnes, pray, pray, don't mention it.
Agnes.Well, you are pretty enough without blushing so much. I'll let you off, provided you speak to me as I wish. But now, Miss Gravity, I've a secret to tell you.
Lucy.A secret?
Agnes.I have found out that there's a gang of gipsies in the wood.
Lucy.Is that your secret? Then dame Fowler was let into it last night, for she lost her best turkey, and she frets about it very much. It was the one that she intended to send to the Hall on Christmas Day.
Agnes.But that is not the secret, Lucy. The real secret is—that I wish to have my fortune told; and you must contrive with me how to manage it.
Lucy.Shall I send the woman up to the Hall; she was here yesterday.
Agnes.No, no, you stupid thing. Lady Etheridge hates the very name of a gipsy. One was at the Hall yesterday, and she threatened her with Bridewell.
Lucy.Well then, shall I find out where they are? and we can go together.
Agnes.That's exactly what I wish, Lucy; but it must be soon, as we expect my brother and his friend belonging to the same regiment, and I must not be out of the way when they arrive.
Lucy.Who is this friend?
Agnes.A Captain Mertoun. (Sighs.) I have seen him before.
Lucy.He is then acquainted with your family?
Agnes.Not with my father and mother. When I was at Cheltenham with my aunt, I met him very often. There is a little secret there, too, Lucy.
Lucy.Another?
Agnes.Yes, another. Don't you long to hear it?
Lucy.(Smiling). If you long to tell it?
Agnes.How provoking you are! You know I do. Well, then, this Captain Mertoun is—a very handsome man.
Lucy.Is that all?
Agnes.No; but it's something to the point, because he says he is very much in love with me.
Lucy.I'll believe that. Who is not?
Agnes.Don't be silly, Lucy; but the last part of the secret is the most important. I think, Lucy, that I like him—that is—a little—a very little. Now, since my father has told me he was coming down with my brother, I've been in a perfect fever, I don't know why—and so—and so—that is the reason why I wish to have my fortune told. I know that it's very silly, and all nonsense; but still nonsense is very agreeable sometimes.
Lucy.But you will not believe a word that you are told.
Agnes.No, not one word, unless it happens to meet with my own wishes; and then you know.—But I really must be gone. Good-bye, Lucy. Remember our meeting in the wood. [Exit Agnes.
Lucy.God bless thee, dearest Agnes; yet would that I had never seen either you or your brother! What is intended in kindness is, too often, cruelty. The kiss of affection that is implanted on the lips, may take so deep a root, as to entwine the heart. Heigho! What an elegant young man is Captain Etheridge! I recollect, when we used to romp, and quarrel, and kiss; then, I had no fear of him: and now, if he but speaks to me, I tremble, and feel my face burn with blushes. Heigho!—this world demands more philosophy than is usually possessed by a girl of nineteen.
The Gipsy encampment.—Enter Nelly.
Nelly.I have been plotting my revenge on Lady Etheridge; and I have a scheme which may succeed. I must, however, be guided by circumstances; yet, by the means of this senseless fool, I hope to make much mischief. O, here he comes.
Enter Peter.
Good day, again. I have been waiting for you. The stars are in the ascendant.
Peter.I thought they were up in the sky.
Nelly.Exactly. Now let me read the lines on your face. The finest gentleman in the land would give half his fortune for those lines.
Peter.Then pray, what is my fortune, good woman?
Nelly.One that requires gold, with which to cross my hand; and then it would be too cheap.
Peter.Gold! Won't a shilling do?
Nelly.I wish you good-day, Sir; I thought you were a gentleman.
Peter.Well, so I am; but gentlemen are not always very flush of guineas. However, I have one here, and it shall go for my fortune. [Gives money.
Nelly.The planet, Georgium Sidum, says, that you are the son of the steward, and your name is Bargrove.
Peter.Now, that is surprising!
Nelly.But Georgium Sidum tells not the truth.
Peter.Do the stars ever lie?
Nelly.O, the new ones do. They have not been long in the business. But the old ones never fail.
Peter.Astonishing! and only supposed to be Bargrove's son. Go on, good woman, go on. What do the old planets say?
Nelly.Nay, I must stop a little. That is all I can see just now; but more will be revealed to me by-and-bye. What does Artemidorus say in his ninety-ninth chapter, written in double Chaldean before letters were invented?
Peter.I don't know. What does he say?
Nelly.That you must gain great truths by little ones. So you must tell me all you know about yourself, and I shall be able to find out more.
Peter.I was educated with Mr Edward Etheridge; and, when our education was completed, he went into the army and I was sent home to my father's—that is—to Mr Bargrove's.
Nelly.I understand.
Peter.This Mr Bargrove proposed that I should accompany him every day to obtain a knowledge of agriculture, and employ my evenings in keeping the accounts, that I might be able to succeed him in his office of steward.
Nelly.Exactly—but the stars tell me that you did not like it.
Peter.Couldn't bear it. Why, my boots, which I am so particular in having well polished, were so loaded with clay the very first time, that I could hardly lift my legs, and I stumbled into a ditch filled with stinging nettles; soI gave it up, and the old gentleman constantly swears that I am no son of his.
Nelly.Did not I, the priestess of the stars, tell you so?
Peter.But if I am no son of his, the question is, "Whose son am I?"
Nelly.A gentleman's son, no doubt. But I shall discover more when I consult the stars anon. You must return.
Peter.That I surely will. Consult the old stars, if you please.
Nelly.I always do, sir; no dependence upon the others. In fact, we've quarrelled. I am hardly on speaking terms with them.
Peter.Speaking terms with the stars! How intimate you must be!
Nelly.You'll have to cross my hand again. Golden truths will not come out without gold.
Peter.What! gold again?
Nelly.Yes, another guinea. One for telling you who you are not, and another for telling you who you are. Don't you see?
Peter.One for telling me who I am not. Yes, that's told; I am not my father's son. They say it's a wise man who knows his own father.
Nelly.Wisely said.
Peter.And another for telling me who I am. Well, I think that is as well worth a guinea as the other.
Nelly.Better, I should imagine.
Peter.Yes, better. Well, good-bye, good woman. I'll be sure to be here.
Nelly.Fail not, or you'll repent it. (Exit Peter.) The gudgeon takes the bait kindly. Peter, Peter, you had always an immense swallow. When Sally Stone nursed him, she was forced to feed the little cormorant with a tablespoon. As far as I can see, notwithstanding his partnership education with the young Squire, I think the grown babe should be fed with spoon-meat still. Butwhat dainty lasses are these that come this way? Lucy and Miss Etheridge—how fortunate!
Enter Agnes and Lucy.
Lucy.There is the woman; so, if you are inclined to hear her nonsense, you must wait the Sibyl's pleasure.
Agnes.I hope she will not keep us long, or my brother will arrive before we return. (Nelly advances.)
Nelly.Save you, fair lady! which of you will first look into futurity?
Lucy.This young lady. (Pointing to Agnes.)
Nelly.Then you must retire out of hearing.
Agnes.No, no; I have no secrets from her. She must stay.
Nelly.That cannot be, my art will be useless, and I decline the task.
Lucy.Yield to her mummery, it can make no difference.
Agnes.Well, then, Lucy, don't go far away.
Lucy.I'll be out of hearing, but not out of sight.
[Lucy retires, and amuses herself in collecting flowers.
Nelly.Your name is Agnes.
Agnes.(laughing). I know that; and I am the daughter of Sir Gilbert of the Hall. Come, I'll help you, good woman.
Nelly.I did not say the last.
Agnes.What do you mean?
Nelly.I only said that your name was Agnes.
Agnes.Well, and I told you more than you knew.
Nelly.The stars reveal not what you assert.
Agnes.Well, then, I do; so I know more than the stars.
Nelly.You are wrong. You know not so much. You are not what you think you are.
Agnes.In the name of wonder, what do you mean?
Nelly.I have said it. Let me see your hand. Your fate is a dark one! Poor young lady! You will be crossed in everything.
Agnes.(laughing faintly). Love included, I suppose. Shall I not marry the man of my affections?
Nelly.If he is more generous than men usually are.
Agnes.I cannot understand you.
Nelly.There is a dark cloud hanging over your fate. The storm will soon rage. Poor young lady!
Agnes.You almost frighten me. Speak more intelligibly.
Nelly.I have said enough. AgnesBargrove, fare thee well!
Agnes.(astonished). Agnes Bargrove! what can she mean? Good woman, will you not tell me more?
Nelly.Go home, you will soon hear more from others. (Aside.) The wound is given; let it fester. (Nelly retires.)
Agnes.Lucy, Lucy! (Lucy advances.)
Lucy.Dear Agnes, how confused you are! What can be the matter?
Agnes.(much flurried). I can hardly tell. The woman was so strange. I was a little surprised—that's all. (Recovering herself.) Now, Lucy, it's your turn. (Nelly comes forward.) There, good woman, is your money. (Nelly shakes her head, and refuses it.) How very strange! Come, Lucy, let her tell your fortune, and then we'll go home.