Act 1 — Scene IV.

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.