Act 3 — Scene III.

A parlour in the homestead.

Enter Old Bargrove and Mrs Bargrove.

Old Bar. Why, dame, I can make nothing out of it. I have questioned Lucy as closely as possible, and it appears that it was a gipsy woman who told their fortunes. But still, as Lucy told me the story, there is something very strange about it.

Mrs Bar. Lucy appears to take it very much to heart, poor thing!

Old Bar. She does, dame, but in the right way. She thinks of others, and not of herself. I tell you this, dame, if I thought that Lucy was not my daughter, it would almost break my heart.

Mrs Bar. She's a good girl, and content with her father and mother. I only wish that Peter was the same.

Old Bar. Peter was born a fool, dame, and he'll never be anything else. But I hope this may prove of service to him. I hear that he has already been up to the Hall.

Mrs Bar. Had we not better go there, too, Bargrove, and see Sir Gilbert, or they may suppose we be parties to the report.

Old Bar. Why should they, and who knows the report as yet?

Mrs Bar. O, everybody! I was told of it ten minutes back by Mrs Benson. She heard it of the footman, William. He says, that Captain Etheridge has given Peter a sound thrashing.

Old Bar. Did he? Then I am very much indebted to him. I'll tell you what, dame, I'll to the wood and find out this gipsy woman; and if threatening her with the stocks and Bridewell won't make her confess, I have a warrant in my pocket, just made out by the magistrates' clerk, for the apprehension of the gang, on suspicion of their stealing Mrs Fowler's turkey, and Farmer Groves' geese. We'll first see what can be done there; and then I'll come back, and we'll walk up to the Hall.

Mrs Bar. Do so, Bargrove; let us show that we've a clear conscience, at all events.

Old Bar. I'll be back in an hour, dame; I must go down to Wilson, the constable. [Exit old Bar.

Mrs Bar. I never was so put out in my life. That boy Peter's folly worries me to death. Who comes here? why, it's Captain Etheridge, I do declare. I am almost afraid to see one of the family now.

Enter Captain Etheridge.

Capt. Eth. My dear Mrs Bargrove, with your permission. (Kissing her.) I can't leave off my old habit of kissing my nurse. How are you, and your husband, and how is pretty Lucy?

Mrs Bar. Quite well, thank you, Mr Edward. Dear me, what a man you do grow!

Capt. Eth. If I am not a man at five-and-twenty, dame, I never shall be.

Mrs Bar. Five-and-twenty! dear heart! so it is—but time does fly fast! It appears to me but the other day that I had you in my arms. How does Miss Agnes to-day?

Capt. Eth. Not very well, dame, she has something to vex her. Indeed, there's a rumour flying about, and I've come down to speak with you and Lucy on the subject.

Mrs Bar. I know it all; but it's all false, Mr Edward, all stuff and nonsense from beginning to end. Bargrove has now gone to sift the matter. I'm sure I ought to know. A pretty trouble I've had about it; what with foolish Peter, even Bargrove himself spoke to me as if I could have been guilty of such an act.

Capt. Eth. What does Lucy think of it?

Mrs Bar. Lucy is more vexed than any of us. I really think, if she thought it true, that she would make away with herself.

Capt. Eth. What! at the idea of being Miss Etheridge! no cause that for suicide either.

Mrs Bar. No, not that, Captain Etheridge; but at the idea of rising in the world at the expense of those to whom she owes both love and gratitude. She's a good girl, Captain Etheridge.

Capt. Eth. I agree with you, dame, she's a very sweet girl. I wish to speak to her. Will you send her to me?

Mrs Bar. To be sure I will, Master Edward. She'll be glad to see you. She's always asking after you when you be away. [Exit Mrs Bargrove.

Capt. Eth. I did but say a few words to her on my arrival. I dared not trust myself with more. She looked so beautiful. I have not been able to drive her from my thoughts ever since. Heigho! the conflict between love and pride is well contested: nothing but opportunity can give the victory to the one, and absence to the other. The more I know of her, the more deserving she appears. I often try to find faults in her, but I cannot discover them. I suppose that I inherit all my pride from my mother; that I cherish it in preference to my happiness is clear. But should this report prove true. Such things have occurred, and this may have been done without the knowledge of Mrs Bargrove. Agnes and Lucy then change situations; and I with that cub, Peter Bargrove. Very pleasant indeed! the former is not of much consequence but to be jostled out of my supposed birthright by a booby!

Enter Lucy.

Capt. Eth. (going up to her and taking her by the hand). I took the liberty to request a few minutes' interview.

Lucy (smiling). Surely not a very great liberty with one whom you have known so long, and who is so very much indebted to your father.

Capt. Eth. Not so much as his children are indebted to your mother. But the object of my visit is, Lucy, to request that you will give me some information relative to a ridiculous report.

Lucy. I can, and I can assure you, Captain Etheridge, that I believe it to be without the shadow of a foundation. That Agnes and I were both taken by surprise at the moment, you must not wonder at; but on reflection, I am convinced that it is a fabrication. Indeed, the very idea is most injurious to the character of my mother.

Capt. Eth. I grant this; but the change may have taken place without the knowledge of your mother.

Lucy. It is possible, but barely possible, who but a foolish mother, blinded by partiality, would ever have been guilty of an act which never could benefit herself?

Capt. Eth. You are not well acquainted with the knavery of the world. To prove a fact like this, in a court of justice, would, in most instances, be rewarded liberally. Your brother, for instance, seems to view the affair in a very different light.

Lucy. Captain Etheridge, I can honestly assert, that the rumour has occasioned to me the greatest uneasiness; and were it to prove true, I should be still more unhappy.

Capt. Eth. I cannot understand you. You would find yourself raised to a position in society which you did not expect; courted by those who at present disregard you, and moving in a circle to which, I must say, your beauty and your other natural gifts would contribute to adorn.

Lucy. Do not flatter me. I have a great dislike to it. I am, I trust, satisfied in my present situation; and, were I weak enough to indulge a transient feeling of vanity, the reminiscence which would instantly intrude, that my advancement was founded on the misery of those I love better than myself, would render it a source of deep and unceasing regret.

Capt. Eth. Those you love better than yourself, Lucy; who are they?

Lucy (confused). I referred to your sister Agnes, and to your father.

Capt. Eth. O, not to me!—then I am an exclusion.

Lucy. My gratitude to your father for his kindness, and our intimacy from childhood, ought to assure you, Captain Etheridge, that——I must ever wish for your happiness.

Capt. Eth. But suppose, my dear Lucy, this should prove to be true.

Lucy. I have already stated my sentiments.

Capt. Eth. You have, Lucy, generally, and much to your honour; but I am just putting the case for my amusement. Suppose it were proved true, you would not look down upon me as the child of your inferiors?

Lucy. Captain Etheridge, the very observation, for your amusement, is both ungenerous and unkind. I acknowledge our present inferiority, but not perhaps to the extent which would be exacted from your family. But oblige me by not carrying your suppositions any further. (Tremulously.) I am not very happy—as it is.

Capt. Eth. Forgive me, Lucy, I did not intend to inflict pain. I am much too fond of you for that.

Lucy. Then why do you come here to make me miserable?

Capt. Eth. To make you miserable, my dear Lucy? I should, indeed, be a wretch, when my own happiness depends upon you. (Lucy starts.) (Aside.) It is out at last. Now there's no retreat in honour, and I thank heaven for it. (Aloud.) Did you hear me, Lucy? (Lucy appears fainting, Etheridge supports her.) Are you angry with me, Lucy? (She weeps.) I will confess to you honestly, that I have long struggled with my passion, but pride, ridiculous pride, has severely punished me for listening to its selfish dictates. Believe me, when I assert, that never was man more attached than I am to you. Answer me, Lucy, am I then indifferent to you?

Lucy. (separating herself gently from Captain Etheridge). I will be as candid as you have been. (Remains for a little time silent.) Whether you are indifferent to me or not, I must leave you to judge, from the effects of your communication; but I have also pride, and that pride never will allow me to enter a family against the wishes of those who have a right to be consulted on a question of such serious importance.

Capt. Eth. Only one question, Lucy. If my father consents to our union, will you be satisfied, without the concurrence of my mother?

Lucy. I should abide by the decision of my own father and mother; but, to confess the truth, I should not be satisfied.

Capt. Eth. Am I then to consider this as a mere act of duty, Lucy? Is there no feeling towards me?

Lucy. O yes! Why should I deny it? Indeed, Edward, if you could have read my heart for some time back, you would have found——

Capt. Eth. What, my dear Lucy?

Lucy. That your image has long occupied it—to its unhappiness.

Capt. Eth. As yours has mine. Now I trust they will cherish their inmates with delight. Farewell, my dearest Lucy; I hasten to my father, and I've an idea in my brain which may procure the completion of our wishes.

[They embrace. Exit Captain Etheridge.

Lucy. God give me strength, and make me sufficiently grateful! This was so unexpected. O Edward! Edward! you have opened such a vista of delight through the dark clouds that surrounded me, that I tremble as I gaze. How dreadful will be this suspense! Now am I arrived at the crisis of my fate. Either I am blessed beyond all hope, and all desert—or else—I die. [Exit.