Fram. At your house in Baker Street?

Fitz. That house, with all that it contained, is given up to the creditors. Agnes is in humble lodgings, suited to our fortunes.

Fram. You have also a house in the New Forest?

Fitz. I had.

Fram. A beautiful place, fitted up with the taste for which Agnes was famous-a fine library; a superb conservatory; prints and statues-you were a collector; pictures old and new-you ranked high amongst the patrons. Fitz. I had these things. They are mine no longer.

Fram. Holly-grove—that I think was the name of your villa; a lovely spot: I passed it last summer. Agnes had a keen relish for the beauties of nature; she must have been fond of Holly-grove?

Fitz. Her very heart was in it-it was her home, the home of her children -Alas! they may soon have none !

Fram. Ay, this poor house of mine might have been her home, but it lacks these adornments. Here are no medals, no pictures, no coins, no busts! 'Tis an old spacious mansion-house, to be sure, and stands amidst a fair number of its own acres, but it is out of date, like its master. Frampton Hall could no more compete with Holly-grove, than plain George Frampton with Henry Fitzhugh. We should have known our station.

Fitz. Be merciful, Frampton! Be merciful!

Fram. Yes! Holly-grove was a beautiful place. I saw Agnes on the lawn one evening last summer, in the midst of her children. There was a chubby infant, and two or three delicate girls, and a couple of sturdy boys, and the mother, handsomer than ever, in her stately and regal beauty, drest and appointed like a queen, with her retinue of nursery attendants, flowers under her feet, flowering shrubs over her head, the rarest exotics perfuming the air!Agnes must have been happy at Holly-grove.

Fitz. Alas! alas! too happy!

Fram. The eldest child was a fine boy. Was he at school?

Fitz. At Eton.

Fram. Already! And of promise?

Fitz. Of the highest.

Fram. Intended for any profession ?

Fitz. For the bar.

Fram. Indeed! Parents are apt to frame such visions. The bar!-Well, sir, what is your pleasure with me?

Fitz. This letter-If you would condescend

Fram. The letter is not addressed to me.

Fitz. No, it is to your friend Lord B. A small place for which I am every way suited is now vacant in his department; and that letter, if presented by you, and backed by your intercession, would insure it to me. I throw myself on your generosity! I implore your mercy! For the sake of the woman whom you once loved

Fram. Hold, sir!

Fitz. For the sake of her poor children

Fram. Those children, sir, are also yours. Have you no other channel through which to send this letter?

Fitz. None whatsoever.

Fram. No other resource? No other hope?

Fitz. None upon earth. It is the only chance that remains, to preserve us from starvation.

Fram. (tearing the letter.) Then starve!

No. III.

SCENE I.-An old-fashioned Garden, with Terraces, Fountains, Yew-hedges, &c.-A large Mansion in the back-ground.— Time, eight in the evening. A. D. 1657.

MABEL GOODWIN-(alone.)

Mabel. So! Master Arthur Montresor! He promised to meet me here by eight, and the great clock in the hall wanted but five minutes full half an hour agone. It must be half an hour. I have been pacing up and down this walk, from the yew-hedge to the fountain, twenty times at least, besides going twice to the little door in the garden-wall, to be sure that it was unbolted. It can't be a minute less than half an hour. He had as well stay now in his hidingplace at the village, for I'll never speak to him again. Never! And yet, poor fellow-No! I'll never speak to him again!

So, Master Arthur!

Enter ARTHUR MONTRESOR.

Arthur. So, my pretty Mistress Mabel! Why turn away so angrily? What fault have I committed, I pray thee?

Mab. Fault? None!

Arth. Nay, nay, my little Venus of the Puritans, my princess of all Precisians, if thou be offended, tell me so.

Mab. Offended forsooth! People are never offended with people they don't care about. Offended quotha!

Arth. And is it because some people don't care for other people, that they bridle, and flounce, and toss, and put their pretty selves into such pretty tantrums-eh, Mistress Mabel ? I am after time, sweet-but

Mab. After time! I have been here this half hour!—and my father fast asleep in the hall! After time !-If thou hadst cared for me- -But men are all alike. There hath not been a true lover in the world since Amadis his day, the mad Paladin that my old nurse was used to talk of-and that was but a false legend. After time !—Why, if thou hadst cared for me only as much as I care for this sprig of lavender, thou would'st have been waiting for me before the chimes had rung seven. Just think of the time thou hast lost. Now thou may'st go thy ways. Leave me, sir!

Arth. Nay, mine own sweet love, do not offer to snatch thy hand away. I cannot part with thee, Mabel, though thou should'st flutter like a new-caught dove. I must speak with thee. I have that to say which must be heard. Mab. Well?

Arth. I have been dogged all day by a canting Puritan, a follower, as I take it, of thy godly father.

Mab. Jeer not my father, Arthur, although he be a roundhead and thou a cavalier. He is a brave man and a good.

Arth. He is thy father, and therefore sacred to me.-Where didst thou say he is now ?

Mab. I left him in the hall, just settling quietly to an after-supper nap.Why dost thou ask?

Arth. I have been watched all day by one whom I suspect to be a spy; and I fear me, that in spite of my disguise, my false name, and my humble lodging, I am discovered.

Mab. Discovered in thy visits here? Discovered as my

friend?

Arth. No, no, I trust not so. Therefore I delayed to come to thee till I could shake off my unwelcome follower. Not discovered as thy lover, thy friend, if such name better please thee-but as the cavalier and malignant (for so their phrase runs) Arthur Montresor.

Mab. But granting that were true, what harm hast thou committed? What hast thou to fear?

Arth. Small harm, dear Mabel; and yet in these bad days small harm

may cause great fear. I have borne arms for the King; I have never acknowledged the Protector; I am known as the friend of Ormond, perhaps suspected as his agent; and moreover, I am the rightful owner of this same estate and mansion of Montresor Hall, its parks, manors, and dependencies, bestowed by the sequestrators on thy father, Colonel Goodwin. Seest thou no fear there, fair Mabel?

Mab. Alas! alas!

Arth. Then my deceased father, stout old Sir Robert, was meddled in every plot and rising in the country, from the first year of the Rebellion to this, as I well trust, the last of the usurpation, so that the very name sounds like a firebrand. 'Twould be held a fair service to the state, Mabel, to shoot thy poor friend; and yet I promise thee, albeit a loyal subject to King Charles, I am hardly fool enough to wage war in my own single person against Oliver, whom a mightier conqueror than himself will speedily overthrow.

Mab. A mightier conqueror !

Arth. Even the great tyrant Death-he who levels the mighty and the low-Arthur Montresor and Oliver Cromwell!

Mab. Death! Art thou then in such peril? And dost thou loiter here? I beseech thee away! away this moment! What detains thee?

Arth. That which brought met -thyself. Being in England, I came hither, more weeks ago than I care to think of, to look on my old birth-place, my old home. I saw thee, Mabel, and ever since I have felt that these halls are a thousand fold more precious to me as thy home, as thy inheritance, than ever they could have been as mine. I love thee, Mabel.

Mab. Oh go! go! go! To talk of love whilst thou art in such danger! Arth. I love thee, mine own Mabel.

Mab. Go!

Arth. Wilt thou go with me? I am not rich-I have no fair mansion to take thee to; but a soldier's sword and a soldier's arm, and a true heart, Mabel! Wilt thou go with me, sweet one? I'll bring horses to the little garden door. The moon will be up at twelve-Speak, dearest! And yet this trembling hand speaks for thee. Wilt thou go with me, and be my wedded wife? Mab. I will. [Exeunt.

SCENE THE SECOND.-The same Garden. A high Wall on one Side, with a small strong Door in it. The House in the back ground.

Enter ARTHUR, from the side-door.

Arth. Mabel! Not yet arrived! Surely she cannot have changed her purpose? No, no! It were treason against true love but to suspect her of wavering-she lingers from maiden modesty, from maiden fear, from natural affection, from all that man worships in woman. But if she knew the cause I have to dread every delay!

Enter MABEL, from the house.

Mabel! Sweetest, how breathless thou art! Thou canst hardly stand! Rest thee on this seat a moment, my Mabel! And yet delay-Hath aught befallen to affright thee? Sit here, dearest! What hath startled thee?

Mab. I know not. And yet

Arth. How thou tremblest still! And what-?

Mab. As I passed the gallery-Only feel how my heart flutters, Arthur! Arth. Blessings on that dear heart! Calm thee, sweetest.-What of the gal lery?

Mab. As I passed, methought I heard voices.

Arth. Indeed! And I too have missed the detected spy who hath been all day dogging my steps. Can he-but no! All is quiet in the house. Look, Mabel! All dark and silent. No light save the moonbeams dancing on the win, dow panes with a cold pale brightness. No sound save the song of the nightingale dost thou not hear it? It seems to come from the tall shrubby sweetbriar, which sends its fragrant breath in at yonder casement.

Mab. That is my father's chamber-my dear dear father! Oh, when he

9

shall wake and find his Mabel gone, little will the breath of the sweetbriar, or the song of the nightingale, comfort him then! My dear dear father! He kissed me after prayers to-night, and laid his hand on my head and blessed me. He will never bless his poor child again.

Arth. Come, sweetest! The horses wait; the hours wear on; morning will soon be here.

Mab. Oh, what a morning to my poor poor father! His Mabel, his only child, his beloved, his trusted! Oh, Arthur, my father! my father!

Arth. Maiden, if thou lovest thy father better than me, remain with him. It is not yet too late. I love thee, Mabel, as well as man may love on this side of idolatry; too well to steal thee away against thy will; too well to take thy hand without thy heart. The choice is still open to thee. Return to thy father's house, or wend with me. Weep not thus, dear one; but decide, and quickly.

Mab. Nay, I will go with thee, Arthur. Forgive these tears! I'll go with thee to the end of the world.

Arth. Now then. What noise is that?

Mab. Surely, surely the turning of a key.

Arth. Ay, the door is fastened; the horses are led off. We are discovered. Mab. Is there no other way of escape?

Arth. None. The garden is walled round. Look at these walls, Mabel; a squirrel could scarcely climb them. Through the house is the only chance; and that

Mab. Try the door again; I do beseech thee try. Push against it—I never knew it fastened other than by this iron bolt. Push manfully.

Arth. It is all in vain; thou thyself heard'st the key turn; and see how it resists my utmost strength. The door is surely fast.

[Exeunt.

SCENE THE THIRD.-The same Part of the Garden with that represented in the first Scene.

Enter ARTHUR and MABEL from the side.

Mab. See! The household is alarmed! Look at the lights! Venture not so near, dear Arthur! Conceal thee in the arbour till all is quiet. I will go meet them.

Arth. Alone?

Mab. Why, what have I to fear? Hide thee behind the yew hedge till the first search be past, and then

Arth. Desert thee! Hide me! And I a Montresor! But be calmer, sweetest! Thy father is too good a man to meditate aught unlawful. Twill be but some short restraint, with thee for my warder. Calm thee, dearest!

Enter Colonel GOODWIN and a Servant, from the House.

Good. Shoot! Shoot instantly, Jonathan! Slay the robber! Why dost thou not fire? Be'st thou in league with him? What dost thou fumble at?

Jon. So please your worship, the wind hath extinguished the touch-paper. Good. The wind hath extinguished thy wits, I trow, that thou could'st bring nought but that old harquebuss. Return for a steel weapon. [Exit JONATHAN. Meantime my sword-I see but one man, and surely a soldier of the Cause and the Covenant, albeit aged, may well cope with a night thief. Come on, young man. Be'st thou coward as well as robber? Defend thyself. Mab. Oh, father! father! Would'st thou do murder before thy daughter's eyes?

Good. Cling not thus around me, maiden! What makest thou with that thief, that craven thief?

Arth. Nay, tremble not, Mabel; for thy sake I will endure even this contumely.-Put up your sword, sir; it is needless. I yield myself your prisoner. At this instant, suspicions, even as degrading as those uttered by Colonel Goodwin, may, perhaps, be warranted by my equivocal position; but when I make myself known to him, I trust that he will retract an aspersion as unworthy of his character as of mine.

Good. I do know thee. Thou art the foul Malignant Arthur Montresor; the abettor of the plotting traitor Ormond; the outlawed son of the lawless cavalier who once owned this demesne.

Arth. And knowing me for Arthur Montresor, could'st thou take me for a garden robber? Could'st thou grudge to the some time heir of these old Halls a parting glance of their venerable beauty?

Good. Young man, wilt thou tell me, darest thou tell me, that it was to gaze on this old mansion that thou didst steal hither, like a thief in the night? Arthur Montresor, can'st thou look at thy father's house and utter that falsehood? Ye were a heathenish and blinded generation, main props of tyranny and prelacy, a worldly and a darkling race, who knew not the truth ;-but yet, from your earliest ancestor to the last possessor of those walls, ye had amongst the false gods whom ye worshipped one fair idol, called Honour. Arthur Montresor, I joy that thou hast yet enough of grace vouchsafed to thee to shrink from affirming that lie.

Arth. But a robber! a garden thief!

Good. Ay, a robber! I said, and I repeat, a robber, a thief, a despoiler. Hath the garden no fruit save its apricots and dewberries? No flower save the jessamine and the rose? Hath the house no treasure but its vessels of gold and silver? the cabinet no jewel but its carbuncles and its rubies? If ever thou art a father, and hast one hopeful and dutiful maiden, the joy of thine heart, and the apple of thine eye, then thou wilt hold all robbery light so that it leaves thee her, all robbers guiltless save him who would steal thy child. Weep not thus, Mabel. And thou, young man, away. I joy that the old and useless gun defeated my angry purpose-that I slew not mine enemy on his father's ground. Away with thee, young man! Go study the parable that Nathan spake to David. I believe that there is warrant enough for thy detention, but I will not make thee prisoner in the house of thy fathers. Thank me not; but go.

Mab. Father, hear me !

Good. Within! To-morrow!

Mab. Nay, here, and now. Thou hast pardoned him; but thou hast not pardoned me.

Good. I have forgiven thee-I do forgive thee.

Mab. Thou knowest not half my sins! I am the prime offender, the great and unrepenting culprit. I loved him, I do love him; we are betrothed, and I will hold faithful to my vow: Never shall another man wed Mabel Goodwin ! Oh, father, I knew not till this very now how dear thy poor child was to thy heart. Can'st thou break hers?

Good. Mabel, this is a vain and simple fancy.

Mab. Father, it is love.-Arthur, plead for us!

Arth. Alas! I dare not. Thou art a rich heiress; I am a poor exile. Mab. Out on such distinctions! one word from my father; one stroke of Cromwell's pen, and thou art an exile no longer. Plead for us, Arthur! Arth. Mabel, I dare not. Thy father is my benefactor; he has given me life and liberty. Would'st thou have me repay these gifts by bereaving him of his child?

Mab. We will not leave him. We will dwell together. Arthur, wilt thou not speak?

Good. His honourable silence hath pleaded for him better than idle words. Arthur Montresor, dost thou love this maid?

Arth. Do I love her!

Good. I believe in good truth that thou dost. Take her then from the hand of her father.-There is room enough in yonder mansion for the heir and the heiress, the old possessor and the new. Take her, and Heaven bless ye, my

children!

Mab. Now, bless thee, mine own dear father! and bless all the accidents of this happy night-Our projected elopement-and the little door that would not let us elope and the wind that blew out Jonathan's spark of fire-and the old useless gun that, for want of that spark, would not shoot my Arthur. Blessings on them all!

VOL. XIX.

4 C