Speed the Plough | Page 5

wind is, don't you, Bob? why, she thinks no more of the latter end of her speech, than she does of the latter end of her life--
Handy, jun. Ha! ha!
Sir Abel. But I won't be laugh'd at--I'll knock any man down that laughs! Bob, if you can say any thing pleasant, I'll trouble you; if not, do what my wife can't--hold your tongue.
Handy, jun. I'll shew you what I can do--I'll amuse you with this native. [Apart.
Sir Abel. Do--do--quiz him--at him, Bob.
Handy, jun. I say, Farmer, you are a set of jolly fellows here, an't you?
Ash. Ees, zur, deadly jolly--excepting when we be otherwise, and then we bean't.
Handy, jun. Play at cricket, don't you?
Ash. Ees, zur; we Hampshire lads conceat we can bowl a bit or thereabouts.
Handy, jun. And cudgel too, I suppose?
Sir Abel. At him, Bob.
Ash. Ees, zur, we sometimes break oon another's heads, by way of being agreeable, and the like o'that.
Handy, jun. Understand all the guards? [Putting himself in an attitude of cudgelling.]
Ash. Can't zay I do, zur.
Handy, jun. What! hit in this way, eh? [Makes a hit at ASHFIELD, which he parries, and hits young HANDY violently.]
Ash. Noa, zur, we do hit thic way.
Handy, jun. Zounds and fury!
Sir Abel. Why, Bob, he has broke your head.
Handy, jun. Yes; he rather hit me--he somehow----
Sir Abel. He did indeed, Bob.
Handy, jun. Damn him--The fact is, I am out of practice.
Ash. You need not be, zur; I'll gi' ye a belly full any day, wi' all my heart and soul.
Handy, jun. No, no, thank you--Farmer, what's your name?
Ash. My name be Tummas Ashfield--any thing to say against my name? [Threatening.
Handy, jun. No, no--Ashfield! shou'd he be the father of my pretty Susan--Pray have you a daughter?
Ash. Ees, I have--any thing to zay against she?
Handy, jun. No, no; I think her a charming creature.
Ash. Do ye, faith and troth--Come, that be deadly kind o'ye however--Do you zee, I were frightful she were not agreeable.
Handy, jun. Oh, she's extremely agreeable to me, I assure you.
Ash. I vow, it be quite pratty in you to take notice of Sue. I do hope, zur, breaking your head will break noa squares--She be a coming down to theas parts wi' lady our maid Nelly, as wur--your spouse, zur.
Handy, jun. The devil she is! that's awkward!
Ash. I do hope you'll be kind to Sue when she do come, woolye, zur?
Handy, jun. You may depend on it.
Sir Abel. I dare say you may. Come, Farmer, attend us.
Ash. Ees, zur; wi' all respect--Gentlemen, pray walk thic way, and I'll walk before you. [Exit.
Sir Abel. Now, that's what he calls behaving pretty. Damn his pretty behaviour. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Grove.
[MORRINGTON comes down the stage, wrapped in a great coat--He looks about--then at his watch, and whistles--which is answered.]
Enter GERALD.
Mor. Here, Gerald! Well, my trusty fellow, is Sir Philip arrived?
Ger. No, sir; but hourly expected.
Mor. Tell me, how does the castle look?
Ger. Sadly decayed, sir.
Mor. I hope, Gerald, you were not observed.
Ger. I fear otherwise, sir; on the skirts of the domain I encountered a stripling with his gun; but I darted into that thicket, and so avoided him.
[HENRY appears in the back ground, in a shooting dress, attentively observing them.]
Mor. Have you gained any intelligence?
Ger. None: the report that reached us was false--The infant certainly died with its mother--Hush! conceal yourself--we are observed--this way.
[They retreat--HENRY advances.
Henry. Hold! as a friend, one word!
[They exeunt, he follows them, and returns.
Again they have escaped me--"The infant died with its mother"--This agony of doubt is insupportable.
Enter EVERGREEN.
Everg. Henry, well met.
Henry. Have you seen strangers?
Everg. No!
Henry. Two but now have left this place--They spoke of a lost child--My busy fancy led me to think I was the object of their search--I pressed forward, but they avoided me.
Everg. No, no; it could not be you; for no one on earth knows but myself, and----
Henry. Who? Sir Philip Blandford?
Everg. I am sworn, you know, my dear boy; I am solemnly sworn to silence.
Henry. True, my good old friend; and if the knowledge of who I am can only be obtained at the price of thy perjury, let me for ever remain ignorant--let the corroding thought still haunt my pillow, cross me at every turn, and render me insensible to the blessings of health and liberty--yet, in vain do I suppress the thought--who am I? why thus abandoned? perhaps the despised offspring of guilt--Ah! is it so? [Seizing him violently.
Everg. Henry, do I deserve this?
Henry. Pardon me, good old man! I'll act more reasonably--I'll deem thy silence mercy.
Everg. That's wisely said.
Henry. Yet it is hard to think, that the most detested reptile that nature forms, or man pursues, has, when he gains his den, a parent's pitying breast to shelter in; but I----
Everg. Come, come, no more of this.
Henry. Well!----I visited to-day that young man who was