Part 13 (2/2)

_Wyck._ Well, I cannot help you. If, now, it were to circ.u.mvent a woman, to betray a saucy piece of virtue--then I would go great lengths in deception; remind me that I tell thee a story will make thee laugh. 'Twas ere my trip to America. I would have sold her to the plantations. 'Sblood, will not that do for him?--

_Basil._ I tell there is better.

_Wyck._ Doth he know that by your father's disposition of the property, his relinquishment of it in your favour is void! I say, the old fellow knew thee well, eh? [_Laughs._]

_Basil._ Curse on thy ribald jests; keep them for the girls thou betrayest. No, no, he knows nothing.

_Wyck._ Let me tell thee of the girl. She loved a mean fellow that was her father's apprentice, and perspired in good behaving. A tremulous young man; with hissing red cheeks and a clump hand that looked through his fingers during evening prayers at the maid-servants, as they knelt; yet cried ”Amen”

with a reverence, and had the gift to find his own bedchamber afterward. It was a mercy to pave her from him, for they had surely procreated fools. Yet she liked not the sea, and one night she fell overboard in a calm, and the sharks had a white morsel. She walked in her sleep. I wish, though, she had left her ear-rings behind.

_Basil._ Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+

_Wyck._ Thus it is to be such a fellow as you. You pretend to be so tender-hearted. Well, I never wished to kill my brother. If I had one I could love him, unless he were a d.a.m.ned scrupulous sinner, that makes faces at doing what he is always wis.h.i.+ng.

Why, hark you, with your peccadilloes, you resemble a monkey over a hot dish of roasted chestnuts; you keep grinning round with your mouth watering, till they get cold, before you taste.

_Basil._ I tell thee that I hate him and fear him not. Would that his blood might freeze upon my door-step on a December night! If he were here now, I would stab him before thee.

_Wyck._ Ay, in the back.

_Basil._ But I have a plan that shall undo him most securely. Come in here, and I will tell thee over a stoup of right claret.

_Wyck._ Now you speak reason; for I am but a dry rogue, and am never fit for much early in the morning, without I sit up all night. [_Exeunt, L._]

SCENE III.

[_Last Cut._] [_2nd Grooves._]

_A handsomely fitted Chamber in London.--A practicable window in F._

_Enter ARTHUR WALTON, FLORENCE, the LADY ELIZABETH CROMWELL._

_Eliz._ [_To Arthur._] Urge not your suit through me, when she is here.

Give half Love's reasons that to me you gave, Why she should not be cruel, and I think You'll hardly find her so--[_To Florence._]

Nay! be not scornful, You know I can betray you--[_Goes to the window._]

_Flor._ Oh, be silent!

_Arth._ Dear cousin, will you forth to walk? The day Is fine.

Eliz. [_Running to the window._] I do protest it has been raining long.

_Arth._ To-morrow I must leave--

_Flor._ To-morrow, really?

Shall you be absent long? Adieu, then, sir.

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