Speed the Plough Part 19

_Susan._ I fear my conduct is very imprudent.--Has not Mr. Handy told me he is engaged to another? But 'tis hard for the heart to forego, without one struggle, its only hope of happiness; and, conscious of my honour, what have I to fear? Perhaps he may repent of his unkindness to me--at least I'll put his pa.s.sion to the proof; if he be worthy of my love, happiness is for ever mine; if not, I'll tear him from my breast, though from the wound my life's blood should follow. Ah! he comes--I feel I am a coward, and my poor alarmed heart trembles at its approaching trial--pardon me, female delicacy, if for a moment I seem to pa.s.s thy sacred limits. [_Retires up the stage._

_Enter_ HANDY, _jun._

_Handy, jun._ By Heavens! the misfortunes of Sir Philip Blandford weigh so heavily on my spirits, that--but confusion to melancholy! I am come here to meet an angel, who will, in a moment, drive away the blue devils like mist before the sun. Let me again read the dear words; [_Reading a letter._] "I confess, I love you still;" [_Kisses the letter._] but I dare not believe their truth till her sweet lips confirm it. Ah! she's there--Susan, my angel! a thousand thanks. A life of love can alone repay the joy your letter gave me.

_Susan._ Do you not despise me?

_Handy, jun._ No; love you more than ever.

_Susan._ Oh! Robert, this is the very crisis of my fate.----From this moment we meet with honour, or we meet no more. If we must part, perhaps, when you lead your happy bride to church, you may stumble over your Susan's grave. Well, be it so.

_Handy, jun._ Away with such sombre thoughts!

_Susan._ Tell me my doom--yet hold--you are wild, impetuous--you do not give your heart fair play--therefore promise me (perhaps 'tis the last favour I shall ask), that before you determine whether our love shall die or live with honour, you will remain here alone a few moments, and that you will give those moments to reflection.

_Handy, jun._ I do--I will.

_Susan._ With a throbbing heart I will wait at a little distance. May virtuous love and sacred honour direct his thoughts! [_Aside.--Exit._

_Handy, jun._ Yes, I will reflect, that I am the most fortunate fellow in England. She loves me still--what is the consequence?--that love will triumph--that she will be mine--mine without the degradation of marriage--love, pride, all gratified--how I shall be envied when I triumphantly pa.s.s the circles of fashion! One will cry, "Who is that angel?"--another, "Happy fellow!" then Susan will smile around--will she smile? oh yes--she will be all gaiety--mingle with the votaries of pleasure, and--what! Susan Ashfield the companion of licentious women!--d.a.m.nation!--no! I wrong her--she would not--she would rather shun society--she would be melancholy--melancholy! [_Sighs, and looks at his watch._]--would the time were over!--Pshaw! I think of it too seriously--'Tis false--I do not.--Should her virtue yield to love, would not remorse affect her health? should I not behold that lovely form sicken and decay--perhaps die?--die! then what am I?--a villain, loaded with her parents' curses and my own.--Let me fly from the dreadful thought.--But how fly from it?--[_Calmly._]--By placing before my imagination a picture of more honourable lineaments.--I make her my wife.--Ah! then she would smile on me--there's rapture in the thought;--instead of vice producing decay, I behold virtue emblazoning beauty; instead of Susan on the bed of death, I behold her giving to my hopes a dear pledge of our mutual love. She places it in my arms--down her father's honest face runs a tear--but 'tis the tear of joy. Oh, this will be luxury! paradise!--Come, Susan!--come, my love, my soul--my _wife_.

_Enter_ SUSAN--_she at first hesitates--on hearing the word_ wife, _she springs into his arms._

_Susan._ Is it possible?

_Handy, jun._ Yes, those charms have conquered.

_Susan._ Oh! no; do not so disgrace the victory you have gained--'tis your own virtue that has triumphed.

_Handy, jun._ My Susan! how true it is that fools alone are vicious. But let us fly to my father, and obtain his consent. On recollection, that may not be quite so easy. His arrangements with Sir Philip Blandford are--are--not mine, so there's an end of that. And Sir Philip, by misfortune, knows how to appreciate happiness. Then poor Miss Blandford--upon my soul I feel for her.

_Susan._ [_Ironically._] Come, don't make yourself miserable. If my suspicions be true, she'll not break her heart for your loss.

_Handy, jun._ Nay, don't say so; she will be unhappy.

_Ash._ [_Without._] There he is. Dame, shall I shoot at un?

_Dame._ No.

_Susan._ My father's voice.

_Ash._ Then I'll leather un wi' my stick.

_Enter_ ASHFIELD _and_ DAME.

_Ash._ What do thee do here with my Sue, eh?

_Handy, jun._ With your Sue!--she's mine--mine by a husband's right.

_Ash._ Husband! what, thee Sue's husband?

_Handy, jun._ I soon shall be.

_Ash._ But how tho'?--What! faith and troth?--What! like as I married Dame?

_Handy, jun._ Yes.

_Ash._ What! axed three times!

_Handy, jun._ Yes; and from this moment I'll maintain, that the real temple of love is a parish church--Cupid is a chubby curate--his torch is the s.e.xton's lantern--and the according paean of the spheres is the profound nasal thorough ba.s.s of the clerk's Amen.

_Ash._ Huzza! only to think now--my blessing go with you, my children!

_Dame._ And mine.

_Ash._ And Heaven's blessing too. Ecod, I believe now, as thy feyther zays, thee canst do every thing!

_Handy, jun._ No; for there is one thing I cannot do--injure the innocence of woman.

_Ash._ Drabbit it! I shall walk in the road all day to zee Sue ride by in her own coach.

_Susan._ You must ride with me, father.

_Dame._ I say, Tummas, what will Mrs. Grundy say then?

_Ash._ I do hope thee will not be asham'd of thy feyther in laa, wool ye?

_Handy, jun._ No; for then I must also be ashamed of myself, which I am resolved not to be again.

_Enter_ SIR ABEL HANDY.

_Sir Abel._ Heyday, Bob! why an't you gallanting your intended bride?

but you are never where you ought to be.

_Handy, jun._ Nay, sir, by your own confession I _am_ where I ought to be.

_Sir Abel._ No! you ought to be at the Castle--Sir Philip is there, and Miss Blandford is there, and Lady Handy is there, and therefore--

_Handy, jun._ You are _not_ there. In one word, I shall not marry Miss Blandford.

_Sir Abel._ Indeed! who told you so?

_Handy, jun._ One who never lies--and, therefore, one I am determined to make a friend of--my conscience.

_Sir Abel._ But zounds! sir, what excuse have you?

_Handy, jun._ [_Taking_ SUSAN'S _hand._] A very fair one, sir--is not she?

_Sir Abel._ Why, yes, sir, I can't deny it--but, 'sdeath, sir, this overturns my best plan!