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Then let their wits, good Margaret, wander here!
It is not often they stop near this spot.

Poor wandering fools!

MARGARET.

IOLA (weeping).

If your wisdom were equal to their folly

I should learn my tasks much quicker

Than I do. Hark! No more ;-they're gone!

(Iola weeps-enter Grimes.)

GRIMES.

Whence these sounds? Iola-Margaret

What is all this? These tears!

IOLA.

Dear father, I am very sad!

GRIMES.

Iola, it is foolish to shed tears!

IOLA.

Dear father, I have no secret from THEE!

(Weeps.)

I love him!

GRIMES (passionately).

Love him!-love whom?

IOLA.

Alas, alas!

Speak, girl; who is 't?

GRIMES.

IOLA.

Oh, look not thus! I cannot bear thy frown!

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GRIMES (violently).

I say, again, thou hast deceived me!

I, who have watched thee from thy very birth,
Have rocked thee in thy cradle, and have fed
Thee in my arms! Go to; nor let me hear
More of this folly. Thou would'st have him, too!
IOLA (throwing herself on Grimes's neck).
Him-before all the world!

GRIMES (very violently-disengaging her). Some lowborn wretch ! Some ragged, rusty fool, Who prowls by night, lest his right-tattered garb Should show a tongue in every rag,

To tell the world he's beggared to its wealth!

Mercy!-mercy!

IOLA.

GRIMES.

What filthy mongrel whelp has dared to lift
His lowborn voice to tell thee of his love?

Father, I here declare

IOLA.

He ne'er has spoken word to me. 'Tis I-
'Tis I who love him! He knows not my love.

GRIMES (kissing her).

And is this true? Poor child! Then listen, dear! Iola, a noble gentleman has seen thee once,

And, having seen, desires an interview.

To-morrow noon he comes.

Perhaps 'tis he!

IOLA.

GRIMES.

Why, very like, my girl.

IOLA.

Oh, dearest father, an' if so it be,
Too gladly shall I do thy pleasure.

There spoke my darling!

GRIMES.

To-morrow eve, my love, I am compelled
To leave thee for a time: some week, or so,
May pass away before I can return.

A little bird is whispering in my ear,

That when Sir William's here he'll fill my place

So well, you will not miss your father.

And now, good night!

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Sir William's not the man to root it out!

At mass- 'tis very strange! That music There may be more in this than first I thought. 'Tis strange! Reciprocal the affection

Cannot be. A sprinkle of live powder

(Exit R.)

On a slumbering spark has raised this blaze.
Pshaw, how weak am I! There's nought to fear!
To-morrow eve I'm bound for Guernsey;-
That's unfortunate: yet it must be done,

Or I may lose five thousand pounds hard gold.
I-will-consider this.

(Exit slowly R.)

ACT II.

SCENE I.-An apartment in Grimes's house. Iola discovered.
Violin or guitar up.

IOLA.

WELL, Margaret will not tell me who it is
That comes to woo, therefore I'll e'en stay here

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(Retires to flat. Enter Grimes L.) GRIMES (musing).

It was for gold !-Oh, yes, it was for gold!

And now I have my glut of it!

But will it cool my burning blood, which bears

The life as lightning through my veins?

Never- -till blood answer it!

Girl (agitated), why art thou here?

My father!

IOLA.

GRIMES (energetically).

(Sees Iola.)

What dost thou here? For the world to see thee?

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I tell thee, girl, that man is treacherous !
False as the serpent, and as venomous!
Than the wind less true; and full of humours,
Passions, fantasies!

IOLA.

My father!-my dear father!

GRIMES (waving Iola away).

Back, girl! This is no place for thee!

To thy chamber!

Th' undaunted gaze of man doth wither all
On which it falls; and virtue melteth
As the snow before it.

(Iola, weeping, retires R.)
Oh, what a task is mine! Upon my head
Am I not heaping fire? Be still, my heart!
Like to the yeasty trouble of the sea,
After the wild west has burst upon it,
Seeking repose, is my distracted soul!
The deed is terrible, and it will bring
A desolating vengeance on My head!
No matter!

My ruined hopes-my blighted happiness-
Rush like distracted spirits o'er my mind,
And rowel my fainting purpose!

But then to look upon her ;-to behold
The living azure of those dovelike eyes,-
That high and glorious brow, where laughing wit
Sits like a sunbeam on a mountain-top!

To see all this, with more of grace, but less of fear,
Is to behold her mother! What word was that?
Her mother!-distraction! Amy Brandon!
Who calls on Amy Brandon?

Hence, to the winds of heaven, ye sickening thoughts!
Vengeance, come, ride the tempest of my soul,

That I faint not amid the wreck of life!

(Music outside.)

Peace, you vile and ditch-like brawlers!
Oh, how full is this wide world of folly!
Ha! the private signal. No doubt, 't is Stanton.

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