_Lucy_. From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she droops In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps, And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks As she would pour her secret in my bosom-- Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention Of some immodest act. At her request, I left her on her knees. _Selby_. The fittest posture; For great has been her fault to Heaven and me. She married me with a first husband living, Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment Of any but indifferent honesty, Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow, Caught by my art, under a riddling veil Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all. Your coming in broke off the conference, When she was ripe to tell the fatal _name_ That seals my wedded doom. _Lucy_. Was she so forward To pour her hateful meanings in your ear At the first hint? _Selby_. Her newly flatter'd hopes Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt; And with a female caution she stood off Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit, Which with such honest seeming I enforced, That her cold scruples soon gave way; and now She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife, To seize the place of her betrayèd friend-- My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine. _Lucy_. Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes My simple project has conducted you-- Were but my wit as skilful to invent A clue to lead you forth!--I call to mind A letter, which your wife received from the Cape, Soon after you were married, with some circumstances Of mystery too. _Selby_. I well remember it. That letter did confirm the truth (she said) Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true, But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise She gave him out--a hot adventurous spirit-- That had set sail in quest of golden dreams, And cities in the heart of Central Afric; But named no names, nor did I care to press My question further, in the passionate grief She show'd at the receipt. Might this be he? _Lucy_. Tears were not all. When that first shower was past, With clasp'd hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n, As if in thankfulness for some escape, Or strange deliverance, in the news implied, Which sweeten'd that sad news. _Selby_. Something of that I noted also-- _Lucy_. In her closet once, Seeking some other trifle, I espied A ring, in mournful characters deciphering The death of "Robert Halford, aged two And twenty." Brother, I am not given To the confident use of wagers, which I hold Unseemly in a woman's argument; But I am strangely tempted now to risk A thousand pounds out of my patrimony, (And let my future husband look to it, If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow Shall name the name that tallies with that ring.