PAWLETT (looking after him). 
The fool! 
He’s in a furious mood—­and let him rave—­
He’ll never win his way with Isabelle. 
My chances there are better, but not good. 
Young Bolton’s in my way.  He loves her well;
And she, I fear, loves him.  But then his father
Is proud as Lucifer, and selfish too. 
Ambition makes the generous nature selfish. 
He’ll ne’er consent his only son should wed
The portionless daughter of a pedagogue. 
No, no.  I’ll tot these bitter waters out. 
I’ll give the judge an inkling of the matter. 
I’ll write a note—­he’ll think it comes from Belcour. 
If I can drive young Bolton from the field,
Then Isabelle is mine.—­I’ll do it.

(As PAWLETT is going out, Enter DR. MARGRAVE
and REV.  PAUL GODFREY.)

GODFREY. 
You say Judge Bolton lives in princely style. 
Is he a married man?

MARGRAVE. 
He has been married;—­
Most happily married, too.  His wife was one
Of those pure beings, gentle, wise, and firm. 
That mould our sex to highest hopes and aims. 
He loved her as the devotee his saint: 
And from the day he wed he trod life’s path
As one who came to conquer.

GODFREY. 
I see it now. 
The motive to excel was all he needed. 
He had a vigorous mind, a generous heart,
An innate love of goodness and of truth. 
But he was wayward, and he hated tasks. 
Such men must have an aim beyond themselves,
Or oft they prove but dreamers.  And with such,
Woman’s companionship, dependence, love,
Are like the air to fire:—­the smouldering flame
Of genius, once aroused, sweeps doubts away,
And brightens hope, till victory is won.

                      MARGRAVE. 
  ’Twas thus with Bolton.  To his keeping given
  The weal of one so dear—­then he bore on,
  Gathering from disappointments fruitful strength,
  As winter’s snows prepare the earth for harvest. 
  And when his angel wife was taken from him,
  She left him pledges of her love and trust,
  A son of noble promise, and a daughter
  To nestle, dove-like, in her father’s heart,
  And keep her place for ever.  She is blind!

                    GODFREY. 

I marvel not that Bolton has excelled,
And won a station of the highest trust,
If his warm heart enlisted in the work: 
But the small cares, the constant calculations
Required to make, at least to keep, a fortune—­
I never should have looked to him for these.

                    MARGRAVE. 

’Twas luck that favored him; or Providence,
As you would say.  A friend of his and ours. 
De Vere, the young West Indian in our class—­
You must remember him—­he left to Bolton
All his estate.  A hundred thousand pounds
’Twas said he would inherit.

GODFREY. 
How happened this? 
De Vere returned to Cuba, there to marry?