ACT IScene I.—The interior of a lodge inLord Tresham'spark. Many Retainers crowded at the window, supposed to command a view of the entrance to his mansion.Gerard, the warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons, etc.1st Retainer.Ye, do! push, friends, and then you'll push down me!—What for? Does any hear a runner's foot228Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry?Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant?But there's no breeding in a man of youSave Gerard yonder: here's a half-place yet,Old Gerard!Gerard.Save your courtesies, my friend.Here is my place.2nd Retainer.Now, Gerard, out with it!What makes you sullen, this of all the daysI' the year? To-day that young rich bountifulHandsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they matchWith our Lord Tresham through the country side,Is coming here in utmost braveryTo ask our master's sister's hand?Gerard.What then?2nd Retainer.What then? Why, you, she speaks to if she meetsYour worship, smiles on as you hold apartThe boughs to let her through her forest walksYou, always favorite for your no desertsYou've heard, these three days, how Earl Mertoun suesTo lay his heart and house and broad lands tooAt Lady Mildred's feet: and while we squeezeOurselves into a mousehole lest we missOne congee of the least page in his train,You sit o' one side—"there's the Earl," say I—"What then," say you!3rd Retainer.I'll wager he has letBoth swans be tamed for Lady Mildred swimOver the falls and gain the river!Gerard.Ralph!Is not to-morrow my inspecting dayFor you and for your hawks?2294th Retainer.Let Gerard be!He's coarse-grained, like his carved black cross-bow stock.Ha, look now, while we squabble with him, look!Well done, now—is not this beginning, now,To purpose?1st Retainer.Our retainers look as fine—That's comfort. Lord, how Richard holds himselfWith his white staff! Will not a knave behindPrick him upright?4th Retainer.He's only bowing, fool!The Earl's man bent us lower by this much.1st Retainer.That's comfort. Here's a very cavalcade!3rd Retainer.I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troopOf silk and silver varlets there, should findTheir perfumed selves so indispensableOn high days, holidays! Would it so disgraceOur family, if I, for instance, stood—In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks,A leash of greyhounds in my left?—Gerard.—With HughThe logman for supporter, in his rightThe bill-hook, in his left the brushwood-shears!3rd Retainer.Out on you, crab! What next, what next?The Earl!1st Retainer.Oh Walter, groom, our horses, do they matchThe Earl's? Alas, that first pair of the six—They paw the ground—Ah Walter! and that bruteJust on his haunches by the wheel!6th Retainer.Ay—ay!You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear,At soups and sauces: what's a horse to you?D'ye mark that beast they've slid into the midstSo cunningly?—then, Philip, mark this further;No leg has he to stand on!2301st Retainer.No? That's comfort.2nd Retainer.Peace, Cook! The Earl descends. Well, Gerard, seeThe Earl at least! Come, there's a proper man,I hope! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede,Has got a starrier eye.3rd Retainer.His eyes are blue:But leave my hawks alone!4th Retainer.So young, and yetSo tall and shapely!5th Retainer.Here's Lord Tresham's self!There now—there's what a nobleman should be!He's older, graver, loftier, he's more likeA House's head.2nd Retainer.But you'd not have a boy—And what's the Earl beside?—possess too soonThat stateliness?1st Retainer.Our master takes his hand—Richard and his white staff are on the move—Back fall our people—(tsh!—there's TimothySure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties,And Peter's cursed rosette's a-coming off!)—At last I see our lord's back and his friend's;And the whole beautiful bright companyClose round them—in they go![Jumping down from the window-bench, and making for the table and its jugs.]Good health, long lifeGreat joy to our Lord Tresham and his House!6th Retainer.My father drove his father first to court,After his marriage-day—ay, did he!2nd Retainer.God blessLord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the Earl!Here, Gerard, reach your beaker!Gerard.Drink, my boys!Don't mind me—all's not right about me—drink!2312nd Retainer[aside]. He's vexed, now, that he let the show escape![ToGerard.] Remember that the Earl returns this way.Gerard.That way?2nd Retainer.Just so.Gerard.Then my way's here.[Goes.2nd Retainer.Old GerardWill die soon—mind, I said it! He was usedTo care about the pitifullest thingThat touched the House's honor, not an eyeBut his could see wherein: and on a causeOf scarce a quarter this importance, GerardFairly had fretted flesh and bone awayIn cares that this was right, nor that was wrong,Such point decorous, and such square by rule—He knew such niceties, no herald more:And now—you see his humor: die he will!2nd Retainer.God help him! Who's for the great servant's hallTo hear what's going on inside? They'd followLord Tresham into the saloon.3rd Retainer.I!—4th Retainer.I!—Leave Frank alone for catching, at the door,Some hint of how the parley goes inside!Prosperity to the great House once more!Here's the last drop!1st Retainer.Have at you! Boys, hurrah!232Scene II.—A Saloon in the Mansion.EnterLord Thesham, Lord Mertoun, Austin, andGuendolen.Tresham.I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more,To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name—Noble among the noblest in itself,Yet taking in your person, fame avers,New price and lustre,—(as that gem you wear,Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts,Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord,Seems to re-kindle at the core)—your nameWould win you welcome!—Mertoun.Thanks!Tresham.—But add to that,The worthiness and grace and dignityOf your proposal for uniting bothOur Houses even closer than respectUnites them now—add these, and you must grantOne favor more, nor that the least,—to thinkThe welcome I should give;—'tis given! My lord,My only brother, Austin: he's the king's.Our cousin, Lady Guendolen—betrothedTo Austin: all are yours.Mertoun.I thank you—lessFor the expressed commendings which your seal,And only that, authenticates—forbidsMy putting from me ... to my heart I takeYour praise ... but praise less claims my gratitude,Than the indulgent insight it impliesOf what must needs be uppermost with oneWho comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask,In weighed and measured unimpassioned words,233A gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied,He must withdraw, content upon his cheek,Despair within his soul. That I dare askFirmly, near boldly, near with confidenceThat gift, I have to thank you. Yes, Lord Tresham,I love your sister—as you'd have one loveThat lady ... oh more, more I love her! Wealth,Rank, all the world thinks me, they're yours, you know,To hold or part with, at your choice—but grantMy true self, me without a rood of land,A piece of gold, a name of yesterday,Grant me that lady, and you ... Death or life?Guendolen[apart toAustin]. Why, this is loving, Austin!Austin.He's so young!Guendolen.Young? Old enough, I think, to half surmiseHe never had obtained an entrance here,Were all this fear and trembling needed.Austin.Hush!He reddens.Guendolen.Mark him, Austin; that's true love!Ours must begin again.Tresham.We'll sit, my lord.Ever with best desert goes diffidence.I may speak plainly nor be misconceived.That I am wholly satisfied with youOn this occasion, when a falcon's eyeWere dull compared with mine to search out faults,Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to giveOr to refuse.Mertoun.But you, you grant my suit?I have your word if hers?Tresham.My best of wordsIf hers encourage you. I trust it will.Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way?234Mertoun.I ... I ... our two demesnes, remember, touch;I have been used to wander carelesslyAfter my stricken game: the heron rousedDeep in my woods, has trailed its broken wingThro' thicks and glades a mile in yours,—or elseSome eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flightAnd lured me after her from tree to tree,I marked not whither. I have come uponThe lady's wondrous beauty unaware,And—and then ... I have seen her.Guendolen[aside toAustin].Note that modeOf faltering out that, when a lady passed,He, having eyes, did see her! You had said—"On such a day I scanned her, head to foot;Observed a red, where red should not have been,Outside her elbow; but was pleased enoughUpon the whole." Let such irreverent talkBe lessoned for the future!Tresham.What's to sayMay be said briefly. She has never knownA mother's care; I stand for father too.Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems—You cannot know the good and tender heart,Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy,How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind,How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet freeAs light where friends are—how imbued with loreThe world most prizes, yet the simplest, yetThe ... one might know I talked of Mildred—thusWe brothers talk!Mertoun.I thank you.Tresham.In a word,Control's not for this lady; but her wish235To please me outstrips in its subtletyMy power of being pleased: herself createsThe want she means to satisfy. My heartPrefers your suit to her as 'twere its own.Can I say more?Mertoun.No more—thanks, thanks—no more!Tresham.This matter then discussed....Mertoun.—We'll waste no breathOn aught less precious. I'm beneath the roofWhich holds her: while I thought of that, my speechTo you would wander—as it must not do,Since as you favor me I stand or fall.I pray you suffer that I take my leave!Tresham.With less regret 't is suffered, that againWe meet, I hope, so shortly.Mertoun.We? again?—Ah yes, forgive me—when shall ... you will crownYour goodness by forthwith apprising meWhen ... if ... the lady will appoint a dayFor me to wait on you—and her.Tresham.So soonAs I am made acquainted with her thoughtsOn your proposal—howsoe'er they lean—A messenger shall bring you the result.Mertoun.You cannot bind me more to you, my lord.Farewell till we renew ... I trust, renewA converse ne'er to disunite again.Tresham.So may it prove!Mertoun.You, lady, you, sir, takeMy humble salutation!Guendolen and Austin.Thanks!Tresham.Within there![Servantsenter.TreshamconductsMertounto the door. MeantimeAustinremarks,236Here I have an advantage of the Earl,Confess now! I'd not think that all was safeBecause my lady's brother stood my friend!Why, he makes sure of her—"do you say,yes"—"She'll not say, no,"—what comes it to beside?I should have prayed the brother, "speak this speech,For Heaven's sake urge this on her—put in this—Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing,—Then set down what she says, and how she looks,And if she smiles, and" (in an under breath)"Only let her accept me, and do youAnd all the world refuse me, if you dare!"Guendolen.That way you'd take, friend Austin? What a shameI was your cousin, tamely from the firstYour bride, and all this fervor's run to waste!Do you know you speak sensibly to-day?The Earl's a fool.Austin.Here's Thorold. Tell him so!Tresham[returning]. Now, voices, voices! 'St! the lady's first!How seems he?—seems he not ... come, faith give fraudThe mercy-stroke whenever they engage!Down with fraud, up with faith! How seems the Earl?A name! a blazon! if you knew their worth,As you will never! come—the Earl?Guendolen.He's young.Tresham.What's she? an infant save in heart and brain.Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! And you ...Austin, how old is she?Guendolen.There's tact for you!I meant that being young was good excuseIf one should tax him....237Tresham.Well?Guendolen.—With lacking wit.Tresham.He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so please you?Guendolen.In standing straighter than the steward's rodAnd making you the tiresomest harangue,Instead of slipping over to my sideAnd softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet lady,Your cousin there will do me detrimentHe little dreams of: he's absorbed, I see,In my old name and fame—be sure he'll leaveMy Mildred, when his best account of meIs ended, in full confidence I wearMy grandsire's periwig down either cheek.I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes"....Tresham.... "To give a best of best accounts, yourself,Of me and my demerits." You are right!He should have said what now I say for him.Yon golden creature, will you help us all?Here's Austin means to vouch for much, but you—You are ... what Austin only knows! Come up,All three of us: she's in the libraryNo doubt, for the day's wearing fast. Precede!Guendolen.Austin, how we must—!Tresham.Must what? Must speak truth,Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him!I challenge you!Guendolen.Witchcraft's a fault in him,For you're bewitched.Tresham.What's urgent we obtainIs, that she soon receive him—say, to-morrow—Next day at furthest.Guendolen.Ne'er instruct me!Tresham.Come!238—He's out of your good graces, since forsooth,He stood not as he'd carry us by stormWith his perfections! You're for the composedManly assured becoming confidence!—Get her to say, "to-morrow," and I'll give you ...I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiledWith petting and snail-paces. Will you? Come!
Gerard, the warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons, etc.
1st Retainer.Ye, do! push, friends, and then you'll push down me!—What for? Does any hear a runner's foot228Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry?Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant?But there's no breeding in a man of youSave Gerard yonder: here's a half-place yet,Old Gerard!
Gerard.Save your courtesies, my friend.Here is my place.
2nd Retainer.Now, Gerard, out with it!What makes you sullen, this of all the daysI' the year? To-day that young rich bountifulHandsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they matchWith our Lord Tresham through the country side,Is coming here in utmost braveryTo ask our master's sister's hand?
Gerard.What then?
2nd Retainer.What then? Why, you, she speaks to if she meetsYour worship, smiles on as you hold apartThe boughs to let her through her forest walksYou, always favorite for your no desertsYou've heard, these three days, how Earl Mertoun suesTo lay his heart and house and broad lands tooAt Lady Mildred's feet: and while we squeezeOurselves into a mousehole lest we missOne congee of the least page in his train,You sit o' one side—"there's the Earl," say I—"What then," say you!
3rd Retainer.I'll wager he has letBoth swans be tamed for Lady Mildred swimOver the falls and gain the river!
Gerard.Ralph!Is not to-morrow my inspecting dayFor you and for your hawks?
2294th Retainer.Let Gerard be!He's coarse-grained, like his carved black cross-bow stock.Ha, look now, while we squabble with him, look!Well done, now—is not this beginning, now,To purpose?
1st Retainer.Our retainers look as fine—That's comfort. Lord, how Richard holds himselfWith his white staff! Will not a knave behindPrick him upright?
4th Retainer.He's only bowing, fool!The Earl's man bent us lower by this much.
1st Retainer.That's comfort. Here's a very cavalcade!
3rd Retainer.I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troopOf silk and silver varlets there, should findTheir perfumed selves so indispensableOn high days, holidays! Would it so disgraceOur family, if I, for instance, stood—In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks,A leash of greyhounds in my left?—
Gerard.—With HughThe logman for supporter, in his rightThe bill-hook, in his left the brushwood-shears!
3rd Retainer.Out on you, crab! What next, what next?The Earl!
1st Retainer.Oh Walter, groom, our horses, do they matchThe Earl's? Alas, that first pair of the six—They paw the ground—Ah Walter! and that bruteJust on his haunches by the wheel!
6th Retainer.Ay—ay!You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear,At soups and sauces: what's a horse to you?D'ye mark that beast they've slid into the midstSo cunningly?—then, Philip, mark this further;No leg has he to stand on!
2301st Retainer.No? That's comfort.
2nd Retainer.Peace, Cook! The Earl descends. Well, Gerard, seeThe Earl at least! Come, there's a proper man,I hope! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede,Has got a starrier eye.
3rd Retainer.His eyes are blue:But leave my hawks alone!
4th Retainer.So young, and yetSo tall and shapely!
5th Retainer.Here's Lord Tresham's self!There now—there's what a nobleman should be!He's older, graver, loftier, he's more likeA House's head.
2nd Retainer.But you'd not have a boy—And what's the Earl beside?—possess too soonThat stateliness?
1st Retainer.Our master takes his hand—Richard and his white staff are on the move—Back fall our people—(tsh!—there's TimothySure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties,And Peter's cursed rosette's a-coming off!)—At last I see our lord's back and his friend's;And the whole beautiful bright companyClose round them—in they go!
[Jumping down from the window-bench, and making for the table and its jugs.]
Good health, long lifeGreat joy to our Lord Tresham and his House!
6th Retainer.My father drove his father first to court,After his marriage-day—ay, did he!
2nd Retainer.God blessLord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the Earl!Here, Gerard, reach your beaker!
Gerard.Drink, my boys!Don't mind me—all's not right about me—drink!
2312nd Retainer[aside]. He's vexed, now, that he let the show escape![ToGerard.] Remember that the Earl returns this way.
Gerard.That way?
2nd Retainer.Just so.
Gerard.Then my way's here.
[Goes.
2nd Retainer.Old GerardWill die soon—mind, I said it! He was usedTo care about the pitifullest thingThat touched the House's honor, not an eyeBut his could see wherein: and on a causeOf scarce a quarter this importance, GerardFairly had fretted flesh and bone awayIn cares that this was right, nor that was wrong,Such point decorous, and such square by rule—He knew such niceties, no herald more:And now—you see his humor: die he will!
2nd Retainer.God help him! Who's for the great servant's hallTo hear what's going on inside? They'd followLord Tresham into the saloon.
3rd Retainer.I!—
4th Retainer.I!—Leave Frank alone for catching, at the door,Some hint of how the parley goes inside!Prosperity to the great House once more!Here's the last drop!
1st Retainer.Have at you! Boys, hurrah!
232
EnterLord Thesham, Lord Mertoun, Austin, andGuendolen.
Tresham.I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more,To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name—Noble among the noblest in itself,Yet taking in your person, fame avers,New price and lustre,—(as that gem you wear,Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts,Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord,Seems to re-kindle at the core)—your nameWould win you welcome!—
Mertoun.Thanks!
Tresham.—But add to that,The worthiness and grace and dignityOf your proposal for uniting bothOur Houses even closer than respectUnites them now—add these, and you must grantOne favor more, nor that the least,—to thinkThe welcome I should give;—'tis given! My lord,My only brother, Austin: he's the king's.Our cousin, Lady Guendolen—betrothedTo Austin: all are yours.
Mertoun.I thank you—lessFor the expressed commendings which your seal,And only that, authenticates—forbidsMy putting from me ... to my heart I takeYour praise ... but praise less claims my gratitude,Than the indulgent insight it impliesOf what must needs be uppermost with oneWho comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask,In weighed and measured unimpassioned words,233A gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied,He must withdraw, content upon his cheek,Despair within his soul. That I dare askFirmly, near boldly, near with confidenceThat gift, I have to thank you. Yes, Lord Tresham,I love your sister—as you'd have one loveThat lady ... oh more, more I love her! Wealth,Rank, all the world thinks me, they're yours, you know,To hold or part with, at your choice—but grantMy true self, me without a rood of land,A piece of gold, a name of yesterday,Grant me that lady, and you ... Death or life?
Guendolen[apart toAustin]. Why, this is loving, Austin!
Austin.He's so young!
Guendolen.Young? Old enough, I think, to half surmiseHe never had obtained an entrance here,Were all this fear and trembling needed.
Austin.Hush!He reddens.
Guendolen.Mark him, Austin; that's true love!Ours must begin again.
Tresham.We'll sit, my lord.Ever with best desert goes diffidence.I may speak plainly nor be misconceived.That I am wholly satisfied with youOn this occasion, when a falcon's eyeWere dull compared with mine to search out faults,Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to giveOr to refuse.
Mertoun.But you, you grant my suit?I have your word if hers?
Tresham.My best of wordsIf hers encourage you. I trust it will.Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way?
234Mertoun.I ... I ... our two demesnes, remember, touch;I have been used to wander carelesslyAfter my stricken game: the heron rousedDeep in my woods, has trailed its broken wingThro' thicks and glades a mile in yours,—or elseSome eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flightAnd lured me after her from tree to tree,I marked not whither. I have come uponThe lady's wondrous beauty unaware,And—and then ... I have seen her.
Guendolen[aside toAustin].Note that modeOf faltering out that, when a lady passed,He, having eyes, did see her! You had said—"On such a day I scanned her, head to foot;Observed a red, where red should not have been,Outside her elbow; but was pleased enoughUpon the whole." Let such irreverent talkBe lessoned for the future!
Tresham.What's to sayMay be said briefly. She has never knownA mother's care; I stand for father too.Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems—You cannot know the good and tender heart,Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy,How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind,How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet freeAs light where friends are—how imbued with loreThe world most prizes, yet the simplest, yetThe ... one might know I talked of Mildred—thusWe brothers talk!
Mertoun.I thank you.
Tresham.In a word,Control's not for this lady; but her wish235To please me outstrips in its subtletyMy power of being pleased: herself createsThe want she means to satisfy. My heartPrefers your suit to her as 'twere its own.Can I say more?
Mertoun.No more—thanks, thanks—no more!
Tresham.This matter then discussed....
Mertoun.—We'll waste no breathOn aught less precious. I'm beneath the roofWhich holds her: while I thought of that, my speechTo you would wander—as it must not do,Since as you favor me I stand or fall.I pray you suffer that I take my leave!
Tresham.With less regret 't is suffered, that againWe meet, I hope, so shortly.
Mertoun.We? again?—Ah yes, forgive me—when shall ... you will crownYour goodness by forthwith apprising meWhen ... if ... the lady will appoint a dayFor me to wait on you—and her.
Tresham.So soonAs I am made acquainted with her thoughtsOn your proposal—howsoe'er they lean—A messenger shall bring you the result.
Mertoun.You cannot bind me more to you, my lord.Farewell till we renew ... I trust, renewA converse ne'er to disunite again.
Tresham.So may it prove!
Mertoun.You, lady, you, sir, takeMy humble salutation!
Guendolen and Austin.Thanks!
Tresham.Within there!
[Servantsenter.TreshamconductsMertounto the door. MeantimeAustinremarks,
236Here I have an advantage of the Earl,Confess now! I'd not think that all was safeBecause my lady's brother stood my friend!Why, he makes sure of her—"do you say,yes"—"She'll not say, no,"—what comes it to beside?I should have prayed the brother, "speak this speech,For Heaven's sake urge this on her—put in this—Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing,—Then set down what she says, and how she looks,And if she smiles, and" (in an under breath)"Only let her accept me, and do youAnd all the world refuse me, if you dare!"
Guendolen.That way you'd take, friend Austin? What a shameI was your cousin, tamely from the firstYour bride, and all this fervor's run to waste!Do you know you speak sensibly to-day?The Earl's a fool.
Austin.Here's Thorold. Tell him so!
Tresham[returning]. Now, voices, voices! 'St! the lady's first!How seems he?—seems he not ... come, faith give fraudThe mercy-stroke whenever they engage!Down with fraud, up with faith! How seems the Earl?A name! a blazon! if you knew their worth,As you will never! come—the Earl?
Guendolen.He's young.
Tresham.What's she? an infant save in heart and brain.Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! And you ...Austin, how old is she?
Guendolen.There's tact for you!I meant that being young was good excuseIf one should tax him....
237Tresham.Well?
Guendolen.—With lacking wit.
Tresham.He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so please you?
Guendolen.In standing straighter than the steward's rodAnd making you the tiresomest harangue,Instead of slipping over to my sideAnd softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet lady,Your cousin there will do me detrimentHe little dreams of: he's absorbed, I see,In my old name and fame—be sure he'll leaveMy Mildred, when his best account of meIs ended, in full confidence I wearMy grandsire's periwig down either cheek.I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes"....
Tresham.... "To give a best of best accounts, yourself,Of me and my demerits." You are right!He should have said what now I say for him.Yon golden creature, will you help us all?Here's Austin means to vouch for much, but you—You are ... what Austin only knows! Come up,All three of us: she's in the libraryNo doubt, for the day's wearing fast. Precede!
Guendolen.Austin, how we must—!
Tresham.Must what? Must speak truth,Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him!I challenge you!
Guendolen.Witchcraft's a fault in him,For you're bewitched.
Tresham.What's urgent we obtainIs, that she soon receive him—say, to-morrow—Next day at furthest.
Guendolen.Ne'er instruct me!
Tresham.Come!238—He's out of your good graces, since forsooth,He stood not as he'd carry us by stormWith his perfections! You're for the composedManly assured becoming confidence!—Get her to say, "to-morrow," and I'll give you ...I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiledWith petting and snail-paces. Will you? Come!
The story of the love of Mildred and Mertoun is the universally human one, and belongs to no one country or no one period of civilization more than another, but the attitude of all the actors in the tragedy belongs distinctively to the phase of moral culture which we saw illustrated in the youth of Sir Philip Sidney, and is characteristic of English ways of thinking whenever their moral force comes uppermost, as for example in the Puritan thought of the Cromwellian era.
The play is in a sense a problem play, though to most modern readers the tragedy of its ending is all too horrible a consequence of the sin. Dramatically and psychically, however, the tragedy is much more inevitable than that of Romeo and Juliet, whose love one naturally thinks of in the same connection. The catastrophe in the Shakespeare play is almost mechanically pushed to its conclusion through mere external blundering, easily to have been prevented. Juliet saw clearly where239Mildred does not, that loyalty to a deep and true love should triumph over all minor considerations, so that in her case the tragedy is, in no sense, due to her blindness of vision. In the "Blot," lack of perception of the true values in life makes it impossible for Mildred or Tresham to act otherwise than they did. But having worked out their problem according to their lights, a new light of a more glorious day dawns upon them.
The ideal by which Tresham lives and moves and has his being is that of pride of birth, with honor and chastity as its watchwords. At the same time the idol of his life is his sister Mildred, over whom he has watched with a father's and mother's care. When the blow to his ideal comes at the hands of this much cherished sister, it is not to be wondered at that his reason almost deserts him. The greatest agony possible to the human soul is to have its ideals, the very food which has been the sustenance of its being, utterly ruined. The ideal may be a wrong one, or an impartial one, and through the wrack and ruin may dawn larger vision, but, unless the nature be a marvelously developed one the storm that breaks when an ideal is shattered is overwhelming.
It would be equally true of Mildred that, nurtured as she had been and as young Eng240lish girls usually are, in great purity, even ignorance of all things pertaining to life, the sense of her sin would be so overwhelming as to blind her to any possible means of expiation except the most extreme. And indeed may it not be said that only those who can see as Mertoun and Guendolen did that genuine and loyal love is no less love because, in a conventional sense, it has sinned,—only those would acknowledge, as Tresham, indeed, does after he has murdered Mertoun, how perfect the love of Mildred and Mertoun was. Sin flourishes only when insincerity tricks itself out in the garb of love, and on the whole it is well that human beings should have an abiding sense of their own and others insincerity, and test themselves by their willingness to acknowledge their love before God and man. There are many Mildreds but few Mertouns. It is little wonder that Dickens wrote with such enthusiasm of this play that he knew no love like that of Mildred and Mertoun, no passion like it.
An English Park
An English Park
One does not need to discuss whether murders were possible in English social life. They are possible in all life at all times as long as men and women allow their passions to overthrow their reason. The last act, however, illustrates the English poise already referred241to; Tresham regains his equilibrium with enlarged vision, his salvation is accomplished, his soul awakened.
ACT IIIScene I.—The end of the Yew-tree Avenue underMildred'swindow. A light seen through a central red pane.EnterTreshamthrough the trees.Again here! But I cannot lose myself.The heath—the orchard—I have traversed gladesAnd dells and bosky paths which used to leadInto green wild-wood depths, bewilderingMy boy's adventurous step. And now they tendHither or soon or late; the blackest shadeBreaks up, the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide,And the dim turret I have fled from, frontsAgain my step: the very river putIts arm about me and conducted meTo this detested spot. Why then, I'll shunTheir will no longer: do your will with me!Oh, bitter! To have reared a towering schemeOf happiness, and to behold it razed,Were nothing: all men hope, and see their hopesFrustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew.But I ... to hope that from a line like oursNo horrid prodigy like this would spring,Were just as though I hoped that from these oldConfederates against the sovereign day,Children of older and yet older sires,Whose living coral berries dropped, as nowOn me, on many a baron's surcoat once,On many a beauty's wimple—would proceed242No poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its root,Hither and thither its strange snaky arms.Why came I here? What must I do? [A bell strikes.] A bell?Midnight! and 'tis at midnight.... Ah, I catch—Woods, river, plains, I catch your meaning now,And I obey you! Hist! This tree will serve.[He retires behind one of the trees. After a pause, enterMertouncloaked as before.Mertoun.Not time! Beat out thy last voluptuous beatOf hope and fear, my heart! I thought the clockI' the chapel struck as I was pushing throughThe ferns. And so I shall no more see riseMy love-star! Oh, no matter for the past!So much the more delicious task to watchMildred revive: to pluck out, thorn by thorn,All traces of the rough forbidden pathMy rash love lured her to! Each day must seeSome fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed:Then there will be surprises, unforeseenDelights in store. I'll not regret the past.[The light is placed above in the purple pane.And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star!I never saw it lovelier than nowIt rises for the last time. If it sets,'Tis that the re-assuring sun may dawn.[As he prepares to ascend the last tree of the avenue,Treshamarrests his arm.Unhand me—peasant, by your grasp! Here's gold.'Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluckA branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneathThe casement there. Take this, and hold your peace.Tresham.Into the moonlight yonder, come with me!243Out of the shadow!Mertoun.I am armed, fool!Tresham.Yes,Or no? You'll come into the light, or no?My hand is on your throat—refuse!—Mertoun.That voice!Where have I heard ... no—that was mild and slow.I'll come with you.[They advance.Tresham.You're armed: that's well. DeclareYour name: who are you?Mertoun.(Tresham!—she is lost!)Tresham.Oh, silent? Do you know, you bear yourselfExactly as, in curious dreams I've hadHow felons, this wild earth is full of, lookWhen they're detected, still your kind has looked!The bravo holds an assured countenance,The thief is voluble and plausible,But silently the slave of lust has crouchedWhen I have fancied it before a man.Your name!Mertoun.I do conjure Lord Tresham—ay,Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail—That he for his own sake forbear to askMy name! As heaven's above, his future wealOr woe depends upon my silence! Vain!I read your white inexorable face.Know me, Lord Tresham![He throws off his disguises.Tresham.Mertoun![After a pause.] Draw now!Mertoun.Hear meBut speak first!Tresham.Not one least word on your life!Be sure that I will strangle in your throat244The least word that informs me how you liveAnd yet seem what you seem! No doubt 'twas youTaught Mildred still to keep that face and sin.We should join hands in frantic sympathyIf you once taught me the unteachable,Explained how you can live so, and so lie.With God's help I retain, despite my sense,The old belief—a life like yours is stillImpossible. Now draw!Mertoun.Not for my sake,Do I entreat a hearing—for your sake,And most, for her sake!Tresham.Ha ha, what should IKnow of your ways? A miscreant like yourself,How must one rouse his ire? A blow?—that's prideNo doubt, to him! One spurns him, does one not?Or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spitsInto his face! Come! Which, or all of these?Mertoun.'Twixt him and me and Mildred, Heaven be judge!Can I avoid this? Have your will, my lord![He draws and, after a few passes, falls.Tresham.You are not hurt?Mertoun.You'll hear me now!Tresham.But rise!Mertoun.Ah, Tresham, say I not "you'll hear me now!"And what procures a man the right to speakIn his defense before his fellow man,But—I suppose—the thought that presentlyHe may have leave to speak before his GodHis whole defense?Tresham.Not hurt? It cannot be!You made no effort to resist me. WhereDid my sword reach you? Why not have returned245My thrusts? Hurt where?Mertoun.My lord—Tresham.How young he is!Mertoun.Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yetI have entangled other lives with mine.Do let me speak, and do believe my speech!That when I die before you presently,—Tresham.Can you stay here till I return with help?Mertoun.Oh, stay by me! When I was less than boyI did you grievous wrong and knew it not—Upon my honor, knew it not! Once known,I could not find what seemed a better wayTo right you than I took: my life—you feelHow less than nothing were the giving youThe life you've taken! But I thought my wayThe better—only for your sake and hers:And as you have decided otherwise,Would I had an infinity of livesTo offer you! Now say—instruct me—think!Can you, from the brief minutes I have left,Eke out my reparation? Oh think—think!For I must wring a partial—dare I say,Forgiveness from you, ere I die?Tresham.I doForgive you.Mertoun.Wait and ponder that great word!Because, if you forgive me, I shall hopeTo speak to you of—Mildred!Tresham.Mertoun, hasteAnd anger have undone us. 'Tis not youShould tell me for a novelty you're young,Thoughtless, unable to recall the past.Be but your pardon ample as my own!246Mertoun.Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke and a dropOf blood or two, should bring all this about!Why, 'twas my very fear of you, my loveOf you—(what passion like a boy's for oneLike you?)—that ruined me! I dreamed of you—You, all accomplished, courted everywhere,The scholar and the gentleman. I burnedTo knit myself to you: but I was young,And your surpassing reputation kept meSo far aloof! Oh, wherefore all that love?With less of love, my glorious yesterdayOf praise and gentlest words and kindest looks,Had taken place perchance six months ago.Even now, how happy we had been! And yetI know the thought of this escaped you, Tresham!Let me look up into your face; I feel'Tis changed above me: yet my eyes are glazed.Where? where?[As he endeavors to raise himself, his eye catches the lamp.Ah, Mildred! What will Mildred do?Tresham, her life is bound up in the lifeThat's bleeding fast away! I'll live—must live,There, if you'll only turn me I shall liveAnd save her! Tresham—oh, had you but heard!Had you but heard! What right was yours to setThe thoughtless foot upon her life and mine,And then say, as we perish, "Had I thought,All had gone otherwise?" We've sinned and die:Never you sin, Lord Tresham! for you'll die,And God will judge you.Tresham.Yes, be satisfied!That process is begun.Mertoun.And she sits thereWaiting for me! Now, say you this to her—247You, not another—say, I saw him dieAs he breathed this, "I love her"—you don't knowWhat those three small words mean! Say, loving herLowers me down the bloody slope to deathWith memories ... I speak to her, not you,Who had no pity, will have no remorse,Perchance intend her.... Die along with me,Dear Mildred! 'tis so easy, and you'll 'scapeSo much unkindness! Can I lie at rest,With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deedsDone to you?—heartless men shall have my heart,And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm,Aware, perhaps, of every blow—oh God!—Upon those lips—yet of no power to tearThe felon stripe by stripe! Die, Mildred! LeaveTheir honorable world to them! For GodWe're good enough, though the world casts us out.[A whistle is heard.Tresham.Ho, Gerard!EnterGerard, AustinandGuendolen, with lights.No one speak! You see what's done.I cannot bear another voice.Mertoun.There's light—Light all about me, and I move to it.Tresham, did I not tell you—did you notJust promise to deliver words of mineTo Mildred?Tresham.I will bear these words to her.Mertoun.Now?Tresham.Now. Lift you the body, and leave meThe head.[As they half raiseMertoun, he turns suddenly.Mertoun.I knew they turned me: turn me not from her!248There! stay you! there![Dies.Guendolen[after a pause]. Austin, remain you hereWith Thorold until Gerard comes with help:Then lead him to his chamber. I must goTo Mildred.Tresham.Guendolen, I hear each wordYou utter. Did you hear him bid me giveHis message? Did you hear my promise? I,And only I, see Mildred.Guendolen.She will die.Tresham.Oh no, she will not die! I dare not hopeShe'll die. What ground have you to think she'll die?Why, Austin's with you!Austin.Had we but arrivedBefore you fought!Tresham.There was no fight at all.He let me slaughter him—the boy! I'll trustThe body there to you and Gerard—thus!Now bear him on before me.Austin.Whither bear him?Tresham.Oh, to my chamber! When we meet there next,We shall be friends.[They bear out the body ofMertoun.Will she die, Guendolen?Guendolen.Where are you taking me?Tresham.He fell just here.Now answer me. Shall you in your whole life—You who have nought to do with Mertoun's fate,Now you have seen his breast upon the turf,Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help?When you and Austin wander arm-in-armThrough our ancestral grounds, will not a shadeBe ever on the meadow and the waste—249Another kind of shade than when the nightShuts the woodside with all its whispers up?But will you ever so forget his breastAs carelessly to cross this bloody turfUnder the black yew avenue? That's well!You turn your head: and I then?—Guendolen.What is doneIs done. My care is for the living. Thorold,Bear up against this burden: more remainsTo set the neck to!Tresham.Dear and ancient treesMy fathers planted, and I loved so well!What have I done that, like some fabled crimeOf yore, lets loose a Fury leading thusHer miserable dance amidst you all?Oh, never more for me shall winds intoneWith all your tops a vast antiphony,Demanding and responding in God's praise!Hers ye are now, not mine! Farewell—farewell!Scene II.—Mildred'schamber.Mildredalone.He comes not! I have heard of those who seemedResourceless in prosperity,—you thoughtSorrow might slay them when she listed; yetDid they so gather up their diffused strengthAt her first menace, that they bade her strike,And stood and laughed her subtlest skill to scorn.Oh, 'tis not so with me! The first woe fell,And the rest fall upon it, not on me:Else should I bear that Henry comes not?—failsJust this first night out of so many nights?Loving is done with. Were he sitting now,As so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love250No more—contrive no thousand happy waysTo hide love from the loveless, any more.I think I might have urged some little pointIn my defense, to Thorold; he was breathlessFor the least hint of a defense: but no,The first shame over, all that would might fall.No Henry! Yet I merely sit and thinkThe morn's deed o'er and o'er. I must have creptOut of myself. A Mildred that has lostHer lover—oh, I dare not look uponSuch woe! I crouch away from it! 'Tis she,Mildred, will break her heart, not I! The worldForsakes me: only Henry's left me—left?When I have lost him, for he does not come,And I sit stupidly.... Oh Heaven, break upThis worse than anguish, this mad apathy,By any means or any messenger!Tresham[without]. Mildred!Mildred.Come in! Heaven hears me![EnterTresham.] You? alone?Oh, no more cursing!Tresham.Mildred, I must sit.There—you sit!Mildred.Say it, Thorold—do not lookThe curse! deliver all you come to say!What must become of me? Oh, speak that thoughtWhich makes your brow and cheeks so pale!Tresham.My thought?Mildred.All of it!Tresham.How we waded—years ago—After those water-lilies, till the plash,I know not how, surprised us; and you daredNeither advance nor turn back: so, we stoodLaughing and crying until Gerard came—251Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too,For once more reaching the relinquished prize!How idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's!Mildred,—Mildred.You call me kindlier by my nameThan even yesterday: what is in that?Tresham.It weighs so much upon my mind that IThis morning took an office not my own!I might ... of course, I must be glad or grieved,Content or not, at every little thingThat touches you. I may with a wrung heartEven reprove you, Mildred; I did more:Will you forgive me?Mildred.Thorold? do you mock?Or no ... and yet you bid me ... say that word!Tresham.Forgive me, Mildred!—are you silent, Sweet?Mildred[starting up]. Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night?Are you, too, silent?[Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, which is empty.Ah, this speaks for you!You've murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed!What is it I must pardon? This and all?Well, I do pardon you—I think I do.Thorold, how very wretched you must be!Tresham.He bade me tell you....Mildred.What I do forbidYour utterance of! So much that you may tellAnd will not—how you murdered him ... but, no!You'll tell me that he loved me, never moreThan bleeding out his life there: must I say"Indeed," to that? Enough! I pardon you.Tresham.You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes:252Of this last deed Another's judge: whose doomI wait in doubt, despondency and fear.Mildred.Oh, true! There's nought for me to pardon! True!You loose my soul of all its cares at once.Death makes me sure of him for ever! YouTell me his last words? He shall tell me them,And take my answer—not in words, but readingHimself the heart I had to read him late,Which death....Tresham.Death? You are dying too? Well saidOf Guendolen! I dared not hope you'd die:But she was sure of it.Mildred.Tell GuendolenI loved her, and tell Austin....Tresham.Him you loved:And me?Mildred.Ah, Thorold! Was't not rashly doneTo quench that blood, on fire with youth and hopeAnd love of me—whom you loved too, and yetSuffered to sit here waiting his approachWhile you were slaying him? Oh, doubtlesslyYou let him speak his poor boy's speech—Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrathAnd respite me!—you let him try to giveThe story of our love and ignorance,And the brief madness and the long despair—You let him plead all this, because your codeOf honor bids you hear before you strike:But at the end, as he looked up for lifeInto your eyes—you struck him down!Tresham.No! No!Had I but heard him—had I let him speakHalf the truth—less—had I looked long on him253I had desisted! Why, as he lay there,The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered allThe story ere he told it: I saw throughThe troubled surface of his crime and yoursA depth of purity immovable,Had I but glanced, where all seemed turbidestHad gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath;I would not glance: my punishment's at hand.There, Mildred, is the truth! and you—say on—You curse me?Mildred.As I dare approach that HeavenWhich has not bade a living thing despair,Which needs no code to keep its grace from stain,But bids the vilest worm that turns on itDesist and be forgiven,—I—forgive not,But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls![Falls on his neck.There! Do not think too much upon the past!The cloud that's broke was all the same a cloudWhile it stood up between my friend and you;You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is thatSo past retrieve? I have his heart, you know;I may dispose of it: I give it you!It loves you as mine loves! Confirm me, Henry![Dies.Tresham.I wish thee joy, Beloved! I am gladIn thy full gladness!Guendolen[without]. Mildred! Tresham! [Entering withAustin.] Thorold,I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons!That's well.Tresham.Oh, better far than that!Guendolen.She's dead!Let me unlock her arms!Tresham.She threw them thus254About my neck, and blessed me, and then died:You'll let them stay now, Guendolen!Austin.Leave herAnd look to him! What ails you, Thorold?Guendolen.WhiteAs she, and whiter! Austin! quick—this side!Austin.A froth is oozing through his clenched teeth;Both lips, where they're not bitten through, are black:Speak, dearest Thorold!Tresham.Something does weigh downMy neck beside her weight: thanks: I should fallBut for you, Austin, I believe!—there, there,'Twill pass away soon!—ah,—I had forgotten:I am dying.Guendolen.Thorold—Thorold—why was this?Tresham.I said, just as I drank the poison off,The earth would be no longer earth to me,The life out of all life was gone from me.There are blind ways provided, the foredoneHeart-weary player in this pageant-worldDrops out by, letting the main masque defileBy the conspicuous portal: I am through—Just through!Guendolen.Don't leave him, Austin! Death is close.Tresham.Already Mildred's face is peacefuller.I see you, Austin—feel you: here's my hand,Put yours in it—you, Guendolen, yours too!You're lord and lady now—you're Treshams; nameAnd fame are yours: you hold our 'scutcheon up.Austin, no blot on it! You see how bloodMust wash one blot away: the first blot cameAnd the first blood came. To the vain world's eyeAll's gules again: no care to the vain world,From whence the red was drawn!255Austin.No blot shall come!Tresham.I said that: yet it did come. Should it come,Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remember me![Dies.Guendolen[letting fall the pulseless arm]. Ah, Thorold, we can but—remember you!
EnterTreshamthrough the trees.
Again here! But I cannot lose myself.The heath—the orchard—I have traversed gladesAnd dells and bosky paths which used to leadInto green wild-wood depths, bewilderingMy boy's adventurous step. And now they tendHither or soon or late; the blackest shadeBreaks up, the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide,And the dim turret I have fled from, frontsAgain my step: the very river putIts arm about me and conducted meTo this detested spot. Why then, I'll shunTheir will no longer: do your will with me!Oh, bitter! To have reared a towering schemeOf happiness, and to behold it razed,Were nothing: all men hope, and see their hopesFrustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew.But I ... to hope that from a line like oursNo horrid prodigy like this would spring,Were just as though I hoped that from these oldConfederates against the sovereign day,Children of older and yet older sires,Whose living coral berries dropped, as nowOn me, on many a baron's surcoat once,On many a beauty's wimple—would proceed242No poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its root,Hither and thither its strange snaky arms.Why came I here? What must I do? [A bell strikes.] A bell?Midnight! and 'tis at midnight.... Ah, I catch—Woods, river, plains, I catch your meaning now,And I obey you! Hist! This tree will serve.
[He retires behind one of the trees. After a pause, enterMertouncloaked as before.
Mertoun.Not time! Beat out thy last voluptuous beatOf hope and fear, my heart! I thought the clockI' the chapel struck as I was pushing throughThe ferns. And so I shall no more see riseMy love-star! Oh, no matter for the past!So much the more delicious task to watchMildred revive: to pluck out, thorn by thorn,All traces of the rough forbidden pathMy rash love lured her to! Each day must seeSome fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed:Then there will be surprises, unforeseenDelights in store. I'll not regret the past.
[The light is placed above in the purple pane.
And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star!I never saw it lovelier than nowIt rises for the last time. If it sets,'Tis that the re-assuring sun may dawn.
[As he prepares to ascend the last tree of the avenue,Treshamarrests his arm.
Unhand me—peasant, by your grasp! Here's gold.'Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluckA branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneathThe casement there. Take this, and hold your peace.
Tresham.Into the moonlight yonder, come with me!243Out of the shadow!
Mertoun.I am armed, fool!
Tresham.Yes,Or no? You'll come into the light, or no?My hand is on your throat—refuse!—
Mertoun.That voice!Where have I heard ... no—that was mild and slow.I'll come with you.
[They advance.
Tresham.You're armed: that's well. DeclareYour name: who are you?
Mertoun.(Tresham!—she is lost!)
Tresham.Oh, silent? Do you know, you bear yourselfExactly as, in curious dreams I've hadHow felons, this wild earth is full of, lookWhen they're detected, still your kind has looked!The bravo holds an assured countenance,The thief is voluble and plausible,But silently the slave of lust has crouchedWhen I have fancied it before a man.Your name!
Mertoun.I do conjure Lord Tresham—ay,Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail—That he for his own sake forbear to askMy name! As heaven's above, his future wealOr woe depends upon my silence! Vain!I read your white inexorable face.Know me, Lord Tresham!
[He throws off his disguises.
Tresham.Mertoun![After a pause.] Draw now!
Mertoun.Hear meBut speak first!
Tresham.Not one least word on your life!Be sure that I will strangle in your throat244The least word that informs me how you liveAnd yet seem what you seem! No doubt 'twas youTaught Mildred still to keep that face and sin.We should join hands in frantic sympathyIf you once taught me the unteachable,Explained how you can live so, and so lie.With God's help I retain, despite my sense,The old belief—a life like yours is stillImpossible. Now draw!
Mertoun.Not for my sake,Do I entreat a hearing—for your sake,And most, for her sake!
Tresham.Ha ha, what should IKnow of your ways? A miscreant like yourself,How must one rouse his ire? A blow?—that's prideNo doubt, to him! One spurns him, does one not?Or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spitsInto his face! Come! Which, or all of these?
Mertoun.'Twixt him and me and Mildred, Heaven be judge!Can I avoid this? Have your will, my lord!
[He draws and, after a few passes, falls.
Tresham.You are not hurt?
Mertoun.You'll hear me now!
Tresham.But rise!
Mertoun.Ah, Tresham, say I not "you'll hear me now!"And what procures a man the right to speakIn his defense before his fellow man,But—I suppose—the thought that presentlyHe may have leave to speak before his GodHis whole defense?
Tresham.Not hurt? It cannot be!You made no effort to resist me. WhereDid my sword reach you? Why not have returned245My thrusts? Hurt where?
Mertoun.My lord—
Tresham.How young he is!
Mertoun.Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yetI have entangled other lives with mine.Do let me speak, and do believe my speech!That when I die before you presently,—
Tresham.Can you stay here till I return with help?
Mertoun.Oh, stay by me! When I was less than boyI did you grievous wrong and knew it not—Upon my honor, knew it not! Once known,I could not find what seemed a better wayTo right you than I took: my life—you feelHow less than nothing were the giving youThe life you've taken! But I thought my wayThe better—only for your sake and hers:And as you have decided otherwise,Would I had an infinity of livesTo offer you! Now say—instruct me—think!Can you, from the brief minutes I have left,Eke out my reparation? Oh think—think!For I must wring a partial—dare I say,Forgiveness from you, ere I die?
Tresham.I doForgive you.
Mertoun.Wait and ponder that great word!Because, if you forgive me, I shall hopeTo speak to you of—Mildred!
Tresham.Mertoun, hasteAnd anger have undone us. 'Tis not youShould tell me for a novelty you're young,Thoughtless, unable to recall the past.Be but your pardon ample as my own!
246Mertoun.Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke and a dropOf blood or two, should bring all this about!Why, 'twas my very fear of you, my loveOf you—(what passion like a boy's for oneLike you?)—that ruined me! I dreamed of you—You, all accomplished, courted everywhere,The scholar and the gentleman. I burnedTo knit myself to you: but I was young,And your surpassing reputation kept meSo far aloof! Oh, wherefore all that love?With less of love, my glorious yesterdayOf praise and gentlest words and kindest looks,Had taken place perchance six months ago.Even now, how happy we had been! And yetI know the thought of this escaped you, Tresham!Let me look up into your face; I feel'Tis changed above me: yet my eyes are glazed.Where? where?
[As he endeavors to raise himself, his eye catches the lamp.
Ah, Mildred! What will Mildred do?Tresham, her life is bound up in the lifeThat's bleeding fast away! I'll live—must live,There, if you'll only turn me I shall liveAnd save her! Tresham—oh, had you but heard!Had you but heard! What right was yours to setThe thoughtless foot upon her life and mine,And then say, as we perish, "Had I thought,All had gone otherwise?" We've sinned and die:Never you sin, Lord Tresham! for you'll die,And God will judge you.
Tresham.Yes, be satisfied!That process is begun.
Mertoun.And she sits thereWaiting for me! Now, say you this to her—247You, not another—say, I saw him dieAs he breathed this, "I love her"—you don't knowWhat those three small words mean! Say, loving herLowers me down the bloody slope to deathWith memories ... I speak to her, not you,Who had no pity, will have no remorse,Perchance intend her.... Die along with me,Dear Mildred! 'tis so easy, and you'll 'scapeSo much unkindness! Can I lie at rest,With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deedsDone to you?—heartless men shall have my heart,And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm,Aware, perhaps, of every blow—oh God!—Upon those lips—yet of no power to tearThe felon stripe by stripe! Die, Mildred! LeaveTheir honorable world to them! For GodWe're good enough, though the world casts us out.
[A whistle is heard.
Tresham.Ho, Gerard!
EnterGerard, AustinandGuendolen, with lights.
No one speak! You see what's done.I cannot bear another voice.
Mertoun.There's light—Light all about me, and I move to it.Tresham, did I not tell you—did you notJust promise to deliver words of mineTo Mildred?
Tresham.I will bear these words to her.
Mertoun.Now?
Tresham.Now. Lift you the body, and leave meThe head.
[As they half raiseMertoun, he turns suddenly.
Mertoun.I knew they turned me: turn me not from her!248There! stay you! there!
[Dies.
Guendolen[after a pause]. Austin, remain you hereWith Thorold until Gerard comes with help:Then lead him to his chamber. I must goTo Mildred.
Tresham.Guendolen, I hear each wordYou utter. Did you hear him bid me giveHis message? Did you hear my promise? I,And only I, see Mildred.
Guendolen.She will die.
Tresham.Oh no, she will not die! I dare not hopeShe'll die. What ground have you to think she'll die?Why, Austin's with you!
Austin.Had we but arrivedBefore you fought!
Tresham.There was no fight at all.He let me slaughter him—the boy! I'll trustThe body there to you and Gerard—thus!Now bear him on before me.
Austin.Whither bear him?
Tresham.Oh, to my chamber! When we meet there next,We shall be friends.
[They bear out the body ofMertoun.
Will she die, Guendolen?
Guendolen.Where are you taking me?
Tresham.He fell just here.Now answer me. Shall you in your whole life—You who have nought to do with Mertoun's fate,Now you have seen his breast upon the turf,Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help?When you and Austin wander arm-in-armThrough our ancestral grounds, will not a shadeBe ever on the meadow and the waste—249Another kind of shade than when the nightShuts the woodside with all its whispers up?But will you ever so forget his breastAs carelessly to cross this bloody turfUnder the black yew avenue? That's well!You turn your head: and I then?—
Guendolen.What is doneIs done. My care is for the living. Thorold,Bear up against this burden: more remainsTo set the neck to!
Tresham.Dear and ancient treesMy fathers planted, and I loved so well!What have I done that, like some fabled crimeOf yore, lets loose a Fury leading thusHer miserable dance amidst you all?Oh, never more for me shall winds intoneWith all your tops a vast antiphony,Demanding and responding in God's praise!Hers ye are now, not mine! Farewell—farewell!
Mildredalone.
He comes not! I have heard of those who seemedResourceless in prosperity,—you thoughtSorrow might slay them when she listed; yetDid they so gather up their diffused strengthAt her first menace, that they bade her strike,And stood and laughed her subtlest skill to scorn.Oh, 'tis not so with me! The first woe fell,And the rest fall upon it, not on me:Else should I bear that Henry comes not?—failsJust this first night out of so many nights?Loving is done with. Were he sitting now,As so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love250No more—contrive no thousand happy waysTo hide love from the loveless, any more.I think I might have urged some little pointIn my defense, to Thorold; he was breathlessFor the least hint of a defense: but no,The first shame over, all that would might fall.No Henry! Yet I merely sit and thinkThe morn's deed o'er and o'er. I must have creptOut of myself. A Mildred that has lostHer lover—oh, I dare not look uponSuch woe! I crouch away from it! 'Tis she,Mildred, will break her heart, not I! The worldForsakes me: only Henry's left me—left?When I have lost him, for he does not come,And I sit stupidly.... Oh Heaven, break upThis worse than anguish, this mad apathy,By any means or any messenger!
Tresham[without]. Mildred!
Mildred.Come in! Heaven hears me![EnterTresham.] You? alone?Oh, no more cursing!
Tresham.Mildred, I must sit.There—you sit!
Mildred.Say it, Thorold—do not lookThe curse! deliver all you come to say!What must become of me? Oh, speak that thoughtWhich makes your brow and cheeks so pale!
Tresham.My thought?
Mildred.All of it!
Tresham.How we waded—years ago—After those water-lilies, till the plash,I know not how, surprised us; and you daredNeither advance nor turn back: so, we stoodLaughing and crying until Gerard came—251Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too,For once more reaching the relinquished prize!How idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's!Mildred,—
Mildred.You call me kindlier by my nameThan even yesterday: what is in that?
Tresham.It weighs so much upon my mind that IThis morning took an office not my own!I might ... of course, I must be glad or grieved,Content or not, at every little thingThat touches you. I may with a wrung heartEven reprove you, Mildred; I did more:Will you forgive me?
Mildred.Thorold? do you mock?Or no ... and yet you bid me ... say that word!
Tresham.Forgive me, Mildred!—are you silent, Sweet?
Mildred[starting up]. Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night?Are you, too, silent?
[Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, which is empty.
Ah, this speaks for you!You've murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed!What is it I must pardon? This and all?Well, I do pardon you—I think I do.Thorold, how very wretched you must be!
Tresham.He bade me tell you....
Mildred.What I do forbidYour utterance of! So much that you may tellAnd will not—how you murdered him ... but, no!You'll tell me that he loved me, never moreThan bleeding out his life there: must I say"Indeed," to that? Enough! I pardon you.
Tresham.You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes:252Of this last deed Another's judge: whose doomI wait in doubt, despondency and fear.
Mildred.Oh, true! There's nought for me to pardon! True!You loose my soul of all its cares at once.Death makes me sure of him for ever! YouTell me his last words? He shall tell me them,And take my answer—not in words, but readingHimself the heart I had to read him late,Which death....
Tresham.Death? You are dying too? Well saidOf Guendolen! I dared not hope you'd die:But she was sure of it.
Mildred.Tell GuendolenI loved her, and tell Austin....
Tresham.Him you loved:And me?
Mildred.Ah, Thorold! Was't not rashly doneTo quench that blood, on fire with youth and hopeAnd love of me—whom you loved too, and yetSuffered to sit here waiting his approachWhile you were slaying him? Oh, doubtlesslyYou let him speak his poor boy's speech—Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrathAnd respite me!—you let him try to giveThe story of our love and ignorance,And the brief madness and the long despair—You let him plead all this, because your codeOf honor bids you hear before you strike:But at the end, as he looked up for lifeInto your eyes—you struck him down!
Tresham.No! No!Had I but heard him—had I let him speakHalf the truth—less—had I looked long on him253I had desisted! Why, as he lay there,The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered allThe story ere he told it: I saw throughThe troubled surface of his crime and yoursA depth of purity immovable,Had I but glanced, where all seemed turbidestHad gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath;I would not glance: my punishment's at hand.There, Mildred, is the truth! and you—say on—You curse me?
Mildred.As I dare approach that HeavenWhich has not bade a living thing despair,Which needs no code to keep its grace from stain,But bids the vilest worm that turns on itDesist and be forgiven,—I—forgive not,But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls!
[Falls on his neck.
There! Do not think too much upon the past!The cloud that's broke was all the same a cloudWhile it stood up between my friend and you;You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is thatSo past retrieve? I have his heart, you know;I may dispose of it: I give it you!It loves you as mine loves! Confirm me, Henry!
[Dies.
Tresham.I wish thee joy, Beloved! I am gladIn thy full gladness!
Guendolen[without]. Mildred! Tresham! [Entering withAustin.] Thorold,I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons!That's well.
Tresham.Oh, better far than that!
Guendolen.She's dead!Let me unlock her arms!
Tresham.She threw them thus254About my neck, and blessed me, and then died:You'll let them stay now, Guendolen!
Austin.Leave herAnd look to him! What ails you, Thorold?
Guendolen.WhiteAs she, and whiter! Austin! quick—this side!
Austin.A froth is oozing through his clenched teeth;Both lips, where they're not bitten through, are black:Speak, dearest Thorold!
Tresham.Something does weigh downMy neck beside her weight: thanks: I should fallBut for you, Austin, I believe!—there, there,'Twill pass away soon!—ah,—I had forgotten:I am dying.
Guendolen.Thorold—Thorold—why was this?
Tresham.I said, just as I drank the poison off,The earth would be no longer earth to me,The life out of all life was gone from me.There are blind ways provided, the foredoneHeart-weary player in this pageant-worldDrops out by, letting the main masque defileBy the conspicuous portal: I am through—Just through!
Guendolen.Don't leave him, Austin! Death is close.
Tresham.Already Mildred's face is peacefuller.I see you, Austin—feel you: here's my hand,Put yours in it—you, Guendolen, yours too!You're lord and lady now—you're Treshams; nameAnd fame are yours: you hold our 'scutcheon up.Austin, no blot on it! You see how bloodMust wash one blot away: the first blot cameAnd the first blood came. To the vain world's eyeAll's gules again: no care to the vain world,From whence the red was drawn!
255Austin.No blot shall come!
Tresham.I said that: yet it did come. Should it come,Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remember me!
[Dies.
Guendolen[letting fall the pulseless arm]. Ah, Thorold, we can but—remember you!
In "Ned Bratts," Browning has given a striking picture of the influence exerted by Bunyan upon some of his wicked contemporaries. The poet took his hints for the story from Bunyan himself, who tells it as follows in the "Life and Death of Mr. Badman."
"At a summer assizes holden at Hertford, while the judge was sitting upon the bench, comes this old Tod into the Court, clothed in a green suit, with his leathern girdle in his hand, his bosom open, and all on a dung sweat, as if he had run for his life; and being come in, he spake aloud, as follows: 'My lord,' said he, 'here is the veriest rogue that breathes upon the face of the earth. I have been a thief from a child: when I was but a little one, I gave myself to rob orchards and to do other such like wicked things, and I have continued a thief ever since. My lord, there has not been a robbery committed these many years, within so many miles of this place, but I have either been at it, or privy to it.' The judge thought the fellow was mad, but after some256conference with some of the justices, they agreed to indict him; and so they did of several felonious actions; to all of which he heartily confessed guilty, and so was hanged, with his wife at the same time."
Browning had the happy thought of placing this episode in Bedford amid the scenes of Bunyan's labors and imprisonment. Bunyan, himself, was tried at the Bedford Assizes upon the charge of preaching things he should not, or according to some accounts for preaching without having been ordained, and was sentenced to twelve years' imprisonment in the Bedford Jail. At one time it was thought that he wrote "Pilgrim's Progress" during this imprisonment, but Dr. Brown, in his biography of Bunyan conjectured that this book was not begun until a later and shorter imprisonment of 1675-76, in the town prison and toll-house on Bedford Bridge. Dr. Brown supposes that the portion of the book written in prison closes where Christian and Hopeful part from the shepherds on the Delectable Mountains. "At that point a break in the narrative is indicated—'So I awoke from my dream;' it is resumed with the words—'And I slept and dreamed again, and saw the same two pilgrims going down the mountains along the highway towards the city.' Already from the top of an257high hill called 'Clear,' the Celestial City was in view; dangers there were still to be encountered; but to have reached that high hill and to have seen something like a gate, and some of the glory of the place, was an attainment and an incentive." There Bunyan could pause. Several years later the pilgrimage of Christiana was written.
Browning, however, adopts the tradition that the book was written during the twelve years' imprisonment, and makes use of the story of Bunyan's having supported himself during this time by making tagged shoe-laces. He brings in, also, the little blind daughter to whom Bunyan was said to be devoted. The Poet was evidently under the impression also that the assizes were held in a courthouse, but there is good authority for thinking that at that time they were held in the chapel of Herne. Nothing remains of this building now, but it was situated at the southwest corner of the churchyard of St. Paul, and was spoken of sometimes as the School-house chapel.
Ned Bratts and his wife did not know, of course, that they actually lived in the land of the "Pilgrim's Progress." This has been pointed out only recently in a fascinating little book by A. J. Foster of Wootton Vicarage, Bedfordshire. He has been a pilgrim from258Elstow, the village where Bunyan was born near Bedford, through all the surrounding country, and has fixed upon many spots beautiful and otherwise which he believes were transmuted in Bunyan's imagination into the House Beautiful, The Delectable Mountains, Vanity Fair and so on through nearly all the scenes of Christian's journey.
The House Beautiful he identifies with Houghton House in the manor of Dame Ellen's Bury. This is one of the most interesting of the country houses of England, because of its connection with Sir Philip Sidney's sister, Mary Sidney. After the death of her husband, Lord Pembroke, James I. presented her with the royal manor of Dame Ellen's Bury, and under the guidance of Inigo Jones, it is generally supposed, Houghton House was built. It is in ruins now and covered with ivy. Trees have grown within the ruins themselves. Still it is one of the most beautiful spots in Bedfordshire. "In Bunyan's time," Mr. Foster writes, "we may suppose the northern slope of Houghton Park was a series of terraces rising one above another, and laid out in the stiff garden fashion of the time. A flight of steps, or maybe a steep path, would lead from one terrace to the next, and gradually the view over the plain of Bed259ford would reveal itself to the traveler as he mounted higher and higher."
From Houghton House there is a view of the Chiltern Hills. Mr. Foster is of the opinion that Bunyan had this view in mind when he described Christian as looking from the roof of the House Beautiful southwards towards the Delectable Mountains. He writes, "One of the main roads to London from Bedford, and the one, moreover, which passes through Elstow, crosses the hills only a little more than a mile east of Houghton House, and Bunyan, in his frequent journeys to London, no doubt often passed along this road. All in this direction was, therefore, to him familiar ground. Many a pleasant walk or ride came back to him through memory, as he took pen in hand to describe Hill Difficulty with its steep path and its arbor, and the House Beautiful with its guest-chamber, its large upper room looking eastward, its study and its armory.
"Many a time did Bunyan, as he journeyed, look southwards to the blue Chilterns, and when the time came he placed together all that he had seen, as the frame in which he should set his way-faring pilgrim."
Pleasant as it would be to follow with Mr. Foster his journey through the real scenes of260the "Pilgrim's Progress," our main interest at present is to observe how Browning's facile imagination has presented the conversion, through the impression made upon them by Bunyan's book, of Ned and his wife.