[EnterLord Tinseland theEarl of Rochdale.]
Tin. Refuse a lord! A saucy lady this.I scarce can credit it.
Roch. She’ll change her mind.My agent, Master Walter, is her guardian.
Tin. How can you keep that Hunchback in his office?He mocks you.
Roch. He is useful. Never heed him.My offer now do I present through him.He has the title-deeds of my estates,She’ll listen to their wooing. I must have her.Not that I love her, but that all allowShe’s fairest of the fair.
Tin. Distinguished well!’Twere most unseemly for a lord to love!—Leave that to commoners! ’Tis vulgar—she’sBetrothed, you tell me, to Sir Thomas Clifford?
Roch. Yes.
Tin. That a commoner should thwart a lord!Yet not a commoner. A baronetIs fish and flesh. Nine parts plebeian, andPatrician in the tenth. Sir Thomas Clifford!A man, they say, of brains! I abhor brainsAs I do tools: they’re things mechanical.So far are we above our forefathersThey to their brains did owe their titles, asDo lawyers, doctors. We to nothing owe them,Which makes us far the nobler.
Roch. Is it so?
Tin. Believe me. You shall profit by my training;You grow a lord apace. I saw you meetA bevy of your former friends, who fainHad shaken hands with you. You gave them fingers!You’re now another man. Your house is changed—Your table changed—your retinue—your horse—Where once you rode a hack, you now back blood;—Befits it, then, you also change your friends!
[EnterWilliams.]
Will. A gentleman would see your lordship.
Tin. Sir!What’s that?
Will. A gentleman would see his lordship.
Tin. How know you, sir, his lordship is at home?Is he at home because he goes not out?He’s not at home, though there you see him, sir;Unless he certify that he’s at home!Bring up the name of the gentleman, and thenYour lord will know if he’s at home or not.
[Williamsgoes out.]
Your man was porter to some merchant’s door,Who never taught him better breedingThan to speak the vulgar truth! Well, sir?
[Williamshaving re-entered.]
Will. His name,So please your lordship, Markham.
Tin. Do you knowThe thing?
Roch. Right well! I’faith a hearty fellow,Son to a worthy tradesman, who would doGreat things with little means; so entered himIn the Temple. A good fellow, on my life.Nought smacking of his stock!
Tin. You’ve said enough!His lordship’s not at home.
[Williamsgoes out.]
We do not goBy hearts, but orders! Had he family—Blood—though it only were a drop—his heartWould pass for something; lacking such desert,Were it ten times the heart it is, ’tis nought!
[EnterWilliams.]
Will. One Master Jones hath asked to see you lordship.
Tin. And what was your reply to Master Jones?
Will. I knew not if his lordship was at home.
Tin. You’ll do. Who’s Master Jones?
Roch. A curate’s son.
Tin. A curate’s! Better be a yeoman’s son!Was it the rector’s son, he might be known,Because the rector is a rising man,And may become a bishop. He goes light,The curate ever hath a loaded back!He may be called the yeoman of the church,That sweating does his work, and drudges on,While lives the hopeful rector at his ease.How made you his acquaintance, pray?
Roch. We readLatin and Greek together.
Tin. Dropping them—As, now that you’re a lord, of course you’ve done—Drop him—You’ll say his lordship’s not at home.
Will. So please your lordship, I forgot to say,One Richard Cricket likewise is below.
Tin. Who?—Richard Cricket! You must see him, Rochdale!A noble little fellow! A great man, sir!Not knowing whom, you would be nobody!I won five thousand pounds by him!
Roch. Who is he?I never heard of him.
Tin. What! never heardOf Richard Cricket!—never heard of him!Why, he’s the jockey of Newmarket; youMay win a cup by him, or else a sweepstakes.I bade him call upon you. You must see him.His lordship is at home to Richard Cricket.
Roch. Bid him wait in the ante-room.
[Williamsgoes out.]
Tin. The ante-room!The best room in your house! You do not knowThe use of Richard Cricket! Show him, sir,Into the drawing-room. Your lordship needsMust keep a racing stud, and you’ll do wellTo make a friend of Richard Cricket. Well, sir:What’s that?
[EnterWilliams.]
Will. So please your lordship, a petition.
Tin. Hadst not a service ’mongst the HottentotsEre thou camest hither, friend? Present thy lordWith a petition! At mechanics’ doors,At tradesmen’s, shopkeepers’, and merchants’ only,Have such things leave to knock! Make thy lord’s gateA wicket to a workhouse! Let us see it—Subscriptions to a book of poetry!Cornelius Tense, M.A.Which means he construes Greek and Latin, worksProblems in mathematics, can chop logic,And is a conjurer in philosophy,Both natural and moral.—Pshaw! a manWhom nobody, that is anybody, knows!Who, think you, follows him? Why, an M.D.,An F.R.S., an F.AS., and thenA D.D., Doctor of Divinity,Ushering in an LL.D., which meansDoctor of Laws—their harmony, no doubt,The difference of their trades! There’s nothing hereBut languages, and sciences, and arts.Not an iota of nobility!We cannot give our names. Take back the paper,And tell the bearer there’s no answer for him:—That is the lordly way of saying “No.”But, talking of subscriptions, here is oneTo which your lordship may affix your name.
Roch. Pray, who’s the object?
Tin. A most worthy man!A man of singular deserts; a manIn serving whom your lordship will serve me,—Signor Cantata.
Roch. He’s a friend of yours?
Tin. Oh, no, I know him not! I’ve not that pleasure.But Lady Dangle knows him; she’s his friend,He will oblige us with a set of concerts,Six concerts to the set.—The set, three guineas.Your lordship will subscribe?
Roch. Oh, by all means.
Tin. How many sets of tickets? Two at least.You’ll like to take a friend? I’ll set you downSix guineas to Signor Cantata’s concerts,And now, my Lord, we’ll to him; then we’ll walk.
Roch. Nay, I would wait the lady’s answer.
Tin. Wait! take an excursion to the country; letHer answer wait for you!
Roch. Indeed!
Tin. Indeed!Befits a lord nought like indifference.Say an estate should fall to you, you’d take itAs it concerned more a stander byThan you. As you’re a lord, be sure you everOf that make little other men make much of;Nor do the thing they do, but the right contrary.Where the distinction else ’twixt them and you?
[They go out.]
[Master Walterdiscovered looking through title-deeds and papers.]
Wal. So falls out everything, as I would have it,Exact in place and time. This lord’s advancesReceives she,—as, I augur, in the spleenOf wounded pride she will,—my course is clear.She comes—all’s well—the tempest rages still.
[Juliaenters, and paces the room in a state of high excitement.]
Julia. What have my eyes to do with water? FireBecomes them better!
Wal. True!
Julia. Yet, must I weepTo be so monitored, and by a man!A man that was my slave! whom I have seenKneel at my feet from morn till noon, contentWith leave to only gaze upon my face,And tell me what he read there,—till the pageI knew by heart, I ’gan to doubt I knew,Emblazoned by the comment of his tongue!And he to lesson me! Let him come hereOn Monday week! He ne’er leads me to church!I would not profit by his rank, or wealth,Though kings might call him cousin, for their sake!I’ll show him I have pride!
Wal. You’re very right!
Julia. He would have had to-day our wedding-day!I fixed a month from this. He prayed and prayed;I dropped a week. He prayed and prayed the more!I dropped a second one. Still more he prayed!And I took off another week,—and nowI have his leave to wed, or not to wed!He’ll see that I have pride!
Wal. And so he ought.
Julia. O! for some way to bring him to my foot!But he should lie there! Why, ’twill go abroadThat he has cast me off. That there should liveThe man could say so! Or that I should liveTo be the leavings of a man!
Wal. Thy caseI own a hard one!
Julia. Hard? ’Twill drive me mad!His wealth and title! I refused a lord—I did!—that privily implored my hand,And never cared to tell him on’t! So muchI hate him now, that lord should not in vainImplore my hand again!
Wal. You’d give it him?
Julia. I would.
Wal. You’d wed that lord?
Julia. That lord I’d wed;—Or any other lord,—only to show himThat I could wed above him!
Wal. Give me your handAnd word to that.
Julia. There! Take my hand and word!
Wal. That lord hath offered you his hand again.
Julia. He has?
Wal. Your father knows it: he approves of him.There are the title-deeds of the estates,Sent for my jealous scrutiny. All sound,—No flaw, or speck, that e’en the lynx-eyed lawItself could find. A lord of many lands!In Berkshire half a county; and the sameIn Wiltshire, and in Lancashire! AcrossThe Irish Sea a principality!And not a rood with bond or lien on it!Wilt give that lord a wife? Wilt make thyselfA countess? Here’s the proffer of his hand.Write thou content, and wear a coronet!
Julia. [Eagerly.] Give me the paper.
Wal. There! Here’s pen and ink.Sit down. Why do you pause? A flourish ofThe pen, and you’re a countess.
Julia. My poor brainWhirls round and round! I would not wed him now,Were he more lowly at my feet to sueThan e’er he did!
Wal. Wed whom?
Julia. Sir Thomas Clifford.
Wal. You’re right.
Julia. His rank and wealth are roots to doubt;And while they lasted, still the weed would grow,Howe’er you plucked it. No! That’s o’er—that’s done.Was never lady wronged so foul as I! [Weeps.]
Wal. Thou’rt to be pitied.
Julia. [Aroused.] Pitied! Not so badAs that.
Wal. Indeed thou art, to love the manThat spurns thee!
Julia. Love him! Love! If hate could findA word more harsh than its own name, I’d take it,To speak the love I bear him! [Weeps.]
Wal. Write thy own name,And show him how near akin thy hate’s to hate.
Julia. [Writes.] ’Tis done!
Wal. ’Tis well! I’ll come to you anon! [Goes out.]
Julia. [Alone.] I’m glad ’tis done! I’m very glad ’tis done!I’ve done the thing I ought. From my disgraceThis lord shall lift me ’bove the reach of scorn—That idly wags its tongue, where wealth and stateNeed only beckon to have crowds to laud!Then how the tables change! The hand he spurnedHis betters take! Let me remember that!I’ll grace my rank! I will! I’ll carry itAs I was born to it! I warrant noneShall say it fits me not:—but, one and allConfess I wear it bravely, as I ought!And he shall hear it! Ay, and he shall see it!I will roll by him in an equipageWould mortgage his estate—but he shall ownHis slight of me was my advancement! Love me!He never loved me! if he had, he ne’erHad given me up! Love’s not a spider’s webBut fit to mesh a fly—that you can breakBy only blowing on’t! He never loved me!He knows not what love is!—or, if he does,He has not been o’erchary of his peace!And that he’ll find when I’m another’s wife,Lost!—lost to him for ever! Tears again!Why should I weep for him? Who make their woes.Deserve them! What have I to do with tears?
[EnterHelen.]
Helen. News, Julia, news!
Julia. What! is’t about Sir Thomas?
Helen. Sir Thomas, say you? He’s no more Sir Thomas!That cousin lives, as heir to whom, his wealthAnd title came to him.
Julia. Was he not dead?
Helen. No more than I am dead.
Julia. I would ’twere not so.
Helen. What say you, Julia?
Julia. Nothing!
Helen. I could kissThat cousin! couldn’t you, Julia?
Julia. Wherefore?
Helen. WhyFor coming back to life again, as ’twereUpon his cousin to revenge you.
Julia. Helen!
Helen. Indeed ’tis true. With what a sorry graceThe gentleman will bear himself withoutHis title! Master Clifford! Have you notSome token to return him? Some love-letter?Some brooch? Some pin? Some anything? I’ll beYour messenger, for nothing but the pleasureOf calling him plain “Master Clifford.”
Julia. Helen!
Helen. Or has he aught of thine? Write to him, Julia,Demanding it! Do, Julia, if you love me;And I’ll direct it in a schoolboy’s hand,As round as I can write, “To Master Clifford.”
Julia. Helen!
Helen. I’ll think of fifty thousand waysTo mortify him! I’ve a twentieth cousin,A care-for-nought, at mischief. Him I’ll set,With twenty other madcaps like himself,To walk the streets the traitor most frequentsAnd give him salutation as he passes—“How do you, Master Clifford?”
Julia. [Highly incensed.] Helen!
Helen. Bless me!
Julia. I hate you, Helen!
[EnterModus.]
Mod. Joy for you, fair lady!Our baronet is now plain gentleman—And hardly that, not master of the meansTo bear himself as such. The kinsman livesWhose only rumoured death gave wealth to him,And title. A hard creditor he proves,Who keeps strict reckoning—will have interest.As well as principal. A ruined manIs now Sir Thomas Clifford!
Helen. I’m glad on’t.
Mod. And so am I,A scurvy trick it wasHe served you, madam. Use a lady so!I merely bore with him. I never liked him.
Helen. No more did I. No, never could I thinkHe looked his title.
Mod. No, nor acted it.If rightly they report, he ne’er disbursedTo entertain his friends, ’tis broadly said,A hundred pounds in the year! He was most poorIn the appointments of a man of rank,Possessing wealth like his. His horses, hacks!His gentleman, a footman! and his footman,A groom! The sports that men of qualityAnd spirit countenance, he kept aloof from,From scruple of economy, not taste,—As racing and the like. In brief, he lackedThose shining points that, more than name, denoteHigh breeding; and, moreover, was a manOf very shallow learning.
Julia. Silence, sir!For shame!
Helen. Why, Julia!
Julia. Speak not to me! Poor!Most poor! I tell you, sir, he was the makingOf fifty gentlemen—each one of whomWere more than peer for thee! His title, sir,Lent him no grace he did not pay it back!Though it had been the highest of the high,He would have looked it, felt it, acted it,As thou couldst ne’er have done! When found you outYou liked him not? It was not ere to-day!Or that base spirit I must reckon yoursWhich smiles where it would scowl—can stoop to hateAnd fear to show it! He was your better, sir,And is!—Ay, is! though stripped of rank and wealth,His nature’s ’bove or fortune’s love or spite,To blazon or to blurr it! [Retires.]
Mod. [ToHelen.] I was toldMuch to disparage him—I know not wherefore.
Helen. And so was I, and know as much the cause.
[EnterMaster Walter, with parchments.]
Wal. Joy, my Julia!Impatient love has foresight! Lo you hereThe marriage deeds filled up, except a blankTo write your jointure. What you will, my girl!Is this a lover? Look! Three thousand poundsPer annum for your private charges! Ha!There’s pin-money! Is this a lover? MarkWhat acres, forests, tenements, are taxedFor your revenue; and so set apart,That finger cannot touch them, save thine own.Is this a lover? What good fortune’s thine!Thou dost not speak; but, ’tis the way with joy!With richest heart, it has the poorest tongue!
Mod. What great good fortune’s this you speak of, sir?
Wal. A coronet, Master Modus! You beholdThe wife elect, sir, of no less a manThan the new Earl of Rochdale—heir of himThat’s recently deceased.
Helen. My dearest Julia,Much joy to you!
Mod. All good attend you, madam!
Wal. This letter brings excuses from his lordship,Whose absence it accounts for. He repairsTo his estate in Lancashire, and thitherWe follow.
Julia. When, sir?
Wal. Now. This very hour.
Julia. This very hour! O cruel, fatal haste!
Wal. “O cruel, fatal haste!” What meanest thou?Have I done wrong to do thy bidding, then?I have done no more. Thou wast an offcast bride,And wouldst be an affianced one—thou art so!Thou’dst have the slight that marked thee out for scorn,Converted to a means of gracing thee—It is so! If our wishes come too soon,What can make sure of welcome? In my zealTo win thee thine, thou know’st, at any timeI’d play the steed, whose will to serve his lord,With his last breath gives his last bound for him!Since only noon have I despatched what wellHad kept a brace of clerks, and more, on foot—And then, perhaps, had been to do again!—Not finished sure, complete—the compact firm,As fate itself had sealed it!
Julia. Give you thanks!Though ’twere my death! my death!
Wal. Thy death! indeed,For happiness like this, one well might die!Take thy lord’s letter! Well?
[EnterThomas, with a letter.]
Thos. This letter, sir,The gentleman that served Sir Thomas Clifford—Or him that was Sir Thomas—gave to meFor Mistress Julia.
Julia. Give it me!
[Throwing away the one she holds.]
Wal. [Snatching it.] For what?Wouldst read it? He’s a bankrupt! stripped of title,House, chattels, lands, and all! A naked bankrupt,With neither purse, nor trust! Wouldst read his letter?A beggar! Yea, a very beggar!—fasts, unlessHe dines on alms! How durst he send thee a letter!A fellow cut on this hand, and on that;Bows and is cut again, and bows again!Who pays you fifty smiles for half a one,—And that given grudgingly! To you a letter!I burst with choler! Thus I treat his letter!
[Tears and throws it on the ground.]
So! I was wrong to let him ruffle me;He is not worth the spending anger on!I prithee, Master Modus, use despatch,And presently make ready for our ride.You, Helen, to my Julia look—a changeOf dresses will suffice. She must have new ones,Matches for her new state! Haste, friends. My Julia!Why stand you poring there upon the ground?Time flies. Your rise astounds you? Never heed—You’ll play my lady countess like a queen!
[They go out.]
[EaterHelen.]
Helen. I’m weary wandering from room to room;A castle after all is but a house—The dullest one when lacking company.Were I at home, I could be companyUnto myself. I see not Master Walter,He’s ever with his ward. I see not her.By Master Walter’s will she bides alone.My father stops in town. I can’t see him.My cousin makes his books his company.I’ll go to bed and sleep. No—I’ll stay upAnd plague my cousin into making love!For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect.How dull he is that hath not sense to seeWhat lies before him, and he’d like to find!I’ll change my treatment of him. Cross him, whereBefore I used to humour him. He comes,Poring upon a book. What’s that you read?
[EnterModus.]
Mod. Latin, sweet cousin.
Helen. ’Tis a naughty tongue,I fear, and teaches men to lie.
Mod. To lie!
Helen. You study it. You call your cousin sweet,And treat her as you would a crab. As sour’Twould seem you think her, as you covet her!Why how the monster stares, and looks about!You construe Latin, and can’t construe that!
Mod. I never studied women.
Helen. No; nor men.Else would you better know their ways: nor readIn presence of a lady. [Strikes the book from his hand.]
Mod. Right you say,And well you served me, cousin, so to strikeThe volume from my hand. I own my fault;So please you—may I pick it up again?I’ll put it in my pocket!
Helen. Pick it up.He fears me as I were his grandmother!What is the book?
Mod. ’Tis Ovid’s Art of Love.
Helen. That Ovid was a fool!
Mod. In what?
Helen. In that:To call that thing an art, which art is none.
Mod. And is not love an art?
Helen. Are you a fool,As well as Ovid? Love an art! No artBut taketh time and pains to learn. Love comesWith neither! Is’t to hoard such grain as that,You went to college? Better stay at home,And study homely English.
Mod. Nay, you know notThe argument.
Helen. I don’t? I know it betterThan ever Ovid did! The face—the form—The heart—the mind we fancy, cousin; that’sThe argument! Why, cousin, you know nothing.Suppose a lady were in love with thee:Couldst thou by Ovid, cousin, find it out?Couldst find it out, wast thou in love thyself?Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love?I could, that never read him! You beginWith melancholy; then to sadness; thenTo sickness; then to dying—but not die!She would not let thee, were she of my mind!She’d take compassion on thee. Then for hope;From hope to confidence; from confidenceTo boldness;—then you’d speak; at first entreat;Then urge; then flout; then argue; then enforce;Make prisoner of her hand; besiege her waist;Threaten her lips with storming; keep thy wordAnd carry her! My sampler ’gainst thy Ovid!Why cousin, are you frightened, that you standAs you were stricken dumb? The case is clear,You are no soldier. You’ll ne’er win a battle.You care too much for blows!
Mod. You wrong me there,At school I was the champion of my form;And since I went to college—
Helen. That for college!
Mod. Nay, hear me!
Helen. Well? What, since you went to college?You know what men are set down for, who boastOf their own bravery! Go on, brave cousin:What, since you went to college? Was there notOne Quentin Halworth there? You know there was,And that he was your master!
Mod. He my master!Thrice was he worsted by me.
Helen. Still was heYour master.
Mod. He allowed I had the best!Allowed it, mark me! nor to me alone,But twenty I could name.
Helen. And mastered youAt last! Confess it, cousin, ’tis the truth!A proctor’s daughter you did both affect—Look at me and deny it! Of the twainShe more affected you;—I’ve caught you now,Bold cousin! Mark you? opportunityOn opportunity she gave you, sir—Deny it if you can!—but though to others,When you discoursed of her, you were a flame;To her you were a wick that would not light,Though held in the very fire! And so he won her—Won her, because he wooed her like a man.For all your cuffings, cuffing you againWith most usurious interest. Now, sir,Protest that you are valiant!
Mod. Cousin Helen!
Helen. Well, sir?
Mod. The tale is all a forgery!
Helen. A forgery!
Mod. From first to last; ne’er spoke ITo a proctor’s daughter while I was at college.
Helen. ’Twas a scrivener’s then—or somebody’s.But what concerns it whose?Enough, you loved her!And, shame upon you, let another take her!
Mod. Cousin, I’ll tell you, if you’ll only hear me,I loved no woman while I was at college—Save one, and her I fancied ere I went there.
Helen. Indeed! Now I’ll retreat, if he’s advancing.Comes he not on! O what a stock’s the man!Well, cousin?
Mod. Well! What more wouldst have me say?I think I’ve said enough.
Helen. And so think I.I did but jest with you. You are not angry?Shake hands! Why, cousin, do you squeeze me so?
Mod. [Letting her go.] I swear I squeezed you not.
Helen. You did not?
Mod. No. I’ll die if I did!
Helen. Why then you did not, cousin,So let’s shake hands again—[He takes her hand as before.] O go and nowRead Ovid! Cousin, will you tell me one thing:Wore lovers ruffs in Master Ovid’s time?Behoved him teach them, then, to put them on;—And that you have to learn. Hold up your head!Why, cousin, how you blush! Plague on the ruff!I cannot give’t a set. You’re blushing still!Why do you blush, dear cousin? So!—’twill beat me!I’ll give it up.
Mod. Nay, prithee, don’t—try on!
Helen. And if I do, I fear you’ll think me bold.
Mod. For what?
Helen. To trust my face so near to thine.
Mod. I know not what you mean.
Helen. I’m glad you don’t!Cousin, I own right well behaved you are,Most marvellously well behaved! They’ve bredYou well at college. With another manMy lips would be in danger! Hang the ruff!
Mod. Nay, give it up, nor plague thyself, dear cousin.
Helen. Dear fool! [Throws the ruff on the ground.]I swear the ruff is good for justAs little as its master! There!—’Tis spoiled—You’ll have to get another! Hie for it,And wear it in the fashion of a wisp,Ere I adjust it for thee! Farewell, cousin!You’d need to study Ovid’s Art of Love.
[Helengoes out.]
Mod. [Solus.] Went she in anger! I will follow her,—No, I will not! Heigho! I love my cousin!O would that she loved me! Why did she taunt meWith backwardness in love? What could she mean?Sees she I love her, and so laughs at me,Because I lack the front to woo her? Nay,I’ll woo her then! Her lips shall be in danger,When next she trusts them near me! Looked she at meTo-day as never did she look before!A bold heart, Master Modus! ’Tis a sayingA faint one never won fair lady yet!I’ll woo my cousin, come what will on’t. Yes:
[Begins reading again, throws down the book.]
Hang Ovid’s Art of Love! I’ll woo my cousin!
[Goes out.]
[EnterMaster WalterandJulia.]
Wal. This is the banqueting-room. Thou seest as farIt leaves the last behind, as that excelsThe former ones. All is proportion hereAnd harmony! Observe! The massy pillarsMay well look proud to bear the gilded dome.You mark those full-length portraits? They’re the heads,The stately heads, of his ancestral line.Here o’er the feast they haply still preside!Mark those medallions! Stand they forth or notIn bold and fair relief? Is not this brave?
Julia. [Abstractedly.] It is.
Wal. It should be so. To cheer the bloodThat flows in noble veins is made the feastThat gladdens here! You see this drapery?’Tis richest velvet! Fringe and tassels, gold!Is not this costly?
Julia. Yes.
Wal. And chaste, the while?Both chaste and costly?
Julia. Yes.
Wal. Come hither! There’s a mirror for you. See!One sheet from floor to ceiling! Look into it,Salute its mistress! Dost not know her?
Julia. [Sighing deeply.] Yes.
Wal. And sighest thou to know her? Wait untilTo-morrow, when the banquet shall be spreadIn the fair hall; the guests—already bid,Around it; here, her lord; and there, herself;Presiding o’er the cheer that hails him bridegroom,And her the happy bride! Dost hear me?
Julia. [Sighing still more deeply.] Yes.
Wal. These are the day-rooms only, we have seen.For public and domestic uses kept.I’ll show you now the lodging-rooms.
[Goes, then turns and observesJuliastanding perfectly abstracted.]
You’re tired.Let it be till after dinner, then. Yet oneI’d like thee much to see—the bridal chamber.
[Juliastarts, crosses her hands upon her breast, and looks upwards.]
I see you’re tired: yet it is worth the viewing,If only for the tapestry which showsThe needle like the pencil glows with life;
[Brings down chairs—they sit.]
The story’s of a page who loved the dameHe served—a princess!—Love’s a heedless thing!That never takes account of obstacles;Makes plains of mountains, rivulets of seas,That part it from its wish. So proved the page,Who from a state so lowly, looked so high,—But love’s a greater lackwit still than this.Say it aspires—that’s gain! Love stoops—that’s loss!You know what comes. The princess loved the page.Shall I go on, or here leave off?
Julia. Go on.
Wal. Each side of the chamber shows a different stageOf this fond page, and fonder lady’s love.[2]First—no, it is not that.
Julia. Oh, recollect!
Wal. And yet it is.
Julia. No doubt it is. What is ’t?
Wal. He holds to her a salver, with a cup;His cheeks more mantling with his passion thanThe cup with the ruby wine. She heeds him not,For too great heed of him:—but seems to holdDebate betwixt her passion and her pride—That’s like to lose the day. You read it inHer vacant eye, knit brow, and parted lips,Which speak a heart too busy all withinTo note what’s done without. Like you the tale?
Julia. I list to every word.
Wal. The next side paintsThe page upon his knee. He has told his tale;And found that when he lost his heart, he playedNo losing game: but won a richer one!There may you read in him, how love would seemMost humble when most bold,—you question whichAppears to kiss her hand—his breath, or lips!In her you read how wholly lost is sheWho trusts her heart to love. Shall I give o’er?
Julia. Nay, tell it to the end. Is’t melancholy?
Wal. To answer that, would mar the story.
Julia. Right.
Wal. The third side now we come to.
Julia. What shows that?
Wal. The page and princess still. But stands her sireBetween them. Stern he grasps his daughter’s arm,Whose eyes like fountains play; while through her tearsHer passion shines, as through the fountain dropsThe sun! His minions crowd around the page!They drag him to a dungeon.
Julia. Hapless youth!
Wal. Hapless indeed, that’s twice a captive! heartAnd body both in bonds. But that’s the chain,Which balance cannot weigh, rule measure, touchDefine the texture of, or eye detect,That’s forgèd by the subtle craft of love!No need to tell you that he wears it. SuchThe cunning of the hand that plied the loom,You’ve but to mark the straining of his eye,To feel the coil yourself!
Julia. I feel’t without!You’ve finished with the third side; now the fourth!
Wal. It brings us to a dungeon, then.
Julia. The page,The thrall of love, more than the dungeon’s thrall,Is there?
Wal. He is. He lies in fetters.
Julia. Hard!Hard as the steel, the hands that put them on.
Wal. Some one unrivets them!
Julia. The princess? ’Tis!
Wal. It is another page.
Julia. It is herself!
Wal. Her skin is fair; and his is berry-brown.His locks are raven black; and hers are gold.
Julia. Love’s cunning of disguises! spite of locks,Skin, vesture,—it is she, and only sheWhat will not constant woman do for loveThat’s loved with constancy! Set her the task,Virtue approving, that will baffle her!O’ertax her stooping, patience, courage, wit!My life upon it, ’tis the princess’ self,Transformed into a page!
Wal. The dungeon doorStands open, and you see beyond—
Julia. Her father!
Wal. No; a steed.
Julia. [Starting up.] O, welcome steed,My heart bounds at the thought of thee! Thou comestTo bear the page from bonds to liberty.What else?
Wal. [Rising.] The story’s told.
Julia. Too briefly told;O happy princess, that had wealth and stateTo lay them down for love! Whose constant loveAppearances approved, not falsified!A winner in thy loss, as well as gain.
Wal. Weighs love so much?
Julia. What would you weigh ’gainst loveThat’s true? Tell me with what you’d turn the scale?Yea, make the index waver? Wealth? A feather!Rank? Tinsel against bullion in the balance!The love of kindred? That to set ’gainst love!Friendship comes nearest to’t; but put it in,Friendship will kick the beam!—weigh nothing ’gainst it!Weigh love against the world!Yet are they happy that have naught to say to it.
Wal. And such a one art thou. Who wisely wed,Wed happily. The love thou speak’st of,A flower is only, that its season has,Which they must look to see the withering of,Who pleasure in its budding and its bloom!But wisdom is the constant evergreenWhich lives the whole year through! Be that, your flower!
[Enter a Servant.]
Well?
Serv. My lord’s secretary is without.He brings a letter for her ladyship,And craves admittance to her.
Wal. Show him in.
Julia. No.
Wal. Thou must see him. To show slight to him,Were slighting him that sent him. Show him in!
[Servant goes out.]
Some errand proper for thy private ear,Besides the letter he may bring. What meanThis paleness and this trembling? Mark me, Julia!If, from these nuptials, which thyself invited—Which at thy seeking came—thou wouldst be freed,Thou hast gone too far! Receding were disgrace,Sooner than see thee suffer which, the heartsThat love thee most would wish thee dead! Reflect!Take thought! collect thyself! With dignityReceive thy bridegroom’s messenger! for sureAs dawns to-morrow’s sun, to-morrow nightSees thee a wedded bride!
[Goes out.]
Julia. [Alone.] A wedded bride!Is it a dream? Is it a phantasm? ’TisToo horrible for reality! for aught elseToo palpable! O would it were a dream!How would I bless the sun that waked me from it!I perish! Like some desperate marinerImpatient of a strange and hostile land,Who rashly hoists his sail and puts to sea,And being fast on reefs and quicksands borne,Essays in vain once more to make the land,Whence wind and current drive him; I’m wreckedBy mine own act! What! no escape? no hope?None! I must e’en abide these hated nuptials!Hated!—Ah! own it, and then curse thyself!That madest the bane thou loathest—for the loveThou bear’st to one who never can be thine!Yes—love! Deceive thyself no longer. FalseTo say ’tis pity for his fall—respect,Engendered by a hollow world’s disdain,Which hoots whom fickle fortune cheers no more!’Tis none of these; ’tis love—and if not love,Why then idolatry! Ay, that’s the nameTo speak the broadest, deepest, strongest passion,That ever woman’s heart was borne away by!He comes! Thou’dst play the lady,—play it now!
[Enter a Servant, conductingClifford, plainly attired as theEarl of Rochdale’sSecretary.]
Servant. His lordship’s secretary.
[Servant goes out.]
Julia. Speaks he not? Or does he wait for orders to unfoldHis business? Stopped his business till I spoke,I’d hold my peace for ever!
[Cliffordkneels; presenting a letter.]
Does he kneel?A lady am I to my heart’s content!Could he unmake me that which claims his knee,I’d kneel to him—I would! I would!—Your will?
Clif. This letter from my lord.
Julia. O fate! Who speaks?
Clif. The secretary of my lord.
Julia. I breathe!I could have sworn ’twas he!
[Makes an effort to look at him, but is unable.]
So like the voice—I dare not look, lest there the form should stand!How came he by that voice? ’Tis Clifford’s voice,If ever Clifford spoke! My fears come back—Clifford the secretary of my lord!Fortune hath freaks, but none so mad as that!It cannot be!—It should not be!—A look,And all were set at rest.
[Tries to look at him again, but cannot.]
So strong my fears,Dread to confirm them takes away the powerTo try and end them! Come the worst, I’ll look.
[She tries again; and again is unequal to the task.]
I’d sink before him if I met his eye!
Clif. Will’t please your ladyship to take the letter?Julia. There Clifford speaks again! Not Clifford’s heartCould more make Clifford’s voice! Not Clifford’s tongueAnd lips more frame it into Clifford’s speech!A question, and ’tis over! Know I you?
Clif. Reverse of fortune, lady, changes friends;It turns them into strangers. What I amI have not always been!
Julia. Could I not name you?
Clif. If your disdain for one, perhaps too boldWhen hollow fortune called him favourite,—Now by her fickleness perforce reducedTo take an humble tone, would suffer you—
Julia. I might?
Clif. You might!
Julia. Oh, Clifford! is it you?
Clif. Your answer to my lord.
[Gives the letter.]
Julia. Your lord!
[Mechanically taking it.]
Clif. Wilt write it?Or, will it please you send a verbal one?I’ll bear it faithfully.
Julia. You’ll bear it?
Clif. Madam,Your pardon, but my haste is somewhat urgent.My lord’s impatient, and to use despatchWere his repeated orders.
Julia. Orders? Well,I’ll read the letter, sir. ’Tis right you mindHis lordship’s orders. They are paramount!Nothing should supersede them!—stand beside them!They merit all your care, and have it! Fit,Most fit, they should! Give me the letter, sir.
Clif. You have it, madam.
Julia. So! How poor a thingI look! so lost, while he is all himself!Have I no pride?
[She rings, the Servant enters.]
Paper, and pen, and ink!If he can freeze, ’tis time that I grow cold!I’ll read the letter.
[Opens it, and holds it as about to read it.]
Mind his orders! So!Quickly he fits his habits to his fortunes!He serves my lord with all his will! His heart’sIn his vocation. So! Is this the letter?’Tis upside down—and here I’m poring on’t!Most fit I let him see me play the fool!Shame! Let me be myself!
[A Servant enters with materials for writing.]
A table, sir,And chair.
[The Servant brings a table and chair, and goes out. She sits a while, vacantly gazing on the letter—then looks atClifford.]
How plainly shows his humble suit!It fits not him that wears it! I have wronged him!He can’t be happy—does not look it!—is not.That eye which reads the ground is argumentEnough! He loves me. There I let him stand,And I am sitting!
[Rises, takes a chair, and approachesClifford.]
Pray you take a chair.
[He bows, as acknowledging and declining the honour. She looks at him a while.]
Clifford, why don’t you speak to me?
[She weeps.]
Clif. I trustYou’re happy.
Julia. Happy! Very, very happy!You see I weep, I am so happy! TearsAre signs, you know, of naught but happiness!When first I saw you, little did I lookTo be so happy!—Clifford!
Clif. Madam?
Julia. Madam!I call thee Clifford, and thou call’st me madam!
Clif. Such the address my duty stints me to.Thou art the wife elect of a proud Earl,Whose humble secretary, sole, am I.
Julia. Most right! I had forgot! I thank you, sir,For so reminding me; and give you joy,That what, I see, had been a burthen to you,Is fairly off your hands.
Clif. A burthen to me!Mean you yourself? Are you that burthen, Julia?Say that the sun’s a burthen to the earth!Say that the blood’s a burthen to the heart!Say health’s a burthen, peace, contentment, joy,Fame, riches, honours! everything that manDesires, and gives the name of blessing toE’en such a burthen, Julia were to me,Had fortune let me wear her.
Julia. [Aside.] On the brinkOf what a precipice I’m standing! Back,Back! while the faculty remains to do’t!A minute longer, not the whirlpool’s selfMore sure to suck me down! One effort! There!
[She returns to her seat, recovers her self-possession, takes up the letter, and reads.]
To wed to-morrow night! Wed whom? A manWhom I can never love! I should beforeHave thought of that. To-morrow night! This hourTo-morrow! How I tremble! Happy bandsTo which my heart such freezing welcome gives,As sends an ague through me! At what meansWill not the desperate snatch! What’s honour’s price?Nor friends, nor lovers,—no, nor life itself!Clifford! This moment leave me!
[Cliffordretires up the stage out ofJulia’ssight.]
Is he gone?O docile lover! Do his mistress’ wishThat went against his own! Do it so soonEre well ’twas uttered! No good-bye to her!No word! no look! ’Twas best that he so went!Alas, the strait of her, who owns that best,Which last she’d wish were done? What’s left me now?To weep! To weep!
[Leans her head upon her arm, which rests upon the desk,—her other arm hanging listlessly at her side.Cliffordcomes down the stage, looks a moment at her, approaches her, and kneeling, takes her hand.]
Clif. My Julia!
Julia. Here again!Up! up! By all thy hopes of Heaven, go hence!To stay’s perdition to me! Look you, Clifford!Were there a grave where thou art kneeling now,I’d walk into ’t, and be inearthed alive,Ere taint should touch my name! Should some one comeAnd see thee kneeling thus! Let go my hand!Remember, Clifford, I’m a promised bride—And take thy arm away! It has no rightTo clasp my waist! Judge you so poorly of me,As think I’ll suffer this? My honour, sir!
[She breaks from him, quitting her seat.]
I’m glad you’ve forced me to respect myself—You’ll find that I can do so!
Clif. I was bold—Forgetful of your station and my own;There was a time I held your hand unchid!There was a time I might have clasped your waist—I had forgot that time was past and gone!I pray you, pardon me!
Julia. [Softened.] I do so, Clifford.
Clif. I shall no more offend.
Julia. Make sure of that.No longer is it fit thou keep’st thy postIn’s lordship’s household. Give it up! A day—An hour remain not in it!
Clif. Wherefore?
Julia. LiveIn the same house with me, and I another’s?Put miles, put leagues between us! The same landShould not contain us. Oceans should divide us—With barriers of constant tempests—suchAs mariners durst not tempt! O Clifford!Rash was the act so light that gave me up,That stung a woman’s pride, and drove her mad—Till in her frenzy she destroyed her peace!Oh, it was rashly done! Had you reproved—Expostulated,—had you reasoned with me—Tried to find out what was indeed my heart,—I would have shown it—you’d have seen it. AllHad been as naught can ever be again!
Clif. Lovest thou me, Julia?
Julia. Dost thou ask me, Clifford?
Clif. These nuptials may be shunned!—
Julia. With honour?
Clif. Yes!
Julia. Then take me!—Stop—hear me, and take me then!Let not thy passion be my counsellor!Deal with me, Clifford, as my brother. BeThe jealous guardian of my spotless name!Scan thou my cause as ’twere thy sister’s. LetThy scrutiny o’erlook no point of it,—Nor turn it over once, but many a time:—That flaw, speck—yea,—the shade of one,—a soilSo slight, not one out of a thousand eyesCould find it out, may not escape thee; thenSay if these nuptials can be shunned with honour!
Clif. They can.
Julia. Then take me, Clifford! [They embrace.]
Wal. [Entering.] Ha! What’s this?Ha! treason! What! my baronet that was,My secretary now? Your servant, sir!Is’t thus you do the pleasure of your lord,—That for your service feeds you, clothes you, pays you!Or takest thou but the name of his dependent?What’s here?—a letter. Fifty crowns to oneA forgery! I’m wrong. It is his hand.This proves thee double traitor!
Clif. Traitor!
Julia. Nay,Control thy wrath, good Master Walter! Do—And I’ll persuade him to go hence—
[Master Walterretires up the stage.] I seeFor me thou bearest this, and thank thee, Clifford!As thou hast truly shown thy heart to me,So truly I to thee have opened mine!Time flies! To-morrow! If thy love can findA way, such as thou saidst, for my enlargementBy any means thou canst, apprise me of it;And, soon as shown, I’ll take it.
Wal. Is he gone?
Julia. He is this moment. If thou covetest me,Win me, and wear me! May I trust thee? Oh!If that’s thy soul, that’s looking through thine eyes,Thou lovest me, and I may!—I sicken, lestI never see thee more!
Clif. As life is mine,The ring that on thy wedding-finger goesNo hand but mine shall place there!
Wal. Lingers he?
Julia. For my sake, now away! And yet a word.By all thy hopes most dear, be true to me!Go now!—yet stay! Clifford, while you are here,I’m like a bark distressed and compassless,That by a beacon steers; when you’re away,That bark alone and tossing miles at sea!Now go! Farewell! My compass—beacon—land!When shall my eyes be blessed with thee again!
Clif. Farewell! [Goes out.]
Julia. Art gone? All’s chance—all’s care—all’s darkness.
[Is led off byMaster Walter.]
[EnterHelenandFathom.]
Fath. The long and short of it is this—if she marries this lord, she’ll break her heart! I wish you could see her, madam. Poor lady!
Helen. How looks she, prithee?
Fath. Marry, for all the world like a dripping-wet cambric handkerchief! She has no colour nor strength in her; and does nothing but weep—poor lady!
Helen. Tell me again what said she to thee?
Fath. She offered me all she was mistress of to take the letter to Master Clifford. She drew her purse from her pocket—the ring from her finger—she took her very earrings out of her ears—but I was forbidden, and refused. And now I’m sorry for it! Poor lady!
Helen. Thou shouldst be sorry. Thou hast a hard heart, Fathom.
Fath. I, madam! My heart is as soft as a woman’s. You should have seen me when I came out of her chamber—poor lady!
Helen. Did you cry?
Fath. No; but I was as near it as possible. I a hard heart! I would do anything to serve her, poor sweet lady!
Helen. Will you take her letter, asks she you again?
Fath. No—I am forbid.
Helen. Will you help Master Clifford to an interview with her?
Fath. No—Master Walter would find it out.
Helen. Will you contrive to get me into her chamber?
Fath. No—you would be sure to bring me into mischief.
Helen. Go to! You would do nothing to serve her. You a soft heart! You have no heart at all! You feel not for her!
Fath. But I tell you I do—and good right I have to feel for her. I have been in love myself.
Helen. With your dinner!
Fath. I would it had been! My pain would soon have been over, and at little cost. A fortune I squandered upon her!—trinkets—trimmings—treatings—what swallowed up the revenue of a whole year! Wasn’t I in love? Six months I courted her, and a dozen crowns all but one did I disburse for her in that time! Wasn’t I in love? An hostler—a tapster—and a constable, courted her at the same time, and I offered to cudgel the whole three of them for her! Wasn’t I in love?
Helen. You are a valiant man, Fathom.
Fath. Am not I? Walks not the earth the man I am afraid of.
Helen. Fear you not Master Walter?
Fath. No.
Helen. You do!
Fath. I don’t!
Helen. I’ll prove it to you. You see him breaking your young mistress’s heart, and have not the manhood to stand by her.
Fath. What could I do for her?
Helen. Let her out of prison. It were the act of a man.
Fath. That man am I!
Helen. Well said, brave Fathom!
Fath. But my place!
Helen. I’ll provide thee with a better one.
Fath. ’Tis a capital place! So little to do, and so much to get for’t. Six pounds in the year; two suits of livery; shoes and stockings, and a famous larder. He’d be a bold man that would put such a place in jeopardy. My place, madam, my place!
Helen. I tell thee I’ll provide thee with a better place. Thou shalt have less to do, and more to get. Now, Fathom, hast thou courage to stand by thy mistress?
Fath. I have!
Helen. That’s right.
Fath. I’ll let my lady out.
[EnterMaster Walterunperceived.]
Helen. That’s right. When, Fathom?
Fath. To-night.
Helen. She is to be married to-night.
Fath. This evening, then. Master Walter is now in the library, the key is on the outside, and I’ll lock him in.
Helen. Excellent! You’ll do it?
Fath. Rely upon it. How he’ll stare when he finds himself a prisoner, and my young lady at liberty!
Helen. Most excellent! You’ll be sure to do it?
Fath. Depend upon me! When Fathom undertakes a thing, he defies fire and water—
Wal. [Coming forward.] Fathom!
Fath. Sir!
Wal. Assemble straight the servants.
Fath. Yes, sir!
Wal. Mind,And have them in the hall when I come down.
Fath. Yes, sir!
Wal. And see you do not stir a step,But where I order you.
Fath. Not an inch, sir!
Wal. See that you don’t—away! So, my fair mistress,
[Fathomgoes out.]
What’s this you have been plotting? An escapeFor mistress Julia?
Helen. I avow it.
Wal. Do you?
Helen. Yes; and moreover to your face I tell you,Most hardly do you use her!
Wal. Verily!
Helen. I wonder where’s her spirit! Had she mineShe would not take ’t so easily. Do you meanTo force this marriage on her?
Wal. With your leave.
Helen. You laugh.
Wal. Without it, then. I don’t laugh now.
Helen. If I were she, I’d find a way to escape.
Wal. What would you do?
Helen. I’d leap out of the window!
Wal. Your window should be barred.
Helen. I’d cheat you still!—I’d hang myself ere I’d be forced to marry!
Wal. Well said! You shall be married, then, to-night.
Helen. Married to-night!
Wal. As sure as I have said it.
Helen. Two words to that. Pray who’s to be my bridegroom?
Wal. A daughter’s husband is her father’s choice.
Helen. My father’s daughter ne’er shall wed such husband!
Wal. Indeed!
Helen. I’ll pick a husband for myself.
Wal. Indeed!
Helen. Indeed, sir; and indeed again!
Wal. Go dress you for the marriage ceremony.
Helen. But, Master Walter, what is it you mean?
[EnterModus.]
Wal. Here comes your cousin;—he shall be your bridesman!The thought’s a sudden one,—that will excuseDefect in your appointments. A plain dress,—So ’tis of white,—will do.
Helen. I’ll dress in black.I’ll quit the castle.
Wal. That you shall not do.Its doors are guarded by my lord’s domestics,Its avenues—its grounds. What you must do,Do with a good grace! In an hour, or less,Your father will be here. Make up your mindTo take with thankfulness the man he gives you.Now, [Aside] if they find not out how beat their hearts,I have no skill, not I, in feeling pulses.
[Goes out.]
Helen. Why, cousin Modus! What! will you stand byAnd see me forced to marry? Cousin Modus!Have you not got a tongue? Have you not eyes?Do you not see I’m very—very ill,And not a chair in all the corridor?
Mod. I’ll find one in the study.
Helen. Hang the study!
Mod. My room’s at hand. I’ll fetch one thence.
Helen. You shan’tI’d faint ere you came back!
Mod. What shall I do?
Helen. Why don’t you offer to support me? Well?Give me your arm—be quick! [Modusoffers his arm.]Is that the wayTo help a lady when she’s like to faint?I’ll drop unless you catch me! [Modussupports her.]That will do.I’m better now—[Modusoffers to leave her] don’t leave me! Is one wellBecause one’s better? Hold my hand. Keep so.I’ll soon recover so you move not. Loves he—
[Aside.]
Which I’ll be sworn he does, he’ll own it now.Well, cousin Modus?
Mod. Well, sweet cousin!
Helen. Well?You heard what Master Walter said?
Mod. I did.
Helen. And would you have me marry? Can’t you speak?Say yes or no.
Mod. No, cousin!
Helen. Bravely said!And why, my gallant cousin?
Mod. Why?
Helen. Ay, why?—Women, you know, are fond of reasons—whyWould you not have me marry? How you blush!Is it because you do not know the reason?You mind me of a story of a cousinWho once her cousin such a question asked.He had not been to college, though—for books,Had passed his time in reading ladies’ eyes.Which he could construe marvellously well,Though writ in language all symbolical.Thus stood they once together, on a day—As we stand now—discoursed as we discourse,—But with this difference,—fifty gentle wordsHe spoke to her, for one she spoke to him!—What a dear cousin! Well, as I did say,As now I questioned thee, she questioned him.And what was his reply? To think of itSets my heart beating—’twas so kind a one!So like a cousin’s answer—a dear cousin!A gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin!What did he say?—A man might find it out,Though never read he Ovid’s Art of Love—What did he say? He’d marry her himself!How stupid are you, cousin! Let me go!
Mod. You are not well yet?
Helen. Yes.
Mod. I’m sure you’re not.
Helen. I’m sure I am.
Mod. Nay, let me hold you, cousin! I like it.
Helen. Do you? I would wager youYou could not tell me why you like it. Well?You see how true I know you! How you stare!What see you in my face to wonder at?
Mod. A pair of eyes!
Helen. At last he’ll find his tongue—[Aside.]And saw you ne’er a pair of eyes before?
Mod. Not such a pair.
Helen. And why?
Mod. They are so bright!You have a Grecian nose.