University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

The Bar in the Inn.
Enter Reuben, looking up at the clock.
Reuben.
Peggy, your clock is wrong,—and yet this quiet
Corroborates the clock! One may almost
Discern the hours by anything; our clocks
Are needed but for minutes. In this house
Each hour has its own sound; for, even now,
This silence has a ring that tells the time.
The husbandman can note it in the field
By the peculiar creaking of his plough;
The housewife by the blinking of her fire;
And they that live in cities know the stride
Of any hour that walks along the streets.

Enter Margaret.
Margaret.
Now, where have you been raking to all night?
Perhaps you think I did not see you pass.
Pray, keep away your hand. Go chuck her chin
With whom you have been walking.

Reuben.
By this hand,
Thou hast thyself been with me all the night;
And, like the marble Venus of the wood,
Hast stood before me in the dusky shades.
I throned thee up in niches of the clouds,
To be admired by all night's gazing eyes;
And, from my bended knee up to thy throne,
My heart would leap to think thee all my own.

Margaret.
And by such leaps it overleaps the mark.
But do not think to cheat me with fine talk
Of marble Venuses and hearts that leap
Up from a bended knee. Be plain, confess,
That with some country lass you've been to-night
Hanging about the lanes.

Reuben.
'Twould wrong the sun,
And prove a man insane, if, in broad day,
To pick his steps he used a farthing light.

Margaret.
I grant the insanity, but not the wrong.
The monarch sun smiles at the little act.
He is not wrong'd more than his light is paled
By that poor farthing blaze; nor yet withholds
One ray from him that would insult his light.

Reuben.
Then be thou like the sun and feel no wrong.

Margaret.
O, do not think you wrong me: you may flirt
With all the country lasses in the place:
It makes no odds to me: not it, not it.

Reuben.
Thy busy brain hath spun both warp and woof,
And woven of itself this spider's web;
And love is wrestling in it like a fly.
Sit down and I will brush it from thy brain,
And loose the wingèd prisoner from its snare.
Sit down beside me and I'll tell thee all.

Margaret.
O, keep it to yourself. Pray, why should I
Be made to listen to your love affairs? (Sits down beside him.)

Impudent gipsies! What care I for them!

Reuben.
When first I cross'd the bridge to-night, this house
Buzzed like a hive with honest country men,
Who talk'd, and laugh'd, and sang all in a breath.
And thou wert on the move from room to room.
But why should I come in to sit and stare,
Without this luxury of sweet discourse;
To see thee at the beck of everyone,
And but a passing word, a smile, a glance,
Fall to my share—who would have all of them,
Compress'd, distill'd, served up on those red lips,
And drink their spirit thus?

(Kisses her.)
Margaret.
But not alone?

Reuben.
Not if thy sweet idea be a presence.—
On coming by the church, I met—

Margaret.
So, so!
I thought it would come out. Persuade me now
It was by chance, mere chance, you met her there.—
Now do not come so near me. Pray, keep off.
Who was she? But I do not want to know.

Reuben.
I met a cobbler coming by the church.
Reproof sits in thy unbelieving eyes;
But if the cobbler come not here to-night,
And witness this the truth, then may those eyes
Never again receive me in soft folds,
But be the hard impenetrable glass
That they are now.

Margaret.
I cannot, for my life,
See what can take you into woods alone
At these late hours, or any time alone.
I have no fellowship with anything
That smacks not of humanity; no love
For dusky shades, cold skies and mewling streams,
Unless they are alive with whisper'd words
Or ring with merry laughter; and mute night,
That, like a cockatrice with myriad eyes,
Sits staring at the earth, I hate and shun,
Making it day inside with cheerful lights.
Oh, frightful is that silence which redounds
The beat of one's own heart! And solitude,
In which we breathe the fume of our own thoughts,
Is no more pleasant than a smoky house.
Your musing, moping, solitary fits
Are a disease.

Reuben.
Of which be thou the cure.
There is a dancing spirit in thy veins
Which sets my blood on tiptoe. Let my breast
To thine lie nearer, love, so that my heart,
By sympathy, may time itself to thine.

Margaret.
O, not through bony ribs can hearts be moved,
But through the electric channels of the brain;
As, when some sudden news leaps in the ear,
The heart is on the instant beating time
To the music of that news; or when we read
Some stirring tale that gallops to a close,
The heart goes with it and obeys the theme.
If you would have your heart keep time with mine,
Be minded as I am.

Reuben.
Then, in my ear
Drop thou thy heart's best news, or let me read,
Within the stirring volume of those eyes,
The tale which I could wish might never close;
Or hand lock'd into hand, or lip to lip,
Or cheek heaved on the soft sea of thy breast;
Whichever way thy spirit may embue
My languid being with thy richer life!
And then, ah then!—

Margaret.
If you indeed were true—
If there were one true bosom amongst men,
And that were yours, I'd give myself unto it,
Confidingly as does a new built ship
Pass from her mother's arms into the sea—
Into the bosom of the fondling sea,
Who proudly bears away his new-made bride.

Reuben.
Yes, while in view of home, and all her friends,
He gently dallies with this maiden bride:
But when he takes her to his desert keep,
Far off into the friendless waste of waves,
A very Blue Beard does her lord become;
And having beaten her, he thrusts her down
In some vile dungeon, never to be seen:
Or spurns her from him on a foreign shore
To languish in neglect. Or if, perchance,
He brings her home again, a haggard thing,
It is to cast her on her parent's bosom,
Then run away and leave her. Faithless sea!
Yet, if my breast were true as the false sea,
The trim-built Peggy would resign herself
Unto it with the surety of a duck
That throws itself upon a glassy lake.

Margaret.
I almost think your eye does not deceive,
But may not trust your words.

Reuben.
Then take the eye.
Spirits out of the flesh could not deceive;
Their closest thoughts lie bare, and all may read.
The guile is in this clothing of the soul,
In which the only loop-holes are the eyes.
Think'st thou, my sweetest, we shall live and love
After this shabby habit is put off?

Margaret.
Most surely, yea. They tell us who best know.

Reuben.
Ah, that is why I doubt it; that we need
Telling at all—not born into the fact.
But do'st thou think, for ever? love for ever!
As much as we do now? O, heaven indeed!
Our earthly cares laid in an earthly grave,
And evermore to feel this luxury
Of being with each other—this deep pulse
That beats to the extremest edge of joy
In both our breasts at once, as from one heart,
Whose office is to give out love for blood!
Were it not heaven to be always thus,
Without the dread of coming separation?

Margaret.
Such is not heavenly love. The love you paint
Is deeply tinged with earth: it is, indeed,
Our greatest earthly care, and must go down
With all our lesser cares into the grave.
This ache o' the heart which we on earth call love,
Little befits us for the love in heaven.
It is too pure for our sin-spotted souls,
Which must be washed in the living blood of Christ,
Ere they can take the dye of heaven on.

Reuben.
But is not earth God's earth? He loves the best,
And lives the most, who fills the God-given cup
Of present capability to the brim—
E'en though he stain it with earth's blood-red wine,
Unfitting it for nectar. Change of drink
Will have a change of cup. But I want none,
Either of cup or drink. From this sweet thee
There overflows into my chaliced heart
A nectar which the gods themselves might sip,
And be the more celestial. Lay thy cheek
Here, love, and I will live upon its glow.
Hear'st thou the satisfaction of my heart
That bears so sweet a burden?—God! to die,
And be for ever thus!—Time, cease thy hours,
Arrest us in our deepest trance of joy,
That we, when thou art run, may so remain
Through the eternal day.

Margaret.
Reuben, my Heart!
Let us not go too deep in this god's cup,
For fear the dregs prove devil's drink.

Reuben.
Then, bring
Right sovereign ale, for here King Crispin comes.—
Politic prince! one who submits his rule
All to the understandings of his subjects,
Yet, stooping, takes the measure of their foot.
Inheriting the ancient virtue, he
Heels more than any doctor, cures more soles
Than all the curates of them: nor restricts
His bounty to their higher wants alone,
But sometimes adds to his poor subjects' corn;
Yea, bountifully administers his awl,
And measures out his mercy to the last.
O, worthy king of cobblers!

Enter Joseph. Exit Margaret.
Joseph.
Sweet King Love,
That would not talk of death and the old churchyard.
I see, I see; nor do I marvel thou
Should'st see an Eden in this sinful earth.
And, welt me, but this Eve of thine would make
A worse place Eden. The forbidden fruit
Might ripen in the sunshine of her eyes—
Ripen to heavenly sweetness; and the sin
Of taking it were such a tempting sin,
That angels might transgress and be forgiven.

Reuben.
What will you have, Joseph? Let us sit down inside.
I'll talk to you now about any mortal thing—
Aye, or immortal either. When the heart
Stands proudly on the top of its desires,
No longing unaccomplished, then the mind—
Perch'd high above the ambitious mists that creep
Out of the marshy troubles of our nature—
Sees far and clearly. Come: what shall we have?

[They pass into the inner room.

Scene II.

The Kitchen of the Inn. Mrs. Riccard sitting at a table with tea-things on it.
Mrs. Riccard.
Come, Margaret, come to supper; get them out:
It's time they were gone home.—Well, folks that keep
A public-house work harder for their living
Than he that breaks stones on the public road.
He stops when wearied, has the cheerful run
Of all the passers-by, yet none to serve.
His day ends with the dusk; his humble cot
Is his while in it; and when Night and Sleep
Go through the villages from door to door,
Gathering to blessed rest, he can obey.
And when the morning's level beam walks in
Upon his lowly floor, he wakes, as if
It were an angel stirring in the house—
Wakes gently and refresh'd: then plods to work,
Over the beaded grass, with songs of birds,
Pelting like raining music in his ears.—
Not such our life who must the public serve.
Though weary unto death we may not stop;
Fresh comers must be served. Our one day ends
Just where the next begins—at twelve at night!
There is no room in all this roomy house
But may be anybody's for three ha'pence—
And a glass of ale to the bargain. Any lout
May order like a lord; we humbly wait,
Screwing our faces to a gracious smile.
The cock that crows up all pure-living things,
Warns us, like guilty spectres, to our lairs,
To restless unregenerate repose;
And when we wake we scarce can name the day,
Our calendar having run all into one.—
But then, it pays, and money mends it all.
With us the worst is over: speedy wealth
Will give us long retirement. Best of days
Are those that fight up through a blustering morn;
And having clear'd the rifted clouds by noon,
Break out in azure, and go blithely down
The long slope of a sunny afternoon.—
Come, Margaret—come, my lass, I yawn for sleep;
Mine eyes nip and grow rheumy. Get them out—
It's little they'll drink now.—There is some wit
In knowing when to fill, when not to fill;
And there's a knack in getting people out.
When drink won't pay for light, it's time to stop.—
Now, come—are those two gone?

Enter Margaret.
Margaret.

Gone! bless yo, no. They seem set in for a two hours' sit, at least; and even that won't finish their subject. If I fill them another glass in half an hour, they'll not be half a minute advanced in their argument. It keeps no pace with the clock, and seems, indeed, more fitted for eternity than time. They

never meet, these two, but they are at it, as keen as knives and forks at a cheap dinner; but I see in them no corresponding diminution either of appetite or eatables. Their arguments are like splashing in water; they make a great frothy noise; but when that ceases, we find no impression made: the water might never have been touched, barring that it is muddier than they found it. Each seems not so much to listen to what the other says as to what himself says; not so much to consider what the other has said, as what he himself shall say next.

Mrs. Riccard.

You see they are both already full, each of his own conviction. Though both strive to convince, yet neither will hold any more; and that is why both speak, but neihter listens. I have always seen that gentlemen whose minds are made up and comfortably settled, the moment one begins a-talking to them, they likewise begin. It is like filling bottles that are already full.—But, Margaret, let me tell you this: you allow that Reuben too much his own way. You lay yourself too open to him. Men will push themselves far enough into a woman's affections without facilities given on her part. One in your position should be fenced about with thorns.

Margaret.

Now, mother, have you not often said that a pretty girl in a public-house—if she be judicious enough—is the making of it? Have you not often hinted to me

not to be too abrupt with gentlemen, but to linger rather over the serving of them, and give each of them, in turn, the smiling side of my face, so that he in particular might think he was the favoured one? And have you not often said that a sensible girl might allow great familiarities without any danger—such as a chuck under the chin, an arm thrown about her waist, or even, at times, an attempted kiss?

Mrs. Riccard.

Yes, through the fence; but the thorns should interfere, and make the intruder draw back.

Margaret.

Why, so they do. O, I can be throny enough, and sweet enough too—thorns and honeysuckle twined together. I'll warrant you, none shall take the one without feeling the other.

Mrs. Riccard.

I fear you with none so much as Reuben; and that is the reason of my counsel. For, looking through the lattice here into the bar to-night, I could see him fondling you, and pressing you to his lips, and devouring all your sweet breath, as if you had been a plucked rose that had lost its barbs; and I could see no attempt on your part to cast him off. Now, this is wrong—quite wrong—and very dangerous. Had he been a man of standing among folks;—if he had money, property, or a good business; if he had been a marriageable sort of man, it would have been another thing,

I could have said nothing; for, Margaret, you are getting into years, and must not lose your market. But him! Who is he? Nobody! What is he? Nothing! He is not known among respectable folks. Poor, drunken, half-witted creatures reckon a deal of him; but that is a bad sign. He spends all he gets, and has nothing to fall back upon. Like most other of your hangers-on, I daresay he thinks if he could get you he would have nothing to do but hang up his hat —which is all his moveable property—and sit himself down, with all his personal effects.

Margaret.

A little more sugar in this—I mean a little more tea —yet, wait a little till I taste again. Well, I don't know what it wants.

Mrs. Riccard.
Why, child, your lips have lost all taste.

Margaret.

Ay, so it seems—at least your lecturing would make it appear so.

Mrs. Riccard.

My lecturing! Oh! Well, my lass, you know it's for your own good. If a husband were a thing for gratifying your lips merely, I should not object even to Reuben; but a husband cannot be held as a sweetmeat and no more, he cannot be shut up in a cupboard, a secret to all but yourself. No, the world

persists in knowing that you have a husband; and, go where you may, his reputation goes with you, whether he be there or not. A woman rises or sinks to her husband's level—loses her own character and name, and takes on his. She is no longer whom she was, but So-and-so's wife. And as nothing but substance now-a-days can raise people up, we that are up should beware of being dragged down. Above all things, Margaret, shun a poor man. Look at your cousins, they are all respectably married. What would they say—what would the world say—if you were to marry the like of Reuben?

Margaret.

Why, mother, what makes you talk of marriage in earnest? I thought it was only your usual mirth that was venting itself. You know my reasons well enough for playing with these men-mice. I can crush any of them on the instant when it suits me. Trust me, I know better than you seem to be aware of how far to let them transgress into my favours. As for going the length of marriage! bless your heart! and with Reuben too! a man we should have to keep. Why, to suggest such a thing is equal to suspecting that I am not your daughter.

Mrs. Riccard.

I am not so much afraid that you go the length of marriage, as that you overstep it and go farther.

Margaret.

Ah, I see what you mean, but there again you belie

your own maternity. Am I not of your own bringing up, mother? I do just as you would do were you as I am, and kept pace with the times. If I seem in your eyes to outrage discretion a little, just reflect how manners are changed since you were young.

Mrs. Riccard.

Aye, manners are changed, like dress; but when young folks come together, and love gets in between them, the ancient souls and bodies of all our young days are found breaking through both manners and dress. The blood of our first parents runs down all the centuries, and this is seen in nothing so much as in the love between man and woman. I would not have you trust too much to the custom of the times. It is but the froth upon life's stream. Old nature runs strong beneath it, and is ever tumbling up and shouldering aside the giddy bubbles. Your changed manners are not a footing that I could like to venture on. If they are the glittering froth upon the stream, they are also the treacherous ice. People skip gaily enough over it for a time, but a sudden stroke of nature, like a sunbeam, melts it, and they fall through.—

(Knocking within.)
Enter Margaret.
[Exit Mrs. Riccard.

Margaret.

Scene III.

The Bridge. Reuben and Joseph.
Reuben.
What light is this? It cannot be the dawn!
No—see the moon straight up above our heads,
Her face bent earnestly down on this spot,
As full of wonderment as one that looks,
With bright enchanted eyes, into a nest.

Joseph.
A lark's nest, with two eggs, down in the grass.
But do you not see two moons? I see two!
And, by the mass, they jostle one another,
And try to get into each other's place.
Something's to happen—we have seen two moons!

Reuben.
No—only one; and she is still as Faith.
The ale has put your eyeballs out of gear;
They do not pull together. Their old bond
Of partnership dissolved, each has set up
Upon its own account; and thus your brain
Sees one moon twice at once, and thinks it twain.

Joseph.
My brain sees twice the words, and twice the trouble
That need be used to say I am seeing double.—
Well, drink works great divorcement in a man!
His eyes, which God hath join'd; it puts asunder;
His tongue becomes a traitor to the state,
Of which his head is king; his arms throw down
Industrious trades and handicrafts, and rise
In idle high rebellion; and his legs
Pay swaggering fealty, or quite throw off
All manner of allegiance; till at length
The lords are driven from their seats i' the brain,
And leave no government in all the land.
Then rocks the throne, down comes the kingly head,
Clod-hopping feet are up, and in his stead.

Reuben.
I never felt a softer light than this:
It lies about the soul like folds of silk.
Yet does it seem unearthly. See the road,
How lank and pale and like a corpse it lies!
How like two ghosts we stand upon the bridge,
And, ghost-like, cast no shadow!

Joseph.
By my brogues,
And neither do we! But I seem to stand—
Not very like a ghost—on mine own hat!

Reuben.
The bridge strides like a mammoth skeleton,
Its big bones weather-bleach'd ten thousand years.—

Joseph.
Four thousand years before the world began!

Reuben.
I think I hear the moaning of the sea!—
Though no external sound be in the ear,
Yet, if we listen, we can hear a sound
Coming from depths within. So when the earth
Is speechless, and the air has ceased to breathe,
Then in the night's vast ear the sea is heard,
Though miles and miles away. I never hear
That voice, hoarse-toned and ancient, but I feel
The embedded ages pressing on my soul.
It comes with all their burdens in its moan;
And I am crush'd into the merest grain
Of rock that tides build in a million years!—

Joseph.
Lord, how he adds and multiplies! A man,
Thus reckon'd, might be Adam's grandfather.
The earth itself but counts six thousand years—

Reuben.
Crush'd from my place in Time! But living souls
Can travel to the very brink of Time
And look a stage beyond it; and though lost,
There on the marge of the eternal gulf,
'Tis higher life to be sublimely lost
Than keep one place in Time, and stop within
The little circuit that we think we know.—
A thought can crush the soul to nothingness!
But if it be the soul that form'd the thought,
Is there not hope that it will rise again?
Mind's weakness is its strength if when it sinks,
It be beneath the weight itself creates.

Joseph.
I never knew thee worse of drink till now—
And this is sober drunkness. Thou hast ta'en
Glass after glass with me till I've been blind,
Then with another till he could not stand,
And with a third till he went mad and raved;
Yet who can say he ever saw thee drunk?

Reuben.
Not you, if you were blind. But what of that?
I could be drunk, if I liked, upon one glass,
Or sober after fifty. There is none
Of all the spirits stronger than the will.

Joseph.
It must be taken first, then—and unmix'd.—
But, come, will you go home with me to-night?
I have a butt of prime ale in the house,
And we can drink until it's time to rise.

Reuben.
Some other time I'll taste it—not to-night.
The night is past! Look, in the east, the clouds
Are shifting like the scenes upon a stage,
Preparing for the entrance of a star.
How busy all is there! And, see, the hills
Have turn'd their shining faces to the east,
And throb with expectation.

Joseph.
High in air
The two lights struggle. 'Tis a fight between
A golden eagle and a silvery snake,
And I know which will conquer.

Reuben.
So do I:
For as the snake's is borrow'd flight,
So the moon's is borrow'd light;
The sun that lends will conquer. Let us go
Before their bright blood shed on us; for soon
'Twill sparkle on the dew-tips of the grass.—
Good morning—for the morning is begun.

Joseph.
Nay, nay, good night—all's night above the sun.

[Exit.
Reuben.
The air this side the keystone is at least
A breathing nearer her. It may have play'd
About her lips in sleep, and even now
Be laden with dream kisses meant for me.
I have but parted from her and my heart
Hungers and thirsts to be with her again.
But certain hours of sleep—at least of bed—
And then a drudging day, and tasteless meals,
Stretch like a wilderness between the times
Of parting and of meeting. Thus, I find
That, when far off the object of my joy,
I pant in every limb to hunt it down.
But when within my grasp, I am content
To catch the mere idea of my joy:
I fondle it in thought, and would delay
The inexorable hour that drives me on.—
By this, sleep lies about her like a bath,
All warm and breathing round her lovely form;
And I so near her yet that, but for walls,
I could look in upon her charmèd rest,
And watch the dreaming thought upon her lip.
But like a pearl within a deep-sea shell
She lies with all her beauty to herself,
And is unconscious of it. Beauty is lost
If no soul drinks it in: and here I parch
The while it flows to loss. But as the air
Is dower'd with the beauty that earth wastes,
So my imagination is enrich'd
With that my love is wasting. The sweet air
Owes all its sweetness to the abundant earth;
And there is not a sweet thought in my brain
But comes, my love, from thee.

[Exit.