University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—Lord Byerdale's Study.
Enter Lord Sherbrooke and Wilton.
Sher.
A maid of mettle, Wilton!—a warm heart,
And honest too—too noble in her wish,
To stint her tongue. She does not mew her love,
As thus: A well-deserving gentleman,
She'd fain believe. Deny it, she would swear to't;
She would!—sufficient comely—all the while
She thinks him paragon. A man, no doubt,
A lady might affect!—while she is smit
Beyond all doubt! A very proper stature;
What some would call a straight and well-shaped man!
Companion e'en for him of Belvidere!
One whom a maiden might for husband take!
When she has married him the hundredth time
That morning, conning o'er the ceremony,
And, louder than the clerk gives out the psalm,
Chanting obey!—A well-conducted maid!
Spring on her lips—a very backward Spring!
And in her heart Midsummer!—Out upon it!
The love, that knows 'tis justified, is wrong
To hang its head, and droop its lids and make
Its lips a jailer's porch that opes by halves,
In constant watch of whom it may let out—
Sure token that delinquents bide within!
'Tis even as I say. My eager sire
Has got his answer. She will none of me;
Nor stops she there, but all the truth avows.
Her heart is pledged to you!—She will be wife
To none, but Wilton Brown.

Wilt.
Declared she that?

Sher.
Yes; soon as urged thereon,
From something stronger than a hint, the Duke
In converse with my father dropp'd.

Wilt.
And gave
The Duke no promise to enforce your suit?

Sher.
My father's suit, you mean! None, Wilton; but
Excused himself on fair and valid grounds—
A pledge unto a dying mother given
Ne'er to coerce her child's affections.

Wilt.
How
Brooks my good lord your father, the o'erturn
Of what he plann'd with so much care, and thought
Beyond mischance assured?

Sher.
I fear to speak,
When what I ought to speak lacks reverence,
And to a name revered! Content thee, Wilton.
Bethink thee of a heart o'erfraught with hate,
Revenge, aught else in passion's murky list,
And guess how brooks my father his balk'd wish!
He will be here anon!—Look to the Duke!
You may befriend him, and I know you would,
Though now the let that keeps you from your hopes!
Spin volumes out of hints—and, Wilton, mind,
Inquires my father how I bear myself
On this reverse, you tell him I am sped—
Gone in the dumps—in doubt to hang or drown;
That horrid things I mumble to myself,
Biting my nails—portent of direst things;
That I am clean distraught, and measure rather
For a strait jacket than a coat and vest!
A man, in brief, whose wits are out o' sorts;
And so it is!—for is it not enough
To drive one mad, when one's content, with frets
To try and make him more content? I hate
A man to fill my cup till it runs o'er!
Wilton, farewell!—Report me, if you love me,
Not what I am, but what I should be.—Mind,
Keep eye on the well-being of the Duke!

[Goes out.
Wilt.
There's danger toward the Duke. I do not blame
His slight of me!—Did I not slight myself?
Rebuke my love?—forbid my hopes to look
For entertainment at their master's hands?
Owe the Duke grudge? I bear ill-will to none;
My heart is all astonishment and love.
The Earl!—My task. [Sits down.]
Look to the Duke? I'll look
To my own honour—then is all assured!

Enter Lord Byerdale.
Lord Byer.
Yes, I shall crush him there, where he will break—
Crumble to dust—in his pride! The match was made—
Conditions, quick as I propounded them,
Accorded! Nothing wanting but consent,
There where consent was duty! There!—upon
The very threshold of completion—there
We stop and all's undone! She shall accept,
In lieu of one who claims a noble stock,
A mate without a name!—a spurious graft,
For a fair scion!—for a boast, a blush!
And there he sits, at hand! His grace the Duke
Is, in a net of his own weaving, caught;
Complots with noted traitors, whose designs
We yet but guess at—to whose haunts, to-night
I'll have him dogg'd, and, thence as he returns,
Arrested and committed to the Tower.
Thus shall I strike one blow, but feather-light
To one that is to come. My instrument!
[Looking at Wilton.
I have borne him hard! I loathe him for the blood
I more than guess he shares with me! Too near
He neighbours with the title and estates
My brothers' timely deaths without attaint
Have handed down to me. Conjecture, busy
While yet a cast remains for chance to throw,
Conjures up visions full of claims to come,
On rights usurp'd, of which the wearer stripp'd,
Is left as beggar bare! Not trustfully
Men, wont to scowl, look sweet; yet show the wind,
That turns foul weather all at once to fair,
The wonder's gone. A reason will suffice.
Wilton, good morning!

Wilt.
“Wilton!” When before
'Twas ever Mr. Brown!

Lord Byer.
Wilton—

Wilt.
Again!

Lord Byer.
The soundest tree is still of slowest growth:
Poplars shoot up to towers, while oaks are twigs.
So loves and friendships vary just as trees;
The quickest form'd are scarce the most robust.
I am not one who gives his heart away
Upon a fit of liking. I take time;
Time is the test of truth. 'Tis many a day
Since we knew one another—all which time
I have thought much—felt much—but little said;
And e'en that little churlishly enough—
Morosely, may be.—What, though, if I say
It went against the grain? It did so, Wilton.
I oft have chid myself for slighting thee—
Tax'd myself roundly—but my after-thought
Has ta'en my part; for who should nourish love
While chance remains of sudden withering
From some unknown, too late reveal'd defect?
Thus have I kept aloof, but with the aim
To know the thing, I wish'd to draw more near,
That, once embracing it, the lock might last!
I know thee now, and henceforth we are friends!

Wilt.
My lord!—

Lord Byer.
Enough! I guess what thou wouldst say;
I know thy modest nature. Be assured
Thou canst not teach me, there;—yet, it may be
This seeming strange transition genders doubt.

Wilt.
My lord!—

Lord Byer.
I know you do not doubt me. Men,
Single themselves, are always large of trust.
I own I stand in need of some; but you
Can give, and have to spare. You are a free,
A most deserving, more foregoing man.
Have I not seen your patience? Has it fail'd,
And has it not been tried? Ay, has it, Wilton!
Ay, to my shame, I would say, knew I not
My heart, and the fair end it had in view.
The end, at times, transforms the means, that what
We pass'd in hate, our love looks back upon!
Wilton, you ought to rise!—You have the worth;
The palm should come, and shall!

Wilt.
Alas!—

Lord Byer.
I say
I know your modesty—and modesty
Is that rare quality men most applaud
But nourish least, because 'tis not its art
To enrich itself. The wealthy and the high
Are the world's idols. Wilton, you must rise,
And then, have modesty, or have it not,
You will be hugg'd! You have the merit, sir,
But not the front; and, better have the front
If you would make your way. There's not a week
In the year but mere Pretension plays and wins,
And Merit looking on, that knows the game,
But doubts to take the cards! Do I not know,
The very debts that men contract with you,
So far from claiming, you have ever shunn'd
The sight of those who owe them!

Wilt.
Debts, my lord?

Lord Byer.
Ay, debts!

Wilt.
I know of none.

Lord Byer.
Indeed! Why, then,
The Duke of Gaveston and his daughter do!
Moreover, as I learn, acknowledge them;
Farther, would render payment—One, at least.
I know the Lady Laura loves you, Wilton.

Wilt.
Forbear, my lord! O speak not lightly of
A lady's love! It is her paramount
Especial jewel, over which keep guard
All things most rare in her tenacious sex;
Its radiant truth; its fragrant chastity;
Its goodness of the 'haviour of the heavens;
Its modesty—enhancement of all these—
Setting them off with veil more rare and rich
Than ever needle broider'd, or the loom!
If I were rich, my lord, as you would say,
'Twere scarce a theme for my rapt soul and me
To enter on so freely!

Lord Byer.
You are worth
Her love, and have it, Wilton! Nay, she makes
No secret on't. Her father told me so;
Founded thereon rejection of my son,
Although with bitterness of galléd pride.

Wilt.
No wonder! He's a duke; and what am I?

Lord Byer.
Why, Wilton, not the humble man you think!

Wilt.
Again! You know the secret of my birth!
[Rushing up to Lord Byerdale.
Who were my parents!—O the loneliness
To live and feel, unknowing whence we sprung!
To bear most gratefully a heavy debt,
Enjoying boundless reverence and love,
Without a token of the benefactors
We owe it to! My lord, you are a father,—
You have a thought of what a son must feel
In plight so blank as mine! Who were my parents?—
Though they were peasants, tell me! All I want
Is but to know to whom my yearning heart
Has nature's right to cleave! That they are dead
I know.—Who were they? Tell me, that I make
Out of their memories, breathing, glowing things,
To keep with me and cherish and revere!

Lord Byer.
Good Wilton—

Wilt.
Nay, you have the knowledge.

Lord Byer.
Yes.

Wilt.
Then tell me what you know!—You would relieve
A famish'd man—my lord, I hunger more!

Lord Byer.
Be patient!—Hear me!—Now is not the time;
Content you, what I know you shall be told.
Yet learn thus far:—Your veins are fraught with streams
Were running rich ere those that fill the Duke's
Were known to flow. Spare unavailing pains;
To that thou hast the power to compass, give
Your cares alone. The Lady Laura loves you;
You covet her; you shall possess her, ay,
With will of the proud Duke—if not—with suit!
I tell thee, Wilton, he will seek thee soon,
More heartily than he would shun thee now.
Reckon on that thou hast within thy reach,
And, as to other ventures, trust the winds!—
They'll bring them home before you look for them.

[Goes out.
Wilt.
More light—not more content!—Better be dark
As ever.—Better not to know a part,
Than, knowing that, to have the rest withheld!
Who halts at prospect of the pinnacle
That gives him note his journey's end is nigh,
Except with fever of inquietude?
Way-gone and crippled, rather would he on,
Than lay him down and rest another night.
But I must rest, it seems, howe'er I can!
The knowledge of my birth brings knowledge else
He would withhold! Who has good news to tell
And does not tell it out?—Nay, if he stops,
It is for something that undoes the whole!
Conjecture's waste, that ends where it began!
Yet must I on again, nor better speed!
The Duke consent to mate his child with me?
How?—When?—A reason?—'Tis deception all!
He plays a part! Said not Lord Sherbrooke now
His heart was fraught with malice 'gainst the Duke,
And means he the Duke well?—He loves not me,
And does he mean me well? Tell me the Duke
Will sue to me to wed his noble child!
Oh, I would wed her!—but will wed her never,
Except with free and full consent of honour!

[Goes out.

SCENE II.

—A Room in the Green Dragon. Sir George Barkley, Sir Richard Fenwick, Sir William Parkyn, Sir John Friend, Harrison, Charnock, and others, seated round a table, whereon there are papers and other implements for writing. They rise and come forward.
Sir G. Bark.
Sirs, 'tis the journey's end, without the toil,
The chance, a thousand things that stop the way,
On a long road, and cause the traveller
To curse the setting out—for what's the strife?
Why, James, or William of Nassau!—Away
With one of them—'tis done!

Sir R. Fen.
It was the counsel
I cleaved to all along.

Sir W. Park.
And I.

The others.
[Except Armstrong.]
And all.

Sir G. Bark.
Which, had it been allow'd to take its course,
Our hopes had been consummate now, instead
Of things to question. 'Sdeath, sirs! men resolved
To act, should on like men, and act at once,
Not stop and gape about them!

Arm.
Colonel Green—

Sir G. Bark.
Who's that? I trust all here are friends!

Arm.
'Twas I
That spoke!

Sir G. Bark.
And what of Colonel Green?

Arm.
The plan
Was liked by all but him—I meant to say
No more.

Sir G. Bark.
The plan was liked by all but him!
Who broke it to him? 'Tis for him to act,
Not plot. He does not like the covert blow!
No more do I—no more does any man.
But if one blow will save a million, strike,
And never hang debating on the mode.
The Colonel has seen service—

Arm.
You say right.
He's an old soldier and a gallant one!

Sir G. Bark.
Who does not know it?—Will you let me speak,
And bide your time—or, must you speak, speak on,
But tell us something new! He is a soldier,
And, would he mutter at an ambuscade?
Or, never has he plann'd nor captain'd one?
I warrant you!—'Twere news indeed to him
To tell him war is free to stratagems;
And says he it is peace? Why are we here,
And others sitting in our easy chairs?
Are not our own doors, sirs, thy very last
We dare to knock at? Are we the King's men,
And sits another on our master's throne?
The fight is over! Is it?—Ay!—indeed,
While in their sheaths our rapiers restless lie!
Before a month an army's in the field,
And is it peace?

Sir R. Fen.
You are warm!

Sir G. Bark.
I own I am.

Sir J. Friend.
We are all agreed.

Sir G. Bark.
But others should be here.
Where is the Duke of Gaveston?

Sir R. Fen.
Have you broach'd
The purport of our meeting to his grace?

Sir G. Bark.
No; for his grace is like a restive horse,
Given to back at starting—free enough,
If once he's made to go. Lead him by the head
A little, and he'll progress.

Sir W. Park.
Hark! a step!

Sir G. Bark.
See who it is!—Who is it?

Sir W. Park.
'Tis the Duke.

Enter the Duke of Gaveston.
Sir G. Bark.
Your grace is welcome, though the hour rebukes
Your punctuality.

Duke of Gav.
Nay, Sir George Barkley,
The most assuréd purpose must resign
The mastery to chance! My coach broke down.

Sir W. Park.
His grace is full in time.

Sir G. Bark.
I do not mean
To blame his grace—but a conspirator
Is one who sails in treacherous latitudes,
Where tempests give no warning, but blow up
The waves at once; where, while you look at him,
The sun goes out, and all the heaven is wrack;
And thunders bellow the next minute only,
To that when scarce the ripple at the bow
Whisper'd the vessel's course. So I mistrust,
Yet cause see none to fear. Possess the Duke
Of what we have debated and resolved.

[The Duke retires with Sir W. Parkyn.
Sir J. Friend.
[Aside to Sir G. Barkley.]
His grace is potent; what if he demur?

Sir G. Bark.
[Aside to Sir J. Friend.]
He will demur!—observe his grace's looks!
He likes not foreign aid!—That frets the grain.
He will not sail with us if he can help;
But he's aboard and we command the ship!
'Tis but “Up anchor,” and we scud along!
The cloud again, but darker!

Duke of Gav.
[Coming forward.]
Never, sirs!
'Gainst foreign aid I enter, come what may,
My protest. If we cannot right ourselves,
We'll bear our wrongs, and let our brothers have
The day, howe'er unjustly, rather than
Commit ourselves and them into the hands
Of the natural enemy!—and as for him
Who has usurp'd the throne, as we aver,
Why, let him keep it, if to strike him thence
Needs the assassin's arm! The noblest cause
Were damn'd to seek success by means so foul!
The field, sirs, if you will!—I am with you there;
But not in a conspiracy like this,
Befitting men who make a trade of blood—
Abhorr'd of those who hire them!

Sir G. Bark.
You are quick
In making up your mind to draw your stakes!
You are in the game, and must abide the deal.

Duke of Gav.
Must, sir!

Sir G. Bark.
Plain speech fits best, in grave affairs!
Sirs, we are like to mariners escaped
A founder'd ship, in open boat at sea;
The will of the majority is law,
He who demurs to which goes overboard!
Here are our measures stated; whereunto
Want but our signatures as evidence
For one and all, that all committed stand!
Come; while this solemn act proceeds, unsheath.
[They draw.
His grace, in point of right, precedence takes.

Duke of Gav.
I will not sign, sirs, neither draw my sword.

Sir G. Bark.
[Grasping the Duke's wrist.]
Nay, my lord Duke, you must.

Col. Green.
[Entering.]
Good even, sirs!
A wonted guest may come unbidden.

Sir G. Bark.
Green!
Who let you in?

Col. Green.
Who durst not keep me out.
And if he could, what is the use of doors
When councils are not close?—You talk too much,
Good Sir George Barkley! Since I thwarted you
A month ago in these same measures, which,
To carry through, you now convene your friends,
You have boasted fifty times, by this and that,
To divers hearers, and in divers haunts,
You'd bring your plans to bear; in which, I grieve,
Others, that should know better, side with you.
But not with you my business.

Sir G. Bark.
Whom besides?

Col. Green.
The Duke of Gaveston. But that he were here,
I had not come. He is refractory;
I said he would be so, and I am glad;
For prophets like to see their words come true.
Good Sir George Barkley!—

Sir G. Bark.
Sir?

Col. Green.
You make too free
With his grace's sleeve! So please you, let it go.

Sir G. Bark.
Who abets treachery?

Sir J. Friend and others.
None here!

Col. Green.
Well said,
Assassination! Well said, the allies
Of the common enemy!—the gentlemen
Who plan when William next should hunt the stag—
A masquerade, wherein the foreign bravo
Should don the British sportsman's jovial gear,
Who gives the game a chance!—who undertake
To give kind welcome to a force from France—
Suffer her skipping sons to flourish here
Weapons that never left their scabbards yet,
Except with threat against a British throat!
Who abets treachery? So!—Sir George Barkley, hear you?
I say, once more, let go his grace's sleeve!
I wish a word with him.

Sir G. Bark.
Is't not enough
We are gainsaid?—shall we be bearded too—
Our weapons in our hands?

Col. Green.
Beware, the first
Who stirs to strike. Though many look one way,
All are not of one mind. Good Sir George Barkley,
You should know better! Men, in counting friends,
May chance to overlook a foe or two.
Before you call a game of swords, behoves
You make sure of the sides. Moreover, sir,
The wisest man counts most upon himself,
As I, you see, have done!
[Throws back his cloak, and shows himself provided with pistols, &c.
Beware, Sir George,
For pistols make reports!—reports are heard!
Triggers are quick! and, if the priming burns,
Why then, in an old hand, is powder dust!
I have a sword besides, that's used to odds,
As more than one can vouch! Come, Sir George Barkley,
Let go the Duke this minute, or the next
A bullet's through your head!—You know I mark
Whenever I take aim!
[Sir George Barkley releases the Duke.
That's courteous, sir!
Your grace will please to leave my frontage clear,
And step a pace behind me. Now, Sir George,
A minute's parley, if you will.

Char.
We treat
You fairly; wherefore do you thwart us thus?

Col. Green.
You treat me fairly! Hear you, Sir George Barkley—
I speak to you, sir, you! the head of those
Who treat me fairly! Sir, you hatch'd this plot
Without my privity! Was that fair? It
Was wise—I should have crush'd it in the hatching!
You warn'd me hold myself in readiness,
With ten of those who follow me, to back you
In the enterprise, but never once let out
The nature on't,—Was that fair? It was prudent:
The breath, you breathed it in, had been your last one!
A friend—I have some—put me on my guard.
I was to learn hereafter! when I stood
Unwittingly committed in the fact!
And yet he tells me I am treated fairly!
And had it come to pass, sure as you hear me,
Straight to the block had I given up myself,
And dragg'd you thither with me, one and all!

Sir G. Bark.
Design you to betray us?

Col. Green.
No; that's truth;
But I'll defeat your plans!—That's truth again!
Your names I ne'er divulge! Your heads are safe,
For any hint that I shall give the axe!

Arm.
He is a man of honour—fear him not.

Sir G. Bark.
But I do fear him.

Col. Green.
Do, and reap the fruit!
A craven spirit scared without a cause!

Sir G. Bark.
We should not let him go.

Col. Green.
Nay, but you should.

Sir G. Bark.
Wherefore?

Col. Green.
Because you must. Good even, friends!
Be what you were, when I made one among you,—
Soldiers!—I hold not compact with assassins!
Trust to yourselves!—Make not allies of foes!
For him who owns the throne, another fills,
Array the honourable, open field,
Then call me traitor if I show not there!
Pray move not from your places—We can find
The stairs without your help—which, trust me, sirs,
Were pains that scarcely would repay themselves;
And so I take my leave.—A kind good night!

[The Duke and Colonel Green go out. The others draw into a knot in the back of the stage.