 | The Sisters |  |
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ACT III.
Scene I.
—In the Garden.Anne and Mabel.
ANNE.
This heartsease bed is richer than it was
Last year—and so it should be; should it not?
For your sake and for his, I mean. See here;
Here's one all black—a burning cloud of black,
With golden sunrise at its heart; and here's
One all pure gold from shapely leaf to leaf,
And just its core or centre black as night.
MABEL.
They call them pansies too, you know.
ANNE.
But you
Must call them heartsease now. Tell me—what thoughts
Have lovers that the lovely plain old name
Would not suit better than all others?
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None,
None that I know of—nor does Redgie. Anne,
How can we two thank God enough?
ANNE.
I'm sure
I cannot tell you, Mabel. All your thoughts
Are flowers, you say, and flowers as sweet as these
Whose perfume makes the rose's coarse and dull;
And how then could I tell you how to thank
God? He has given you something—thought or truth,
If truth and thought are not the same—which I
Cannot, you know, imagine.
MABEL.
Ah, you will
Some day, and soon—you must and will.
ANNE.
I doubt
That. Can the world supply me, do you think,
With such another Redgie?
MABEL.
That's not fair.
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I must put up with something secondrate?
Frank, for example—if he'd have me? No,
Dear Mabel: be content with happiness;
And do not dream it gives you power to play
Providence, or a prophet. Is he not
Waiting for you—there, by the hawthorns—there—
And, certainly, not wanting me?
MABEL.
He is!
I told him not to come and wait for me.
[Exit.
ANNE.
I cannot bear it: and I cannot die.
Enter Sir Arthur.
SIR ARTHUR.
Our lovers are not here? Ah, no; they want
Seclusion—shade and space between the trees
To chirp and twitter. Well, no wonder.
ANNE.
No.
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The handsomest and happiest pair they are
That England or Northumberland could show,
Are they not?
ANNE.
Yes; Mabel is beautiful.
SIR ARTHUR.
You don't think much of Redgie, then?
ANNE.
He looks,
With all that light soft shining curly hair,
Too boyish for his years and trade: but men
Don't live or die by their good looks or bad.
SIR ARTHUR.
You don't call soldiership a trade? And then,
His years are not so many—not half mine,
And I'm not quite a greybeard.
ANNE.
Let him be
Apollo—Apollino if you like,
Your all but girl-faced godling in the hall.
He did not win her with his face or curls.
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I am proud to know he did not. Are not you?
ANNE.
Proud of him? Why should I be?
SIR ARTHUR.
No; of her.
ANNE.
O! Yes, of course—very. Not every girl,
Of course, would condescend—to look so high.
SIR ARTHUR.
A fine young loyal fellow, kind and brave,
Wants no more gilding, does he?
ANNE.
Luckily,
We see, he does not. Here she comes alone.
She has sent him in to rest—or speak to Frank.
Re-enter Mabel.
You have not kept him hanging round you long.
You are not exacting, Mabel.
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Need I be?
ANNE.
We see you need not.
SIR ARTHUR.
Mabel, may I say
How very and truly glad I am?
MABEL.
You may
Indeed, and let me thank you. That you must.
SIR ARTHUR.
It makes one laugh, or smile at least, to think
That Master Redgie always was till now
The unlucky boy—the type of luckless youth,
Poor fellow—and now it seems you are going to give
Or rather have given him more than his deserts
Or most men's, if not any man's. I am
Glad.
MABEL.
Please don't compliment. You know I have known
Reginald all my life—and can't but know
How much more he deserves than I can give.
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She has the courage of her faith, you see.
MABEL.
Don't play at satire, Annie, when you know
How true it is.
ANNE.
Of course I know it, Mab.
He always was incomparable. At school
His masters always said so, and at home—
Ah, well, perhaps the grooms did.
MABEL.
One would think
You did not know him, and hated him. I wish
Almost he did not—as he does—deserve
Far more than I shall bring.
SIR ARTHUR.
Impossible:
Even if he were—no subaltern, but even
The Duke himself.
Enter Frank and Reginald.
FRANK.
Who's talking of the Duke?
Ask Redgie what he thinks of him.
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No, don't.
My name's not Homer.
ANNE.
Frenchmen say—
REGINALD.
Dear Anne,
Don't you say ‘Frenchmen say’—say ‘Frenchmen lie.’
They call the man who thrashes them a cur;
Then what must they be?
SIR ARTHUR.
Try to tell us, though,
Something—if only to confute the frogs
And shame their craven croaking.
REGINALD.
What on earth
Can I or any man—could Wordsworth, even—
Say that all England has not said of him
A thousand times, and will not say again
Ten thousand?
SIR ARTHUR.
Come, my boy, you're privileged,
You know: you have served, and seen him.
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Seen him? Yes.
You see the sun each morning; but the sun
Takes no particular notice and displays
No special aspect just for your behoof,
Does it?
MABEL.
He never spoke to you?
REGINALD.
To me?
MABEL.
Why not?
REGINALD.
He might of course to any one;
But I'm not lucky—never was, you know.
ANNE.
They say that none of you who have followed him
Love him as Frenchmen love Napoleon.
REGINALD.
No.
How should they? No one loves the sun as much
As drunken fools love wildfires when they go
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To find a filthy grave.
SIR ARTHUR.
Come, come, my boy!
Remember—‘love your enemies.’
REGINALD.
When I have
Any, I'll try; but not my country's; not
Traitors and liars and thieves and murderers—not
Heroes of French or Irish fashion. Think
How fast the Duke stands always—how there's not
A fellow—can't be—drudging in the rear
Who does not know as well as that the sun
Shines, that the man ahead of all of us
Is fit to lead or send us anywhere
And sure to keep quick time with us, if we
Want or if duty wants him—bids the chief
Keep pace with you or me. And then just think,
Could he, suppose he had been—impossibly—
Beaten and burnt out of the country, lashed,
Lashed like a hound and hunted like a hare
Back to his form or kennel through the snow,
Have left his men dropping like flies, devoured
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Maimed, mad with torment, dying in hell, while he
Scurried and scuttled off in comfort?
MABEL.
No.
He could not. Arthur quite agrees. And now
Be quiet.
SIR ARTHUR.
Redgie takes away one's breath.
But that's the trick to catch young ladies' hearts—
Enthusiasm on the now successful side.
MABEL.
Successful! If we could have failed, you know,
He would have been—he, I, and you and all,
All of us, all, more passionate and keen
And hotter in our faith and loyalty
And bitterer in our love and hate than now
When thoughts of England and her work are not
Tempered with tears that are not born of pride
And joy that pride makes perfect.
FRANK.
Let's be cool.
I have not seen you quite so hot and red
Since you were flogged for bathing at the Weir,
Redgie.
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Which time? the twentieth?
FRANK.
That at least.
MABEL.
Poor fellow!
REGINALD.
Ah, you always pitied me—
And spoilt me.
MABEL.
No one else did, Reginald.
REGINALD.
And right and wise they were—a worthless whelp!
MABEL.
Very. Not worth a thought—were you?
REGINALD.
I'm sure
Not worth a tear of yours—and yet you cried
Sometimes, you know, for my mischances.
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Ay?
So, boy and girl were born for bride and groom,
Were they? There's nothing now to cry for, then.
ANNE.
Arthur forgets: are love and happiness
Nothing to cry for? Tears, we are told, are signs
Infallible—indispensable—of joy.
FRANK.
Mabel and Redgie, then, must be just now
Unhappy—very unhappy. Can they fill
With us their parts to-morrow in his play?
MABEL.
Yes: I know mine; and Anne knows hers.
ANNE.
And Frank
His. Does he stab you, Redgie, on the stage?
REGINALD.
Yes, as I save him from the shipwreck.
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Good!
That's something like a villain.
ANNE.
I'm as bad.
I poison Mabel—out of love for Frank.
SIR ARTHUR.
Heaven help us, what a tragic day or night!
It's well the drawing-room and the libraries
Are all rigged up ship-shape, with stage and box
Ready, and no such audience to be feared
As might—I don't say would, though, Reginald—
Hiss you from pit and gallery.
REGINALD.
That they would!
It's all a theft from Dodsley's great old plays,
I know you'll say—thirdrate and secondhand.
The book, you know, you lent me when a boy—
Or else I borrowed and you did not lend.
SIR ARTHUR.
That's possible, you bad young scamp. I wish
We could have seen it played in the open air,
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With April in Northumberland.
ANNE.
Not quite.
REGINALD.
Come, don't abuse our climate and revile
The crowning county of England—yes, the best
It must be.
FRANK.
Now he's off again.
REGINALD.
I'm not.
But I just ask you where you'll find its like?
Have you and I, then, raced across its moors
Till horse and boy were wellnigh mad with glee
So often, summer and winter, home from school,
And not found that out? Take the streams away,
The country would be sweeter than the south
Anywhere: give the south our streams, would it
Be fit to match our borders? Flower and crag,
Burnside and boulder, heather and whin—you don't
Dream you can match them south of this? And then,
If all the unwatered country were as flat
As the Eton playing-fields, give it back our burns,
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And try to make them dismal as its fens—
They won't be! Bright and tawny, full of fun
And storm and sunlight, taking change and chance
With laugh on laugh of triumph—why, you know
How they plunge, pause, chafe, chide across the rocks
And chuckle along the rapids, till they breathe
And rest and pant and build some bright deep bath
For happy boys to dive in, and swim up,
And match the water's laughter.
SIR ARTHUR.
You at least
Know it, we doubt not. Woodlands too we have,
Have we not, Mabel? beech, oak, aspen, pine,
And Redgie's old familiar friend, the birch,
With all its blithe lithe bounty of buds and sprays
For hapless boys to wince at, and grow red,
And feel a tingling memory prick their skins—
Sting till their burning blood seems all one blush—
Eh?
REGINALD.
I beg pardon if I bored you. But—
You know there's nothing like this country. Frank,
Is there?
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I never will dispute with you
Anything, Redgie. This is what you call
Being peaceable, is it? firing up like tow
And rattling off like small-shot?
REGINALD.
I can't help—
Can I?
FRANK.
When you said that at school, my lad,
It didn't help you much.
MABEL.
Don't bully him so.
Don't let them, Redgie.
SIR ARTHUR.
Redgie must be proof
Now against jokes that used to make the boy
Frown, blush, and wince: and well he may be.
ANNE.
Why?
Is Reginald much wiser than he was?
He seems to me the same boy still.
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He is,
I think; but now the luckiest living.
REGINALD.
Yes.
I'm half afraid one ought not anyhow
To be so happy. None of you, I know,
Our brothers and our sister, think it right.
You cannot. Nor do I.
SIR ARTHUR.
A willow-wreath
For Mabel! Redgie turns her off.
MABEL.
He might,
If she would let him: but he'll find her grasp
Tenacious as a viper's. Be resigned,
Redgie: I shall not let you go.
REGINALD.
I am
Resigned. But if God bade one rise to heaven
At once, and sit above the happiest there,
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Would not one shrink for shame's sake? Look at her
And me!
SIR ARTHUR.
I never saw a better match.
MABEL.
I never had so sweet a compliment
Paid me. I shan't forget it, Arthur.
REGINALD.
What
Possesses all of you to try and turn
The poor amount of head I have, I can't
Imagine. One might think you had laid a bet
To make a man shed tears by way of thanks
And laugh at him for crying. Frank,—Arthur,—Anne,
You know I know how good it is of you
To wish me joy—and how I thank you: that
You must know.
ANNE.
Surely, Reginald, we do.
Goodwill like ours could hardly miss, I trust,
Of gratitude like yours.
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What is it, Anne?
What makes you smile so?
ANNE.
Would you have me frown?
MABEL.
Rather than smile like that: you would not look
So enigmatic.
ANNE.
Let it pass, my dear:
We shall not smile to-morrow, when we play
Tragedy—shall we? Are the properties
Ready—stiletto and poison-flask?
REGINALD.
Ah, there
We are lucky. There's the old laboratory, made
It seems for our stage purpose, where you know
Sir Edward kept his chemicals and things—
Collections of the uncanniest odds and ends,
Poisons and weapons from all parts of the earth,
Which Arthur lets us choose from.
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Are they safe
To play with?
MABEL.
Are we children, Annie? Still
Perhaps you are right: we had better let them be.
SIR ARTHUR.
The daggers are not dangerous—blunt as lead—
That I shall let you youngsters play with.
REGINALD.
Good:
But how about the poison? let us have
A genuine old Venetian flask to fill
With wine and water.
ANNE.
Let me choose it.
MABEL.
You?
Why?
ANNE.
I know more about such things.
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About
Poison?
ANNE.
About the loveliest oldworld ware
Fonthill or Strawberry Hill could furnish: I'm
Miss Beckford, or Horatia Walpole.
SIR ARTHUR.
Come
And take your choice of the empty flasks. Don't choose
A full one by mistake.
ANNE.
I promise not.
[Exeunt Sir Arthur and Anne.
FRANK.
I leave you to consult together, then—
The playwright and his heroine: that's but fair.
[Exit.
MABEL.
I don't quite like it, Redgie: I'm afraid
Anne is not happy: I'm afraid.
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My love,
Is any one unhappy in the world?
I can't just now believe in wretchedness.
MABEL.
But I can. Redgie, do be good—and grave.
I talk to you as if you were grown-up,
You see.
REGINALD.
You do me too much honour.
MABEL.
That
I do, you stupidest of tiresome boys.
Still, you were never ill-natured, were you? Well,
Have you not—boys see nothing—don't you think
You might have seen, had you but eyes, that Anne
Is not—I don't say (that would be absurd)
As happy as we are—no one could be that—
But not—not happy at all?
REGINALD.
My darling, no.
What dream is this—what lunacy of love?
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Well—I must tell you everything, I see—
I wish I did not and I could not think
Her heart or fancy—call it either—were
More fixed on Frank than ever his on me.
REGINALD.
Eh! Well, why not? If he can come to love
Any one, after thinking once he loved
You—and you would not have it break his heart
Quite, would you?—what could well befall us all
Happier than this? You don't suppose he can?
To me it seems—you know how hard and strange
It seems to hope or fancy: but God grant
It may be! If old Frank were happy once,
I should not feel I ought not—now and then—
To be so happy always.
MABEL.
But you ought.
How good you are, Redgie!
REGINALD.
O, very good.
I'd like—I want—to see my dearest friends
Happy—without a touch of trouble or pains
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Is it not? saintly—great—heroic?
MABEL.
Well,
I think you may—I think we shall. But don't
Be boyish—don't be prompting Frank: you know,
Reginald, what I mean.
REGINALD.
Yes: that he may—
Will, very likely—want a hand like yours
Rather than mine to help him—bring him through—
Give him a lift or shove.
MABEL.
Leave well alone.
That's all I mean.
REGINALD.
You always did know best,
And always will: I shall be always right
Now that my going or doing or saying depends
On you. It's well you are what you are: you might,
If you were evil-minded, make a man
Run from his post—betray or yield his flag—
Duck down his head and scuttle.
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Not a man
Like you.
REGINALD.
Let no man boast himself; does not
The Bible say—something like that?
MABEL.
Perhaps.
But then you don't, and never did, you know—
Not even about this play of yours. Come in:
The windy darkness creeps and leaps by fits
Up westward: clouds, and neither stars nor sun,
And just the ghost of a lost moon gone blind
And helpless. If we are to play at all,
I must rehearse my part again to-night.
[Exeunt.
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