University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Opening in Whitefriars before the house of Trapbois. (Same as 3d scene of 2d Act.)
Enter, from the house of Trapbois, Hildebrod, Dalgarno, Skourlie, and Jin Vin, followed by Alsatians.
Skour.
(to Hild.)
Aye, Cor'oner, the removal of that Scarf,
The very engine of the murder, looks
Strangely for Nigel.

Hild.
Is it not yet stranger,
At such a time that Martha should be missing?

Skour.
(To Jin Vin)
Nigel took Martha with him?

Jin.
Near Paul's Wharf,
I landed them together. Presently,
He came, alone, back to my boat; and Martha
Appeared no more.

Skour.
Did they take aught of value?

Jin.
A huge black leathern-case.

Skour.
The very wrapper
Wherein old Trapbois kept his goldsmith's notes,
And other things of price! The usurer murder'd—
His daughter missing—and Lord Nigel present
From first to last— (to Dalg.)
My lord, you've been his friend—

Dalg.
And am so still, though he has much aggriev'd me.
Ask not my thought: I'm here but with the purpose
To serve him in his absence,—not to stir
Charges against him.

Skour.
(to Hild.)
Well, the duty's yours.

Hild.
Then, since I hear he's carried to the Tower,
I deem it fitting to adjourn the inquest
Till his examination: mean while, too,
Martha may be forthcoming.

Dal.
(aside)
Not if I
Can find her out, and spirit her from the kingdom.

Hild.
Cry a reward to any who shall give
Intelligence of her.

Skour.
Cry, a reward!
Who'll pay it?

Hild.
If none else, a good paymaster,
Not often fig'ring in your books, belike,—
Conscience!

[Exit Hildebrod, followed by all but Dalgarno, and Skourlie.
Dalg.
Who says that Fortune's blind? a lie,
A sland'rous lie! she sees and picks her gallants
For parts and spirit—men that press her briskly,
When in the cue to yield. Say I'm not fortunate.
Say I'm not wise!

Skour.
Who doubts you're both? Will Nigel?

Dalg.
Why, no, I think the pit is fairly dug
For that brief fav'rite. Such a stoat as he
A half-clothed, unbred Scot, creep in betwixt
Me, and my views—get the king's jewels lent him
To slip my mortgage off—out-favour me
In all things, ev'n to a fair wench's fancy—
I'll blight his favour!

Stour.
Not, I doubt, with Marg'ret.

Dalg.
Yes, Sir, with Marg'ret. Let a woman see
That you will have her, and you shall: that's law
All the world over, no, my man of parchment!

Skour.
You would not marry her!

Dalg.
Why not, my rival
Being bespoken for another noose?

Skour.
You banter.

Dalg.
Never more in earnest. Wherefore
Ply your mock parsons of Whitefriars here,
Your smugglers in the Hymeneal traffic,
If not to pave a way for ticklish beauty
Into our arms? The marriages they make
Wear just as well as true ones—for a week,
Perhaps a fortnight,—and your lawful loves
Hold not much longer.

Skour.
Death! you would not slur
So rare a creature with a fraud so foul!

Dalg.
Well, what dost gape at? by my faith if 'twere not
Too monstrous ev'n to hang a laugh upon,
I could almost conceive thou hadst thyself
Cast a sheep's eye at this green sprout, thou look'st
So maukishly!

Skour.
And if I had, my Lord,
Where were the monstrous, or the laughable?
May be I am not a Court-galliard; but
All women like not in one fantasy,
And I'm a man, I hope?

Dalg.
Certes, I hope so:
But woe to her who proves thee! Ha, ha, ha!
What use now could a woman turn thee to,
In all the circle of her wants and whims?

Skour.
Very jocose—exceeding merry: (losing his forced grin)
Hum!

Dalg.
To fancy thee grimacing at a woman!
Croaking in madrigal—perking thy chin—
Coaxing thy hat's immeasurable flap—
Nibbling thy thumbs—twirling thine inky fingers
Athwart the rat tails of that oily hair—
Smoothing thy band—then settling those straight skirts
Whose nether whalebone, like a term, out-standing,
Protects th'entail:—such gallantries to please
A woman!

Skour.
(who during the foregoing speech has committed these awkwardnesses in the order followed by Dalgarno)
Where i'th'name of patience, is one
To put one's hands? (thrusting them into his pockets.)


Dalg.
You lawyers mostly use
To put them in the pockets of your neighbours.

Skour.
A mirthful tone!—You'll take a graver, soon.
Skirts, band, and beaver, fingers, hair, and chin!
I have no legs to please a woman neither,
Hey, my keen critic? By this light, I fancy
A woman might go further and fare worse!

[Exit.