University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.

A Room in Eliza's Cottage.
Eliza.
He loves not me—he may love, but not me.
My heart o'erflow'd its love into his eyes,
The conduits of his heart; it filter'd through,
And seem'd to leave in him nought but the sands.
His presence, constantly, would drain my heart,
Which, getting no return, would cease to love.
Were all the dews earth breathes into the air
Not lavish'd back again upon the earth,
Parch'd earth would soon have nothing more to give.
Better be mateless, then, than match'd with him.
Better! Harsh argument! It could not be:
He is not to be reason'd from my heart.
Yet, would that I had seen one hope of Spring
In all the Winter of his speech—one beam
Behind that black ice of his eye, to tell
There was a coming Summer in his heart.
But there was none; and when he took my hand
To bid Good night, I felt 'twas but a hand
That touch'd me, not a spirit.—While he stayed
I could not realise the full despair,
For mine he was, as much as eyes could hold:
But when he went, without one poor exchange—
A look, a sigh, on which a thought might hang,—
O misery! But peace: thy bitter dregs,
Sweet Hope, I drain, and throw away the cup.—
I've pour'd my soul into a fine ideal,
Imagined it a lover, and loved that.
Away, sweet dream, that seem'd my waking day!
Be what thou art, a dream; and, like most dreams,
Leave not on memory one scratch of truth
By which thy foolish reign might be recall'd. (Knocking without.)

Edward? Ah me! I had forgot the sad
Announcement of his coming here to-night.—
The loved unloving gone, and in his stead
The unloved loving.

Enter Edward.
Edward.
Eliza, by the weather in your face
I read sweet summer changes. Why, you stand
Like blue-eyed April, looking through her showers.
But whence the tears—the showers?

Eliza.
From the clouds.

Edward.
Ay, but the clouds, Eliza, whence are they?

Eliza.
The sun exhaled them from this little earth,
And when he set, they rain'd.

Edward.
Were I your sun
I'd never set, nor leave so loved an earth.
But truce to these poor similes—they limp.—
Eliza!—

Eliza.
Edward!

Edward.
Ah! what need for speech?
You know what I would say.

Eliza.
I do, I do:
And therefore will I use no idle speech:
I scorn to trifle with an earnest heart.

Edward.
Perfection perfected! Yet speak not thus
If afterwards you do not mean to grant
This heart the prize due to its loyalty:
But rather let each word make less your worth,
If I'm to be the loser of it all.

Eliza.
If you can keep a secret, here is one:—
You shall not lose—

Edward.
O heaven!—

Eliza.
Till you possess.

Edward.
Who scorn'd to trifle with an earnest heart?—
I'll risk the loss, if you will the possession.

Eliza.
But you are going on a tedious voyage:
Full twenty moons will fill their orbs and wane,
Ere Time redeem the pledges of our troth.
Love's moon itself may wane with you ere that.
Urge me no further now: when you return,
If then—

Edward.
The doubt would kill me long ere then!
My life is poison'd with the hope deferr'd;
The food I eat is poison'd, and my sleep;
And I am neither nourish'd nor refresh'd:
I die even now. But ah! thou hast not known
The agony of unrequited love.

Eliza.
(aside)
A kindred sorrow kindles love: our hearts
Are nearer by the binding of a grief.

Edward.
What would'st thou say, Eliza? With a word
Thou could'st so sweetly medicine my soul,
That none of all life's ills could e'er again
Infect my being.

Eliza.
And if that could be,
It were itself the greatest ill. We live
By overcoming ills; and to be freed
From feeling them were hopeless death. But no,
That may not be: the present gone, 'twill seem
That but some other ill has push'd it out,
And stands there in its stead.

Edward.
Yet is it well
To think the present ill shall be our last,
Lest, feeling there's no end of them, we rest
Desponding in the old, and thereby miss
The very uses of adversity.
Then, let me conquer the impediment
To present bliss, and I'll be doubly steel'd
For those that have to come.—But list! O love,
The wind has whistled, and I know the tide
Is almost waiting for me. 'Tis no time
To analyse fine sentiments. In brief,
Wilt thou be mine, Eliza—mine for aye?

Eliza.
(aside)
Alas! What should I say? He loves me not;
Nor show'd that night of love that closed him in,
One ray to herald whence a dawn might come.
Why am I fascinated with despair?
Ah, wherefore can the ghost of an idea
Lay hands upon my will? Away thou shade! (To Edward.)

Edward, forgive me, I am not myself:
I have no mind; take answer as thou wouldst.

Edward.
I will not bid thee speak it: plighted troth
Has stood ere now on the unspoken word
As firmly as on parchment. I can read
The unwritten contract even in thy face.
To such a bond be this the fitting seal. (Kissing her.)

Now fare-thee-well, Eliza!

Eliza.
Nay, not yet.
Come in and eat; and, while we sit, trace all
Your voyage on the map, that day by day
I may keep reckoning of your whereabouts.
I'll keep a daily journal of the winds,
Read dissertations on the law of storms,
Be up in latitudes and longitudes,
And in the papers turn to Vessels spoken with,
Even before Births, Marriages and Deaths.

Edward.
The speedy winds shall be our messengers.
The one that stirs your poplars here to-day
May fill my sails to-morrow. Therefore give
Each breeze sweet greeting, and a word for me.
I'll entertain the rudest for your sake,
And speed them round to you with freights of love.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

The Green before the Inn. The Inn lighted up. Music, dancing and laughter within.
Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
How swiftly flies the heart on wings of love!
Mine has been here an hour since, and my feet
Have hardly yet o'ertaken it.—I hear
The beat of Margaret's foot amid the dance.
It comes into my soul like a sweet strain
Play'd in the midst of thunder. As I came
Over the bridge, her gorgeous figure dash'd
Across the lighted blind; my spirit leapt,
And even my arms involuntarily stretch'd
To clasp the instant beauty. O, my brow,
Flaming with thoughts of her, pants to be bathed
In the luxurious bath of her dark hair.
That battery of love, her burning lips,
I almost shrink from touching the first time
After the absence of a day, an age;
The shock of ecstasy runs into pain. (Laughter within.)

'Tis her's, that dulcet laugh that ripples through
The harsh-lipp'd merriment. She is the flute
Amid the brazen music.—Here comes one
Reel'd from the dance, all puffing hot and soil'd,
And beaded as a haggis newly boil'd.

[Exit Reuben into the Inn, passing Spanker, who comes from it.
Spanker.
Hot work! hot work! But O, that maid divine!
Riches of womankind! Yea, each one's good
Collected and transfused into one best!
And now to think, to feel this treasure mine!
Did I not say she'd be a mine, indeed,
That I might work at leisure? Leisure! nay,
She's too impetuous for a laggard's love.
Have at her then: all duties else I throw
Contemptuously aside; and on my knees
Thus give my energies—Bah! that old man.

Enter Bradbury from the Inn, and Spanker retires into the shade.
Bradbury.
How dark! bless me! I cannot see a stime!
When one has lived a comfortable lie,
How blind he is to its opposing truth!
So I, with looking at the glare inside,
Am blind to all the outlines of the night.
We need to live a truth that we may see it;
And when I've look'd a while into the night
I'll see its faintest margins.

Spanker.
Ah! if love
Spurr'd that old ass as hard as it spurs me,
He could not amble thus with an idea.

Bradbury.
The knowledge of a fact comes by the brain;
So thinks the world; but the affectional heart
Has more to do with it than the world thinks.

Spanker.
The world's a fool, that's clear, and he a sage.

Bradbury.
Love gives the eyes to see what is unseen
By others in the face of them we love;
It gives the intellect to know their worth:
Thus eyes and intellect without the heart
Are impotent—mere tools without the hand.
We all are better featured than we seem
To the dispassionate external eye:
The heart's eye, it alone, can see the true.
How else amid this troop of dashing youth
Who—for I will admit the fact—outstrip
The falsely seen John Bradbury,—and all
Apparently in madness for her hand,—
How else could she set all aside for me,
Unless John Bradbury, the truly seen,
To her heart's eye, outrivall'd all of them?
I'll bear me more supremely—'tis my right.
Ye eyes of night, look at me, and endorse
What Margaret's consummate taste approves.
Am I not he, the destined man?

Spanker.
I thought
The imagining faculty belong'd to youth.

Enter Juniper and Friend from the Inn.
Bradbury.
Rheumatics seize his shanks! He crosses me
Not only in the rosy ways of love,
But on the glebes of ruminating thought.
The darkness favours me, I will withdraw
Within the sombre shadow of the wall.

Friend.
But, Will, I see you have powerful opposition.

Juniper.

Yes, in numbers; but what of that? Numbers in love, my boy, are not like numbers in war. Here it's every one for himself. Take each singly, and I've no opposition. What are they? That kangaroo who talks so much about Australasia and gold finding; he'll find no gold here, I can tell him. He made his appearance only the other day, and presumes already to hope. He leaps too far at a time, that fool.

Spanker.
(aside)

It won't be too far to leap down your throat, and that's what I may do before all's done.

Juniper.

Then Daddy Bradbury, what's he? My butt, my foil, my background. He serves but to throw me more fully into Margaret's eye. These are a sample

of the opposition. There's none! I tell you she's mine; I shan't even have to walk the course.

Bradbury.
(aside)

No: for it's not intended you shall win the race. His butt! his foil! his background! If I had but a part of his youth on my side, I'd butt him, and foil him too, and give him a background into the bargain: the dirtiest part of the road should be his background.

Friend.

That may all be well enough; but women's fickleness is proverbial; and sometimes they make such a villainous choice—love being reputed to be blind— that even old Bradbury—

Bradbury./
(aside)
Even! He dare not say that to my face.

Friend.

Who's this comes spinning like a top? Stand aside, or he'll waltz over us.

Enter Hopkins from the Inn.
Hopkins.
The reel, the waltz, the intoxicating whirl,
The pressing bosom of that glorious girl,
The cheeks of ruby and the teeth of pearl,
The sable tresses, their enamouring curl,
The springy limb, the eye of fiery jet,
The bust that might owe Angelo a debt,
A one in which the graces three are met,
Whom luck calls mine, and I call Margaret!

(Whirls off.)
Friend.
I'll bet you, Will, he robs you of your treasure.
What woman could withstand both rhyme and measure?

Enter Wheeler and Greene from the Inn.
Wheeler.
I told you I should make it all right for you.

Greene.
She's got the ring on, I see.

Wheeler.

Yes, and did you see how her attention was divided between it and you?

Greene.
You'll drink at my expense to-night, Jack.

Wheeler.
O dear, no—that would be too much.

Greene.
You shall. She's a splendid girl, Margaret, eh?

Wheeler.

Well, but it's not for a brother, you know, to praise her over much.

Greene.

When it does come off, Jack, you'll be best man, of course. Don't you think she would come out and take a walk with us? It's so oppressively hot inside! Besides, there's so many, I can't get spoken with her.

Wheeler.

Well—ah—I'll try. Just walk you over the bridge there. [Exit Greene.]
What a monstrously silly fool that is! He has not cut his eye-teeth yet, or he would see through my glaring deceptions. The breach that was between her and me is now completely fill'd up by his ruins—the broken-down walls of his suit. They must not speak together, though. I'll after him and send him a wool-gathering, so that they may not meet to-night at all. By to-morrow night, please the pigs, she'll be too much mine to care for him or any one else.

[Exit.

Bradbury.

They know I'm here, and have made up this among them—pure envy at seeing an elderly man preferred.

Juniper
(to friend.)

His name is Wheeler—empty as a bell—all talk

and bluster. Don't you be frightened for me. I tell you it's all settled between me and Margaret.

Spanker.

Surely there can be no reality in all this. She would not, could not speak to me, look at me,—yea, let me approach her as she does, and at the same time afford these fellows the inlet to her affections they seem to have got. No; it's a silly piece of tomfoolery made up among them, for what purpose I know not. —Here comes a decent country fellow. Surely he is not one of them.

Enter Car from the Inn.
Car.

Well, we're keepin' it up ony way. Them town chaps is squeezin' Merget rayther more till I like though; but yet a-wouldn't gie the wink hoo casts me at every turn for all their squeezin's. I'll have all that to mysel' in another week. Aigh isn't hoo pritty the neet, wi' her glossy black heur dancin' at her cheeks? —Wain't I be proud when I see my name abuv that door? A peanter might mann it better till me too; but them raskets is like cobblers. Gie a cobbler your shoes to heel and he soles them as weel, and nails you into three-and-sixpence, instead o' ninepence. Merget would pay it certainly: but it's all one for that; what's hoo's is mine.

Spanker.

Even this simpleton is into the trick. Can it be

aim'd at me? I will try.—My good fellow, will you take a glass with me?

Car.
Ay, I doan't mind if I do: I never likes to refuse nowt.

Spanker.

Before we go in, tell me now—there's a good fellow— What's the meaning of so many of you coming out and talking about Miss Riccard in this way—Margaret, as you call her—and zounds! each one of you pretending to be on the point of getting married to her?

Car.
Did thee hear it up in the town?

Spanker.
Hear what?

Car.

That hoo was baund to wed me. It's pritty well known now, I daresay. Them things will out.

Spanker.
That'll do, that'll do; don't think you've caught a flounder.

Car.

Flounder! Call Merget a flounder? I'll make a flounder o' thee—flat enough too!

Spanker.

There now, that's enough: a joke may be carried

just a little too far. But come, be plain with me; I want to be your friend, if you only knew it.

Car.
Well, dash it! be my friend. What does thee want?

Spanker.
I want to know who set you on to this, and is it aimed at me?

Car.
I doan't know what thee means.

Spanker.

Why, this: You know very well that Margaret—Miss Riccard—would not take the like of you, and that—

Car.
Get out, you foreign Portuguese!

Hopkins.
(coming forward)

Pardon me, sir; but am I to understand that you, sir, have any expectations in that quarter?

Spanker.

Excuse me, sir, I don't know you; but if you, sir, pretend to any expectations, I beg politely to remark that it's no use, it won't fit, and the sooner your name is Walker, the better.

Hopkins.

Your politeness is insulting, sir, and I beg to say that the sooner your name is Walker, the better.

Bradbury.
(coming forward)

Gentlemen, you are exceedingly polite; but I beg to inform you [Enter Greene]
that if Margaret—Miss Riccard—be the lady in dispute, you may keep your politeness for another; for she is engaged.

Greene.
Yes, gentlemen, to me.

Bradbury.
To me, sir; who are you?

Juniper.
(Coming forward and knocking their heads together.)
You lie, Daddy, she's mine.

Car.
Yours, you snig! (striking him).
Or yours! (striking Bradbury).
Or yours either!

(striking Greene).
Greene.

Holloa! here, Jack! help! help! thieves! they'll carry her away! help, Jack!

Car.
Get out, you're a set of poppies; I'll lick you all.

(Hits them right and left, a general melée ensues, all striking one another, and enter Wheeler, who beats Greene.)
Greene.
Murder! Jack! Margaret! Any one! any one!

[Exeunt all into the Inn, fighting and shouting.
Enter Margaret, followed by Reuben.
Margaret.
What's all this noise?

Reuben.
Ah, now we are alone!

Margaret.
Hold off!

Reuben.
You do not know me in the dark!
Look, Margaret, 'tis I!

Margaret.
I know, begone!

[Exit into the Inn, shutting the door after her.
Reuben.
Begone! was that the word? or was it come?
Begone! my ears deceived me! yet my eyes
Bear witness, as she spoke that word, the moon
Look'd o'er the edge of yonder bank of cloud,
The light fell on her face, and I could see
A very fiend glare at me, with no trace
Of love or beauty left: it was Begone!
O what a devil's glare! There's no such thing
As outward beauty: no, the heavenliest sace
Puts on at once hell's features if a fiend
Takes up abode inside.—Hold off! Begone!
Ah, whither could I go? These words have ta'en
The very earth from me, with all its hopes:
Life holds me only by one thread—despair.
So have I felt in dreams, and waked with shrieks;
But after thanking God, have slept again.
Would I could shriek, and turn me, and forget
This night as 'twere a dream!—And may I not?
How know I it was Margaret? We danced
A reel together scarce a minute since!
And as we swept between the admiring lines
My soul drank love from her upturnëd eyes:
Yea, from her willing lips I snatched a kiss.
Amid the scramble of the breaking-up dance
And forming of a new, she left the room.
I follow'd. Some disturbance brought her here.
'Twas nothing when we came: and seeing her
Alone, and even, I thought, expecting me,
I rush'd to press her to my heart—Hold off!—
Methinks it was not Margaret at all.
In coming out I've miss'd her in the crush,
And this has been some other. O fool, fool!
Some other heart's divinity! Blest pair!
They whisper even now inside the door.
Suspicion justifies me if I listen,
To be still more assured it was not she. (Listens.)

His love is not ethereal: that voice
Has never yet been touch'd with the soft oil
Wherewith love's angels trim their wings for flight.
Ah, now she'll speak.—Curst be my ears! that sigh
Was Margaret's; and, death! it is her voice!
She loves another! O, infernal thought!
It leaps like fire within me. Would to God
That from the calendar this night would drop,
And Time close up the blank! What have I done,
Or left undone, that from her heaven of love
Thus suddenly, unwarn'd, she casts me out?
And who is he that she has made a god?
'Twere well I saw him—saw him with her eyes—
That I might know the attribute I want.
Ah, if she bear him only half the love
She seem'd to hold for me! she does not—no!
All love has gone from her—love that imparts
The angel to humanity. That thing
That stood before me in sheer ugliness,
And croak'd the fiendish words Hold off! Begone!
Retains no love for any one: for love
Reflects itself, and makes all else beloved:
The heart that thoroughly loves one loves all,
And could not be a fiend to any one.

Enter Joseph from the Inn.
Joseph.
O ho! and that's her game! If I were him—
As, praise be blest, I am not,—Reuben, eh?
Why, I've been looking for you up and down,
In every room and corner of the house.

Reuben.
What for?

Joseph.
For company. The mirth is up,
And twice they've knock'd down Reuben for a song.
No Reuben answers, nor is Margaret there;
And so, 'mid jealous looks, the whisper runs
That she and you have other fish to fry.

Reuben.
Our fish is fried and eaten, and the bones
Stick in my throat.

Joseph.
I could have guess'd as much.

Reuben.
You guess'd? From what?

Joseph.
From what to-night I've seen.
She hath a score of wooers in that house.

Reuben.
I know; but what of that? they make no speed.

Joseph.
Love blinds you, Reuben—they make speed enough:
Her lips are common as a village green,
And all the geese graze on them.

Reuben.
Rogue, you lie!
I know it is a lie. 'Tis true they seek,
Ay, scramble for that luxury; but they
Taste not the fervid lips she gives to me.

Joseph.
I saw her even now, behind that door,
Close bosom'd with a man.

Reuben.
What kind of man?

Joseph.
A publican and sinner, both in one;—
Cutely they call him, he that keeps the inn
Up there in Fleukergate; who beat his wife—
Ay, beat her, so they say, till she, poor soul,
Was fain to quit that blacken'd tenement
Her body, which he buried some three weeks since.

Reuben.
I'll not believe it, Joseph. Two round years
I've been her loving servant; night by night
Have fann'd her beauty with impassion'd sighs;
I have not miss'd a night, yet never once
Have seen that man on the contested ground.
Besides, in him there's no attraction—none!

Joseph.
There's money, boy, money—lots of that!

Reuben.

Joseph.
God help our wisdom, and our learning too!
Your Latin mends a pen, my Greek a shoe;
We be not classic, but plain English fools,
And none can call us debtors to the schools.

Reuben.
God's universal book is writ in thoughts:
The Tongues have merely turn'd it into words.
We cannot read translations, and are forced
To go to the original. That's all
The secret of their scholarship. Let's go.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—A Room in the Inn. Margaret and Cutely.
Cutely.

True, true, it is uncertain; life's uncertain: but I'll make it two hunder pound a-year, that is per annim, if I die.

Margaret.

Two hundred pounds—that is two hundred pounds. Ah, well, life's so uncertain. A written contract, of course?

Cutely.
Black on white.

Margaret.
Yes, well,—that's over and above what the law might allow?

Cutely.
By course. The law you know is the law; but this is certain and sure.

Margaret.
Then, there's that dear little boy, your son.

Cutely.
He'll be provided for.

Margaret.
By law? or—

Cutely.
No; let's see though—yes: ah, well, we'll see about that after.

Margaret.

O, certainly, see about that; make it something definite, you know, dear little fellow!

Cutely.

Yes, yes; all them things can be settled, when we get settled ourselves.

Margaret.

Ah, but life, you know, life is so uncertain, and there's no time like the present.

Cutely.

I'll do it to-morrow. Where's your mother? Let's arrange about the wedding-day.

Margaret.

We've some sharp young men in the house now— attorney's clerks, and the like. One of them could do the settlement, and—

Cutely.

O, any barber's clerk could do that.—I understand there's something they call a special license, that one can get at once. Now, what day would be convenient?

Margaret.

—And we've writing things in the house. It could

be going on in another room, while I consult my mother about the day.

Cutely.

Very well, very well; go get your pen and paper —some ink too; and if you can pick me out a clerk that can keep a thing, do so. [Exit Margaret.]
Ay, that's the sort for me; a girl of business. My affairs is running into a ravel since my poor, dear Maryhann, heaven forgive me, died; and I must have another at once.—She'll have money, too, money; old Riccard cannot last for ever. They tell me she has some fifty after her on that account—young, penniless shavers, that don't know how to take a woman. I've had my eye upon the girl these two weeks; but never spoke with her before to-night. Every man—and woman— has her price, as the poet says: and very proper too.

Re-enter Margaret.
Margaret.

Now, love, everything's ready—young man and all— in the little back parlour, No. 7.

Cutely.

Kiss me Margaret. (Kisses him.)
There; send me in a pipe and tobacco; and let's have a bottle of sherry over the job; and come yourself in a little, to see that it's all nicely written. They tell me you can do something in that way. You'll have all my writing to do.

[Exit Cutely.

Margaret.
(throwing herself into a chair)

Mother! [Enter Mrs. Riccard.]
Mother, my bannock's baked for life.

Mrs. Riccard.

I thought it would, my girl; I told you that was the right sort of man. What has he come to?

Margaret.

Two hundred pounds a-year, settled and certain— send him in a pipe and tobacco—that is on his death, you know—and a bottle of sherry into No. 7.

Mrs. Riccard.
Bless my heart! two hundred pound! Well, well, well, well.

[Exit Mrs. R.
Margaret.
(rising)
Two hundred pounds at death, and twice my age.
Besides, the law, despite his will, allows
One third, I think, of all his moveables.—
He's not so handsome as I could have liked.
Then there's that brat, that boy by his first wife:
Ay, what of him? He shan't be in the house,
With young ones of our own: I'll board him out
With some one who—he's delicate, poor thing,
And may not live long.—But, about the day:—
'Tis Friday now—say this day week—no, no;
Friday would be unlucky—Wednesday—
'Tis not too soon.—Two hundred pounds a-year!
And what will Master Reuben think of that?—
O name not Reuben! would to heaven it were
Two hundred pounds and Reuben! or half that!
Love, love, methinks, were worth the other half.
Or nothing! if he had the name of rich.
His name's a golden key that opes my heart:
Where art thou, Reuben? Ah, come back, come back!
Two hundred pounds! two hundred wither'd leaves—
Are scatter'd by the breathing of thy name.

Re-enter Mrs. Riccard.
Mrs. Riccard.

He wants you, Margaret—run, my girl, fly—he's made of money—but run to him. See you! here's fifty pound he's given me to buy livery for myself and the wenches—but go, go—any prints will do for them —and there's other fifty yonder for yourself, to buy dresses with—away with you!

Margaret.
Other fifty! he must indeed be made of money!
What have I been thinking of!

Mrs. Riccard.
Run, run, there's no time for thinking.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

A Country Road.
Reuben.

[Exit.

Scene V.

A Room in Eliza's Cottage. Eliza seated, with a Map before her.
Eliza.
He should be here, here, where he said the sea
Was of a deeper blue than my own eyes.—
Alas! how is it with me? I am faint;
And something like a mist is on the map.
'Tis nothing.—And to-morrow he'll be there.—
O! he has gone with radiance on his soul,
But left me dark in spirit, ill at ease.—
This hand I plighted, and before he left
I felt that I had given him all my heart.
And so I had; but, like a new-drawn tooth,
I feel as if the fragment were left in
That caused the pain.—Then, in about a week,
The Falkland Isles—no, no, I've lost my course:
My thoughts are crowded, I am press'd with thoughts,
Yet to no end or purpose can I think. (A knock.)

Come in, and welcome, be ye whom ye may;
Come any one, and take these thoughts away. Enter Reuben.

Ah, Jane! I am so glad, so very, very glad.

Reuben.
And so am I, to find you are so very, very glad.
But where is Jane? She was not telling me—

Eliza.
Is she not with you, then? Not ill, I trust, not ill?
Be seated, Reuben, and tell me.

Reuben.
She is well. 'Tis I that am ill.

Eliza.

And you do well to walk for it. There is nothing better than a country walk for a slight illness.

Reuben.
And you with me, Eliza.

Eliza.
(aside)
Ah!—what means he?

Reuben.

O! how may I approach you, how obliterate the old impressions you must have of Reuben? Eliza, I— I love you.

Eliza.
O, God! too late! too late! Away, dear Reuben!
Leave me! I cannot—may not—O, you are too late!

Reuben.
Too late! O, how?

Eliza.
I am another's! I—I am betrothed.

Reuben.

O! thou hast plucked my soul out! I have no thought, no word—dumb silence all!

Eliza.

O! Reuben, I did love thee—love thee now; and even yesterday would—O, God! God! Farewell— thy presence maddens me. O leave, for Heaven's dear love.

Reuben.

I go, Eliza! but the love of Heaven methinks I leave behind. Farewell! Be happy, and—forget me.

[Exit.

Eliza.
He should have said forget, and then be happy—
Not happy and forget.—O! I could pray
That thou, my God, would'st teach me to forget,
But that thy will is visible in this,
And rules it as it is. If thus to-day
He loves me, surely yesterday he loved.
What unseen finger then lay on his lips,
Or held back in his eye that tongue of light,
And loosed them now to speak unto a heart
That dares not hear?—I have been as a tree,
Whose inward principle of life is love;
Which from the earliest spring has budded out
Nothing but leaves of sorrow. Surely now
I've reach'd the full flow'r of my agonies!
And next, in Heaven's good time, must come the fruit;
Bitter or sweet, I leave with thee, O God!

Scene VI.

A Country Road.
Reuben.

[Exit.