University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Lord Byerdale's Study.—Wilton seated at a table in the act of writing.—Several folded letters before him, other letters lying open, papers, &c.
Wilt.
That memory should feed itself!—wax stronger
In its impression, without agency
Of that which wrought it; till the simulation—
For e'en so much it is—grows palpable
As the original—holds commune with
Our ears and eyes, yet all's within ourself!
At first her image was a dreamy thing
That came and went, and might, for aught I deem'd,
Have gone for ever—now 'tis ever with me!
Substantial presence! steadfast constancy!
I write, I read, I talk, and breaking off
In listless absence, to myself return
In company with her! She is my theme
That supersedes all others! Why is this?
What do I nourish? Hope in spite of hope!
Madness of wishes—never to be bless'd!
Her groom is not beneath her more than I,
The secretary of a haughty lord!
His clerk!—that in his counsels holds no share
More than his pen! What better should I be?—
A man who claims no core of kith or kin
In the wide world! I had a friend—a good
And gracious one—who foster'd me, to play
A higher part. Compell'd by urgent cause
To travel, to this lord he left the care
Of my advancement—left, as to a friend!
But friends at second-hand are doubtful ones!
Where will it end?—O perfect imaging
Of sweetness!—grace!—aspect of soul and form
Most rich in all that man desires in woman!
Rare excellence!—Why, where am I again?
Along with her! Gazing upon her—rapt
With marvel at the glory of her presence!

[Lord Byerdale enters.—Stops short, and stands observing Wilton's abstraction.—Advances and addresses him impatiently.
Lord By.
So! Are those letters finished?

Wilt.
But the seals
And superscriptions.

Lord By.
Get them out of hand!
He grows abstracted. Lady Laura's tone
Had matter in it when she ask'd for him.
Why minds he me of her? She values much,
I hear, the service which he render'd her.
A man of prowess is my secretary,
And presence too! 'Tis not of her he thinks?
Think of an empress!—Does she think of him?
A lady with a will, as I am told!
A judge of merits!—does not take a year
To tell her mind!—That children should have minds!
Be she not of the mind to wed my son,
When he shall sue her—which he shall to-day—
Look to't his Grace of Gaveston! He must plot!
He would reseat the Stuart!—Would he so?
Eyes are upon his Grace he wots not of!
She ask'd for Wilton—never named my son!
The very man, indeed, he is wherewith
Romancists matches disproportionate
Contract—wed pages with their mistresses!
Would my Lord Sunbury had kept at home,
Not palm'd on me his seemly protégé!
He roams to France, and finds a prison there!
There's something in his presence troubles me.
So sat my brother when he play'd the clerk,
With sword on thigh, rather than pen in hand;
You saw the soldier, whatsoe'er he did!
Is it his son? I shall be soon resolved!
My trusty messenger returns to-day.

Wilt.
[Rising.]
My lord, they are ready.

Lord By.
Go and post them, sir,
With your own hand. Tarry, sir; you will pass
His Grace of Gaveston's house; and should you call—

Wilt.
Call there, my lord?

Lord By.
Yes; you do call there?

Wilt.
No.

Lord By.
You have been there?

Wilt.
No, my lord.

Lord By.
Go, post the letters!
[Wilton goes out.
How far above his errand is his gait!
I could believe my brother living still,
And striding forth the door!—He goes not there.
'Tis well he's modest! Will there come the day
When I shall see him knocking at the gate
As though he were at home? Would he were hence!
Why did I ever see him? Ha! Who's come?

[To Williams, who enters.
Will.
My lord, your messenger to Ireland sent.

Lord By.
Admit him. Fear or hope is now at end.
Welcome! What bring you?

[To Harrison, who enters.
Har.
[Giving papers.]
For your lordship these.

Lord By.
[To Harrison, who goes out.]
Go, get refresh'd!
[Reads.]
“They never reach'd the ship!—
“Landed again ten miles below the creek!”
They told me false then. Gold finds out the truth!
So both survived! But Leonard now is dead,
And for the nephew—thanks to self-will'd love—
He breathes without his name! What fear I, then?
What though he be my eldest brother's son!

[Goes out.

SCENE II.

—Hyde Park.
Enter Colonel Green and Wilton.
Wilt.
Sir, I would walk alone—Men may take leave
To choose their own acquaintance! Frankly, you
Are hardly to my taste—What are you, sir?

Green.
What am I?—Why the man that wears this suit,
That owns this trunk, these thews, these features!—Well!
Are you content?—or would you learn my name
And family? Beware, sir! Tell your own.

Wilt.
I cannot!

Green.
You are right!—To say “No more
“Can I,” were flippantly to answer you;
Still, as I yet have held it wisdom, when
With wit or truth we must part company,
To let the lighter go, I claim the knowledge
Which you confess to lack.

Wilt.
You know my name
And family?

Green.
I know my own.

Wilt.
Not mine!

Green.
What then? Is't matter for despondency?

Wilt.
The man that toils along a weary road
Beneath a burthen, and, miscounting, thinks
The time is come, at last, to lay it down,
With weight augmented takes it up again
To bear it onward still.

Green.
You are not yet
Of age.

Wilt.
How know you that?

Green.
What matter how,
So that I know? The knowledge on't is neither
Murder nor theft! It might be treason—but
It is not that. What friend have you beside
The Earl of Sunbury?

Wilt.
How know you he's
My friend?

Green.
Why ply a bootless labour twice?
I know it. That content you!—Who besides
Rank in the list, more, often, fill than ought?

Wilt.
I count but one—Lord Sherbrooke.

Green.
Son of him
You're secretary to—Lord Byerdale.

Wilt.
You seem to know me well!

Green.
I seem? I do!
Lord Byerdale!—is he your friend too?

Wilt.
No.

Green.
Nor friend to any who deserve a friend!

Wilt.
Who are you, sir?

Green.
You have been bred at college.
You have won honours there—and high ones, too.
A college is a place to sharpen wit,
Or ought to be. A slight hint should suffice;
And yet, it seems, you cannot take a broad one.

Wilt.
Sir, I love openness and honour.

Green.
Right!
And so do I. I mean you not to know me!
So much for openness!—and, as to honour,
Judge me as you find me!

Wilt.
Thereby judging you,
How shall I rate you in the property
In question last; when, calmly looking on,
You suffer'd lawless violence to leaguer
A noble lady and her sire, nor stirr'd
A finger to their rescue?

Green.
Motives, sir,
Give shape to facts, which often change them
To things the most diverse from what they seem.
Thus far know mine—I weigh'd the risk, was run,
And framed my conduct to the amount of it.
A score of crowns to needy gentlemen
Was worth, perhaps, the violence they did
Their better natures, so to practise on
A lady's fright. In these disjointed times,
Try as you may, things will not go by rule!
William of Nassau fills the throne to-day—

Wilt.
[Interrupting him.]
Long may he fill it, sir, and hand it down
An heir-loom with a people's guarantee
To an unfailing race!

Green.
[Vehemently.]
Youth, 'twas not thus!—
[Checks himself.
But those who left you in your infancy,
To take the course which others counted best,
Have but themselves to thank! I'll not be one
To check the faith, that, now, must bear thee through!

Wilt.
You are a man of honour.

Green.
By my foes
I have been counted so. Where left we off?
Where it were best we leave the argument.

Wilt.
One word, sir, to go back.

Green.
Say on!

Wilt.
From what
You said just now, I think I must have friends
I know not of—

Green.
You have.

Wilt.
Who are they?

Green.
Yet
You may not know.

Wilt.
But shall I ever know?

Green.
As sure as life holds on with them and you!
Now to the cause that makes you jealous of me—
My passive bearing at a certain time.
Your arm achieved what mine forbore to do—
Mark me!—forbore!—rescued the noble sire
And yet more noble child.

Wilt.
More noble?

Green.
Yes;
Better! You have seen them?

Wilt.
No.

Green.
You would be welcome.
Hast thought upon the maid?—I see thou hast.

Wilt.
Sir!

Green.
Are you vapour? Do I see you now,
And now are you away?

Wilt.
What mean you, sir?

Green.
A minute since I was a man of honour!

Wilt.
You are so still.

Green.
And such shall be approved.
So trust you me!—Hast thought upon the maid?

Wilt.
I have!

Green.
'Twas fit!—'Twas fair!—'Twas paying back
What you received—for she has thought of you!
Mark!—At the moment that you stood her friend,
She grew your love!—Youth's in a blaze, and sees
Not half what passes round it!—When to flight
You put her enemies, you little thought
That, after all your pains, the maid was robb'd!

Wilt.
Robb'd!—

Green.
Of her heart—I saw it on the arm
Where but her figure seem'd to hang, the while
You led her to the carriage.

Wilt.
Do you know
Who was the lady?

Green.
Daughter to the Duke
Of Gaveston.

Wilt.
Yes; and I an humble man!

Green.
You are not an humble man—that is—I am right!—
And stand to what I say—a man that owns
A noble soul is not an humble man,
In the poor sense wherein the sapient world
Mouths out the trite and questionable phrase!

Wilt.
Who are you, sir?—Forgive me!—I'm content
To know you by your thoughts.

Green.
Whereto I'll add
My deeds in time, with every adjunct else!
Hie to the Duke's! He owes thee benefit;
And welcome will he give thee as a friend,
Though dull to what's to come, as dawn to day
When the sun's up and glow is turn'd to fire!
His daughter pines for sight of him again,
Whom the first sight commended so, all else
To vision is a blank! I say again
Thou art no humble man! Revolve my words
With boldest spirit.—Dare, and you shall win!
My counsel needing, or my help, this scrawl
Will prove your guide, although a homely one.
'Tire never yet was flesh and blood, no more
Than mind and heart! The man is still the man!

[Goes out.
Wilt.
As fanning wind will bring to blaze again
The fire we thought was out, but only smoulder'd;
So, at his word, my only smother'd hopes
Revive, when, doting, I believed them dead.
Here Sherbrooke comes—indeed my hearty friend,
But, for my humour, all too light a one.

Enter Sherbrooke.
Sher.
So, Master Secretary, health to you!
If health you wish—for he's a fool who serves
A man against his humour—the right road
To make an enemy! Each man has his bliss
According to his nature. One will mope;
A squadron could not drag him to a feast!
Leave him, good soul, alone, with knees to chin,
Feet on the fender, sitting all a-heap
Over the embers winking in the grate!
He's happy!—With the spleen another man
Is smitten—champions it as cavalier
His lady-love! “Have at you, sir!” would you come
Betwixt him and his humour. Do you see
That scowl?—It is his mistress' favour which
He wears with thin and bitter curling lip,
All the year round, spite of the laughing sun.
And why not, sir? He is a happy man!—
As happy as he can be!—Let him be!
And there are men, saving your reverence,
Who, with the thorax sound as a new drum,
Waste with the melting rheum—would you believe them?
With trunks like culverins, and limbs of brawn,
They shake with rigors at a thorough air!
No month but brings its proper malady,
Of which they're sure to die!—yet do they live,
And sleep, and wake, and talk, and eat, and drink,
Until perhaps some nostrum makes an end!—
Yet are they happy, sir, in their own way.

Wilt.
These are anomalies 'mongst men.

Sher.
Not so:
The world's made up of such! Few wisely live.
The wise man, sir, is the anomaly!

Wilt.
You're in the mood contemplative to-day.

Sher.
I am—I am about to seek a wife.
Why do you start?—I do not say to take one.

Wilt.
About to wed?

Sher.
My father wills it so.
But fathers do not settle marriage brawls:
A pity, then, they settle marriages.
Better their children. Men complain the less,
When, for their cares, they have themselves to thank.

Wilt.
And may I know the lady?

Sher.
You have met her.

Wilt.
Met her!—

Sher.
Let's see. The time was evening. 'Twas
A lone sequester'd spot.—Couldn't I write
A deep romance?—A fear-bewilder'd sire
And shrieking damsel, by a lawless band
Beset.—A situation!—Who comes in?
The hero of my story—or the book
Is matter for the fire! So in he comes!
Alone? Of course alone—most hero-like!
One against five!—Twenty were few as five,—
No hero ever takes account of odds!
Is he o'erpower'd? Not if the scribe has thews.
His blows fell two, his eyes flash down the rest;
Reauty and Age—weak guardian of such store—
Are rescued in the very nick of time!
Fraud its inglorious field inglorious flies,
And Age is free to hobble. Not so Beauty;
For Beauty's soft of heart and frail of limb,
And like to swoon in an extremity;
Which if the author sees not, he hath got
A cataract, and couch his eyes for him
With his own pen!—I am not such a one.
When I attempt a book, I write a book!
The lady needs support,—who yields it her?
The hero 'fore the king, were the king by!
Upon the hero leans the heroine!
At first half-willingly—more willingly
Anon,—anon with all her heart and soul,—
And so, and so, and so, is borne away!
You'll read my work and give it a good name?
Why, what's the matter, man? You're dumb and pale.
Heavens! if the first step overpowers you so,
How will you mount my climax as it towers?
Wilton!

Wilt.
My lord?

Sher.
My friend!—I brook not lord!
Or call me “Sherbrooke”—that's the friendly mode.
What gaze you at in vacancy? A phantom?
Wilton, it is a phantom that you see.
If aught that gives you pain—I would not wed
The Lady Laura Gaveston!

Wilt.
What is she
To me?

Sher.
Nothing—if not the self-same thing
You are to her!—Wilton, she has lost her heart,
And you have got it.

Wilt.
Sherbrooke—

Sher.
That's the word!
Shake hands, man! Listen! At the play last night
I sat with her. She spoke a library,
If “yea” and “nay” make volumes. Only once
The scene attracted her. The heroine
Was rescued by her lover. Had you heard
The sighs with which she follow'd, step by step,
The progress of the touching incident!—
My book shall beat it, though!—If you feel, speak!
Or is it that you feel too much to speak?
Do you note me, Wilton? All the rest of the time
Her eyes kept traversing the tiers, as though
In quest of one they sought but could not find;
For ne'er they fix'd, save when there oped a door,
And then they turn'd away to range again!
The wish'd one came not in!—a circumstance
Of tender implication to dilate on.
I'll turn it to account!—My book is writ!—
And at the close, when on the vestibule
We hung awhile to wait her hinder'd coach,
Jove! how she scann'd the beaux!—Some management
To make that pass with prudes, who read aloud—
And when the steps at last gave note to mount,
How with a sigh she went all listless in,
Scarce giving me Good night!

Wilt.
How know you whom
She look'd for—if she look'd for any one?

Sher.
By this and this. First, her absorption at
That critical and memory-stirring scene,
The counterpart of one which you and she
Enacted once with marvellous effect—
Methinks a document!—In the next place,
The potency of certain words as plain
As “Wilton Brown” no kin at all to famed
Abracadabra!—to enchain her ear
And make the blood with ebb and flow enact
The tide upon the haven of her cheek,
And hold her lips disparted like to those
Who stint their breath with thrilling of a tale;
As with her father I discuss'd a point
Touching the argument, whereon I mean
To take my stand 'mongst literary men!—
And, add to this, as proof superlative,
Her tongue is never weary of your name,
Which, once 'tis broach'd, she more and more repeats,
Like strain that grows on us the more 'tis sung!
Wilton, the Lady Laura loves you, man!

Wilt.
Sherbrooke, remember I'm an humble man!

Sher.
You are not an humble man!

Wilt.
Again! How's this?
I am bewilder'd—

Sher.
Love is not a plain,
But an entangling maze.

Wilt.
I do not speak
Of love! You say I am no humble man?

Sher.
And say't again.

Wilt.
Your father's secretary!

Sher.
And what am I that am my father's son?
Intrinsically humbler far than you.
Wilton, think boldly of yourself!

Wilt.
Again!
Look here—As now you speak, so spoke the man
Who gave me this.

[Showing a paper.
Sher.
Let's see it!—“Colonel Green—
“At the Green Dragon”—challenge for St. George!
And you, an humble man!

Wilt.
What man is he
Who gave me that?

Sher.
[Returning the paper.]
An honourable one;
Albeit he draws not sword when he beholds
A lady leagur'd on the king's highway.

Wilt.
Is he of the craft?

Sher.
There, breathe at ease, my friend,
He is not. Wilton, sound men drive that trade.
Don't wonder!—When a kingdom's upside down,
What man can say he is to-day himself
As he was yesterday? The battle's chance
Brings change of pockets—light for heavy ones;
Lank purses; or, for old ones, but their room;
New masters to old mansions, and so forth!—
I do not justify, I but excuse.
There is at times a conscience in offence,
For which the best abate the penalty.
But to my Dulcinea and her knight!
My father wills I go and woo the fair.
I go and woo, but you must come and win!

Wilt.
What! Go along with you? No!—not a step,
When Honour forbids me, not!

Sher.
Forbid the prude
To waste her breath until she sees the strait.

Wilt.
To 'scape the strait 'twere best to shun it.

Sher.
So,
The navigator never had gone through!
Wilton, you'll helm it, spite of shoal and rock,
And laugh beyond in the bright open sea!
I'll have you come with me!—Nay, scowl away!
What! jealousy!—nip friendship, will you?—but
You shall not, by this honest arm and hand!
Come on!

Wilt.
Nay, Sherbrooke—

Sher.
Nay, come on!—Come on!

[Goes out, forcing Wilton with him.