University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

Reuben's parlour. Jane sitting at the breakfast table.
Jane.
Already comes the morning sun across
To lick the shadows from our side the street,
And noisy children shift their playing ground
To bask like flies i' the heat. Outside, the day
Is thoroughly awake—indeed half done,
While here, inside, it seems not yet begun. (Rings bell.)

The greater part of life is spent in waiting
To do that which the other never does.
My appetite is sated through the eyes,
Waiting for Reuben, who leaves his in bed;
Or if he bring it with him, his affairs
Step in 'tween it and the meal. Breakfast with him
Is but the flourish of the instruments
Before a piece of music left unplay'd.

Enter Mary.
Mary.

Please, Miss, he's only been two or three hours in bed, Miss; and he does not sleep such a terrible deal, Miss; his key never comes to the door, not much before I get up, and good broad daylight, too, Miss, and the sun shining; and boots just awful to clean, Miss, and ------

Jane.
Well, do as I bid you.

Mary.

He pass'd me in the lobby just as I went to let in the sweeps, and they kept bawling in the chimney a full hour at least, Miss; and no wonder he doesn't get up; and, I'm sure, if you was me—that is, if I was you ------

Jane.
Now, now; that's enough. [Exit Mary.

He ever was a wanderer of the night,
Yet seldom past night's noon. When he returned
We saw he had not been in vicious ways;
He came as from a bath of meditation,
Its freshness still about him; in his eyes
A mild light, got with looking in the moon,
And all his nature dimpling as a spring
Of sweet good humour, mellow as rich cream.
So am I not untroubled by the change
That, like a sudden rack on a fleet wind,
Has over-run his life, and hung a cloud
Between him and this little world of home.
I feel not now the warm beams of his heart;
His presence lacks the soul; in through his eyes
I see no moving tenant, but the mould
And desolation of a haunted house.
His outward garniture bespeaks a lover;
But worthy love within illumes a ruin—
Gives it the semblance of a lighted fane;
He loves unworthily, if he love at all.
I've used my artfullest wiles to incline his heart
Towards my friend Eliza, my best friend;
'Tween whom and me needs but a brother's love
To make us more than sisters. But in vain.
He cannot see how dotingly her soul
Pours out its wealth on him; nor can he see
How much her virtues even exceed the bound
Of my great estimate. With such a one,
How prosperous were the matrimonial voyage,
So often jarr'd by storms.

Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
My breakfast, Jane.
You should have waked me sooner. Sleep's a vice
Confoundedly tenacious of its hold.
Like all the little vices, it will claim
That as its due to-morrow which to-day
We give by way of favour.

Jane.
True enough;
But hunger'd creatures are not to be blamed
For over-feeding when they get the chance.
You bedded late last night.

Reuben.
Yes, pretty late.
How over-hot this coffee is for haste!

Jane.
I did not hear you coming in last night.
At what time came you, did you say?

Reuben.
Past twelve.
You should have had it pour'd ere I came down.

Jane.
I'll bring it cold enough,

[Exit Jane.
Reuben.
Past twelve! and yet,
'Twas but a quarter—of a day—past twelve.—
I trust they hanged him that invented clocks.
Not only do they lie among themselves,—
They are the most prolific cause of lies,
Quibble, and deceit, in us who would be true.
Had not the steeples with their babbling tongues
Rung all the morning hours into my ear,
I had been ignorant, and could not lie.
It were a virtuous world without a clock!
Yet virtue come of ignorance never raised
A soul one step to heaven: therefore, those things
That prompt us to our sins and teach the way,
Are ministers of virtue and of heaven.—
I never can escape that infinite circle.
In argument I reach the self-same point,
Whichever way I turn; and thus I find
I never can become a partizan.

[Rises to go.
Re-enter Jane.
Jane.
Now, try a cup of this. What, done already!
You've taken nothing! Do begin again.

Reuben.
Thank you, I've eaten heartily, very heartily;
So heartily, indeed, my heart is full.

Jane.
I'd rather that your stomach were. But stay,
I want to speak to you. This afternoon
I go to spend the evening with Eliza,
Who accuses us that we do not return
Her frequent visits hither. I will go
Early, and take my needlework, and you
Will come and fetch me home.

Reuben.
Well, but—I have—
That is—at least—I—you—and then—you see—
But yet, it may keep fair—it may, it may.

Jane.
Keep fair! look out—there's not a flake in the sky!
But what although it come a glittering shower!
There's many a sheltering tree along the way.
Nothing so pretty as the summer rain,
Shooting like silver arrows from the sun,
Darting and pattering on the leafy shield
Above one's head. How pleasant when it fairs,
To step again into the beamy day,
Along the reeking hedgerows, while the thorns
Wink with their little eye-drops! And how sweet
To hear the bees resume their droning song,
The woods, the bushes, the blue sky itself
Break out in bells of music, as the cloud
That brought the shower lifts up its skirts and limps
Northward beneath the bright and shiny bow
That spans the valley. If you think 'twill rain
I cannot choose but go. Say, then, you'll come.

Reuben.
Of course; but then, you'll stay so late; and then,—
But yet, I'll come—if I can find the way.
Perhaps I'll find it.

Jane.
If you would, you will.
You cross the river by the wooden bridge—
You know the way right well!—then straight along
The ruin'd tram-road where the rank grass whistles
Over the broken rails, and toad-stools gaze,
With blind eyes, from the sides of rotten planks,
And nettles, thistles, hemlock and dischilaig,
'Mong wrecks of waggons and overturn'd wheels,
Infect the mind with sadness—

Reuben.
Ah, you mean
The broken bridge that crosses the canal
Near to its head or end. It is indeed
The melancholiest picture of decay,
In midst of thriving traffic, I have seen!
The sodden punts lie swamp'd up to the lips;
The green sink is long dead, and yet alive,
With reptile and with vegetable life;
It bocks and bubbles, and anon a toad
Raises a black snout through the slimy scum,
Startles the dead dogs with a horrid croak,
Then back to slime and silence. Round the marge
The long rank grass and fat unwholesome docks
Harbour the water-rat and bloated worm;
And all around, fragments of strange machines,
Invented and then left to rust and rot.

Jane.
You know very well that's not the way I mean,
But quite the opposite. When you have cross'd
The river—not canal—and gone along
The little ancient railway till you come
To the second lane on the right, you turn down that,
Pass an old lime-kiln and a white-wash'd house,
And on and on, leaving, upon your left,
An old house with three gables, and a date
Carved quaintly on the lintel of the door;
Then onward, crossing by a one-arch'd bridge
A sluggish little stream; and then your road
Winds round a small wood, deafen'd with noisy rooks.
There, in a bed of roses and sweet briars,
You come upon a cottage roof'd with straw.
You'll know it by the taste—indeed, sweet thoughts
It breathes around it; by the little green,
And by the antique dial 'fore the door,
The honeysuckle tangling to the eaves,
The narrow casements curiously set
With stain'd glass like a chapel. That is it.

Reuben.
Ah—bridge—white-house and tram-road—right and left;
And then the old lime-kiln on the one-arch'd bridge;
Then the house with the seven gables. Let me see—
You'll leave Eliza's, say at half-past six;
I'll meet you at the seven-gabled house.
Till then—

[Going.
Jane.
(following)
Nay, stop; why that's the loneliest part,
The very dreariest bit of all the road!
I'll stay until you come, however late.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

A room in Eliza's Cottage. Enter Eliza, opening letters.
Eliza.
(Reads.)

“Thanks to the tides, or to the moon who sways them, I shall see you once again before I sail. It will be the day after to-morrow before we can float. O, Eliza! bethink you seriously of our last interview. You sent me away with my soul toss'd on a sea of uncertainty. Heaven sends me one opportunity more. Be prepared to decide my fate for ever. On you it depends, whether I return in two short years, prosperous and happy, or find a home—perchance a grave—on some barbarous shore. My soul knows but one haven of refuge, and that is your breast. Let me depart in the divine trust that to it I may freely return. To-morrow evening I will be with you. Edward.”

“Dearest Eliza,—You often tell me that I owe you twenty visits. Well, this very day I will pay the half of them with one long one. I shall be with you early in the afternoon, and stay until Reuben comes for me. This is to apprise you of my coming, that you may not otherwise dispose of yourself. Meantime, I am, affectionately yours, Jane.”

[Exit.

Scene III.

A street. Enter two gentlemen.
First Gent.
Yes, we have many instances of love
As sudden as the shooting of a star—

Second Gent.
Coming to nothing, like a shooting star.

First Gent.
Not so.—I grant, some finer looking men,
And many richer, may have fill'd her gaze;
But love stands not on looks,—a lip, a nose,
Although of import in the general mind,
Is little thought of when love makes a choice.
They tell us that in heaven all are fair:
So love with angel-eyes looks through the flesh,
And sees the heavenly features even here.
Then, as to wealth, with her of whom I speak,
That cannot be an object; for, in short,
The old man's rich, and she an only child.

Second Gent.
I cannot think such progress could be made
In one short interview.

First Gent.
Yourself shall judge.
To-night they give a treat to some few friends—
Their customers. She said I must be there,
And if you'll meet me here at half-past eight,
Ill take you with me.

Second Gent.
No, I'll meet you there:
The Bar is public, I presume.

First Gent.
Agreed.

[Exit.
Second Gent.
What folly to conclude upon a glance—
Yea, but a twinkle of that fine black eye,
Which she perforce must give to all that come,
Or not be there at all! That he must love
Is only the necessity of all
Who see her. But that she dotes in return
Is equally their folly to suppose.—
He'll take me with him! Take! How strange to me,
Who was, of course, the first that she invited!
He's but a stranger to the house. He'll blush
For these his soft revealments when he sees
Me paramount to-night! And, strange to say!
This is the very friend I thought to make
Groom at our wedding. Had I but prevail'd
Last night on Margaret to name the day,
I should have broach'd the subject even now,
And quench'd his passion ere it burnt his heart.—
'Tis better as it is. I have observ'd
That what we've said is oftener regretted
Than what we should have said but have omitted.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

—A Street. Bradbury outside, surveying his shop window.
Bradbury.
Methinks I have displayed unusual taste,
A readier art and quicker expedition,
In hanging out my bannerets to-day:
My hands seem quicken'd with a conqueror's heart,
And everything I touch slips bravely through them.
As schoolboys at the approach of holidays,
So I, who am almost on the happy eve
Of still diviner days, address myself
As lightly to my task as if 'twere none.
The theory is, we summon up the nerve
Of all our coming idleness, and do
With force of many hours, the work of one. (Draws from his pocket a note, and reads.)

“Supper at nine,” she says, “and then a dance.”
A dance! 'Tis awkward, very! Had it been
A mental thing!—It matters not, but thus
To shuffle all one's self-respect away—
Excuse me, love, I have not learnt the way.—
But let me catch her deeper sense: it needs
Profounder study, larger grasp of mind,
In him that truly reads than him that wrote;
For he must grasp subject and writer both,
And see their wants ere he see all they mean.
With fine naiveté and pertinence she writes,
“Fools we shall have in plenty; but I trust
“That Bradbury will bear with all.” Just so;
And her unwritten thought is clearly this:
That she expects I will not join this troop
Of light feet and light heads, but keep aloof,
And with a patron-majesty look on:
Yes, sit sedately by the old man's side
And smoke a quiet pipe, drop shrewd remarks,
And look approvingly—well pleased to see
Such innocent enjoyment, yet withal
Bearing myself as in a higher sphere.—
“Make no advances to me; you will learn
“Reasons for this ere long.” I see them now—
Yes, thanks to this,

(Tapping his forehead)
Enter Juniper and Friend.
Juniper.
Good morrow, daddy. Got your window dress'd?
Fine display. Splendid shawl that! Gaudy, though!
Coming down to-night, eh? Dance, you know.
Good morning, daddy

[Exeunt.
Bradbury.
“Fools we shall have in plenty.” Verily,
Of all the fools she mentions, he is king!
An empty-headed pack! I scorn them all.
Of such, however, we, the shrewd, the 'cute,
Our profits make, in every branch of trade.
They are the life-blood of the taverns,
And therefore I will teach myself to bear,
To “bear with all,” for Margaret and the house.

[Exit.

Scene V.

Corner of the Market-place. Car, selling vegetables.
Car.

Not twelve o'clock yet! I wish it was neet! Can onybody tell me if that clock bees stonin'? It doesn't look to me to move a bit! Yet it did tak' a stert when I look'd a while the other way.—Supposing it was twelve now, how long would that be while eight? Add twelve from eight. No, substract twelve to eight. You cannot. Put down your ought and then reduct. Why, it's more till a whole day put together; which is some error.—Howsomever, I must goa to the Brig at eight. Merget said nine; but it's best to be in time. (Enter a woman, who looks at the vegetables.)
Two-pence a stone missus. (Woman goes away.)
Verra weel; yo needn't buy them. It's dirt cheap for turmits.—I doant need to lower my price now for no woman. I want to leave the merket with a good character; so that hucksters will say, “He was a rare good chap was Richard for keepin' up prices.” “Prices has never been what they was since Richard wed Merget and went to the Brig.” “It was a ill day for aur trade when Richard sterted landlord.” “But a man has a reet to better hissel', and here's wishin' his verra good health.”—Yonder comes Wheeler, one o' them town swells that would like to catch Merget. But hoo wouldn't have a town's mon on no account.

Town's folk is actiwally not worth a leek, and quite as green.

Enter Wheeler.
Wheeler.
(aside)

There's Car the gardener. I met him on the road half drunk last night, shouting to everyone that passed, “My name is Richard Car, or Dick, if you will. I'll be wed to Merget Riccard in a week, and never sell a turmit nor a green thing no more.”—Good morning, Richard. I hear you are going to be married and turn landlord.

Car.

What, down at the Brig? Nay, nay, Measter Wheeler, Merget would never take the like o' me. You've the best chance yonder.

Wheeler.

I once thought so, Richard. She's an excellent wench, and a pretty. But she wants a man that knows gardening and farming; and that's just the reason she's taking you in preference to me.

Car.

Hoo always said hoo would have nowt but a country mon. But I howp yo'll take no offence, Measter Wheeler. It's not my fault yo knoan. Yo'll not leave the house will yo?

Wheeler.

Leave the house! Hang it, no! I'll take my glass

as usual. Why, man, although I know you and she will be man and wife in a week, yet shall I be down to-night, and perhaps dance a quadrille with her, if you'll let me.

Car.

You'll be vastly welcome, Measter Wheeler; for I'm nowt at cowreels mysel'. I've been too much at cow heels for that,—ha, ha, ha!

Wheeler.

You've that to thank for your good fortune, Richard. (Thanks to the tailor's ring, I can afford to joke on this subject.) Good morning, Richard.

[Exit.

Car.

Good day, Measter Wheeler.—He's a verra nice gentlemany gentleman that.—I must go, though; for there will be nowt more done to-day.—Merget's been telling him all about it, I can see; and he taks it weel—verra weel. I thowt he would be vext, but he wasn't; for he sees it isn't my fault.

(Loads his barrow, preparing to leave the market, and sings.)

It's a very lamancholy sweet song; and if I could bethink me of the rest of it, I would sing it over all day; for I'll be like to give it them at neet. So I'll goa and bethink me.

[Exit.

Re-enter Wheeler, with Greene.
Greene.

—because, if you have not given it her I would rather ------

Wheeler.
But I have given it her.

Greene.
I would rather ------

Wheeler.
But I tell you I have given it her.

Greene.
Are you quite certain of that?

Wheeler.
How could I be uncertain?

Greene.
And how did she take it?

Wheeler.
O, not with the tongs—gingerly.

Greene.

I mean, how did she look? What did she say or think? In short, how did the thing take?

Wheeler.

Well, she looked as if she had been newly shaken out of a bag; and when she came to herself, she said it was a sweet pretty thing, kissed it, and put it on her finger. What she thought, I could not swear to, but I flatter me she wished such brotherly love might continue. In short, the thing took just as I expected it would; and of this you shall shortly be convinced. So, go on and prosper, my boy. (Slapping him on the shoulder.)
Good-day.

[Exit.

Greene.

It might be well to prosecute this thing, and not tamely give it up, as I had determined. My battle, it would seem, is half fought by this ally of mine, her brother. And the prize! Why, it may not be so bad after all. She's extremely pretty, and I love her distractedly

—with the single exception that she has this brother. But the old fellow's rich, and even the half would not be bad. Then, there's the business: Margaret is sole manager now, and must inevitably inherit it; for that rattletrap could not settle to it. Besides, I will encourage him to drink, and we all know the up-shot of that. Yes, yes, my course seems perfectly clear. But I'll first make the necessary inquiries as to the will, &c. Oh, yes, I'll be cautious not to commit myself. They shan't have an action out of me.

[Exit.