University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene First.

—Court of Sir Walter Amyott's House.
A loud knocking heard, L. Enter 1st Servant, R. 1 E.
1st Servant.
Yes, it's a knocking—and Sir Walter absent—
And no one but my lady left at home,
And us poor servants. (knocking repeated)
Yes, it is a knocking.
What can it be? It's William's business
To answer that front gate. (knocking louder)
Most certainly
It is a knocking. Should it now be thieves,
Or cavalier malignants! Well, I'm glad
It's not my duty. (knocking louder still)
There can't be a doubt
That it's a knocking; but I'm not the man
To take another's office.

Courier.
(without)
Ho! Hilloa!
Hilloa there! Ho! Within the house! (knocking)
Why, knaves!
'Tis easy seen the master is from home.
Within there! Ho!

Enter 2nd and 3rd Servants, R. 1 E., they cross and exeunt, L. 1 E., and return with Courier.
1st Serv.
I wonder if they are armed.
Verily, honest man, thou mak'st a noise—
(looking at him)
What, Robert? Welcome back to Dorsetshire.
You shameless knaves (to Servants)
to keep good Robert waiting!

3rd Serv.
(R.)
Why, boy, thou'lt bring rare news, I warrant now.

Cour.
(C.)
The best of news.
Sir Walter's coming home; and sends me first
With this to greet his lady.

(giving a letter to 1st Servant)
1st Serv.
(L. C.)
Verily
'Twill cheer her soul, I doubt not. She hath pined
Most fondly in his absence—like as one
Whose heart clings to its creature idol.

Cour.
Quick then,
And bear that comfort to her.

1st Serv.
Honest lady!
Ay, as thou say'st, 'twill comfort her. Here, William,
(giving the letter to 2nd Servant, L.)
It is thine office; bear this to my lady,
And look thou loiter not. Her spirit hungers
For tidings of my lord. There's food for her.—
And so—the news, good lad?

Cour.
You've heard, belike,
Cromwell is now Protector, and His Highness—

(all excited)
2nd Serv.
Aye marry! the good brewer's ale grows strong!

1st Serv.
What, thou'rt not gone! I'll have thee whipt, thou knave!
(2nd Servant crosses slowly behind to R.)
And so His Highness—well, good lad—His Highness—

Cour.
Aye, the malignant Royalists broke out
So mad upon this title, that they rose
And entered Salisbury.

1st Serv.
Good lack! good lack!
The cut-throat men of war! But Salisbury,
That's far from here—there is no danger?

Cour.
Danger!
A single troop of horse dispersed them all.

1st Serv.
(crosses to L. and back)
Aha! The knaves! I wish some few of them
Would fly this way. In troth my lord should find
We're men of valour here. 'Twould well content me
To make a prisoner.

3rd Serv.
And me.

2nd Serv.
(advancing, R. C.)
And me.

Cour.
Why look, that varlet holds the letter still.

2nd Serv.
(giving the letter to 3rd Servant)
Francis, fly with it; art thou not ashamed
To keep my lady waiting?

3rd Serv.
Nay, but Robert—
For these malignants?

Cour.
To prevent more mischief
Cromwell sends men of trust to every province.
Sir Walter comes commissioned here—

3rd Serv.
Sir Walter?
Oh my brave master!

(the Servants all exhibit boisterous joy, turning up the Stage as the Page enters, R. 1 E.)
Page.
Why what hubbub's here?
Knocking and shouting, and all heads together?
My lady sends to know of this disturbance.
What's this—a letter? (snatches it and crosses to R.)


3rd Serv.
(R.)
William should have took it.

2nd Serv.
(R. C.)
No, it was given Peter.

1st Serv.
Robert brought it

Page.
My life now; but if swearing were permitted
You'd make me swear! A letter for my lady,
And none of all these idle knaves will stir
To bear it to her! Get you gone, you varlets!
Off! or I'll have the dog-whips out!
(the Servants cross behind and slink off, R. 1 E.)
Stay, fellow! (to Courier, who is following)

A letter. (turning it over)
Hem! And from my lord, I think?

Cour.
(L.)
It is so, sir.

Page.
(R.)
My lady will be wild
Till she receive it! Do you guess its tidings?

(turning it over, and trying to look into it)
Cour.
To tell, as I believe, Sir Walter's coming.

Page.
Ha! coming home? I' faith I'm glad to hear it.
We have been sadly moped. I've been, myself,
The only man of any note in the house
These six months past: now we shall have companions.
I think they say my lord is much renowned?

Cour.
So much so, that he comes in full command
Over this district—above all appeal,
Save to the Lord Protector's self.

Page.
Nay, faith then
Such trust is very creditable to him!
You come, I think, from London? Met you any
Who asked for me? for when I last was there
I left some bright eyes wet. I should be sad
To learn the foolish things had pined too deeply.

Enter Maud, L., Courier takes off his hat.
Maud.
(crosses to C.)
How now, sir Page! They say there's tidings come
Of my good lord. My lady waits impatient,
And sends me down to ask of your delay.

Page.
I did but pause, sweet Maud, to rate this fellow
For loitering on the road.

Maud.
A letter, too!
Give it to me—I'll bear it her myself.

Page.
Thank you; I know a page's duty better.
(crosses to L.)
I'll spare your pains, and win myself the largess
For the good news. Fellow! (to Courier)
go to the buttery
And bid the cellarer fill thee with ale.

Exit, R. 1 E.
Cour.
I humbly thank your Pageship; and I'll go
Drink to your better beard.

Exit, R. 1 E.
Maud.
(looking after Page)
Well, this is cool!
These imps of Pages are the very devil—
Oh, mercy on me! what a naughty word!
It's well none heard me. But 'tis really hard
To stroke oneself down to the sleek demureness
Of these smooth-spoken times. Now here comes one
Would read a homily a good hour long
On my enormity; yet, I'll be sworn
The knave would cheat or lie—backbite or slander,
Without a blush—but mum!
Suddenly changing her manner as Jabez Sneed enters, R. 1 E.
So, master steward,
They say the man, called carnally our master,
Returneth home.

Jabez.
(C.)
They speak without a lie then—
A most rare grace.

Maud.
'Twill be a joyous day
For my dear lady.

Jabez.
(sourly)
Will it?

Maud.
Do you doubt it?

Jabez.
No. Walter Amyott is rich and young:
Such ever find a welcome.

Maud.
(warmly)
Sir! my master—
(And bear in mind he is your master too)—
Is noble, generous, faithful, honest, brave!
Some servants might well take him for their pattern.
And, for my lady's love—the doting fondness
Of their first courtship was but cold and weak
Gauged by the wife's devotion.

Jabez.
(with a sneer)
They've been married
Almost a twelvemonth!

Maud.
Well—and if they have, sir?
Twelve ages would not change a love like theirs.

Jabez.
Hem!

Maud.
Jabez Sneed, you do not love my lady.

Jabez.
I'm not her husband—wherefore should I love her?
Because she came a wolf among our lambs?
Bred of a family of hot malignants—
Daughter of that Lord Arden who at Naseby
Fell fighting by the man Charles Stuart's side;
Sister of that Lord Arden, his successor,
Who, after Worcester's crowning mercy, fled
To pitch his tent among his country's foes,
And plot against the rulers of his people?
I tell thee there be those would hold the deed
A pious one to smite, with the sword's edge,
The Amalekitish woman!

Maud.
She's no woman,
Thou saucy knave! She is a noble lady!
And for thy hate of her, thou cankerous varlet,
It is not that she's daughter to a lord,
Nor sister to a banished nobleman;
But that she's wife to thy too trusting master,
And more than doubts thy long accustomed plunder!
That she knows figures—looks to thy accounts—
Balances incomings and outgoings,
And keeps thee straight in all. Why thou'rt grown thinner
By half thy substance since thou canst not thieve!

Jabez.
(R. C.)
Verily, Maud, the world is strong in thee.
Thou talk'st of carnal things.

Maud.
(C.)
I talk of thee,
A very carnal thing! My lady too
Talks of thee, Jabez Sneed, and will talk more
When my good lord is come. Aha! sir knave,
She has some rare discoveries for his ear
Of thy past doings, and she'll make thee known
For what thou art.

Jabez.
Thou'rt somewhat out of breath—
Better sit down and rest.

Maud.
I've breath enough
To tell my lady what thou say'st of her;
Ay, and I'll do it too! A woman quotha!
Out on the scurvy knave! My lord shall know
He's married to a woman when he comes!
Marry, I marvel what he'll say to that.

Exit, R.
Jabez.
(looking after her)
Sweet mistress Maud; 'tis sometimes well to cross thee
For thou speak'st plainly then. I am suspected!
'Tis well I know it. And the pretty doubts
Are to be prattled in Sir Walter's ear.
This daughter of the land—this painted doll—
This plaything of a wife would overturn
My forty years of service! I will gird
The loins of my discretion, and do battle
To hold my credit and to weaken hers.
'Twere best she walk advisedly, or I
May trip her. Then, my dainty Lady Eveline,
Look to thyself! There is an eye upon thee
May find some specks of black in all thy snow.

Exit, R. 1 E.

Scene Second.

—The Bower Chamber in Sir Walter Amyott's House. Night. Door, L. 2 E.; carpet down.
Lady Eveline discovered, seated, with a letter in her hand, L. C.
Lady Eveline.
Amyott returning! Walter coming home!
Thou dear conveyance of precious news,
A blessing on thine every character!
(kissing the letter)
How kind—how tenderly he writes! What love!
Oh, I am undeserving of such bliss!
What shall I do to merit it? And thou,
Dear paper, that hast sped so fast before,
Impatient to anticipate my joy,
What largess shall I give thee for thy pains?
He will not grudge this kiss—'tis given to him,
For there his hand has rested. He has touched thee—
His finger traced these lines. I see his eye
That bent above them, tracking the swift pen,
And with its look of love, as with a seal,
Impressing each fond syllable with truth.
Dear Walter! Dearest Husband!

Enter Maud, L. 2 E.
Maud.
Please, my lady,
Or I, or Jabez Sneed, must quit this house!
The ill-conditioned varlet—

Lady E.
Peace, good Maud!
There's nothing ill-conditioned now. All's fair,
Joyous and good! Sir Walter's coming home!

Maud.
(L. C.)
And if you do not make his earliest act
To turn his knavish steward out of doors,
You merit no good service. By my life,
I know not what the pestilent rogues would have.
I've clipt my dress down to their primmest cut,
Foregone my ribbons and my naughty words,
Turned up my eyes, and spoken through my nose—

Lady E.
(C.)
Poor Maud! poor Maud!

Maud.
Ay, you may laugh, my lady;
Pretty demure behaviours cost you nothing,
For you were born an angel; I have had
To make myself one—no small task I promise!
And what's our recompense? Now I'll just tell you
What Jabez said of you.

Lady E.
Nay, do not, Maud;
Say what he may he cannot anger me.
I am vexation-proof with happiness!
Walter is coming home!
(three distinct taps are heard at the window, C.)
Hush! What was that?

(tapping repeated)
Maud.
It sounded like a tapping at the casement!
Mercy! why there's a man! I saw his head!
Shall I call “fire?”

Lord Arden.
(without, C.)
Hist, Eveline!

Lady E.
My name!
It must be Walter!

Maud.
Climbing like a thief
To that back window?

Lord Arden.
(without)
Eveline! quick, quick!

Lady E.
That voice! Impossible! Fly, Maud—the door!
Secure the door!

(Maud hastily bolts door, L. 2 E., then stands up at back, L.—Lady Eveline rushes to the window and opens it—Lord Arden springs into the room)
Lady E.
Philip! can this be real?

Lord A.
(C.)
Exceedingly substantial. Feel it.

(embraces her)
Lady E.
(R. C.)
But how here?
I thought you safe in France.

Lord A.
So I was, once;
And would I were again! In short, sweet sister,
Your rascal Noll, assuming royal state,
Was too much for my bile. I crept to England,
Joined a few honest fellows in the West,
And seized on Salisbury—judges and all!
But none supported us. We got well thrashed;
Penruddock, Groves, and half a score beside,
Were taken prisoners, and lost their heads—
While I, less known, or better horsed, escaped,
And made for Dorsetshire, to beg a shelter
Till I can find a ship for France again.

Lady E.
Oh, Philip!—and thy life's in danger?

Lord A.
Rather!
A goose's neck, if caught at Michaelmas,
Would be about as safe! I tell thee, too, girl,
There is some peril in concealing me;
But I mistake my sister Eveline
If she will heed for that.

Lady E.
Though 'twere my life
That should be given in exchange for thine,
Thou know'st I would not grudge it. What my means,
My credit, influence—but why say mine?
My husband's heart is one with mine in all things.
He too—

Lord A.
Stay, Eveline! I have forgiven
Your marriage with this Roundhead—for, in truth,
All tongues report him as an honest man,
Worthy a better party; but I swear
Ere I would owe him thanks for any service,
Even the lightest—

Lady E.
Philip, be not rash—
You do not know him.

Lord A.
Nor intend to know.

Lady E.
He is generous.

Lord A.
I will not tax his bounty.

Lady E.
This is unjust! You misconstrue my words.
He has a heart that beats for honour only—
A chivalrous high spirit that would let
A world float by, rather than stoop by baseness
To snatch advantage—of a matchless courage,
All good men's idol, yet withal so humble,
He is the only one who knows it not;
A heart as pure and warm as infancy,
And where it loves, unbounded in devotion.
Each hour expects him here. He comes with power
To make his will effective; and that will,
That power, shall be for your protection.

Lord A.
Sister,
Hear what I say, and do not after think
To change my resolution. When I first
Learned you had wedded Walter Amyott,
My rage, that any prick-eared cur should dare
To marry with my sister, knew no bounds.
I heaped upon him insults—public ones—
Challenged him—called his temper cowardice,
That would not meet me with as blind a hate—
Outraged him as I thought no man could bear,
Though, for your sake, he did endure it still—
And having done this, think you I would now
Crouch down and ask for service from him? Bid him,
Who comes here in authority and trust,
Give shelter to his master's enemy?
Raise war between his pity and his duty?
Assault his conscience! For these gentlemen,
You know, have very tender consciences.
(Lady Eveline is about to speak)
Nay, do not interrupt me, Eveline.
Promise me—swear to me, no word, no hint
Shall ever reach to Walter Amyott's ear
I am so much as debtor to his walls
For shelter from the sky! Promise me this,
Or on the instant I'll resume my flight,
And dare all consequence.

Lady E.
Well, well, I promise.

Lord A.
Swear it! (pause)
Swear it!

Lady E.
I do!

Lord A.
Enough—I'm satisfied!
Remember, Eveline, I have thine oath!
Forgive me, if stern dangers make me harsh.
Thou know'st 'tis not my nature; but these times,
Change better men than I. Now, I but ask
A shelter of my sister—no great boon,
And one she'll not deny. For honest Maud here,
Whom I hold sworn as deeply as yourself, (Maud nods)

I will not grudge her knowledge of my secret:
And, though she tries to look as sanctified
As any of their crew, there still peeps out
A merry little devil from her eye,
That says, all's right within.

Maud.
I' faith, my lord—
And that's a bigger oath than I've had courage
To use this twelvemonth past—you need not fear
I shall turn traitor; ere they get a word
Out of my lips, the rogues shall take my tongue
And that, or I mistake, would be a gift
They would be little grateful for.

Lord A.
(C.)
Good wench,
I'll seal the bargain with thee. (gives her a kiss)


Maud.
La! my lord!
Just the same merry gentleman as ever.

(a distant trumpet and shouts heard, L.)
Lady E.
(R.)
Hark, he is come! My husband is arrived!

(crosses, L.)
Lord A.
Pest on him! Can't he give me breathing time?

Lady E.
Oh, short of sight! How little did I guess
That I could tremble at my Walter's coming!

Maud.
Better go out to meet him.

Lady E.
But my brother—

Maud.
Ay, there's the thing. Where shall we stow his lordship?

Lady E.
Hush! There are voices in the hall—a footstep—
I know it—it is his—Walter! my husband!
(crosses to C.)
Oh, Philip, let me make you friends at once,
And be all happiness!

Lord A.
(approaching the window)
Another word,
And I am gone for ever.

Lady E.
Cruel!

Maud.
Quick!
I hear him at the door. Stay—here—the closet!
For heaven's sake keep still though, or you'll make
Some mischief.

(Lady Eveline forces Lord Arden into the closet —Maud runs and unfastens the door, and having done so, stands demurely, with her hands before her, up stage, L.)
Enter Sir Walter, door, D. 2 E.
Sir W.
Eveline! My wife! (catching her in his arms)


Lady E.
Oh, Walter!

Sir Wal.
(C.)
My own, my precious one!

Lady E.
(R. C.)
And thou art sale,
And well?

Sir Wal.
My long lost, my recovered treasure!
I did not think time had the power to spin
Such weary length from so few numbered weeks
As those since I have parted from thee. Truly
'Tis but ill husbandry of life, to love;
Thriftlessly storing in one fragile vessel
The heart's whole wealth, which lost, we are all bankrupt.
I sometimes fear I doat too fondly on thee!
For every yearning thought of hope, joy, fame,
Country and freedom, all like restless birds
In circles flutter till they light on thee!
The soldier's victory, the patriot's triumph,
Are still imperfect until thou shalt share them.

Lady E.
And dost thou grudge to love, then? Once thou saidst
That was the guiding lamp that led thee on
To honourable deeds—to fame—to glory.
Are these no part of life?

Sir Wal.
Ay, the rough waves
On which the mariner is tossed, through which he labours,
Because they wash the shore where stands his home.
In the hot race the goal fills all the eye;
The rest is weary labour. So to me
Fame, honour, glory, are but toilsome ways,
Through which I seek a path to lead me home
More worthy of thy smile! Nay, that's a tear.

Lady E.
The overflowing of a heart filled up
Too full with happiness.

Sir Wal.
Yet, now I look,
There is a shade of care upon thy brow—
A paleness on thy cheek.

Lady E.
And is it nothing
To know embarked on such a stormy sea
My all of wealth! Oh, Walter! will the jar
Of these discordant times never subside
To harmony again? Each rumour thrills me
With terrors for the fate of some I love;
Close linked with both divisions! There has been
Another rising?

Sir Wal.
Ay, at Salisbury—
A mad-brained unsupported foolery,
Not worth a thought; save for the wretchedmen
Who led it on.

Lady E.
(trembling)
And they?

Sir Wal.
Have paid the forfeit.

Lady E.
What all?

Sir Wal.
As I have heard.

Lady E.
Did none escape?

Sir Wal.
None that are known.

Lady E.
(earnestly)
Thank heaven!

Sir Wal.
(astonished)
Eveline! (advancing, C.)


Lady E.
(confused)
What did I say? You must not heed my words,
Where sometimes distant thoughts go linked together.
Yet is it not a cause for joy that none
Are doomed to rove the land like hunted beasts,
With bloodhounds on their track—in restless flight,
Chased day by day, a price upon their heads;
Their common kind, with cold and hunger linked
To quench the struggling spark of hope within;
Till worn, exhausted, they sink down to earth,
And the warm blood that filled a noble heart,
Gluts the pursuer's fangs. It might have been
That even thou, in thy stern duty's course,
Cam'st here on such an errand.

Sir Wal.
(smiling)
My commission
Is of a milder tenour—to forestall,
Not punish wrong.

Lady E.
Thou art not angry with me?

Sir Wal.
Angry! (embrace)


Lady E.
Or wilt forgive—remembering I've a brother
Has been a fugitive—may be again.

Sir Wal.
(gravely)
Lord Arden is in France; and I would trust
Too wise to tempt again a hopeless fortune.

Lady E.
(hesitating)
And even if he should, and thou should'st meet him,
I know thou would'st not see in him a foe,
But only Eveline's brother?

Sir W.
Eveline,
When I took arms there was no selfish thought
In my heart's purpose—no exciting dream
Of interest or glory urged me on.
I rose in answer to the holiest call
That ever sounded on a freeman's ear.
My faith—my country asked their children's aid;—
Such as I could I gave. I would not boast,
But thou hast somewhat known that private wrong
Falls dully on my nature. To the foe
Who slanders me—abuses my forbearance,
And undermines the fabric of my peace,
I still can give—have given—the hand of pardon;
But should one born and nursed my country's child
Still plot against her freedom—should he, now
That she has won her liberty, still seek
To fasten chains upon her sacred limbs,
And pour in poison on her yet green wounds,
Then would I reckon such my deadliest foe!
Would own no tie of kin—no link of love;—
For such—

Lady E.
(faintly)
Enough, enough! (Sir Walter turns up, L.—aside)
Philip was right,
'Twere death to trust my brother's secret with him!

Maud.
(R.)
If now Lord Arden hears him there'll be murder!
I think my lady, sir, looks very pale—
This room oppresses her. It's monstrous close,
You would do well to take her in the air.

Sir Wal.
Oppresses her! the night is sharp and cold.

Maud.
Yes, very true; but yet this nasty room—
She's always ill in it, arn't you, my lady?

Lady E.
(faintly)
I should indeed be easier elsewhere.

Maud.
I tell you, sir, she can't abide this room.

Sir Wal.
Not this—her Bower Chamber! I had thought it
Was ever in her eyes, of all the house,
The favourite.

Maud.
Oh yes, it used to be:
But while you were away, she would set here
Such weary hours watching for tidings from you,
We nicknamed it the room of tears and sighs!
A thousand times she has said, when you came home,
If come you should (and then she wept again),
She'd never see it more, but lock it up,
With all its memories of care inside,
And throw away the key. (aside)
Well really now
I think that's very prettily imagined.

Sir Wal.
My Eveline shall have her will in all things.
There is no spot where we have breathed together,
That is not rich with happy memories.
Come, then, some other room. And if one care
Have sullied this for thee, 'tis closed for ever.
For I must have the roses on those cheeks
Come mantling back, and see those joyous eyes
Sparkle as bright as ever. I return
Claimant for long arrears of happiness,
And will not be defrauded of an hour!
Nay, nay, no drooping! Nothing now but smiles.

(leads her off, door L. 2 E.—Lord Arden comes out from the closet, and Maud makes a sign to him, then takes the key out of the door and locks it on the outside—when the door is locked Arden sinks into a chair)