University of Virginia Library

Sir Edward Delmont, and Arthur.
Sir Edward.
Why thus amort, fair brother? 'Tis a rich
And princely hall, a palace-like demesne.
Seest thou yon stately oaks and those old thorns,
The growth of centuries, mingling their gay wreaths
Of pearly blossoms with the weeping spray
Of the light feathery birch, and darker shoots
Of shining holly, while amidst the fern
The dappled deer lie couching? Art thou master
Of this fair seat?

Arthur.
I'faith I know not.

Sir Edward.
'Twas
A gay and glittering coach, drawn by four mares
Of the right Flanders breed, conveyed us hither;
And she our fair companion mistress seemed
Of that proud equipage—the nameless she!

Arthur.
Not wholly nameless,—Mary;—the good priest
Told us so far.

Sir Edward.
And in so telling told
Full little. Mary! commonest of sounds.
Name of all wear! So doth the lordly Earl,
So the poor cobbler call his wife; the princess
Within her stately bower, and the coarse drudge
That milks her kine, both answer to that name.
'Tis general as the violet, now lurking
Beneath the white-thorn hedge, now proudly placed
I' the garden's southern nook beside the rose.
She's Mary Delmont now. Dost shrink to hear
Those words conjoined?

Arthur.
Not I.

Sir Edward.
Yet thou art sad
And silent, brother mine; thy cheek is pale,
Thy fiery glance is quenched, and thy smooth brow
Contracted into lines of wrinkling care
Fitter for me thine elder; though I grant ye
The chances of this morning might perplex
Even my ripe wisdom. Wilt thou hear them? First
To abide a challenge at the rapier point,
The cause and challenge unknown; and then
Having with some small pain—for true men love not
To fight with shadows and for shadows!—having
Roused thy hot valour to that Quixote strain,
To find thy puissant adversary changed
To a fair damsel, who doth give thee choice
'Twixt two sharp hazards, wedlock or the sword;
To marry in a mask, thou know'st not whom;
To come home with thy bride thou know'st not where;
And when safe lodged within this goodly chamber
The bride to disappear thou know'st not how;
Whilst at short intervals come grinning knaves,
On thriftless errands bent, to trim the hearth
Or close the casement, and young tittering girls
Thrust giggling faces through half open doors,
And if we ask who brought us here? or where
We be, unlucky?—groom and maid burst forth
Into ungoverned laughter and so vanish.
Say I not sooth?

Arthur.
'Tis over true.

Sir Edward.
And draws not
The day towards noon, whilst we have been astir
Since dawn, nor broke our fasts?

Arthur.
Thrice happy thou
Whom such a grief can trouble!

Sir Edward.
Nay, good brother
Thou know'st the proverb says that a full sorrow—
But trust me Arthur 'tis for thee I grieve:
I doubt the lady much.

Arthur.
Yet this fair seat—

Sir Edward.
Didst ever see that sport of Fletcher's muse
The comic scene where Leon tames the pride
Of Margarita?

Arthur.
Yes; yes; yes.

Sir Edward.
And dost not
Remember how a cunning quean, in the absence
Of her rich mistress, cozened a gay gallant
To wed her?

Arthur.
Yes; yes; yes.

Sir Edward.
And brought him home
Even to her lady's dwelling?

Arthur.
Yes I tell thee.
Beshrew thee, Edward, that hast put in words
The very thought that woke within my heart
Such torture! To have wedded poverty,
Plain honest houseless poverty, were nothing,
Poor though I be, were nothing! But a cheat,
A stale and common cheat! perchance a lewd—
It cannot be, it shall not.

Sir Edward.
I would fain
Prove an ill guesser. But what ground of faith
Hast thou? Thou hast not seen her face, scarce e'en
Her bearing,—so the veil and mantle shrouded
A form of towering height; thou hast not heard
Her voice, for surely, nay she owned as much,
Her very tone was feigned. Thou may'st have wedded
Old age and ugliness.

Arthur.
She's young and fair;
Of that be sure. Didst thou not see the white
Smooth dimpled hand, the taper fingers jewelled
Even to the joint, the slender wrist with veins
Meandering through its snow? Never such hand
Pertained to aught save one as finely formed
As delicately reared. It trembled too,
That soft hand trembled and grew cold in mine
With fearful modesty, then warmed again
With love, quick fluttering love. Aye and athwart
Her very wildest speech, although the words
Were daring, and the purport rash and strange,
Yet was the manner soft and maidenly,
As of one born and nurtured in a pure
And gentle dignity, that dared the rather,
Because in her bold innocence she guessed not
The censure she provoked. I'll trust her still,
In all her mystery.

Sir Edward.
Heaven send her true!
How wilt thou know her?

Arthur.
By the very sign
We spake of; the fair hand.

Sir Edward.
The hand! Why, Arthur,
Grant that the hand, so white and violet veined,
The small pink palm and taper fingers pass
For marks of beauty and of gentle blood;
Yet many a gentle dame hath one as fair
As—

Arthur.
Pshaw, man! Pshaw! The ring! The ring! Thou know'st
How unprepared we came for spousal rites,
But I by chance wore on my hand the gem,
Sir Rowland's legacy, his famous Psyche,
And in default of the plain golden round
I slid the storied onyx on her finger;—
Hark!
(One of the doors of the saloon is thrown open.)
Sure I heard light footsteps. Hark! Oh grant
It may be she, unmasked, unveiled, disclosed
In mind and person. Yet have I a fear
Of this strange meeting mingled with my hope.
Do thou accost her first.

(Arthur retires to the window—Sir Edward remains in the middle of the apartment.)
Sir Edward.
None enters.

Arthur.
What!
Another mockery?

Sir Edward.
No. I see her now,
Beyond the gothic portal, in the hall,
A noble lady, speaking with an air
Of mild command to her mute menial train.
Look! Thou may'st see her. Look!

Arthur.
I dare not. I'st
The lady? Mine? Speak! Speak!

Sir Edward.
I know not, Arthur,
In truth I know not. Yet it cannot be.
She, whom we saw, could never have concealed
That queenly shape, that goddess port.

Arthur.
Methought
She too was graceful.

Sir Edward.
Why this is a Grace,
Or rather a young Juno. Even a goddess
Wanting the state imperial would lack somewhat
Of her calm majesty. How those dark curls,
Falling in their rich clusters evenly
Adown those damask cheeks and that slim throat
Of ivory, add to the placid grandeur
Of her fair face. Yet those large modest eyes
Have a quick brightness in them; a gay dimple
Plays round that finely chiselled mouth,—she's scarce
So awful as she seems.

Arthur.
How is she robed?
Like her—

Sir Edward.
No! she was quaintly garmented
In weeds of grey and pink,—a shrouding mantle,
A black disfiguring mask, a floating veil:
This lady hath a rich yet simple robe,
Of whitest satin, a long ample robe,
Purfled with lace and broidered with rare pearls;
Pearls round her fairer neck, and one white rose
Mixed with the ringlets whose luxuriant pride
The golden bodkin scarce restrains.

Arthur.
The garb
Is bride-like.

Sir Edward.
It but seems the meet array,
The every day attire of that young beauty.

Arthur.
Her hand?

Sir Edward.
Is gloved. Sure I have seen that face!
Was't in a picture? or a dream? No! no!
I've seen her living self. 'Tis the rich heiress,
The Lady Stanley. Dost thou not remember
The good Lord Stanley, Arthur? the old friend
Of our dear father? Many a time and oft
Hast thou sate on his knee, a rosy boy,
Whilst he hath talked to thee of his fair girl,
His pretty black-eyed maid, and laughed to hear
How thou wouldst vow when grown into a man
That she—We were at Florence when he died;
But two years since I saw, and scarcely saw,
At court the blooming heiress. 'Tis herself!
She comes. Stand not aloof, like village churl
From that rare beauty, Arthur.
Enter the Lady Stanley.
Lady!

Lady.
Sirs,
I crave your pardon, if, as I have heard,
Ye have waited long untended. The bright sun
Tempted me forth amongst the flowers.

Sir Edward.
Thyself
A brighter, sweeter flower!

Lady.
Beseech ye, Sir,
Waiving all compliment to tell at once
Your errand hither. I should grieve to fail
In courtesy to men of gentle seeming;
But being here a maiden and alone,
Rich therefore envied, young therefore exposed
To evil thoughts and evil tongues, it suits not
My state to harbour gallants such as ye
Within my house, unless indeed the occasion
May justify the visit. Seek ye ought
Of me or mine?

Sir Edward.
Fair Madam, for myself
I well may answer, No. My brother yonder
Seeks, what full many a man hath vainly sought
Of the young Lady Stanley,—

Lady.
Wherefore pause?
What seeks the gentleman?

Sir Edward.
A wife, fair Madam!
A wife!

Lady.
What mean ye, Sirs?

Arthur.
Not to offend
Such beauty. Gentle lady, 'tis a tale,
So wild, so strange, so marvellously true,
I almost shame to tell it.

Sir Edward.
Shall I spare
Thy blushes, Arthur?

Lady.
Nay, methinks the hero
Will prove the best narrator.

Sir Edward
(aside).
Say'st thou so?

Lady.
Pray ye, be seated, Sirs. Now to thy tale.

Arthur.
Much may befal in few short hours. Last night
Whilst sojourning at Reading, thither called
With this my kindest brother to attend
A kinsman's bridal, and still lingering on
In that gay pleasant town, a thriftless truant
From law, dull law, and law's thrice dull abode
The silent Temple—Yesternight, returning
Merrily to our Inn, a tiny page
Slid in my hand a scroll and disappeared
Ere we could ask, Whence com'st thou? 'Twas a cartel.

Lady.
Alas!

Arthur.
A challenge from some unknown foe
To meet him, hand to hand, and sword to sword,
At peep of day upon the Forbury Hill.

Lady.
Alas! Alas! How wild is man! Unknown too!
Didst thou attend his summons?

Arthur.
Of surety.

Lady.
And he—?

Sir Edward.
Aye now the marvel comes. Fair Madam,
No He was there.

Arthur.
On that small eminence
We met the dawn, and saw the morning mists
Rise from the valley of the Thames, disclosing
The dewy meadows, and the antique bridge,
And Caversham's white hills,—but foe saw none.

Lady.
Perchance he had repented his rash challenge.

Sir Edward.
Nay, lady, list the tale.

Arthur.
Foe saw we none
Save a masked damsel pacing silently
Beneath the venerable trees, which wave
Their verdant plumage o'er the hill's steep brow.

Lady.
A damsel! and was she the foe?

Sir Edward.
Good sooth
She's like to prove so.

Lady.
Sir!—Methinks thy brother
Can tell his tale without thine aid.—The Damsel?

Arthur.
Paced to and fro, fair Madam. Once or twice
Drew near, then back again, as awe or shame
Strove with some desperate purpose.

Lady.
Did she speak?

Arthur.
At last with, as it seemed to me, a forced
And acted bravery, she drew a rapier
Forth from beneath her cloak, avowed herself
The challenger of yesternight, and then
In few, brief, hurried words gave me the choice
To fight her or to wed.

Lady.
Well, Sir!

Sir Edward.
Well, Madam!
In faith thou must accept my story, Lady,
Or else get none; he's silent from mere shame.
But canst thou—for all women have a gift
Of divination in man's weakness,—canst thou
Look in his face, nor read at the first glance
His answer? “Benedick the married man”
Is stamped on every feature. Ah! fool! fool!

Arthur.
Edward, beware lest this blunt mood of thine
Carry thee past my patience.

Sir Edward.
Art thou not
A fool? And am not I a triple fool
To grieve o'er thy rank folly?

Lady.
But thy tale!
He wedded then with this unknown?

Sir Edward.
Despite
All counsel and all warning. Close at hand,
Stood Church and Priest and Clerk in due array
For his undoing. They were wedded, Lady,
In shorter space than I have known the gallant
Waste on the fashion of his doublet. Marry!
This garment is for life.

Lady.
And she still masked?

Sir Edward.
Masked, nameless and unknown. At the Church porch
Waited a gilded coach, which brought us straight
To this fair hall; and the she Will-o'-the-wisp,
The female Jack-o-lantern, having lodged us
Safe in her cage, vanished through yonder door.

Lady.
'Tis a strange tale.

Sir Edward.
A tale would make the fortune
Of a score of ballad-mongers, an 'twere but a thought
More credible. But, Madam, canst thou give
No help in this wild strait, no clue to trace
The run-away? Hast thou no damsel errante,
No jill flirt in thy train were like to play
The bride in this adventure? No pert quean
Of a waiting-woman, or wild wanton cousin
To cozen our young gallant?

Lady.
Out upon thee!
Thou art uncivil.

Sir Edward.
Of a younger brother
He's none so poor; and I, being, as thou seest,
A bluff, unnurtured bachelor, foredoomed
To break my neck in a fox chase, he may reckon
On my succession. Many a prim she-cousin,
The accustomed garnish of your noble tables,
That combs my lady's lap-dog, gathers scandal
For her diversion, is a skilful loser
At every game, a frontless flatterer
At every season, many such a pest,
However gently born, had dared this venture
For freedom and a husband.

Lady.
Once again
Thou art uncivil, Sir. Thank heaven my kindred
Are of a nobler temper.

Sir Edward.
My suspicions
Point to the waiting-damsel. Your poor kinswoman
Hath commonly a mincing delicate mien,
Compound of fear and pride. Hast thou no wild
Intriguess in thy train, whom love of gold—

Lady.
Thou deemest that it must be love of gold?

Sir Edward.
Madam, I do.

Lady.
And thou?

Arthur.
I hope not so,
And as I hope, believe. Woman is generous,
Not mercenary.

Sir Edward.
Man is vain. I hold that
The truer axiom.

Lady.
What did she resemble,
This truant bride?

Sir Edward.
A strapping quean; as tall
As the great may-pole on the green; as awkward
As ever danced the may-day round; as pert—

Arthur.
Hold! hold, good brother. She was of a height
Noble, sweet lady, as thine own; as graceful
Almost as thy fine form; and for her speech
'Twas frankness mixed with modesty. I trust
To find a virtuous wife.

Lady.
A fair one too?

Arthur.
So please you, gracious Madam. Not perchance
What might seem fair by thee;—full many a flower
Shews like a weed beside the rose.

Lady.
And rich?
Think'st thou to find her rich?

Arthur.
For that I care not
Howbeit she prove not mercenary.

Sir Edward.
Tush!
If she be poor, how can she quit herself
Of that suspicion?—Madam, once again,
Canst thou end our wild quest?

Lady.
How should I! Masked—
And nameless!—Ye yourselves might meet this bride
And pass her by unknown.

Sir Edward.
We have one token—

Arthur.
A white and peerless hand.

Sir Edward.
A peerless ring!
The hand was coarse and sunburnt, housewifely
And toil-stained,—but the ring! an antique cameo,
A Psyche, a quaint butterfly, whose wings
Rather of gauze than stone seemed springing up
In act to fly, a piece of matchless art
Found mid the ruins of old Rome, and rated
Far above diamonds—To think that gem
Should deck some stale cheat's finger!

Lady
(taking off her glove).
Was the ring
Like this upon my hand?

Arthur.
My bride! my wife!
Art thou indeed my wife?

Lady.
In very sooth
No less.

Arthur.
Sweet ring, I worship thee. My wife!
My beautiful! my true!

Lady
(to Sir Edward).
Now, heretic,
Was the masked bride a cheat?

Sir Edward.
Fair Lady Stanley,
I cry you mercy!

Lady.
Nay thou 'scapst not so—
Was she a cheat?

Sir Edward.
My pretty sister, yes.
Not when she wore a mask on her bright face,
But when she doffed that mask, and strove to play
The stranger!—simpleton! as if each blush,
And downcast look, and sighing smile, and low
And faltering accent told not plain as words
Her secret.—Sister, were that lord of thine
Less than a miracle of modesty,
He must have known his bride. At the first glance
I saw the trick, and instantly resolved
To tease the teaser.

Lady.
'Twas a strange and bold
And venturous hazard;—but I long had heard
All good of Arthur Delmont: as a child
From my dear father; as a youth from friends
And kinsmen; and when I at last had seen,
Had loved, and knew not—'Twas unwomanly,
Unmeet; but ye shall see the wife redeem
The errors of the maid.

Arthur.
O may I merit
Thy noble trust.

Sir Edward.
It was a generous sin
And well may find forgiveness. Gentle madam,
I have a heavier charge. Here in thy house,
And on thy wedding-day—pray Heaven thou use not
To starve thy guests!—I, thy new husband's brother,
Am famished.

Arthur.
Cannibal!

Lady.
I cry you mercy!
But dinner—

Sir Edward.
Breakfast, Lady Stanley! Breakfast!
I've tasted nought to-day. Lets in to breakfast
And talk at ease of this strange chance. Thy hand
Fair sister,—aye the ring becomes it well,—
The antique wedding ring, an emblem fit
Of happiness and love.—To breakfast, quick!

[Exeunt.