University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Mordaunt's House at Richmond.
Enter Lister, Hartwell, Mordaunt, Colville, and Deancourt.
Dean.
Decide for one of us.

Col.
My yacht's the thing!
After your labours you need change of scene—
Almost of element, which you shall have,
When, the dull land forgotten, our light skiff
The Mediterranean skims.

Dean.
There's nothing beats
A good old English house—the morning rides;
A sweep, perchance, o'er hill and hedge to sound
Of the enlivening bugle; then at night
The merry party, and the bright fireside,
The good old games and stories.

Heart.
Gentlemen,
Duties are sometimes pleasures. Perhaps Mordaunt
May hold the cares of public life too dear
To wish a respite, though it be recess.

Lis.
We cannot spare him from us.

Col.
I will take
No answer but his own.

Dean.
Nor I!

Mor.
Good friends,
Hold me excused, I pray you. Were my will
To arbitrate this matter, I would go
Delightedly with both; but, as it is,
I stand engaged already. [To Heartwell.]
That reminds me
To ask your eye for this.

[Presenting a letter which Heartwell reads.
Dean.
If it be so,
There's nothing left but to regret your absence,
And wish you well in ours. Farewell till spring.

Col.
Adieu, dear Mordaunt.

Mor.
Heaven be with you, friends.

Lis.
I'll walk with you.

Mor.
What! all take flight together?

Heart.
I'll stay in pity to your solitude.
[To the others.]
I trust ere you leave London we shall meet.
[Lister, Colville, and Deancourt go out. Heartwell carelessly folds up and returns the letter.
I had expected this; you are a prize
To him who shall have wit to capture you;
But who is he? Not this complacent Lynterne—
This sleek and courteous lord. You must have smiled,
My Edgar, at each gracious period.
He has a high esteem for you, forsooth!
Admires your noble views, your mind's great scope!
And though he sees in all your daring plans
Unsoundness, here and there temerity,
He has a marvellous respect for them;
And being at this moment respited
From cares of State, some portion of his leisure
He'd have your sweet society engross!
Well, in what terms was your denial couched?

Mor.
Denial! On what grounds should I refuse
Such kindly tendered courtesy?

Heart.
I did not think your eye, so quick to pierce
Public hypocrisy through all the glare
With which convention decks it, could have been
Dazzled by this man's hollow compliment;—
I charge you, spurn this specious show of friendship.

Mor.
Why call it specious, ere you prove it so?

Heart.
Upon plain likelihood and inference
My censure rests. Mark me! two years ago,
When any to another breathed your name,
His fellow cried, “Wild innovator! Dreamer!”
The proud laughed short, “So, so, the yeoman's son!
Why left he team and harrow?” Sages hemmed!
“One of your rising men! Town's full of them.”
But now you are a theme of public talk—
Men, as they slowly pace through stately squares,
Discuss your latest words of eloquence,
And busier folk, who thread the crowded streets,
Pause where some window shows the latest page
Your name inscribes—a household name in England!

Mor.
Thanks for your eulogy; but whither tends it?

Heart.
Even to this:
Minds of your order come not every year,
Nor are they grown in clusters; instruments
Of power; if they be true, of destiny;
Truth's pioneers, the vanguard of the world!
Now, while the issues undetermined hang
Between the just and base, if one step forth,
Wily, and smooth of speech, and can arrest
The great man's march a moment, turn his eye
Upon the glitter of some costly bribe,
It may be that he spurns it; and it may be
That he becomes Iscariot to his cause.

Mor.
Nay, nay; speak out, if you would call me traitor!

Heart.
I mean not so to name you. I but say,
Beware this subtle courtier.

Mor.
The grounds
Of your suspicion? Why do you condemn him?

Heart.
Why? Is he not the sworn foe of our party?

Mor.
A phrase! I have no party.

[Both rise.
Heart.
Rapidly
The poison works; and yet it is not strange
That one so loving to his party's foe
Should soon disclaim his old associates.

Mor.
Where is your warrant, sir,
To taunt me thus? I say I have no party.
You and your friends of late have striven hard
For certain ends which I approved; 'twas fit
That I should aid you—so far travel with you,
As one road served us both. Therefore have I
Entered in league with you? or am I bound
To follow where your trumpet blows, and fight
With whom you list to bid me? Have I sworn
To shut my eyes to all the greatness grows
In one-half of the empire? That's the oath
Ta'en by the partisan.

Heart.
Well turned and proudly said!—Perhaps your speech
May couch itself in humbler tones when meant
For the Earl's ear.

[A short pause.
Mor.
Sir, I have known you long; respected you;
And it may be, have served you heretofore;
And not on slight occasion would I wear
The stranger's carriage to you; but take heed.
You speak as if I were a parasite,
A hireling, an apostate; had my father
Broached such surmise of me, it had gone far
In recollection of that one dishonour,
To merge all kinder memory.

Heart.
I seek your love
No longer than pure friendship's elements
Are fruitful in your nature. Let me ask
If it be meet that one like you should wait
For an occasional condescending smile
From this proud nobleman; or haply make,
Through ignorance of unaccustomed forms,
Mirth for his haughty daughter. But your pardon.
Perchance you aim at greatness, and will deign
Honour the Lady Mabel with your hand!

Mor.
Peace, sir. Your language holds not with my mood.
By all report, upon the face of earth
No fairer or more noble creature moves
Than this same Lady Mabel; for the rest,
The man who has credentials in his soul,
Avouching its immortal ancestry,
Presumes but little, even if he seek
Alliance with the proudest of the earth.
Is it your creed, sir, that in righteous scales
The name outweighs the man? Shame on such doctrine!

Heart.
Nay, shame on you, who dare thus to upbraid
An age 'tis fit that you should venerate!

Mor.
I venerate not age; but, when 'tis present,
That which alone makes grey hairs worshipful.
It may be by the calendar of years
You are the elder man; but 'tis the sun
Of power on the mind's dial shining bright
And numbering thoughts and deeds that makes true time.—
Your pardon, sir, you force me to speak thus.

Heart.
Farewell, sir! Should we ever meet again,
It will be in that deepest of all strangeness
Which grows 'twixt those who have loved once, and love not.

[Heartwell goes out.
Mor.
So friendship passes. Well, I will not seek
A heart to rule in, if affection's sway
Depend on paying dues to interest.
I'll not believe that Heartwell judged aright.
Lord Lynterne means me fairly—will not dare
To use me for his tool. Yet, if he do—
Oh, if he do!—my heart heaves at the thought,
So that I fear and quake before myself.
There is within me that quick hate of wrong
Which, being stung, would spur me on to vengeance,
Although the path were fire! And I have, too,
That in my nature which would make me slave
To genuine kindness. I'll deal with the world
As the world deals with me,—if well, its friend,—
If otherwise; but for the day, 'tis said,
Sufficient is the evil.