 | The Patrician's Daughter |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Drawing-Room in Lynterne Castle.Mordaunt discovered, seated at table, gazing on a miniature of Mabel.
Mor.
Rumour has not o'erdrawn her. She is rich
In beauty—ay, in that surpassing beauty
Which bears the glorious signet of the soul.
I've known her but a month, and yet she seems,
As their own light, familiar to my eyes.
Would that I
Were sprung of noble lineage! That's unworthy.
Was not my father tender, constant, upright?
And shall I wrong his homely, honest virtues
By vain repinings at my humble lot?
Heaven sees not with our eyes. That's well, at least.
Enter Mabel, carrying a piece of embroidery, on which she occasionally employs herself during the scene.
Mab.
Good morning! what a bright one—a fair change
From last night's tempest.
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'Twas a stormy night.
Mab.
[Sitting.]
And yet I never knew a briefer one;
For that I must thank you; and the sweet tale,
In listening which the hours like minutes sped.
Mor.
[Smiling.]
You flatter me.
Mab.
Although I somewhat wonder
That you, whose life is chiefly dedicate
To grave State policy, should yet beguile
Your leisure with the poet's simple art.
Mor.
What is the end of all true policy?
To work out poetry in act. To feel
A deep and constant love for human kind;
A sense of beauty's presence, not alone
In lofty show, but in its latent haunts,
Which few investigate—the humble hut
And bosom meanly clad; worship of justice;
The warm emotions of an unchecked nature
Which rises, as by instinct, against wrong—
These are the elements of poetry.
Is that man fit to be a statesman, think you,
Whose heart is stranger to them?
Mab.
O, how true!
Shall I confess that after I retired
Your tale dwelt on my mind, moved me to tears—
Those sweet and tender tears that speak not pain,
But soothe whoever sheds them. In my dreams
The maid whose fate you told was present still.
How fair the old times seem when poets sing them.
Oh, would that I had lived in ancient days,
The days of dear romance! Do you not think
I should have been a heroine?
Mor.
Why not now?
Mab.
Alas, alas! there is no scope for it.
Comfort has superseded chivalry,
There's nothing dangerous or delightful left.
[Rising.]
O, would that I had been the worshipped one,
Of some devoted troubadour, half knight,
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Irascible and proud, perchance commands
That I forswear my troth. I cannot do it.
Straight in some chamber, tapestried and lone,
I am confined, armed guards before my door.
I pen a billet:—“O sweet traveller,
Into whose care these tidings, from the hand
Of an unhappy maid, shall come, haste thee
To Sieur—De Lacy,”—that shall be his name,—
“And tell him in this castle's eastern tower
His Eleanora lies a prisoner—
For his dear love!” I drop my scroll; its words
Are borne to my brave troubadour. Some night,
While I sit gazing at the placid moon,
Wearing the lucid stars, a diamond wreath,
To deck her brighter brow, soft music floats
Around my lattice—quick I open it!
O joy! 'tis he!—he scales the wall, secures,
Fast by the casement, his elastic stair,
Which straightway I descend—I'm on the earth—
I'm on my steed: away! away we fly!
I and my troubadour, and in the morn
My hand rewards my brave deliverer!—
What think you, sir, is not my tale well told?
It is my first attempt. You do not smile!
Mor.
Alas, sweet lady! mournful thoughts were mine.
I make no question of your constancy,
Your enterprise, your courage; but methinks
You scarce had borne the part you paint so well.
Mab.
Sceptic! why not? [Resuming her seat.]
O for one little year
Of the romantic past, that I might prove
Myself, in your despite, a heroine.
Mor.
I have known heroines in this modern time;—
Ay, there are homesteads which have witnessed deeds
That battlefields, with all their bannered pomp,
Have little to compare with. Life's great play
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Be well performed upon a humble stage.
Mab.
You find such beauty in our dull, tame present,
I look on it with kinder eyes.
Mor.
The forms
Of the heroic change from age to age;
The spirit in the forms remains the same,
Your heroine of old, in love's behalf,
Would dare imprisonment and venture flight,
Though near her files of lances were arrayed.
Your modern heroine, in love's behalf,
Will often dare hostility as dread.
Not seldom you will meet a maid whose heart
Was pledged to one of lowly heritage,
But of high qualities, that well atoned
The churlish lot of Fortune. Enmity
From haughty parents, exile from the sphere,
Had been her own from birth, care, poverty,
And other ills as weighty, have conspired
Against her love, and yet she had avowed it,
And cherished it as life. O Lady Mabel—
Mab.
Why do you pause?
Mor.
I fear I weary you.
Mab.
O no; your heroine—
[Pauses.
Mor.
Yes; what say you of her?
Mab.
That although she had acted indiscreetly,
For the high love that caused her so to act
She should be gently censured—not cast out.
Mor.
And of her lover?
Mab.
Nay, I know not what
To say of him.
Mor.
[Sitting near her.]
I knew a lover once
Whose heart had poured its riches at the shrine
Of one whose lot ranked higher than his own,
In the wise world's esteem; and this he knew,
Yet could he not recall to his lone breast
The feelings thence allured. She was their home,
And all beside was foreign.
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And she loved him?
Mor.
His love was silent, and dared scarce intrude
Upon her sight. He prayed for her—he blessed her—
He wept for her; but she heard not his words,
Nor saw his tears; for they were breathed and shed
In sacred solitude. At times he felt
As if the joy of loving were reward;
Although she knew it not. He thought of angels
Who nightly to the sleeper's couch repair,
But vanish ere he wakens.
Mab.
Did he not
Lay his heart open to her?
Mor.
As I said,
He was of lower rank than she, and feared
That she might scorn him.
Mab.
Scorn such fervent worship?
Had she so done, she were the thing to scorn.
Mor.
[With fervour.]
You had not spurned him, then?
Mab.
I cannot dream
What I have said to move you. O, this friend!
'Tis like you loved him as a very brother,
And own a debt to all who pity him.
Your story interests. How ended it?
And was this long since?
Mor.
It is very strange.
I cannot call the time to mind. I know
The truth of what I tell, but nothing more.
Enter the Earl and Lady Lydia.
Lyd.
Not out yet, Mabel? Should you thus permit
The freshness of the morning to escape?
'Tis three o'clock already.
Mab.
Is it so late?
[To Mordaunt.]
Do you ride with us? [To Lord Lynterne.]
And you? Nay, you must;
I know you will; these are your holidays.
Earl.
I may not, sweetest.
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No? [To Mordaunt.]
You then will be
Our single cavalier.
Earl.
I fear, dear Mabel,
I must assert a prior claim to Mordaunt.
We've grave and pressing matters to discuss.
Mab.
[After a short pause.]
'Tis very late. I will not ride to-day.
Lyd.
[Apart to her.]
You will.
Mab.
I think you said that it was late?
Lyd.
[Apart to her.]
Go for my sake.
Mab.
Well, if it please you, aunt.
Earl.
Adieu!
Mor.
A pleasant morning!
Lyd.
Thank you, thank you!
[Earl and Mordaunt go out. Lady Lydia walks after them, and then advances to Mabel, who is seated.
Lyd.
Mabel, you love that man!
Mab.
Love whom? Sir Everard?
Lyd.
This is evasion.
I know you have refused Sir Everard.
I say you love this Mordaunt.
Mab.
I fail to comprehend you.
Lyd.
You deny it?
Mab.
[Haughtily, rising.]
It does not need denial.
Edgar Mordaunt!
Lyd.
Pardon me!
I did but jest. I knew you loved him not;
It was impossible, for he has nothing
In station, fortune, or in qualities
That can excite esteem, far less affection.
Mab.
O, now methinks that you are somewhat harsh.
Lyd.
Harsh! would you have me measured in my speech?
I am beside myself to see a man,
Whose birth had fitted well your father's groom,
Thus licensed to invade our privacy,
And wear before us the familiar air
Of one inured to dignity!
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Good aunt,
Men three relations hold to dignity:
By gradual use some grow inured to it,
And some are born to it; but there be those
Born of it, natured of its element;
With them nobility is personal,
And they must die ere it can.
Lyd.
In which rank place you Mordaunt?
Mab.
In the last.
Lyd.
What strange infatuation blinds you thus?
Can you not read the obvious history
Of an ambitious and time-serving man?
What does he here who was your father's foe
Upon all public questions? Trust me, Mabel,
He is of those who, by exciting speech
And persevering effort, make their names
Of value in the mart of policy,
And sell them to the man who offers most.
Mab.
Madam, 'tis false—his heart is honour's home,
His deeds her witnesses—O, foully false!
Lyd.
This is unmaidenly and insolent!
Does no shame flush your cheek? or wherefore is it
You should forget all deference to me
In favour of a stranger?
Mab.
Because he is a stranger,
And has no friend to spurn back calumny,
When those whose guest he is, forget the rights
Owing to hospitality and justice.
[Throws herself into a chair.
Lyd.
Justice! Under that poor pretence, your passion,
No longer coy, speaks plainly. I had hoped
My eyes deceived me when they watched your own
Pouring the light of unchecked feeling on him.
I strove to think it was but courtesy
That hushed your very breathing when he spoke.
But the truth flashes on me, I thank heaven!
O shame that this adventurer should depart
Boasting your love his trophy, which to wear
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More to the decent, less to the fantastic,
Or I will to your father, and require
His comment on your conduct.
Mab.
To my father?
You threaten, Lady Lydia!
Lyd.
Yes; why not?
Mab.
I am amazed you can, so strange it seems
That you, whose words suffice to show what you are,
Should dare rebuke that I am.
I wonder not you value station so:
It is but a poor treasure in itself,
Yet becomes rich when 'tis the sole possession.
Believe me, noble spirits never wrap
Honour so closely round them as to let
The garment hide the wearer. Rank's a robe
Which sits the best when negligently worn,
Disclosing the mind's perfect symmetry
That needs not gorgeous attire to grace it.
Lyd.
[Aside.]
I have gone too far.—Mabel, could you have looked
Into my heart, you would have spared me this.
Mab.
Could you have sounded mine, I do not think
You would have ventured to this length of insult.
Lyd.
Insult! Mabel!
And is your father's sister's love so strange,
That when it would advise you, guard you, save you,
You should miscal it thus? Perhaps my zeal
Took an impatient tone, but did not need
The deep rebuke it suffered.
Mab.
[Approaching her.]
I have been wrong, dear aunt; but still I say,
You judge poor Mordaunt harshly.
Lyd.
He's ambitious.
Mab.
What's he that is not so? Ambition, aunt,
Is instinct in great minds, even as to soar
Is nature to the eagle.
Lyd.
This plausible
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Meets not the special instance. We were asked
To entertain this stranger for a week;
A month has rolled away. If you would ride,
Straight he needs exercise; stay you at home,
He finds the air too sultry, feels fatigued,
And keeps the house; beside all which, but note
How much he adds by glances, motions, sighs,
Smiles, even cast of visage, to his words,
Which, as I lately said, your eyes reward
With interest more than maidenly.
Mab.
Nay, gentle aunt,
I am not carved from stone, and cannot hear
Music without emotion, nor unmoved
Look on a flower, or aught that's beautiful;
And must I, when a glowing sentiment
Or noble thought finds utterance, emulate
The barren rock that never pays the sun
With produce for his smiles? O, blame me not,
If at discourse on themes magnificent
My eyes light up with joy! They testify
Love to the speaker's thoughts, not to himself.
Lyd.
The speaker will not make that nice distinction;
And, to be plain, he has sufficient cause
To augur that—
Mab.
That I esteem, admire him;
I will not wrong him so as to surmise
He dreams of more. He knows what bounds divide us.
But let us hasten, 'tis so very late.
I trust we're friends again. You'll follow me?
[Lady Mabel goes out.
Lyd.
Esteem and admiration! She would dupe me
Even as she dupes herself! No; this is love,
And has gone further than I thought. This Mordaunt
Is an accomplished player on the heart;
That praise I'll give him. He must read success
In the girl's face, which, like a mirror, shows
The image of his thoughts. Should this proceed,
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Will stand between her and her love. Well, then,
I and this schemer are at war! I'll watch
His demonstrations one more week; if then
He purpose longer stay, I'll in plain terms
Urge his departure; if he still remain,
I'll tempt him to disclosure of his end
Before it ripen further, and thus shake
In spring the blossoms autumn had seen fruit.
[She goes out slowly.
| The Patrician's Daughter | |