University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Library in Lynterne Castle.
The Earl and Lady Mabel discovered.
Mab.
[With a book.]
Yes, my dear lord;
But have you read this scene?

Earl.
[Who is seated by table.]
I have not.
But the point in hand, dear Mabel.

Mab.
'Tis full of mirth and sprightly incident,
And keen, bright satire, through all which the heart
Breathes truth and sympathy! Oh, how I love
To track a noble soul in masquerade!

Earl.
If it so please you, Mabel, that I wait
Until your raptures shall expend themselves,
I am content.

[He arranges papers. Mabel, after a pause, rises and gives the book to the Earl, standing by his side.
Mab.
You think, dear father, that I trifle. No!
You question of a lover; I reply
By comment on a book—themes separate,
As it may seem to you, but in my mind
Blended together; for the qualities
This book discloses I would have inspire
The man to whom my tributary soul
Should render its allegiance.

Earl.
Poor child! the author of the book you laud,
This limner of the mind's fastastic dreams,
Long ere old age found his art profitless,
Foreswore his troth to fancy,—and died rich.

[Returns the book.
Mab.
His book is henceforth sealed to eyes of mine.
Oh, how degraded is the venal soul
Chartered by its Creator to be free,
Yet putting on the dull world's livery,
Not the less menial for its golden fringe!

[Laying the volume on table.
Earl.
You are enthusiastic, my fair girl!
I blame you not; those who aspire too high
Rest nearer heaven than those who ne'er aspired.
I love you, Mabel.
For me you sum up every human tie
Save those which link me to my country's weal.
Your mother lives in you, and in some sort
You are my age's bride as well as daughter;
To lose you were a second widowhood.
My only child! sole tenant of the heart
Your brothers, did they live, would share with you!

Mab.
[Embracing him.]
O my dear lord and father, well I know
Your love, your patient and forgiving love,
To your oft wayward Mabel! Your desire
Shall guide me in this matter! But command,
And I will wed Sir Everard.

Earl.
At no command unsanctioned by your heart
Would I require you wed! Yet would I speak
Of poor Sir Everard a word or two,
And leave to time and your own heart the judgment.
He loves you well, is generous and kind.

Mab.
He is most kind; he is most generous.

Earl.
And though he be no genius, has fine taste
In arts that charm a woman's eye and ear;
Has an accomplished mind and graceful bearing.

Mab.
That all who know Sir Everard will confess.

Earl.
Is rich.

Mab.
He has the broadest lands in Warwickshire.

Earl.
And has the one great requisite—high birth.

Mab.
Most true; and yet I hope, possessing these,
He has no more than I; for generous,
I trust, I am, and riches and descent
I know we have, surpassing even his own.

Earl.
And do you hold these things of light account?
Methinks they should be potent arguments.

Mab.
True; but the heart ne'er guides its choice by logic.
There is nought rational in love; it has,
Above all reason, high prerogative.
Who is there that hath loved because he ought?
The meet, the proper, and the dutiful
Belong to the head's lore; above all rule
Is the heart's passion, gushing like a stream,
In its exuberant nature finding law
For all it doth, and pouring oft, alas!
Its unblessed course along the wilderness
Which reason would have taught it to avoid.

Earl.
Then Mabel is in love; for never, sure,
Was one who valued reason less than she.

Mab.
Not so; for, although reason makes not love,
Love may consist with reason; am I right?
Now, if you grant me audience, I will
Possess you of my secret thoughts, till now
Nursed in the solitude of my own heart.
He whom my will shall for its king elect
Must bring me something more than that I have;
Women who marry seldom act but once;
Their lot is, ere they wed, obedience
Unto a father; thenceforth to a husband;
But in the one election which they make,
Choice of a mate for life and death, and heaven,
They may be said to act. The man they wed
Is as the living record of their deed,
Their one momentous deed. If he be base,
It veils their deed with shame; if he be great,
Encircles it with glory; and if good,
Haloes it with religion. Would you know
Whom I would have to be my husband? Listen,
In brief terms I will sketch him. He shall be
High born, handsome, I'd rather; but at least
With features lit up by the sacred light
Which marks the elect band of noble men
Whose history is the world's, and whose high names,
Linked close with empires, sound their synonymes:
With eye that quails not in the war; with voice
That thrills the popular ear, and o'erawes senates;
And of a wide, ceaseless benevolence,
Bounded but by the walls of the great world;
And, oh! whene'er affection breathed his name,
Or mind did homage to it, should my heart
Rush back to the bright hour when first I chose him,
Saying it was my act

Earl.
Well, well, my sweet one! all I would require
Is, that the proffered love you cannot take,
You should put back with thoughtful gentleness.
I censure not your nature. Some there be,
Of a romantic spirit like your own,
Have thought all decencies chimerical,
And linked their fate with that of men obscure,
That they might thereby show contempt of station
And all that wisdom holds inviolate:
But this from you I fear not; you have been
Nurtured too well; you are too much my daughter.

Mab.
You do me justice, sir; think not that I
Will e'er disgrace our lineage; whom I wed
High in descent, noble in mind, shall be.

Earl.
Thou art my best beloved; but leave me now—
[As Mabel is retiring.]
Stay, Mabel; one word more with you! To-morrow
A visitor named Mordaunt tarries here;
Perhaps a week or two as it may be.
Show him all kindness; though of humble birth,
He is no common man;—may serve me much.

Mab.
Mean you the Mordaunt?

Earl.
I did not know his fame had risen so high
As to make him the Mordaunt; but I think
We mean the same man; he whose eloquence
Has stirred the Commons so.

Mab.
My Mordaunt is a poet.

Earl.
True! he has
That failing, I believe, and 'tis a great one
In public men; but time will cure him of it.

Mab.
Fie, fie, my lord! Do we not mourn when time
Plants wrinkles on the brow? and shall we joy
When his touch chills the freshness of the heart?
For such is poetry.

Earl.
Be it so, chit!
I'll not contest the point; as to this stranger,
Let his reception be most courteous.
I would we could persuade Aunt Lydia
To doff her stateliness for some few days;
It must be looked to; let us seek her, sweet.

Mab.
With all my heart; [Thoughtfully.]
the Mordaunt! [Rousing herself, and giving her hand to Earl.]
O, I'm ready.

[They go out.

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.