University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene.—Hall in Toppington House, extending to the back of the stage. The doors are backed by view of the distant country. Doors are closed at opening.
Enter Lloyd and Davies.
Lloyd.
Stir! my young lady will be back at noon.
The wind cuts, this spring morning. Quick, a fire!

Davies.
For her, indeed! Sir Joshua and my lady
Will not be home till six; and for Miss Blake
There's your own fire. What serves the housekeeper
May do for her to warm by. Fire for her!

[She goes out tossing her head disdainfully.
Lloyd.
Hard-hearted insolent—
Enter Jillott.
Dear Mr Jillott,
The wine's out; and Miss Blake will need a glass
After her long, cold ride.

Jil.
Why, Mistress Lloyd!
Of your five senses is there one remains?
Shall I—Sir Joshua's butler—make a journey
Down to the cellar? open, as I must,
An untouched cask? and bear the further labour
Of drawing and decanting, all for her?
For Anne Blake! Is that rational?

Lloyd.
I'd do it
For any creature living—for a beggar,
A sweep, a Hottentot!

Jil.
Ah! there we differ.

Lloyd.
But, sir, for Miss Anne Blake, remember this:
She is your master's niece.

Jil.
Sir Joshua,
I know, has the misfortune to be called
Her uncle.

Lloyd.
[Incensed.]
Why misfortune?

Jil.
Mistress Lloyd,
Be rational. You know Sir Joshua's sister,
Who might have made a creditable match—
A match Sir Joshua prayed for—sunk herself
By marrying some poor devil—scribbler, clerk,
Tutor, or—I forget the man. What followed?
They'd not a coin or crust. She must have starved,
But that Sir Joshua received her here,
With her puling baby.

Lloyd.
Ay, took child and mother;
But not the husband.

Jil.
No; most properly
The door was closed on him. What happened next?
His wife—Sir Joshua's sister—ere a year,
Frets herself out of life, and leaves my master
This squalling wench to—

Lloyd.
Shame! Poor innocent!

Jil.
Poor vixen! From a babe she couldn't bear
Sir Joshua or my lady. Why, she failed
In common gratitude.

Lloyd.
For what? Harsh words
And frowns from him, neglect from her; for taunts,
Imprisonments, and blows of angry nurses,
To cure her temper, till she half became
The sullenness they called her. Yet a heart
Opener to kindness beats not.

Jil.
Poh, poh, poh!
Hearts are low things. I speak of manners, Lloyd;
And hers distress me. Well, you did good service,
When, while Miss Blake was at your husband's farm,
You snared that strolling artist for a lodger,
And gulled him into love—love for Anne Blake!
I hope he'll take her, and so rid my taste
Of what offends it, my poor lady's nerves
Of daily shocks, my master of disgrace!

Lloyd.
Disgrace! Isn't she flesh and blood like them,
And, though she's poor, their equal?

Jil.
Equal!

Lloyd.
Ay!

Jil.
Equal! I'll hear no more. Such sentiments
Strike at the root of order. O, you're dangerous,
A leveller, Lloyd—a leveller! I've no doubt
You'd have the cow-boy sit at table with us
And pledge us in his pewter! Nay, no more.

[He stalks out.
Lloyd.
Why not their equal! Our Sir Joshua's father,
Though London alderman and baronet,
Was yet a trader, nor in wealth forgot
The means that raised him. There be two extremes
Of men that one can bear—those born to station,
Who take it graciously, and those who earn it;
But save me from those doubtful honourables
That have no root in custom, yet despise
Their honest planter, labour! Had Sir Joshua
Been used to rank, or won it by his wits,
He'd not have shown his niece such spite because
Her mother married humbly. [Knock.]
A knock! not hers:
There's too much flourish. Her knock's sharp and bold,
As if the door, too, were her enemy—
All but poor Lloyd!

[Door are thrown open by Servants, who enter. Doors remain open, admitting view of Welsh scenery in distance.
Enter Llaniston, speaking to Servant, who retires.
Llan.
So, so, I'm out of luck! Good day, good Lloyd!

Lloyd.
Good day, sir.

Llan.
And Sir Joshua—

Lloyd.
Returns to-night at six, sir, with my lady.

Llan.
[Abstractedly.]
Humph!

Lloyd.
[Aside.]
Now, I told him they'd be gone a week,
And thrice within the week he comes to seek them.

Llan.
I've called, you know, on business.

Lloyd.
Will you wait?

Llan.
I've not a moment. [Goes undecidedly towards the door, then returns.]
Can I see Miss Blake?

Lloyd.
She's out, sir, for her ride.

Llan.
Humph!

Lloyd.
She'll be back, though,
In an hour, or half an hour, or less.

Llan.
I'll wait.

[Sits.
Lloyd.
[Aside.]
That's odd; he said just now he'd not a moment.
How can she help his business?

Llan.
[Starting as from a reverie.]
So he's dead?
Her father—Miss Blake's father?

Lloyd.
Sir, 'tis like.
He crossed the seas ere she could lisp his name.
All trace of him is lost, as in the wave
The furrow of his ship.

Llan.
Poor girl!

Lloyd.
Ah, sir!
Her life's had little sunshine, little soil;
But she's a hardy nature.

Llan.
True.

Lloyd.
She has
A spirit, sir.

Llan.
I know it. I've heard her talk.
[Rising and pacing the hall.
Spirit indeed! Her very words are cluffs;
And yet I like them. They've a health that suits me;
Because well-born and rich, forsooth, my life
Has been all tame and breezeless. Gliding servants
Have noiseless done my bidding; tradespeople—
Forgetting man's a perpendicular—
Have crooked when I approached; often, even woman,
Whose outside should be mirror to her heart,
Has feigned the glance, the motion, and the blush
Heaven meant for instincts. O, all these have closed me
In a dead, sultry noon! But brave Anne Blake
Blows like a morning gust from our cragged hills.
I breast it, and am man!

Lloyd.
Hark! that's her pony.

[Anne heard without.
Anne.
I say you must, for the beast's sake, not mine.
She's hot. Walk her round gently. Sirrah, do it!
Enter Anne in a plain riding-dress. She rushes up to Lloyd, and flings her arms round her neck.
Is it not shame now, Lloyd, that for my sake
Dumb things should suffer? Though poor Jenny smokes,
The groom won't walk her round the yard. Of course not:
She's mine! [With great bitterness.]
No matter! Guess what I have here!

Lloyd.
What!

Anne.
[Gaily.]
Five bright sovereigns! the price
My sketches brought in Bangor. Now they're yours;
[Gives a purse.
On trust, as lawyers say! you'll give them, Lloyd,
To poor sick Jervis, whom my uncle, else,
Will thrust out of his humble shed for rent.
And say that 'tis your gift, Lloyd—no, your loan;
For, as you will not ask it back, a loan
Has a gift's worth, and nothing of its pain.

Lloyd.
Kind heart!

Anne.
Be prompt—save him from further shame.
It makes my blood turn fire to hear a man
Rated as if his sickness were a crime!

Lloyd.
But, darling—

Anne.
Wait! there's something more to guess—
I'd half a guinea left; what did I buy?

Lloyd.
A book?

Anne.
No.

Lloyd.
Crochet needles? [Anne shakes her head.]
Pencils? Paper?

Anne.
You'll never guess. A doll— Producing it from a parcel which she carries.]
—a doll in white,
With eyes that move like life; but, unlike life,
Ne'er fill with tears: a doll with forehead smooth,
That never aches; with feathers and a sash
To set her beauty off; but never proud!
Now, say for whom is this perfection meant?
For my pet, Minnie, Lloyd—your granddaughter.
Ah! won't my little lady dance for joy?
How oft I've wished I'd been a doll myself!
I then had had soft hands to stroke my hair;
Kind words and kisses—till the paint wore off!

[Gives doll to Lloyd.
Lloyd.
[Soothingly.]
Hush! here's a gentleman to hear.

Anne.
What then?
Is my tongue to be jailed because he has ears?

Llan.
Rather because he hears, he'd have it free
And speak unchecked.

Anne.
Nay, your tongue forces, now,
Debts on me which my body pays. See, sir,
Curtsies for compliments! [She curtseys.]
Good day.

[Going.
Llan.
But—

Lloyd.
[Who goes after her, apart.]
Stay!
He speaks you softly.

Anne.
Softly! So your lady
Speaks to Sir Joshua, yet I've seen him writhe.
Our courteous guests speak softly when they stoop
To notice the dependant. Who has ever
Spoken softly to me but to mock? Save you—
You, Lloyd, and him!

Llan.
She doesn't deign a look.

Anne.
Well, he's not come?

[Still apart to Lloyd.
Lloyd.
[Archly.]
Who, sweetheart? Edward Thorold!
No, not yet come.

Llan.
[Aside.]
This is civil, on my life.

[He turns on his heel, and again walks up and down.
Anne.
Absent again for weeks,
And still he hides the cause! Nay, I'll not murmur.
I've no more claim to his dear love than has
The heather to the sun; yet how I dashed
Down crag, through wood, o'er plain, in hope to meet him!
I'm in full time; dependants should be patient.

Lloyd.
Nay, nay, pet!

[Anne goes out dejectedly, Lloyd accompanying and caressing her.
Llan.
So she's gone; the porter's chair
And I are left for company. [Looking off.]
Here's one
To make a third! Why, if I've eyes, 'tis Thorold,
My hero friend from India, my rare compound
Of grave and gay, whom I perhaps more love
That I half fear him!

Enter Thorold.
Thorold.
Once more here. What! Llaniston!
Away from London, leaving all May Fair
Under eclipse?

Llan.
What matter to a world
That lives by gaslight? What took you from London,
After your Indian triumphs, ere a maid
Had asked your autograph, or a fond mother
Secured you for a breakfast?

Thor.
[Smiling.]
Business, business.

Llan.
Ay, true; I recollect.

Thor.
But recollect
Most to forget—my name, my quality,
And chief, all points between us that affect
Sir Joshua.

Llan.
I'm pledged.

Thor.
You but see an artist
In quest of beauty.

Llan.
Good! I'm on a quest
After the grand. Folks call the rugged grand:
I've found the rugged.

Thor.
Snowdon?

Llan.
No.

Thor.
The peak
Of Cader Idris?—the Pont Aberglaslyn?

Llan.
No; it's a she—a girl! D'ye know Anne Blake?

Thor.
[Starting, but quickly composing himself.]
Anne Blake! Sir Joshua's niece!

Llan.
The same; don't laugh.
I'm that girl's slave; I've seen her thrice.

Thor.
[Carelessly.]
Does she
Encourage you?

Llan.
Not she. She pelts my heart
With such force from her, it comes back again
In the rebound. I'll win her. Ah, you know not,
When women have well chased you all your life,
The zest of giving chase to one yourself!
I'll win her!

Thor.
Will you love her?

Llan.
By my life!

Thor.
I doubt that. Women who are but pursued
For the pleasure of the chase, are, like its victims,
Cast off when captured; and the huntsman lover
Turns to new game.
A wife, my friend, should be a sweet bird won
To one's breast by cherishing; not a wild quarry
To be hawked down.

Llan.
[Taking off his hat.]
My five-years' senior,
I bow to your reproof. In truth, dear Thorold,
I own its justice; but don't balk this passion.

Thor.
Miss Blake will. Were it otherwise, you'd tire
With your honeymoon no older than a crescent.

Llan.
A challenge! I'll make ready for the lists;
Soon shall my constancy unhorse your scorn,
While I cry, “Victory, Wales, and sweet St Anne!”

[He goes out.
Thor.
I could not tell him in this frolic mood,
Her heart had chosen me, her friend, preceptor,
Met, as she thinks, by chance. Ah, now, dear orphan!
Not for thy father's memory art thou loved,
But for thyself. She guesses not my station,
Nor that I knew her father; but her soul,
Which chill neglect had frozen, at one touch
Of kindness from me, thawed; and, though the current
Foams at opposing wrong, its waves are clear
And bright with glints of heaven! And now to see her!
[Turning, he looks accidentally through window at side, and pauses.
Alas! my eyes that thirst so for that sight,
Awhile must wait. Sir Joshua returns,
And I'd not meet her in his sight, whose taunts
My prudence scarcely brooks. Brave Anne, bear on;
The day is near I shall have right to shield thee!

[Goes out.
Re-enter Lloyd and Jillott.
Lloyd.
Not six yet by two hours, and here's Sir Joshua
And my lady back.

Enter Sir Joshua and Lady Toppington, followed by Servant and Lady's-Maid, with travelling gear.
Ser.
[Timidly approaching Sir Joshua.]
Your coat, Sir Joshua.

Sir J.
Back, sir—know your place.

Ser.
Yes, sir.

Sir J.
Why does the fool stand gaping there?
Why don't you take my coat?

Jil.
[To Servant, who hesitatingly touches the coat.]
Not so, you country loon;—so, there's your pattern.

[Takes the coat from Sir Joshua, with a low bow, and flings it at Servant, who goes out.
Sir J.
Wait, sir. The cards.

Lady T.
A chair, Lloyd. My poor nerves!

Jil.
The cards, Sir Joshua.

Sir J.
Are these all?

Jil.
All, sir.

Sir J.
[Glancing over the cards.]
Dobbs, Evans, Jones, the curate, Andrew Ray,
From Budge Row, City! Stretch of insolence.
Because he knew my father! Roberts, Owen—
There's not a name worth reading in the batch.
[Flings down the cards contemptuously on salver.
No callers else?

Jil.
[Places salver on table.]
Why, no, sir, none—
Except the Earl of Conniston—

Sir J.
Except
The Earl of Conniston! Dare you drag in
An earl's name, a real earl's name, at the tail
Of fifty nobodies, with an—except?
Well, well, Lord Conniston called—

Jil.
At the lodge gate, sir,
To ask the nearest cross-road to Llanberis.

Sir J.
Leave the room, sirrah.

[Jillott bows, and goes out.
Lloyd.
He forgot to say
Squire Llaniston, who's home from London, called.

Sir J.
[Troubled.]
Squire Llaniston!

Lady T.
[Throwing back her bonnet, with an air of indifference.]
Yes, she spoke plainly.

Lloyd.
And he called three times.

Sir J.
Three times within a week! Who spoke with him?

Lloyd.
Myself, sir, and Miss Blake.

Sir J.
[Horrified.]
Miss Blake!

Lady T.
[In a corroborating manner.]
Miss Blake.

Sir J.
Send her here—no words.

Lloyd.
[Muttering.]
More spite at my poor pet!

[Goes out.
Sir J.
Well, madam?

Lady T.
Well, Sir Joshua?

Sir J.
You're calm
Upon the brink of ruin.

Lady T.
[Still calmly.]
Ruin?

Sir J.
Madam,
D'ye know or not, that my estate is mortgaged
To Llaniston for thousands; that last year
He pressed for its redemption; that he's called
Thrice in this week, doubtless to urge repayment,
And that to meet his claim I've not its tithe.

Lady T.
You would keep hounds, give dinners, bet with lords.

Sir J.
Zounds!

Lady T.
Mind my nerves.

Sir J.
Nerves, ma'am! You've nerve enough
To warm your feet by a volcano! Well,
The money was my own. I'd none with you!

Lady T.
No; but you'd family.

Sir J.
What has it brought me?
I'm shunned by the whole county.

Lady T.
Dear Sir Joshua,
Is that my fault? You married and gained entrance
To the first circles;—I accomplished that.
They cut you;—you accomplished that yourself.

Enter Anne, with an air of fixed dejection.
Anne.
You sent for me?

Sir J.
Yes.

Anne.
Well, sir?

Sir J.
That's your welcome
After my absence, is it?

[A pause.
Lady T.
[Sarcastically.]
Can't you say
You're glad to see Sir Joshua?

Anne.
Madam, spare me!
I'd not offend.

Sir J.
You're too like your low father
To be grateful. Would my house were quit of you.

Anne.
It will be soon.

Sir J.
Yes, when yon strolling sketcher
Makes you his wife. Why leaves he still unfixed
Your marriage-day? He had my full consent
To take you hence. The dolt most like repents
His hasty bargain.

[Anne shudders, and utters and ejaculation of sudden pain.
Lady T.
Nay, you use her hardly.

Sir J.
Let her not chafe me, then. Speak, Anne! you've seen
Young Llaniston thrice?

Anne.
'Twas his fault.

Sir J.
Well, his errand?

Anne.
A fool's—he wasted compliments on me.

Sir J.
What was his business?

Anne.
I can't tell you that;
I wouldn't hear it.

Sir J.
Why, you never turned him
Out of the room.

Anne.
No; I got tired, and left it.

Sir J.
[Enraged.]
She turned her back on him! He left insulted,
Enraged beyond a doubt, and for revenge
He'll claim his mortgage promptly! [To Anne.]
'Tis your work,
Yours who live by my sufferance, whose least crust
Is given!

Anne.
Earned, sir—not given; it's but the price you pay
To taunt the helpless. That safe luxury,
Like others, must be paid for.

Sir J.
Minx!

Anne.
[With a burst of uncontrollable passion.]
Be sure
You shall not lose; there's one shall pay you back
Each crumb you dropped me; or, if not, I'd put
My blood, brain, bones to hire—nay, coin you guineas
Out of my life, rather than keep it bound
To charity like yours.

[She rushes out.
Sir J.
I'll tame you!

Lady T.
Who—
Who would have nerves?

Enter Jillott.
Jil.
Sir Joshua, a letter—
I may say a despatch. Squire Llaniston's groom
Brought it post-haste.

Sir J.
Out, blockhead! [Jillot goes out.]
As I said!
Here's the warrant of our doom. He asks his loans,
And I'm a beggar—you too! [He opens the letter.]
Have I eyes?
There's no hoax; 'tis his hand. . . . Jove, how I hate her!
Yet she must save me.

Lady T.
What's your news, Sir Joshua?
Do you go to jail?

Sir J.
[Jocularly.]
No, ma'am; 'tis Llaniston
Should be confined for life.

Lady T.
For what crime?

Sir J.
Madness!
But it makes well for us. He'll not press now
To have his loans repaid. The fool's in love—
In love, in downright love!

Lady T.
With whom?

Sir J.
Anne Blake!