 | The Crown Jewel |  |
ACT. II.
Scene. 1.
—A Wood.(Enter Lady Meranie and Ella.)
Mer.
A mother's love, dear Ella—
This natural blending of sweet sounds together,
Steals on my ear, like solemn music which
The whispers of the intermediate wind
Have taken their part in—a strain, once familiar,
Wandering by snatches and disordered chimes
Back on the memory. A mother's love!
How far into our childhood they retake us,
These magic words! even to the earliest dawn
Of living consciousness. I feel them move me
And at their impulse, shape a radiant dream
Instinct with all maternal fondnesses.
I hear sweet tones and silver melodies;
Warm lips press mine and hold me with their fragrance;
Soft arms caressingly are folded round me.
What means all this unusual extasy?
Ah! why does fancy, dearest Ella, thus
Mock me, at such a time, with such a vision?
Ella.
Make happy barter of unhappy thoughts—
This is your birthday, come, sweet sister, wear it
Upon your face and be in birthday humour;
I bring good news.
Mer.
My heart is full already,
Alas! I fear some evil is at hand
So to impel this blessed visitor
And disengage her from the love of angels
Towards the offspring of her earlier love.
Ella.
Heav'n, dearest Meranie, requires of us
To its own sacred soil to lift our faith,
And bows not down with its redeemed souls
To disengage us by their high persuasion
From earth's affections.
Mer.
I but spake, my Ella,
Regarding a kind vision and sweet blessings;
And with my changeful destiny to link them
Is natural in this ebb-time of joy.
Ella.
But, I have news for you, dear Meranie,
Will stay and turn the rough, retiring tide,
Bidding its waves set in triumphantly.
My brother—
Mer.
Keep me not in high suspense
The Count Vicente—name him. Is he well?
Has he returned? Have you seen—
Ella.
Take breath!
This torrent of headlong queries will exhaust you
And overpowers reply. Give time to rally,
Sweet sister.
Mer.
Oh! be lenient to my hopes,
As you have been to my forebodings cruel.
Ella.
You shall have all in one brief sentence told you,
My brother has left ---, and is now.
By royal command on matters of high moment,
Detained upon the frontiers. At the utmost,
A fortnight, so he writes me, may elapse
Before he is relieved.
Mer.
A fortnight, Ella?
Ella.
How aghast you look!
How taken aback by this ill-timed disclosure!
Dear Meranie! I meant t'have overjoyed you.
And yet you tremble? Ay! a fortnight! Is it
(Now that two years ungrudged and unbemoaned
Have passed) too tedious or too brief a term?
A fortnight. Oh! true love endures to death
And by the life-time of its cherisher,
Not by starved weeks, is measured. Nay! it stretches
Into the future and becomes eternal.
Mer.
Up to this hour, I have been patient, Ella,
And in my patience hidden all my woe,
Even from you, I have refrained myself
Who bear'st my bosom's secrets in your own.
You know not all. Only my joy you know,—
The secrets of my joy, not of my torture.
You would relate to me an open rumour
Touching your uncle's prodigality—
His distraught fortunes and abuse of trust.
How to repair his credit, he hath beggared
His simple ward. It is the world's small whisper?
But will the Count Vicente—will my brother,—
My brave and honoured brother so regard it
As to abate one jot of constancy
Or love the less, because your heart is needier?
Oh! you mistake and wrong his noble nature!
Mer.
Forgive me, Ella, never can I wrong him,
In thought or word—never do this injustice!
To question his being constant were to cast
Doubt on myself—to acknowledge myself changed.
That rumour and her gossips had been idle.
In this disastrous hour, would have amazed me,
I wonder more, seeing they thus traduce
My guardian's fame, they have advanc'd no further;
And yet the secret of my wretchedness
Is not the cruel reverse which hath befallen
Our noble line, nor my betrayed estate.
If it has saved my uncle, he is welcome
To every acre. I shall not upbraid him
Nor charge this wrong upon his silver'd head:
But, Ella, he hath dared, being my guardian,
And under cover of his office, further
T'abuse all trust. With open injury
He mingles insult—tramples on my heart—
Dictates my hand's disposal—mocks and threatens.
All this he does, and yet I must endure it.
The former fondness of the uncle melts me,
I cannot find rebellion in my blood
Enough to oppose him.
Ella.
You arouse my wonder.
I am bewildered, Meranie: recount
These so fastidious woes—these imminent wrongs—
That, powerless to assuage, I may partake them.
Mer.
Alas! your friendship—the most earnest love
Cannot divide this burden with my heart,
You have observed that, of late years, the Baron
Hath lowered himself to terms of intimacy
With one Gonseres, keeper of his kennel—
A foundling and withal a saucy boy.
'Tis said that at a boar-hunt, this bold stripling
At his own peril, shielded my uncle's life
And thus secured his binding gratitude,
Let this be, as it may, the daring youth
Is high in his esteem—a right-hand counsellor—
Familiar with the secrets of his bosom.
Nay, more; Soartes hath embolden'd him
T'assail my ear with his admiring speech
And lay the project of his insolent love
Open before me. This the forward boy
Within the passing fortnight, twice hath dared,
And twice—the first time with cold courtesy,
The next, with indignation and disdain,
I did repel him,—Ella! dearest Ella!
With all the demon of his heart stirred up
And gathering on his face—the panther eyes
Illumining the swart, forbidding brow—
The tortured lip settling into resolve—
The impatient working of his clenched fist—
The sudden wheeling and impetuous stride,
At discord, yet in very keeping with
The laugh that shook the woods—Oh! you would give
Fluttering terror entrance to your bosom
And let the foresight of sad evil sway you.
Ella.
There is some mystery here, dear Meranie;
That this Gonseres so acquits himself
I will believe; but that your guardian—
A reckless man, 'tis true, and prodigal—
Is so debased and lost to common shame
As to take part in such a daring suit—
To move in it, to dictate and to threaten—
Exceeds all credence.
Mer.
Alas! 'tis truth. The soul's nobility
Which once in prosp'rous days became his bearing
And as a genuine and appointed star
Was recognized, hath vanished with his fortunes.
Then, a rude fiction would have mov'd to tears
And the wind's plaint have counsell'd charity.
Now, tears in burning showers themselves prevail not
And storms of urgent woe howl on unheeded,
His eye, his ear, his bosom, all are seal'd.
Ella.
The roof that shelters this dishonoured head
Is no safe shield for yours.
Mer.
His claim, I fear,
As guardian compels me to its shelter.
Ella.
A precious guardian—a trust-worthy uncle!
No, Meranie, the wrongs already done you
Extinguish every claim and rend all ties.
Come, let me lead you to a happier hearth place.
I take no curt denial from your lips—
No plea for longer thought on't or delay.
You have a sister's arms to welcome you,
And betwixt these, a sister's beating heart.
Mer.
I yield, dear Ella! doubly I am conquer'd
By pressing fears and by your pressing love.
Chide not my weakness in your secret soul;
I know not what to say in this extreme,
Or how you think of me or where beside,
Save on your proferred breast, to fold my wing.
Ella.
Playmates together, we have been as sisters,
And now, grown up, we shall in truth be such,
My brother's love for you, the endearing name
Already sanctions, and erelong, heav'n favouring,
Will give assurance of.
(Enter Gonseres.)
Fair mistresses!
In this retreat to muffle up your charms:
It is a wasteful pity. Were I poet,
I would arraign you of high felony
That thus of an enchanting theme you rob me,
And doing so, defraud the world of song.
Ella.
Pray, sir, pass on your way.
Gon.
My errand leads no further. I halt here,
With your permission, ladies; and am earnest
To win your favour by my services:
Shall I chase butterflies or scramble banks
For dewy flowers and startle timid hares?
Or shall I gather berries or shower down
The yellowing nuts or with my ready knife
Shape lively whistles and the birds make envious
That until lilt-time cower in these thick boughs?
This I can do, if it but meet your pleasure.
I have a natural art in woodland music—
Know all its tricks—the outs and ins of song—
Can mock the melting love-lay of the cushat—
The warble of the thrush—the prate of jays
And garrulous daws.
Ella.
Such lore is not our fancy—
The dove bemocked might fetch the hawk upon us
And you are free to scold the jays elsewhere:
Flowers, nuts, and berries we can pull ourselves;
The lev'rets you would scare, gambol before us
The privileged companions of our walks.
We have no craving for your services,
Pray pass, sir.
Gon.
You have twice expressed yourself
And but one voice hold claim to, Mistress fair!
What says this trembler? I have good credentials
And am committed to a grateful charge.
Your uncle, Ladye Meranie, has sent me,
There being certain madcap citizens
Now at the castle, who, were you to meet them
In your retired strolls, might prove uncourteous
And push beyond a jest their foppish freedoms;
I am deputed therefore by my lord
To offer you protection and safe conduct.
Besides, I hold it duty to inform you
Of a high entertainment given by
The noble Baron in honour of his guests.
At which to enhance and grace it, he requires
Your early presence.
This is to the point—
You now have spoken your errand like a man,
And your bird-whistles placed the heel upon.
Hie to the noble Baron, your noble master,
With my respects—I bear him much respect!
And say, it is the pleasure of his niece
The Ladye Meranie, to accept the welcome
Of a lov'd friend and to that friend's retreat
Bring new delights and make the summer sunnier,
I trust you to be safeguard to my message,
Not to my friend.
Gon.
You credit me with more
Than my dull brains are meant to execute.
'Tis a fair spoken message to the Baron
That, by her mouthpiece, Ladye Meranie
Hath chosen to entrust. Suppose I word it so
And take rebellions tidings to his ear,
How he will stare and misbelieve himself
Or else affirm his ward hath lost her reason!
Ella.
Should this be all, it will enliven you.
A jest below his roof is now-a-days
Of rare occurrence.
Gon.
You are pleasant, madam,
I will be brief; the Ladye Meranie
Shall bear me company.
Ella.
The lamb and butcher!
A proper fellow—you, Master Gonseres,
To come to this decision. Well! what next?
Your presence has tongue-tied my gentle friend;
Yet on her face, it needs no conjuror's skill
To read refusal. Come, move off, I pray,
You are a thought too friendly—
Gon.
Sooth!—good madam!
You take with kindly spirit to a quarrel.
Permit in your friend's ear a single whisper,
And I will answer for it, she will bend
Her head in graceful token of compliance
And follow, without murmur.
Mer.
Miscreant!
If you the spell-word hold which can so move me
Aloud pronounce it, so that this fair earth
May disavow the guilty forgery
And cast it in your teeth—a demon's coinage,
Stamped with foul falsehood and the coward's menace.
Gon.
Be patient, heart, this is a woman's anger
Made up of stormy and unmeasured sounds,
Cloudy distrust and pointless inuendoes,
Its natural wild-fire! You esteem me highly
Sweet Ladye, by submitting my devotion
To such fierce ordeal, yet requite it thus.
Is it because I am presumptuous
And soar, not crawl, in love, that I am scorned?
A foundling and base-born who have made choice
Betwixt the postures of a slave and freeman,
Daring with head and hand to help my heart
And take the uses of all three to serve me?
If so, to push still higher will become
My nature, but in this, your scorn prevents me—
That scorn, believe it, more confirms my passion,
Than helps to conquer it. Remove this barrier,
And I shall soar again—seek one more worthy
To lavish my free heart on and forget
That I had lov'd and left my early choice.
This is mad talk—repulsive more than mad,
A dark-souled libertine's—its very pith
Rank disaffection and its marrow treason
Against th'upright nobility of nature:
Such love to virtue proferr'd is offensive,
More than disfavour and avowed hate,
Had you a spark of good wrought in you, sir,
Or that respect and reverence of good,
Which, after all, is but one's self-respect,
You would not thus have dar'd to insult my friend.
Your love, forsooth!
And is't to urge this bold, unworthy passion
Under a cloud of pretexts, you are here?
Gon.
Spare me, I am unused to whet my tongue
And war with women. 'Tis dull cant, all this,
I have no leisure for it, with your leave;
Therefore, be quick, fair mistresses! and take,
As the wind-up, your parting courtesies,
I and my gentle charge must on our way.
Ella.
Move, sirrah, but a step and I shall make
The woods ring out and every tree start help;
A breath upon this horn will fetch me those
Would use no ceremony to your vantage.
[Blows a horn.
Gon.
Bravo! sweet pet! This music does thy bidding
And all its chivalry of echoes throng
Into the field of rescue at the summons.
Yon leafy rampart is astir with champions
And I to brave them, do esteem myself
A valorous man and wear my boldest brow.
Ha! as I live, that was no baby's breath
But the rough gust of some strong trumpeter.
[Horn sounds at a distance.
Ella.
Thou wilt have need of all thy brazen fore-head
For this encounter. Better be advised,
Fellow! and pass.
Gon.
I have my tongue and sword,
Both are well proved and in the mood of strife.
In sooth, you take me for a craven at heart
Whom the recoil of silver sounds emboldens
But blustering notes do scare and terrify.
Nay, Ladye fair, I will abide th'event,
Were this forewarner of a lion's mien
And limb'd like Hercules,
(Enter Count Vicente.)
Ella.
Vicente!—brother!
Blessings be on the star that guides thee hither!
Vic.
A star more blest is not in all night's concave
My Ella! my sweet Ladye Meranie!
Accept in one short breath, a world of greetings!
[To Gonseres.
Sir, page! you are relieved from your office—
Its duties fall on me, as sweet delights,
Commend me highly to the Lord Soartes;
Such commendation will absolve you, boy,
And justify the act of your return.
Page! boy! what next? I have a servile ear—
A servile mouth charged with soft messages:
In hand and foot, most servilely equipped
Is poor Gonseres. What a servile soul!
His services dispensed with—yet in service!
Relieved, but still in bonds! Proud Count Vicente!
Thou would'st deter me by this haughty speech
From my ambition.
Ella.
'Tis a moonstruck youth,
At crisis of his fever, whom Soartes
Hath sent as escort—a presuming stripling
The inconsiderate old man hath reared
And pampered so—the minion is the master.
Go boy! and keep this bravery for thine equals,
Your presence is ill-timed—
Gon.
More so this taunt!
Boy, boy, again, and minion! Count Vicente!
On thee as vow'd defender of this lady,
My fair traducer, I fix cause of quarrel.
[Draws.
Vic.
Put up thy willow or go temper it,
If thou wilt brawl; elsewhere. The King has foes,
So has the State, go, test its edge on them,
Ere thou presumest to take rash affront
And so imperil by headstrong arrogance
The life thou owest thy country.
Gon.
Draw, defend!
(They fight—Gonseres is disarmed. Vicente breaks his sword.
Vic.
There, patch thy weapon and thy beard let grow!
In a hereafter period, thou may'st prove
Thyself a better swordsman. To have spilt
Such maiden blood was to have wrong'd the sward
And robb'd kind nature of her emerald wealth.
To do thee justice, thou but wantest age
And some experience to acquit thee well,
The drawback is thy weak presumption.
[Exeunt—Vicente and ladies.
Gon.
I will think on't, proud Signor, I will think on't
Ay! and act on it. For thy scorn, a fig!
It shall be doubled back upon its givers
When my good stars are climbing to their zenith,
All, in fit season! Triumph until then!
And that thou hast of her, hug and caress—
I will notch down the hours as they go by—
Nay, every golden moment take account of,
So that upon the day of reckoning,
I nothing may omit of what I owe thee.
(Enter Inora.)
Now, my proud mother! come and feast these eyes,
And put your wondrous day-dreams to the test,
Oh! the ambition of that doting heart,—
The dotage and fallacious frailty
Of such ambition! Honour I have done with,
Henceforward, be it to my bastard ears
A word most hateful and audacious!
Say love, instead, Gonseres! Let this hate
Rest on the head of its appropriate sin.
Honour is graceful, enviable, holy;
'Tis some men's heritage, but all may win it,
The basest-born can to this virtue lean,
And to his bosom clasp its good repute.
To cherish honour is to cherish that
Which life endears. Conscience itself is kept
In chastity by its sweet influence;
But thy offence—the hurt thou doest thyself
To no redeeming virtue is allied.
Gon.
Of that you speak which a girl's scorn has slain,
Else, had it liv'd, even starving upon hope,
I had not flung my honour to the winds;
But now the love you jeer at and denounce
Is hate become; let honour go and beg!
So thankless and luxurious a charge
I will no longer pamper.
Inora.
Yet be taught
What shame is, stubborn boy? These twenty years
Have I endured it, as the felon does
His dungeon fetters. A long night 't hath been
And weary, but one star hung on the vault,
And its kind ray, too oft by clouds obscured,
Escaped, to yield sweet solace, now and then.
That star, Gonseres, was thy star—to me
The star of hope, atoning and sustaining,
My heart hath hung to it, by night and day—
In dream-time and the hours when dreams are over.
Thy mother's history and thine own are one.
The Baron Soartes whom thou reckonest
To be at once thy master and thy dupe,
Is, all in ignorance of the tender tie,
Thy father—I his dupe, his mistress once
Befooled by love—a very fool in love!
Even yet, cast off, forgotten in his heart—
Supplanted since by bauble upon bauble,
The faith that bound me to him is not dead,
With this devoted remainder of love
His and thy fortunes have been watched and mused on;
All the reverses of his waning years
And of thy waxing manhood all the winnings.
For him, for thee I have deferred life
And stayed the impulse in me to be quit o't.
Gon.
So to have done deserves our gratitude.
Thy best restraint, thy staff, thy daily cheer,
Thine eye-feast and thy heart's feast, mother kind!
Have been the down-fall of thy bosom's lord—
Here is the secret thou hast chosen to live for—
Revenge and Triumph!
Inora.
Demon!
Gon.
Thou hast said it—
Our blood is of one sort. I am a demon!
A demon's mother, thou!
Inora.
I suckled not
Thy vampire lips—
Gon.
'Tis true. The bloodhound did
This office. Be my surly nurse thy accuser!
Thou think'st to cheat me with endearing tongue
Now, when the fate thou did'st consign me to
The very dogs refused to administer?
I have survived th'unmotherly intent
Think you, to be persuaded by soft terms?
Go to! The breath is baleful they are fraught with?
[Exit.
Inora.
Oh destiny!—I am deceived in thee!
My star this day hath lost its worshipper;
Why rose the kindling and inebriate thought
Of reparation and a glorious future?
Why interposed this lunacy of fame,
Betwixt the sacrifice my shame required,
And its too credulous offerer? Alas!
The wondrous wild-fire is gone out, indeed!
The sweet hallucination at an end!
The enchantment over—the dark curtain fallen!
Boy! boy! 'Tis destiny hath duped us both.
The expiation of my guilty shame,
So long deferred, is claimed from out the heav'ns.
Go, do their bidding, this thy fate and mine.
[Exit.
(Lightning and loud thunder.)
Scene 2.
A chamber in the Castle discovers Bertrand, Notary, Appraiser, and others.1st Cit.
A rare old wine, this, Master Steward. It
takes kindly to one, on the top of the pasty.
Ber.
No need to be sparing of it. Our cellar is rife and
will bleed freely. You are all welcome, sweet sirs, so that
you drink enough. No heel-taps, recollect—
2nd Cit.
Your master the Baron is, by account, a fine
old brick. Pity Zachary has his clutch hereabout! Such
liquor to stagnate in his keeping! Saints prevent it!
Ber.
You say truly. Fill up your goblet, friend. The
Lord Soartes is no niggard host and, thank heaven! hath
gold enough at command to appease the scurvy money-lender.
Ap.
A sudden turn of the wheel! Hath he found a
mine on his estate? 'Tis excellent wine I allow, and
these faggots blaze briskly; yet were the ready at hand,
as you affirm, it would be common thrift in his lordship to
patch the ceiling overhead and give yon grim pannellings
a help to hold it together.
Ber.
The craziest rafters are likliest to betray treasure-pots,
Master Appraiser!
Not.
Oho! so your master hath hit upon his redemption-money
in this way. 'Tis of consideration, and may bring
a trifle into our hands.
Ber.
Not so fast, sir Notary. Your head calculates to
fee the fist with wind-coins. Come, come, pass the
flagon. The wine is good as gold to those it loves, and
good wine loves like a Christian—enemies as well as
friends. Here comes the Baron's fledgling—a sweet-tempered
youth in his own way. There's a cloud on his
brow, I reckon, so be advised and avoid argument with
him. His mode of dealing with contradiction is somewhat
summary.
(Enter Gonseres.)
Gon.
Wine—faugh! it smells of puppies. Let
Curs drink it.
The very fumes do choke and stifle me.
Here, Bertrand, hand me of thy special flask,
A brimming bumper—good, another—good—
[Drinks.
One more. This is the beverage of gods!
Your health in't, sirs.
Not.
Pardon me, young master. Wine like this is not
to be belied and cast out of credit, so readily. 'Tis dishonour
done to thy lord's cellar to refuse it the preference.
[Aside.
Gon.
The paltry knave.
Is written on his face. Friend, an advice!
Don't meddle with folks' tastes, unless 'tis meant
To thrust thyself into the heart of quarrel.
Counsel and prose are poisoners at a feast,
They choke its wit, drop wormwood in its wine,
Its lights extinguish, freeze its promised warmth
And so transform it to a funeral.
Fill up his glass. 'Tis charity to melt
So dry a nature—give him swill to th'ears.
[Exit.
Ber.
Yield me a judgment, Master Notary. My warning
was not without reason? Yet, in honest truth,
bringing experience to bear, you met with most lenient
dealing. The foreboding of daggers was evident; but the
upshot, not ungracious, considering. Hold yourself fortunate,
my friend.
Not.
A very scape-grace, spoiled and sodden with indulgence.
Ap.
A bully, in every facet of the term!
1st Cit.
A mouthing upstart!
Not.
The Baron's fledgling you termed him?
Ber.
So report saith. The paternal cross, I allow, is
charily developed. It is betrayed, notwithstanding, on
occasions. Put wings to the flagon, gentlemen.
(Enter Soartes and Zachary.)
My Lord Soartes—
Soar.
Our worthy steward,
Hath all the duties of a host performed
To your content, good friends, I make no question.
Come, Master Zachary, be prevailed upon
To taste our wine and pledge these jovial cits,
Your followers, by whom our humble board
Is graced and honoured.
Zach.
This prodigality, my lord, is no matter of mine.
You will have your jest, although you fall on the point of
it. Your health Baron! and yours, gentlemen. A day of
grace is but reasonable, yet by the beard of Isaac, the
goodness of the grape almost tempts me to descend to the
wine cellar and lay instant embargo upon its contents.
Ber.
God bless you sir, and you have no fear of the rats.
Why! at this moment, they are out at foray in droves—
huge-whiskered, ferocious looking rascals that have both
tooth and stomach for anything, and were a lion itself
fool-hardy enough to face them, would fly down his throat
and disembowel him, before he could get his roar out.
Besides, there is a nest of adders in the vault and a ghost
—a white ghost—sir.
Zach.
Quite an attractive place. Let me have the key,
by all means.
Soar.
Oblige him with it, Bertrand.
Zach.
Nay, nay, my lord, I have no design to destrain
your wine-casks so unceremoniously. This old man's
fiction is befitting his own lack of courage. To-morrow
at mid-day, we shall proceed to take our inventory, and
should that relief you so confidently look for make
its appearance in the mean-time, it will give me infinite
satisfaction to throw up all claims and obligations at
present held by me over your lordship's estate, as well
as to rid these walls of our very unpleasant company.
You and your followers I have made welcome,
And the best fare my frugal house affords,
Placed at your bidding. Had I so resolved,
This castle might have stood a lengthy seige
Against a regiment of creditors.
I could have filled the fosse—the bridge withdrawn,
Assorted the portcullis; to my aid
All the contrivances of bold defence
Invoked, and cast defiance in your teeth.
Instead of this, my gates are thrown ajar,
My hand extended. All I have made yours,
Before the strict formalities of law
Have so declared it; yet, while you partake,
You disallow my hospitality.
The grave assurance of the means at hand
T'appease your claims, is held in question;
I sue for the brief respite of a week
Taxed with the entertainment of these cits,
Yet this, the paltriest of favours, you
Deny me.
Zach.
My Lord Soartes. To-day with you repeats the
speech of yesterday, and the yesterday of your plaint and
entreaties is not a recent one. Few words need pass
betwixt us. To-morrow I have named—to-morrow it
shall be. Master Appraiser, take note of it and have a
care that your head be cool and your hand steady. This
wine, I fear, works mischief with both. The blame be
mine!
Soar.
Bertrand, it is strange, my niece
Hath not returned. Yourself apprised me
That in the Lady Ella's company
At noon, she had set out to enjoy the shade,
In precincts of our park. It has of late
Become her idle pleasure so to ramble;
This I am bent to check and have despatched
Gonseres to compel her presence hither,
Without delay. Seven hours have since elapsed.
To flinch from his instructions is unlike
The worthy youth.
Ber.
Gonseres, my lord, has been here; indeed, he had
just quitted the hall on your entrance. In a moody
humour, I allow, he was, and tossed off a glass or two of
strong waters with little ceremony. The Ladye Meranie's
name was not mentioned by him. I noted that he carried
no rapier and his attire as well as his spirits was somewhat
discomposed. Had the weapon usually worn by him been
at hand, this gentleman, I am persuaded, would have had
reason to feel uncomfortable.
Soar.
I must see the youth. My niece
No doubt has to her chamber hied and shuns
Her guardian's presence.
[Exit Soartes.
Not.
It is only reasonable to wish myself safely outside
of these walls. Old Zachary hath a bold tongue, but I
question that it would wag so freely, were the page,
instead of the master, to come across it. The Baron
Soartes appears suddenly to have made up his mind to
something; and I don't like the look of matters, by any
means.
Ber.
You a lawyer too! that would hug the devil himself
in the shape of a client, and hast laid claim, no doubt,
to a good slice of the invisible territory down stairs.
Come fill up and pass the tankard! It has a habit of
halting at your end of the board, much to our prejudice at
this extremity.
Not.
I would rather that we marched direct to our
night quarters, comrades; and you Master Appraiser,
have a care of yourself. Our employer in this business, as
you well know, is a man of his word and to forfeit the
goodwill he hath shewn us by an act of indiscretion will
not say much for our sagacity.
Ap.
I have neither heartache nor headache, Master
Notary, and you have both, But if good-night is to be
the word—pass the tankard for a parting gulp.
[Exeunt omnes.
End of Act II.
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