 | The Hunchback |  |
SCENE II.
—An Apartment in Master Heartwell's House.Master Walter discovered looking through title-deeds and papers.
Wal.
So falls out everything, as I would have it,
Exact in place and time! This lord's advances
Receives she,—as, I augur, in the spleen
Of wounded pride she will,—my course is clear.
She comes—All's well! The tempest rages still!
Julia enters, and paces the room in a state of high excitement.
Julia.
What have my eyes to do with water? Fire
Becomes them better!
Wal.
True!
Julia.
Yet, must I weep
To be so monitor'd, and by a man!—
A man that was my slave! whom I have seen
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With leave to only gaze upon my face,
And tell me what he read there,—till the page
I knew by heart, I 'gan to doubt I knew,
Emblazon'd by the comment of his tongue!
And he to lesson me! Let him come here
On Monday week; he ne'er leads me to church!
I would not profit by his rank, or wealth,
Though kings might call him cousin, for their sake!
I'll show him I have pride!
Wal.
You're very right!
Julia.
He would have had to-day our wedding-day!
I fix'd a month from this. He pray'd and pray'd;
I dropp'd a week. He pray'd and pray'd the more!
I dropp'd a second one. Still more he pray'd!
And I took off another week,—and now
I have his leave to wed, or not to wed!
He'll see that I have pride!
Wal.
And so he ought.
Julia.
O! for some way to bring him to my foot!
But he should lie there! Why, 'twill go abroad
That he has cast me off.—That there should live
The man could say so!—Or that I should live
To be the leavings of a man!
Wal.
Thy case
I own a hard one!
Julia.
Hard? 'Twill drive me mad!
His wealth and title!—I refused a lord—
I did!—that privily implored my hand,
And never cared to tell him on't! So much
I hate him now, that lord should not in vain
Implore my hand again!
Wal.
You'd give it him?
Julia.
I would.
Wal.
You'd wed that lord?
Julia.
That lord I'd wed;—
Or any other lord,—only to show him
That I could wed above him!
Wal.
Give me your hand
And word to that.
Julia.
There! Take my hand and word!
Wal.
That lord hath offer'd you his hand again.
Julia.
He has?
Wal.
Your father knows it, and approves of him.
There are the title-deeds of the estates,
Sent for my jealous scrutiny. All sound,—
No flaw, or speck, that e'en the lynx-eyed law
Itself could find. A lord of many lands!
In Berkshire half a county; and the same
In Wiltshire, and in Lancashire! Across
The Irish Sea a principality!
And not a rood with bond or lien on it!
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A countess? Here's the proffer of his hand.
Write thou content, and wear a coronet!
Julia.
[Eagerly.]
Give me the paper!
Wal.
There! Here's pen and ink.
Sit down. Why do you pause? A flourish of
The pen, and you're a countess!
Julia.
My poor brain
Whirls round and round! I would not wed him now,
Were he more lowly at my feet to sue
Than e'er he did!
Wal.
Wed whom?
Julia.
Sir Thomas Clifford!
Wal.
You're right.
Julia.
His rank and wealth are roots to doubt;
And while they lasted, still the weed would grow,
Howe'er you pluck'd it.—No! That's o'er—That's done.
Was never lady wrong'd so foul as I!
[Weeps.
Wal.
Thou'rt to be pitied.
Julia.
[Aroused.]
Pitied! Not so bad
As that!
Wal.
Indeed thou art, to love the man
That spurns thee!
Julia.
Love him!—Love! If hate could find
A word more harsh than its own name, I'd take it,
To speak the love I bear him!
[Weeps.
Wal.
Write thy own name,
And prove how near akin thy hate's to hate.
Julia.
[Writes.]
'Tis done!
Wal.
'Tis well! I'll come to you anon!
[Goes out.
Julia
[alone].
I'm glad 'tis done! I'm very glad 'tis done!
I've done the thing I ought. From my disgrace
This lord shall lift me 'bove the reach of scorn—
That idly wags its tongue, where wealth and state
Need only beckon to have crowds to laud!
Then how the tables change! The hand he spurn'd
His betters take! Let me remember that!
I'll grace my rank! I will! I'll carry it
As I was born to it! I warrant none
Shall say it fits me not:—but, one and all
Confess I wear it bravely, as I ought!
And he shall hear it! Ay, and he shall see it!
I shall roll by him in an equipage
Would mortgage his estate—but he shall own
His slight of me was my advancement! Love me!
He never loved me! if he had, he ne'er
Had given me up! Love's not a spider's web
But fit to mesh a fly—that you can break
By only blowing on't! He never loved me!
He knows not what love is!—or, if he does,
He has not been o'er chary of his peace!
And that he'll find when I'm another's wife,
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Why should I weep for him? Who make their woes,
Deserve them! What have I to do with tears?
Enter Helen.
Helen.
News, Julia, news!
Julia.
What! is't about Sir Thomas?
Helen.
Sir Thomas, say you? He's no more Sir Thomas!
That cousin lives, as heir to whom, his wealth
And title came to him.
Julia.
Was he not dead?
Helen.
No more than I am dead.
Julia.
I would 'twere not so.
Helen.
What say you, Julia?
Julia.
Nothing.
Helen.
I could kiss
That cousin! couldn't you, Julia?
Julia.
Wherefore?
Helen.
Why
For coming back to life again, as 'twere
Upon his cousin to revenge you.
Julia.
Helen!
Helen.
Indeed 'tis true. With what a sorry grace
The gentleman will bear himself without
His title! Master Clifford! Have you not
Some token to return him? some love-letter?
Some brooch? some pin? some anything? I'll be
Your messenger, for nothing but the pleasure
Of calling him plain “Master Clifford.”
Julia.
Helen!
Helen.
Or has he aught of thine? Write to him, Julia,
Demanding it! Do, Julia, if you love me;
And I'll direct it in a schoolboy's hand,
As round as I can write, “To Master Clifford.”
Julia.
Helen!
Helen.
I'll think of fifty thousand ways
To mortify him! I've a cousin, Julia,
A care-for-nought, at mischief. Him I'll set
With twenty other madcaps like himself,
To walk the streets the traitor most frequents,
And give him salutation as he passes—
“How do you, Master Clifford?”
Julia.
[Highly incensed.]
Helen!
Helen.
Bless me!
Julia.
I hate you, Helen!
Enter Modus.
Mod.
Joy for you, fair lady!
Our baronet is now plain gentleman—
And hardly that, not master of the means
To bear himself as such. The kinsman lives
Whose only rumour'd death gave wealth to him,
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Who keeps strict reckoning—will have interest,
As well as principal. A ruin'd man
Is now Sir Thomas Clifford!
Helen.
I am glad on't.
Mod.
And so am I. A scurvy trick it was
He served you, madam. Use a lady so!
I merely bore with him. I never liked him.
Helen.
No more did I. No, never could I think
He look'd his title.
Mod.
No, nor acted it.
If rightly they report, he ne'er disbursed
To entertain his friends, 'tis broadly said,
A hundred pounds in the year! He was most poor
In the appointments of a man of rank,
Possessing wealth like his. His horses, hacks!
His gentleman a footman! and his footman,
A groom! The sports, that men of quality
And spirit countenance, he kept aloof from;
From scruple of economy, not taste,—
As racing and the like. In brief, he lack'd
Those shining points that, more than name, denote
High breeding; and, moreover, was a man
Of very shallow learning.
Julia.
Silence, sir!
For shame!
Helen.
Why, Julia!
Julia.
Speak not to me! [Turning to Modus.]
Poor!
Most poor! I tell you, sir, he was the making
Of fifty gentlemen—each one of whom
Were more than peer for thee! His title, sir,
Lent him no grace he did not pay it back!
Though it had been the highest of the high,
He would have look'd it, felt it, acted it,
As thou couldst ne'er have done! When found you out
You liked him not? It was not ere to-day!
Or that base spirit I must reckon yours
Which smiles where it would scowl—can stoop to hate
And fear to show it! He was your better, sir,
And is!—Ay, is! though stripp'd of rank and wealth,
His nature 'bove or fortune's love or spite,
To blazon or to blur it!
[Retires.
Mod.
[To Helen.]
I was told
Much to disparage him—I know not wherefore.
Helen.
And so was I, and know as much the cause.
Enter Master Walter, with parchments.
Wal.
Joy, my Julia! Give you joy, my girl!
Impatient love has foresight! Lo you here
The marriage-deeds fill'd up, except a blank
To write your jointure. What you will, my Julia!
Is this a lover? Look! Three thousand pounds
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There's pin-money! Is this a lover? Mark
What acres, forests, tenements, are tax'd
For your revenue; and so set apart,
That finger cannot touch them, save thine own.
Is this a lover? What good fortune's thine!
Thou dost not speak; but, 'tis the way with joy!
With richest heart, it has the poorest tongue!
Mod.
What great good fortune's this you speak of, sir?
Wal.
A coronet, Master Modus! You behold
The wife elect, sir, of no less a man
Than the new Earl of Rochdale—heir of him
That's recently deceased.
Helen.
My dearest Julia,
Much joy to you!
Mod.
All good attend you, madam!
Wal.
This letter brings excuses from his lordship,
Whose absence it accounts for. He repairs
To his estate in Lancashire, and thither
We follow.
Julia.
When, sir?
Wal.
Now. This very hour.
Julia.
This very hour! O cruel, fatal haste!
Wal.
“O cruel, fatal haste!” What meanest thou?
Have I done wrong to do thy bidding, then?
I have done no more. Thou wast an off-cast bride,
And wouldst be an affianced one—Thou art so!
Thou'dst have the slight that mark'd thee out for scorn,
Converted to a means of gracing thee—
It is so! If our wishes come too soon,
What can make sure of welcome? In my zeal
To win thee thine, thou know'st, at any time
I'd play the steed, whose will to serve his lord,
With his last breath gives his last bound for him!
Since only noon have I despatch'd what well
Had kept a brace of clerks, and more, on foot,—
And then, perhaps, had been to do again!—
Not finish'd sure, complete—the compact firm,
As fate itself had seal'd it!
Julia.
Give you thanks!
Wal.
Take thy lord's letter! Well?
Enter Thomas, with a letter.
Thos.
This letter, sir,
The gentleman that served Sir Thomas Clifford—
Or him that was Sir Thomas—gave to me
For Mistress Julia.
Julia.
Give it me!
[Throwing away the one she holds.
Wal.
[Snatching it.]
For what?
Wouldst read it? He's a bankrupt! stripp'd of title,
House, chattels, lands, and all! A naked bankrupt,
With neither purse, nor trust! Wouldst read his letter?
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Unless he dines on alms! To send thee letter!
I burst with choler! Thus I treat his letter!
[Tears and throws it on the ground.
So! I was wrong to let him ruffle me;
He is not worth the spending anger on!
I prithee, Master Modus, use despatch,
And presently make ready for our ride.
You, Helen, to my Julia look—a change
Of dresses will suffice. She must have new ones,
Matches for her new state! Haste, friends. My Julia!
Why stand you poring there upon the ground?
Time flies. Your rise astounds you? Never heed—
You'll play my lady countess like a queen!
[They go out.
| The Hunchback | |