University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—An Apartment in the Earl of Rochdale's.
Enter Helen and Fathom.
Fath.

The long and the short of it is this—if she marries
this lord, she'll break her heart! I wish you could see her,
madam. Poor lady!

Helen.

How looks she, prithee?

Fath.

Marry, for all the world like a dripping-wet cambric
handkerchief! She has no colour nor strength in her; and
does nothing but weep—Poor lady!

Helen.

Tell me again what said she to thee?

Fath.

She offered me all she was mistress of, to take the
letter to Master Clifford. She drew her purse from her
pocket—the ring from her finger—she took her very ear-rings
out of her ears—but I was forbidden, and refused. And now
I'm sorry for it! Poor lady!

Helen.

Thou shouldst be sorry. Thou hast a hard heart,
Fathom.

Fath.

I, madam! My heart is as soft as a woman's. You
should have seen me when I came out of her chamber—Poor
lady!

Helen.

Did you cry?

Fath.

No; but I was as near it as possible. I a hard heart!
I would do anything to serve her! Poor sweet lady!

Helen.

Will you take her letter, asks she you again?

Fath.

No—I am forbid.

Helen.

Will you help Master Clifford to an interview with
her?

Fath.

No—Master Walter would find it out.

Helen.

Will you contrive to get me into her chamber?

Fath.

No—You would be sure to bring me into mischief.

Helen.

Go to! You would do nothing to serve her. You a
soft heart! You have no heart at all! You feel not for her!

Fath.

But I tell you I do—and good right I have to feel for
her. I have been in love myself.

Helen.

With your dinner!

Fath.

I would it had been! My pain would soon have been
over, and at little cost. A fortune I squandered upon her!—
trinkets—trimmings—treatings—what swallowed up the

revenue of a whole year! Wasn't I in love? Six months I
courted her, and a dozen crowns all but one did I disburse for
her in that time! Wasn't I in love? An hostler—a tapster
—and a constable, courted her at the same time; and I
offered to cudgel the whole three of them for her! Wasn't I
in love?

Helen.

You are a valiant man, Fathom.

Fath.

Am not I? Walks not the earth the man I am
afraid of.

Helen.

Fear you not Master Walter?

Fath.

No.

Helen.

You do!

Fath.

I don't!

Helen.

I'll prove it to you. You see him breaking your
young mistress's heart, and have not the manhood to stand
by her.

Fath.

What could I do for her?

Helen.

Let her out of prison. It were the act of a man.

Fath.

That man am I!

Helen.

Well said, brave Fathom!

Fath.

But my place!—

Helen.

I'll provide thee with a better one!

Fath.

'Tis a capital place! So little to do, and so much to
get for't. Six pounds in the year; two suits of livery; shoes
and stockings, and a famous larder! He'd be a bold man that
would put such a place in jeopardy. My place, Madam, my
place!

Helen.

I tell thee I'll provide thee with a better place.
Thou shalt have less to do, and more to get. Now, Fathom,
hast thou courage to stand by thy mistress?

Fath.

I have!

Helen.

That's right.

Fath.

I'll let my lady out.

Enter Master Walter unperceived.
Helen.

That's right. When, Fathom?

Fath.

To-night.

Helen.

She is to be married to-night.

Fath.

This evening then. Master Walter is now in the
library, the key is on the outside, and I'll lock him in.

Helen.

Excellent! You'll do it?

Fath.

Rely upon it. How he'll stare when he finds himself
a prisoner, and my young lady at liberty!

Helen.

Most excellent! You'll be sure to do it?

Fath.

Depend upon me! When Fathom undertakes a thing,
he defies fire and water—

Wal.
[Coming forward.]
Fathom!

Fath.
Sir!

Wal.
Assemble straight the servants.

Fath.
Yes, sir!

Wal.
Mind,
And have them in the hall when I come down.

Fath.
Yes, sir!

Wal.
And see you do not stir a step
But where I order you.

Fath.
Not an inch, sir!

Wal.
See that you don't—away! So, my fair mistress,
[Fathom goes out.
What's this you have been plotting? An escape
For mistress Julia?

Helen.
I avow it.

Wal.
Do you?

Helen.
Yes; and moreover to your face I tell you,
Most hardly do you use her!

Wal.
Verily!

Helen.
I wonder where's her spirit! Had she mine,
She would not take't so easily. Do you mean
To force this marriage on her?

Wal.
With your leave.

Helen.
You laugh.

Wal.
Without it then. I don't laugh now.

Helen.
If I were she, I'd find a way to escape.

Wal.
What would you do?

Helen.
I'd leap out of the window!

Wal.
Your window should be barr'd.

Helen.
I'd cheat you still!
I'd hang myself ere I'd be forced to marry!

Wal.
Well said! You shall be married, then, to-night.

Helen.
Married to-night!

Wal.
As sure as I have said it.

Helen.
Two words to that. Pray who's to be my bridegroom?

Wal.
A daughter's husband is her father's choice.

Helen.
My father's daughter ne'er shall wed such husband!

Wal.
Indeed!

Helen.
I'll pick a husband for myself.

Wal.
Indeed!

Helen.
Indeed, sir; and indeed again!

Wal.
Go dress you for the marriage ceremony.

Helen.
But, Master Walter, what is it you mean?

Enter Modus.
Wal.
Here comes your cousin;—he shall be your brides man!
The thought's a sudden one,—that will excuse
Defect in your appointments. A plain dress,—
So 'tis of white,—will do.

Helen.
I'll dress in black.
I'll quit the castle.

Wal.
That you shall not do.
Its doors are guarded by my lord's domestics,
Its avenues—its grounds. What you must do,
Do with a good grace! In an hour, or less,
Your father will be here. Make up your mind
To take with thankfulness the man he gives you.
Now, [Aside]
if they find not out how beat their hearts,
I have no skill, not I, in feeling pulses.

[Goes out.
Helen.
Why, cousin Modus! What! will you stand by
And see me forced to marry? Cousin Modus!
Have you not got a tongue? Have you not eyes?
Do you not see I'm very—very ill,
And not a chair in all the corridor?

Mod.
I'll find one in the study.

Helen.
Hang the study!

Mod.
My room's at hand. I'll fetch one thence.

Helen.
You shan't!
I'd faint ere you came back!

Mod.
What shall I do?

Helen.
Why don't you offer to support me? Well?
Give me your arm—be quick!
[Modus offers his arm.
Is that the way
To help a lady when she's like to faint?
I'll drop unless you catch me!
[Modus supports her.
That will do.
I'm better now— [Modus offers to leave her]
don't leave me! Is one well
Because one's better? Hold my hand. Keep so.
I'll soon recover, so you move not. Loves he—
[Aside.
Which I'll be sworn he does, he'll own it now.
Well, cousin Modus?

Mod.
Well, sweet cousin!

Helen.
Well?
You heard what Master Walter said?

Mod.
I did.

Helen.
And would you have me marry? Can't you speak?
Say yes or no.

Mod.
No, cousin!

Helen.
Bravely said!
And why, my gallant cousin?

Mod.
Why?

Helen.
Ay, why?—
Women, you know, are fond of reasons—Why
Would you not have me marry? How you blush!
Is it because you do not know the reason?
You mind me of a story of a cousin
Who once her cousin such a question ask'd—
He had not been to college though—for books,
Had pass'd his time in reading ladies' eyes,
Which he could construe marvellously well,
Though writ in language all symbolical.
Thus stood they once together, on a day—
As we stand now—discoursed as we discourse,—
But with this difference,—fifty gentle words
He spoke to her, for one she spoke to him!—
What a dear cousin! Well, as I was saying,
As now I question'd thee, she question'd him.
And what was his reply? To think of it
Sets my heart beating—'Twas so kind a one!
So like a cousin's answer—a dear cousin!
A gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin!
What did he say?—A man might find it out,
Though never read he Ovid's Art of Love—
What did he say? He'd marry her himself!
How stupid are you, cousin! Let me go!

Mod.
You are not well yet?

Helen.
Yes.

Mod.
I'm sure you're not!

Helen.
I'm sure I am.

Mod.
Nay, let me hold you, cousin!
I like it.

Helen.
Do you? I would wager you
You could not tell me why you like it. Well?
You see how true I know you! How you stare!
What see you in my face to wonder at?

Mod.
A pair of eyes!

Helen.
At last he'll find his tongue—
[Aside.
And saw you ne'er a pair of eyes before?

Mod.
Not such a pair.

Helen.
And why?

Mod.
They are so bright!
You have a Grecian nose.

Helen.
Indeed.

Mod.
Indeed!

Helen.
What kind of mouth have I?

Mod.
A handsome one.
I never saw so sweet a pair of lips!
I ne'er saw lips at all till now, dear cousin!

Helen.
Cousin, I'm well,—You need not hold me now.
Do you not hear? I tell you I am well!
I need your arm no longer—take't away!
So tight it locks me, 'tis with pain I breathe!
Let me go, cousin! Wherefore do you hold
Your face so close to mine? What do you mean?

Mod.
You've question'd me, and now I'll question you.

Helen.
What would you learn?

Mod.
The use of lips.

Helen.
To speak.

Mod.
Nought else?

Helen.
How bold my modest cousin grows!
Why, other use know you?

Mod.
I do!

Helen.
Indeed!
You're wondrous wise? And pray what is it?

Mod.
This!

[Attempts to kiss her.
Helen.
Soft! my hand thanks you, cousin—for my lips
I keep them for a husband!—Nay, stand off!
I'll not be held in manacles again!
Why do you follow me?

Mod.
I love you, cousin!
'Tis out at last.

[Aside.
Helen.
You love me! Love me, cousin!
O cousin, mean you so! That's passing strange!
Falls out most crossly—is a dire mishap—
A thing to sigh for, weep for, languish for,
And die for!

Mod.
Die for!

Helen.
Yes, with laughter, cousin,
For, cousin, I love you!

Mod.
And you'll be mine?

Helen.
I will.

Mod.
Your hand upon it.

Helen.
Hand and heart.
Hie to thy dressing-room, and I'll to mine—
Attire thee for the altar—so will I.
Whoe'er may claim me, thou'rt the man shall have me.
Away! Despatch! But hark you, ere you go,
Ne'er brag of reading Ovid's Art of Love!

Mod.
And cousin! stop—One little word with you!

[She returns, he snatches a kiss.—They go out severally.

SCENE II.

—Julia's Chamber.
Enter Julia.
Julia.
No word from him, and evening now set in!
He cannot play me false! His messenger
Is dogg'd—or letter intercepted. I'm
Beset with spies!—No rescue!—No escape!—
The hour at hand that brings my bridegroom here!
No relative to aid me! friend to counsel me.
[A knock at the door.
Come in.
Enter two Female Attendants.
Your will?

First Attendant.
Your toilet waits, my lady;
'Tis time you dress.

Julia.
'Tis time I die! [A peal of bells.]
What's that?

First Attendant.
Your wedding bells, my lady.

Julia.
Merrily
They ring my knell!
[Second Attendant presents an open case.
And pray you what are these?

Second Attendant.
Your wedding jewels.

Julia.
Set them by.

Second Attendant.
Indeed
Was ne'er a braver set! A necklace, brooch,
And ear-rings all of brilliants, with a hoop
To guard your wedding ring.

Julia.
'Twould need a guard
That lacks a heart to keep it!

Second Attendant.
Here's a heart
Suspended from the necklace—one huge diamond
Imbedded in a host of smaller ones!
Oh! how it sparkles!

Julia.
Show it me! Bright heart,
Thy lustre, should I wear thee, will be false,—
For thou the emblem art of love and truth,—
From her that wears thee unto him that gives thee.
Back to thy case! Better thou ne'er shouldst leave it—
Better thy gems a thousand fathoms deep
In their native mine again, than grace my neck,
And lend thy fair face to palm off a lie!

First Attendant.
Wilt please you dress?

Julia.
Ah! in infected clothes
New from a pest-house! Leave me! If I dress,
I dress alone! O for a friend! Time gallops!
[Attendants go out.
He that should guard me is mine enemy!
Constrains me to abide the fatal die,
My rashness, not my reason cast! He comes,
That will exact the forfeit!—Must I pay it?—
E'en at the cost of utter bankruptcy!
What's to be done? Pronounce the vow that parts
My body from my soul! To what it loathes
Links that, while this is link'd to what it loves!
Condemn'd to such perdition! What's to be done?
Stand at the altar in an hour from this!
An hour thence seated at his board—a wife
Thence!—frenzy's in the thought! What's to be done?

Enter Master Walter.
Wal.
What! run the waves so high? Not ready yet!
Your lord will soon be here! The guests collect.

Julia.
Show me some way to 'scape these nuptials! Do it!
Some opening for avoidance or escape,—
Or to thy charge I'll lay a broken heart!
It may be, broken vows, and blasted honour!
Or else a mind distraught!

Wal.
What's this?

Julia.
The strait
I'm fallen into my patience cannot bear!
It frights my reason—warps my sense of virtue!
Religion!—changes me into a thing,
I look at with abhorring!

Wal.
Listen to me.

Julia.
Listen to me, and heed me! If this contract
Thou hold'st me to—abide thou the result!
Answer to heaven for what I suffer!—act!
Prepare thyself for such calamity
To fall on me, and those whose evil stars
Have link'd them with me, as no past mishap,
However rare, and marvellously sad,
Can parallel! lay thy account to live
A smileless life, die an unpitied death—
Abhorr'd, abandon'd of thy kind,—as one
Who had the guarding of a young maid's peace,—
Look'd on and saw her rashly peril it;
And when she saw her danger, and confess'd
Her fault, compell'd her to complete her ruin!

Wal.
Hast done?

Julia.
Another moment, and I have.
Be warn'd! Beware how you abandon me
To myself! I'm young, rash, inexperienced! tempted
By most insufferable misery!
Bold, desperate, and reckless! Thou hast age,
Experience, wisdom, and collectedness,—
Power, freedom,—everything that I have not,
Yet want, as none e'er wanted! Thou canst save me,
Thou ought'st! thou must! I tell thee at his feet
I'll fall a corse—ere mount his bridal bed!
So choose betwixt my rescue and my grave;—
And quickly too! The hour of sacrifice
Is near! Anon the immolating priest
Will summon me! Devise some speedy means
To cheat the altar of its victim. Do it!
Nor leave the task to me!

Wal.
Hast done?

Julia.
I have.

Wal.
Then list to me—and silently, if not
With patience.—
[Brings chairs for himself and her.
How I watch'd thee from thy childhood,
I'll not recall to thee. Thy father's wisdom—
Whose humble instrument I was—directed
Your nonage should be pass'd in privacy,
From your apt mind that far outstripp'd your years,
Fearing the taint of an infected world;—
For, in the rich ground, weeds once taking root,
Grow strong as flowers—He might be right or wrong!
I thought him right; and therefore did his bidding.
Most certainly he loved you—so did I;
Ay! well as I had been myself your father!
[His hand is resting upon his knee, Julia attempts to take it—he withdraws it—looks at her—she hangs her head.
Well; you may take my hand! I need not say
How fast you grew in knowledge, and in goodness,—
That hope could scarce enjoy its golden dreams
So soon fulfilment realized them all!
Enough. You came to womanhood. Your heart,
Pure as the leaf of the consummate bud,
That's new unfolded by the smiling sun,
And ne'er knew blight nor canker! When a good woman
Is fitly mated, she grows doubly good,
How good soe'er before! I found the man
I thought a match for thee; and, soon as found,
Proposed him to thee—'Twas your father's will,
Occasion offering, you should be married
Soon as you reach'd to womanhood.—You liked
My choice—accepted him.—We came to town;
Where, by important matter summon'd thence,
I left you an affianced bride!

Julia.
You did!
You did!

Wal.
Nay, check thy tears! Let judgment now,
Not passion, be awake. On my return,
I found thee—what?—I'll not describe the thing
I found thee then! I'll not describe my pangs
To see thee such a thing! The engineer
Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower,
It cost him years and years of toil to raise,—
And, smiling at it, tells the winds and waves
To roar and whistle now—but, in a night,
Beholds the tempest sporting in its place—
May look aghast, as I did!

Julia.
[Falling on her knees.]
Pardon me!
Forgive me! pity me!

Wal.
Resume thy seat.
[Raises her.
I pity thee; perhaps not thee alone
It fits to sue for pardon.

Julia.
Me alone!
None other! None!—O, none! But, Master Walter!
These nuptials!—must they needs go on?

Servant.
[Entering.]
More guests
Arrive.

Wal.
Attend to them.

[Servant goes out.
Julia.
Dear Master Walter!
Is there no way to escape these nuptials?

Wal.
Know'st not
What with these nuptials comes? Hast thou forgot?

Julia.
What?

Wal.
Nothing!—I did tell thee of a thing—

Julia.
What was it?

Wal.
To forget it was a fault!
Look back and think.

Julia.
I can't remember it.

Wal.
Fathers, make straws your children! Nature's nothing!
Blood nothing! Once in other veins it runs,
It no more yearneth for the parent flood,
Than doth the stream that from the source disparts.
Talk not of love instinctive—What you call so
Is but the brat of custom! Your own flesh
By habit cleaves to you—without,
Hath no adhesion! [Aside.]
So; you have forgot
You have a father, and are here to meet him!

Julia.
I'll not deny it.

Wal.
You should blush for't.

Julia.
No!
Nay, hear me, Master Walter! Nay, turn not from me!
For thou to me, except a father's name,
Hast all the father been: the care—the love—
The guidance—the protection of a father.
Canst wonder, then, if like thy child I feel,—
And feeling so, that father's claim forget
Whom ne'er I knew, save by the name of one?
Oh, turn to me, and do not chide me! or
If thou wilt chide, chide on! but turn to me!

Wal.
[Struggling with emotion.]
My Julia!

[Embraces her.
Julia.
Now, dear Master Walter, hear me!
Is there no way to 'scape these nuptials?

Wal.
Julia,
A promise made admits not of release,
Save by consent or forfeiture of those
Who hold it—so it should be ponder'd well
Before we let it go. Ere man should say
I broke the word I had the power to keep,
I'd lose the life I had the power to part with!
Remember, Julia, thou and I, to-day,
Must, to thy father, of thy training render
A strict account. While honour's left to us,
We have something—nothing, having all, but that.
Now for thy last act of obedience, Julia!
Present thyself before thy bridegroom! [She assents.]
Good!
My Julia's now herself! Show him thy heart,
And to his honour leave't to set thee free
Or hold thee bound. Thy father will be by!
He comes!—Be firm!—Thy father will be by!

Enter Lord Rochdale with Lord Tinsel and friends— afterwards Clifford.
Roch.
Is she not fair?

Tin.
I scarce have seen her yet.
She'll do. Your servant, lady! Master Walter,
We're glad to see you. Sirs, you're welcome all.
What wait they for? Are we to wed or not?
We're ready—Why don't they present the bride?
I hope they know she is to wed an earl.

Roch.
Should I speak first?

Tin.
Not for your coronet!
I, as your friend, may make the first advance.
We've come here to be married. Where's the bride?

Wal.
There stands she, lord. If 'tis her will to wed,
His lordship 's free to take her.

Tin.
Not a step!
I, as your friend, may lead her to your lordship.
Fair lady, by your leave.

Julia.
No! not to you.

Tin.
I ask your hand to give it to his lordship.

Julia.
Nor to his lordship—save he will accept
My hand without my heart!

Tin.
What means the girl!

Julia.
What is't behoves a wife to bring her lord?

Wal.
A whole heart, and a true one.

Julia.
I have none!
Not half a heart—the fraction of a heart!
Am I a woman it befits to wed?

Wal.
Why, where's thy heart?

Julia.
Gone!—Out of my keeping!—
Lost, past recovery! Right and title to it—
And all given up! and he that's owner on't,
So fit to wear it, were it fifty hearts,
I'd give it to him all!

Wal.
Thou dost not mean
His lordship's secretary?

Julia.
Yes. Away
Disguises! In that secretary know
The master of the heart, of which, the poor,
Unvalued, empty casket, at your feet,—
Its jewel gone,—I now despairing throw!

[Kneels to Walter.
Wal.
Rise! Rise, my Julia!—Think!—You have a father

Tin.
Lady, we came not here to treat of hearts,—
But marriage; which, so please you, is with us
A simple joining, by the priest, of hands.
A ring's put on; a prayer or two is said;
You're man and wife,—and nothing more! For hearts,
We oft'ner do without, than with them, lady!

Clif.
So does not wed this lady!

Tin.
Who are you?

Clif.
The secretary to the Earl of Rochdale.

Tin.
My lord!

Roch.
I know him not—

Tin.
I know him now—
Your lordship's rival! once Sir Thomas Clifford.

Clif.
Yes, and the bridegroom of that lady then,
Then loved her—loves her still!

Julia.
Was loved by her—
Though then she knew it not!—is loved by her,
As now she knows, and all the world may know!

Tin.
We can't be laugh'd at. We are here to wed,
And shall fulfil our contract.

Julia.
Clifford!

Clif.
Julia!
You will not give your hand?

[A pause—Julia seems utterly lost.
Wal.
You have forgot
Again. You have a father!

Julia.
Bring him now,—
To see thy Julia justify thy training,
And lay her life down to redeem her word!

Wal.
And so redeems her all!—Is it your will,
My lord, these nuptials should go on?

Roch.
It is.

Wal.
Then is it mine they stop!

Tin.
I told your lordship
You should not keep a Hunchback for your agent.

Wal.
Thought like my father, my good lord, who said
He would not have a Hunchback for his son,—
So do I pardon you the savage slight!
My lord, that I am not as straight as you,
Was blemish neither of my thought nor will,
My head nor heart. It was no act of mine,—
Yet did it curdle nature's kindly milk
E'en where 'tis richest—in a parent's breast—
To cast me out to heartless fosterage.
And give my portion to another! So!
But all's recover'd.
Look, my lord, a testament
To make a pension of his lordship's rent-roll!
It is my father's, and was left by him,
In case his heir should die without a son,
Then to be open'd. Heaven did send a son
To bless the heir. Heaven took its gift away.
He died—His father died. And Master Walter—
The unsightly agent of his lordship there—
The Hunchback whom your lordship would have stripp'd
Of his agency,—is now the Earl of Rochdale!

Julia.
The Earl of Rochdale!

Wal.
Ay! The Earl of Rochdale.
But what of that? Thou know'st not half my greatness!
A prouder title, Julia, have I yet.
Sooner than part with which I'd give that up,
And be again plain Master Walter. What!
Dost thou not apprehend me? Yes, thou dost!
Command thyself—Don't gasp! My pupil—daughter!
Come to thy father's heart!

[Julia rushes into his arms.
Enter Fathom.
Fath.
Thievery! Elopement—escape—arrest!

Wal.
What's the matter?

Fath.

Mistress Helen is running away with Master Modus
—Master Modus is running away with Mistress Helen—but
we have caught them, secured them, and here they come, to
receive the reward of their merits.

Enter Helen and Modus, followed by Servants.
Helen.
I'll ne'er wed man, if not my cousin Modus.

Mod.
Nor woman I, save cousin Helen 's she.

Wal.
A daughter and a nephew has my friend,
Without their match in duty! You shall marry.
For you, sir, who to-day have lost an earldom,
Yet would have shared that earldom with my child—
My only one—content yourself with prospect
Of the succession—it must fall to you,
And fit yourself to grace it. Ape not those
Who rank by pride. The man of simplest bearing
Is yet a lord, when he's a lord indeed!
Sir Thomas Clifford, take my daughter's hand!—
If now you know the master of her heart!
Give it, my Julia! You suspect, I see,
And rightly, there has been some masking here.
Content thee, daughter, thou shalt know anon,
How jealousy of my mis-shapen back
Made me mistrustful of a child's affections—
Who doubted e'en a wife's—so that I dropp'd
The title of thy father, lest thy duty
Should pay the debt thy love alone could solve.
All this and more, that to thy friends and thee
Pertains, at fitting time thou shalt be told.
But now thy nuptials wait—the happy close
Of thy hard trial—wholesome, though severe!
The world won't cheat thee now—thy heart is proved;—
Thou know'st thy peace by finding out its bane,
And ne'er wilt act from heedless impulse more!