 | The Love-Chase |  |
ACT V.
SCENE I.
—A Room in Sir William Fondlove's.Sir William seated with two Lawyers.
Sir Wil.
How many words you take to tell few things,
Again, again say over what, said once,
Methinks were told enough!
First Lawyer.
It is the law,
Which labours at precision.
Sir Wil.
Yes; and thrives
Upon uncertainty—and makes it, too,
With all its pains to shun it. I could bind
Myself, methinks, with but the twentieth part
Of all this cordage, sirs.—But every man,
As they say, to his own business. You think
The settlement is handsome?
First Lawyer.
Very, sir.
Sir Wil.
Then now, sirs, we have done, and take my thanks,
Which, with your charges, I shall render you
Again to-morrow.
First Lawyer.
Happy nuptials, sir!
[Lawyers go out.
Sir Wil.
Who passes there? Hoa! send my daughter to me,
And Master Wildrake too! I wait for them.
Bold work!—Without her leave to get the license,
Prepare the clergyman and wait upon her
To carry her to church!—'Tis taking her
By storm! What else could move her yesterday
But jealousy? What causes jealousy
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Conclusive proof, like this, that heart and soul,
And mind and person, I am all her own!
Heigh ho! These soft alarms are very sweet,
Yet tantalizing too! Ha! Master Wildrake,
Enter Wildrake.
I am glad you're ready, for I'm all in arms
To bear the widow off. Come! Don't be sad;
All must go merrily, you know, to-day!—
She still makes jest of him, I see! The girl
Affects him not, and Trueworth is at fault,
Though clear it is that he is dying for her.
[Aside.
Well, daughter?—So I see you're ready too.
Enter Constance.
Why, what's amiss with thee?
Phœbe.
[Entering.]
The coach is here.
Sir Wil.
Come, Wildrake, offer her your arm.
Con.
[To Wildrake.]
I thank you!
I am not an invalid!—can use my limbs!
He knows not how to make an arm, befits
A lady lean upon.
Sir Wil.
Why, teach him then.
Con.
Teach him! Teach Master Wildrake! Teach indeed!
I taught my dog to beg, because I knew
That he could learn it.
Sir Wil.
Peace, thou little shrew!
I'll have no wrangling on my wedding-day!
Here, take my arm.
Con.
I'll not!—I'll walk to the coach!
Alone live, die alone! I do execrate
The fool and all his sex!
Sir Wil.
Again!
Con.
I have done.
When do you marry, Master Wildrake? She
Will want a spouse, who goes to church with thee!
[They go out.
SCENE II.
—Widow Green's Dressing-room.Widow Green discovered at her Toilet, attended by Amelia, Waller's Letter to Lydia in her hand.
W. Green.
O bond of destiny!—Fair bond, that seal'st
My fate in happiness!—I'll read thee yet
Again—although thou'rt written on my heart.
But here he laid his hand, inditing thee!
And this the tracing of his fingers! So
I read thee, that could rhyme thee, as my prayers!
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Will you accept from me the name of wife—
The name of husband give me in exchange?”
The traitress! to break ope my billet-doux,
And take the envelope!—But I forgive her,
Seeing she left the rich contents behind!
Amelia, give this feather more a slope,
That it sit droopingly. I would look all
Dissolvement, nought about me to bespeak
Boldness! I would appear a timid bride,
Trembling upon the verge of wifehood, as
I ne'er before had stood there! That will do.
O dear!—How agitated am I—Don't
I look so? I have found a secret out,—
Nothing in women strikes a man so much
As to look interesting! Hang this cheek
Of mine! 'Tis too saucy; what a pity
To have a colour of one's own!—Amelia!
Could you contrive, dear girl, to bleach my cheek,
How I would thank you! I could give it then
What tint I chose, and that should be the hectic
Which speaks a heart in delicate commotion!
I am much too florid! Stick a rose in my hair,
The brightest you can find, 'twill help, my girl,
Subdue my rebel colour—Nay, the rose
Loses complexion, not my cheek! Exchange it
For a carnation. That's the flower, Amelia!
You clearly see it triumphs o'er my cheek.
Are you content with me?
Amelia.
I am, my lady.
W. Green.
And whither, think you, has the hussy gone,
Whose place you fill so well?—Into the country?
Or fancy you she stops in town?
Amelia.
I can't
Conjecture.
W. Green.
Shame upon her!—Leave her place
Without a moment's warning!—with a man too!
Seem'd he a gentleman that took her hence?
Amelia.
He did.
W. Green.
You never saw him here before?
Amelia.
Never.
W. Green.
Not lounging on the other side
Of the street, and reconnoitering the windows?
Amelia.
Never.
W. Green.
'Twas plann'd by letter. Notes, you know,
Have often come to her—But I forgive her,
Since this advice she chanced to leave behind
Of gentle Master Waller's wishes, which
I bless myself in blessing!—Gods, a knock!
'Tis he! Show in those friends who are so kind
To act my bridemaids for me on this brief
And agitating notice! [Amelia goes out.]
Yes, I look
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That gives away my liberty again!
Upon my life it is a pretty hand,
A delicate and sentimental hand!
No lotion equals gloves; no woman knows
The use of them that does not sleep in them!
My neck hath kept its colour wondrously!
Well; after all it is no miracle
That I should win the heart of a young man.
My bridemaids come!—O dear!
Enter two Ladies.
First Lady.
How do you, love? A kind good morning to you! Little dear,
How much you are affected! Why we thought
You ne'er would summon us.
W. Green.
One takes, you know,
When one is flurried, twice the time to dress.
My dears, has either of you salts? I thank you!
They are excellent; the virtue 's gone from mine,
Nor thought I of renewing them.—Indeed,
I'm unprovided, quite, for this affair.
First Lady.
I think the bridegroom 's come!
W. Green.
Don't say so! How
You've made my heart jump!
First Lady.
As you sent for us,
A new-launch'd carriage drove up to the door;
The servants all in favours.
W. Green.
'Pon my life,
I never shall get through it; lend me your hand.
[Half rises, and throws herself back on her chair again.
I must sit down again! There came just now
A feeling like to swooning over me.
I am sure before 'tis over I shall make
A fool of myself! I vow I thought not half
So much of my first wedding-day! I'll make
An effort! Let me lean upon your arm,
And give me yours, my dear. Amelia, mind
Keep near me with the smelling-bottle.
Servant.
[Entering.]
Madam,
The bridegroom 's come.
[Goes out.
W. Green.
The brute has knock'd me down!
To bolt it out so! I had started less
If he had fired a cannon at my ear.
How shall I ever manage to hold up
Till all is done! I shake from head to foot!
You can excuse me, can't you?—Pity me!
One may feel queer upon one's wedding-day.
[They go out.
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SCENE THE LAST.
—A Drawing-room.Enter Servants, showing in Sir William Fondlove, Constance, and Master Wildrake—Servants go out again.
Sir Wil.
[Aside to Wildrake.]
Good Master Wildrake, look more cheerfully!—Come,
You do not honour to my wedding-day!
How brisk am I! My body moves on springs!
My stature gives no inch I throw away;
My supple joints play free and sportfully;
I'm every atom what a man should be.
Wild.
I pray you pardon me, Sir William!
Sir Wil.
Smile then,
And talk and rally me! Why, I expected,
Ere half an hour had pass'd, you would have put me
A dozen times to the blush. Without such things,
A bridegroom knows not his own wedding-day!
I see! Her looks are glossary to thine!
She flouts thee still, I marvel not at thee;
There's thunder in that cloud! I would to-day
It would disperse, and gather in the morning.
I fear me much thou know'st not how to woo.
I'll give thee a lesson. Ever there's a way,
But knows one how to take it? Twenty men
Have courted Widow Green. Who has her now?
I sent to advertise her that to-day
I meant to marry her. She wouldn't open
My note. And gave I up? I took the way
To make her love me! Straight I sent, again,
To pray her leave my daughter should be bridemaid.
That letter too came back. Did I give up?
I took the way to make her love me! Yet,
Again, I sent to ask what church she chose
To marry at; my note came back again;
And did I yet give up? I took the way
To make her love me. All the while I found
She was preparing for the wedding. Take
A hint from me! She comes! My fluttering heart
Gives note the empress of its realms is near.
Now, Master Wildrake, mark and learn from me
How it behoves a bridegroom play his part.
Enter Widow Green, supported by her Bridemaids, and followed by Amelia.
W. Green.
I cannot raise my eyes—they cannot bear
The beams of his, which, like the sun's, I feel
Are on me, though I see them not, enlightening
The heaven of his young face; nor dare I scan
The brightness of his form, which symmetry
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He kneels to me! Now grows my breathing thick,
As though about to hear a seraph's voice,
Too rich for mortal ear!
Sir Wil.
My gentle bride!
W. Green.
Who's that?—who speaks to me?
Sir Wil.
These transports check.
Lo, an example to mankind I set
Of amorous emprise; and who should thrive,
In love, if not Love's soldier, who still presses
The doubtful siege, and will not own repulse?
Lo! here I tender thee my fealty,
To live thy duteous slave. My queen thou art,
In frowns or smiles, to give me life or death.
Oh, deign look down upon me! In thy face
Alone I look on day! It is my sun
Most bright; the which denied, all is night.
Shine out upon me, my divinity!
My gentle Widow Green!—My wife to be!—
My love, my life, my drooping, blushing bride!
W. Green.
Sir William Fondlove, you're a fool!
Sir Wil.
A fool!
W. Green.
Why come you hither, sir, in trim like this?
Or rather why at all?
Sir Wil.
Why come I hither?
To marry thee!
W. Green.
The man will drive me mad!
Sir William Fondlove, I'm but forty, sir,
And you are sixty, seventy, if a day;
At least you look it, sir. I marry you!
When did a woman wed her grandfather?
Sir Wil.
Her brain is turn'd!
W. Green.
You're in your dotage, sir,
And yet a boy in vanity! But know
Yourself from me: you are old and ugly, sir.
Sir Wil.
Do you deny you are in love with me?
W. Green.
In love with thee!
Sir Wil.
That you are jealous of me?
W. Green.
Jealous!
Sir Wil.
To very lunacy!
W. Green.
To hear him!
Sir Wil.
Do you forget what happen'd yesterday?
W. Green.
Sir William Fondlove!—
Sir Wil.
Widow Green, fair play!—
Are you not laughing? Is it not a jest;
Do you believe me seventy to a day?
Do I look it? Am I old and ugly? Why,
Why do I see those favours in the hall,
These ladies dress'd as bridemaids, thee as bride,
Unless to marry me?
[Knock
W. Green.
He is coming, sir,
Shall answer you for me!
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Wal.
Where is she? What!
All that bespeaks the day, except the fair
That's queen of it? Most kind of you to grace
My nuptials so! But that I render you
My thanks in full, make full my happiness,
And tell me where's my bride?
W. Green.
She's here.
Wal.
Where?
W. Green.
Here,
Fair Master Waller!
Wal.
Lady, do not mock me!
W. Green.
Mock thee! My heart is stranger to such mood,
'Tis serious tenderness and duty all.
I pray you mock not me, sir, for I do strive
With fears and soft emotions that require
Support. Take not away my little strength,
And leave me at the mercy of a feather.
I am thy bride! If 'tis thy happiness
To think me so, believe it, and be rich
To thy most boundless wishes! Master Waller,
I am thy waiting bride, the Widow Green!
Wal.
Lady, no widow is the bride I seek,
But one the church has never given yet
The nuptial blessing to!
W. Green.
What mean you, sir?
Why come a bridegroom here, if not to me
You sued to be your bride? Is this your hand, sir?
[Showing letter.
Wal.
It is! address'd to your fair waiting-maid.
W. Green.
My waiting-maid! The laugh is passing round,
And now the turn is yours, sir. She is gone!—
Eloped!—run off!—and with the gentleman
That brought your billet-doux.
Wal.
Is Trueworth false?
He must be false! What madness tempted me
To trust him with such audience as I knew
Must sense, and mind, and soul of man entrance,
And leave him but the power to own its spell!
Of his own lesson he would profit take,
And plead at once an honourable love,
Supplanting mine, less pure, reform'd too late!
And if he did, what merit I, except
To lose the maid I would have wrongly won;
And, had I rightly prized her, now had worn?
I get but my deservings!
Enter Trueworth, leading in Lydia, richly dressed, and veiled from head to foot.
Master Trueworth,
Though for thy treachery thou hast excuse,
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Sir, you have wrong'd me to amount beyond
Acres, and gold;—and life, which makes them rich!
And compensation I demand of you,
Such as a man expects, and none but one
That's less than man refuses! Where's the maid
Thou, falsely, hast abducted?
True.
I took her hence,
But not by guile, nor yet enforcement, sir;
But of her free will, knowing what she did.
That, as I found, I cannot give her back,
I own! Her state is changed; but in her place
This maid I offer you, her image far
As feature, form, complexion, nature go!
Resemblance halting, only there, where thou
Thyself didst pause,—condition; for this maid
Is gently born and generously bred.
Lo! for your fair loss, fair equivalent!
Wal.
Show me another sun, another earth
I can inherit, as this Sun and Earth!
The maid herself restore, as hence she went—
The world can't find me her equivalent.
Give back! herself, her sole equivalent!
True.
Her sole equivalent I offer you!
My sister, sir, long counted lost, now found;
Who fled her home unwelcome bands to 'scape,
Which a half-father would have forced upon her,
Taking advantage of her brother's absence
Away on travel in a distant land.
Return'd, I miss'd her; of the cause received
Invention, coward, false and criminating!
And gave her up for lost; but happily
Lit on her, yesterday—Behold her, sir!
[Removes veil.
Wal.
Lydia!
W. Green.
My waiting-maid!
Wal.
Thy sister, Trueworth!
Art thou fit brother to this virtuous maid?
True.
[Giving Lydia to Waller.]
Let this assure thee.
Lydia.
[To Widow Green.]
Madam, pardon me
My double character, for honesty,
No other end, assumed—and my concealment
Of Master Waller's love. In all things else
I trust I may believe you hold me blameless;
At least, I'll say for you, I should be so,
For it was pastime, madam, not a task,
To wait upon you! Little you exacted,
And ever made the most of what I did
In mere obedience to you!
W. Green.
Give me your hand;
No love without a little roguery.
If well you play the mistress as the maid,
You will bear off the bell! There never was
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I am undone, if goes the news abroad.
I donn'd my wedding dress for no effect
Except to put it off! I must be married.
I'm a lost woman, if another day
I go without a husband!—What a sight
He looks by Master Waller!—Yet he is physic
I die without, so needs must gulp it down.
I'll swallow him with what good grace I can—
Sir William Fondlove!
Sir Wil.
Widow Green!
W. Green.
I own
I have been rude to you. Thou dost not look
So old by thirty, forty, years as now
I said. Thou'rt far from ugly—very far!
And as I said, Sir William, once before,
Thou art a kind and right good-humour'd man:
I was but angry with you! Why, I'll tell you
At more convenient season—and you know
An angry woman heeds not what she says,
And will say anything!
Sir Wil.
I were unworthy
The name of man, if an apology,
So gracious, came off profitless, and from
A lady! Will you take me, Widow Green?
W. Green.
Hem!
[Curtsies.
True.
[To Wildrake.]
Master Wildrake dress'd to go to church!
She has acknowledged, then, she loves thee?—No?
Give me thy hand, I'll lead thee up to her.
Wild.
'Sdeath! what are you about? You know her not.
She'll brain thee!
True.
Fear not!—Come along with me.
Fair Mistress Constance!
Con.
Well, sir!
Wild.
[To Trueworth.]
Mind!
True.
Don't fear.
Love you not neighbour Wildrake?
Con.
Love, sir!
True.
Yes,
You do!
Con.
He loves another, sir; he does;
I hate him! We were children, sir, together,
For fifteen years and more; there never came
The day we did not quarrel, make it up,
Quarrel again, and make it up again:
Were never neighbours more like neighbours, sir.
Since he became a man, and I a woman,
It still has been the same; nor cared I ever
To give a frown to any other, sir.
And now to come and tell me he's in love,
And ask me to be bridemaid to his bride!
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Methinks at least he might have ask'd my leave,
Nor had I wonder'd had he ask'd myself, sir!
Wild.
Then give thyself to me!
Con.
How! what!
Wild.
Be mine;
Thou art the only maid thy neighbour loves.
Con.
Art serious, neighbour Wildrake?
Wild.
In the church
I'll answer thee, if thou wilt take me; though
I neither dress, nor walk, nor dance, nor know
“The Widow Jones” from an Italian, French,
Or German air.
Con.
No more of that.—My hand.
Wild.
Givest it as free as thou didst yesterday?
Con.
[Affecting to strike him.]
Nay!
Wild.
I will thank thee, give it how thou wilt.
W. Green.
A triple wedding! May the Widow Green
Obtain brief hearing e'er she quits the scene,
The Love-Chase to your kindness to commend
In favour of an old, now absent, friend!
END OF THE LOVE-CHASE.
| The Love-Chase | |