University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—Hero's Town House.
Enter Sir William Sutton and Emily.
Sir Wil.
What! Helen Mowbray come to life again?

Emily.
'Tis even so! and metamorphosed as
You ne'er would dream. But pray you, use despatch.
On the reverse of this she gave your niece,
And which, unthinkingly, no doubt, was given
To her, 'tis clear some mortal work 's on hand—
For here are time, and place, and weapon named,
Upon the part of base Lord Athunree.
There yet is time! Prevent it, while you may!

Sir Wil.
[Rings the bell. Attendant enters.]
Hark, sir! Take charge of this, and have it straight
Put into execution by the chief
O' the city officers—Look to it well!
And now, what means this full assembly call'd
Of friends and relatives, to feast with Hero?

Emily.
I must not tell—but guess.

Sir Wil.
I cannot guess
The shapes particular of women's fancies,
Especially in one of Hero's vein.
Retains she her disguise?

Emily.
No; casts it off—
And with it, habit, more a part of her.
She is changed beyond belief.

Sir Wil.
Not my belief,
When I shall see it.

Emily.
I must hie to her,
And set her mind at rest on this affair,
Touching her friend, which chance reveal'd to her,
In time, I trust, the issue to prevent.
You have given order they be hither brought?

Sir Wil.
I have. Where's Hero?

Emily.
In the library,
In earnest converse still with that strange man,
Who pray'd an audience with her, and I think,
Brought news that has surprised her. Dinner-time
Will see an end and clearing up of all.

[They go out severally.

SCENE II.

—The Outskirts of London.
Enter Walsingham and Helen (still in the disguise of Eustace).
Wal.
Not yet arrived!

Helen.
'Tis 'fore the time.

Wal.
How feel you?

Helen.
Collected, and myself.

Wal.
You look so. Clear
Your 'haviour, as this day of trial only
The ordinary mate of yesterday,
You'll win!

Helen.
I shall!—I am resolved to win.

Wal.
Show me thy sword.

Helen.
I cannot draw it, but
My life must follow.

Wal.
How?

Helen.
It is my heart—
This which I wear, is nothing. Call it steel,
'Tis steel!—a straw, it even is a straw!
Its stamina not lodging in itself,
But in the heart that wields it.

Wal.
This is calmness
Upon the eve of combat!

Helen.
Walsingham,
There is a kind of nature that clears up
The instant it confronts a trying thing.
In common evils, hesitates and fears;
In ills of moment, shows sedate resolve.

Wal.
Why, that is woman's proper contradiction.

Helen.
It passes for't; but sometimes 'bides in man,
Not therein less of his high caste deserving,
Though so resembling woman! Think'st not so?

Wal.
Assuredly.

Helen.
You see this mood is mine,
Nor was I on my guard to let it out—
'Twill lose me credit with you. Best have pass'd
For Sir Redoubtable any day o' the year!
You more had thought of me.

Wal.
No!

Helen.
You say I am calm?
I am so—that is, as to the issue of
This mortal meeting—for 'tis mortal!—but
I have a trouble, and—wilt thou believe me—
'Tis touching thee!—It grieves me, Walsingham,
To leave thee an abuséd man behind me!
What late thou told'st me I have ponder'd well,
And thereon founded arguments, methinks,
More solid, than I urged on you before.
They are here—your poor friend's legacy to you!
[Gives a paper.
Stop!—You're about to speak—Don't speak as yet.
If I should fall, you pledge your gentle word,
My body you will have direct convey'd
Unto the lady's I have herein named.
[Gives another paper.
Deliver'd to her custody—her own!
Nor until then, one fastening, fold, loop, thread
O' the vesture, thou wilt suffer be disturb'd—
No, not to search, or probe, or stanch a wound,
Or settle whether I'm alive or dead,
Or anything! To this, thou pledgest thee?

Wal.
Dear boy, I do!

Helen.
Another thing—

Wal.
What is't?
Thou pausest, as in doubt I'll grant it thee.
Whate'er it be, I swear to do it.

Helen.
Ha!
Then hast thou set my heart indeed at rest!
Mind, thou hast sworn to do't. Revenge me not!
That comprehendeth all! Don't speak again,
Till I have done, quite done. Thou lovest me?

Wal.
I do.

Helen.
How much?

Wal.
As never man before!

Helen.
Speak not of love gone by, but present love.
With those thou lovest now, how rates thy love?

Wal.
As first.

Helen.
As first of all?

Wal.
Of all!

Helen.
All friends?
Not one before me?

Wal.
No!

Helen.
Not one?

Wal.
Not one!

Helen.
And all love told?

Wal.
All love—but love itself!

Helen.
Shake hands!—We'll say good bye before they come,
Lest there arrive occasion, and no time;
Good bye!—Oh, happy women, that are friends!
They may embrace—men cannot do so.

Wal.
Yes,
When they are brothers.

Helen.
Feel'st thou as my brother?
I feel as I were thine.

Wal.
My boy! my boy;
[Embracing Helen.
Heaven!—but thou faint'st!

Helen.
No!—Are they coming!—Heaven
Reward thee, for thy precious love of me!
They are at hand—Good bye!

Wal.
Show me thy sword!
'Tis somewhat longer, I believe, than mine,
And I would try the depth of yonder stream,
In case we need to wade it.
[Goes out, and returns without the sword.
It has slipp'd,
And gone down to the bottom!—Boy, your quarrel's mine;
To humour thee, alone, I gave consent
To second thee. What!—Stand, aside, with broad
And lusty breast and sinewy arm, and see
Thy stripling form the deadly point oppose,
In the athletic villain's practised hand;
Instead of grasping thee with loving force,
Like to a doting father his boy-son,
Or elder brother his dear younger one,
Taking thy place, and swinging thee away!
No, boy! Before thy young veins part a drop
Of their rich streams, my channels shall run dry!

Helen.
Is this fair, Walsingham?

Wal.
Yet, hear me on!
I find I could not live without thee; so
Guarding thy life I but protect my own.
That's fair—That's rational—That's sound in nature!
Want'st further reason?—I will give it thee—
Thou art like her!

Helen.
Whom?

Wal.
Boy, hast thou read my soul—
Have I turn'd o'er its every page to thee—
Love, hate, hope, doubt, possession, loss, bliss, pain,
Contentment and despair—and in each one
Shown thee one all-pervading cause enwrit,
For nothing? Whom could I compare thee to,
But her—the heroine of my sad story?
Whom much thy face resembles! Hast thou never
Remark'd me gazing in abstraction on thee,
As though, upon perusal of thy features,
While seem'd mine eye intent, my soul was poring
Upon some other thing?—I have done it oft—
Will do it once again! Your eyes are hers,
In form and hue, but sunk; a darkness too,
Not heavy, yet enough to make a cloud,
Sits—not disparagingly though—'neath thine;
Hers were two starry brilliants, set in pearl!
The outline of the nose is quite the same,
But that of thine is sharper—'tis thy sex.
The mouth is very like—oh, very like!
But there's a touch—a somewhat deep one too—
Of bitterness.—The cast of hers was sweetness,
Enlocking full content. The cheek is not
At all alike!—'tis high; and lank below;
And sallow—not a dimplé in't—all contrast
To the rich flower'd and velvet lawn of hers.
But though thou art not she, entire—thou art
Enough of her to make me love thee, boy!
With such a brother-love, as brother, never,
I dare be bound, for brother felt before!
I spoke not of thy hair—It is a wood
Run wild compared to hers, and thrice as deep
I' the shade—Yet, you are very like her!—quite
Enough, to make me pour my heart's blood out
As water, for thy sake!—They are at hand!

Helen.
Then let me be at least thy sword-bearer;
And when thou need'st the steel, I'll keep the sheath
Which in thy motions would embarrass thee!

Wal.
Take it, and thank thee!

Enter Lord Athunree and Felton.
Ath.
We are late for you, sirs;
But not, I think, for time.

Wal.
You are in time.

Helen.
Draw off, till, with his second, I arrange
Preliminaries—which I know are wont,
In questions of this kind. What we decide,
I shall possess you of; and then proceed.
Sir, let us speak. You know me, principal.
My place my second would, perforce, usurp.
Permit him not, as you're a gentleman!
You see he is unarm'd—your rapier draw,
When I draw this, and keep him well aloof.
You promise this?

Fel.
I do! [Aside.]
It keeps the odds
Upon our side!

Helen.
[Drawing.]
Lord Athunree, I am ready!

Fel.
[Drawing and opposing Walsingham.]
Stand back, sir, at your peril!

Wal.
Ha!—the boy
Has baffled, and outwitted me!

[Advances.
Fel.
Stand back!
I bar all interruption to the game
We are summon'd here to play.

Wal.
A coward act,
To draw upon a naked man!

Fel.
My lord!
Why draw you not and he his weapon out?
Proceed, my lord, at once!

Ath.
Before I do,
I ask, and I must learn, in name of whom
The urchin has arraign'd and challenged me.
I fight not, till I know upon what cause.

Helen.
The cause of Helen Mowbray!

Wal.
Drop your hand,
And let me pass!—or sure as that's a sword
My heart is on your point!

Ath.
Spite of thyself,
Another minute grant I thee to live.
I will not draw, until I know thy name.

Helen.
Mowbray!

Ath.
Her brother?

Helen.
Anything you please,
Caitiff without a parallel in crime!

Wal.
A brother!—Hold! Lord Athunree! Look, sir,
[To Felton.
A moment give I thee, to take thy choice
'Twixt murdering me, or suffering to pass!
Why, what care I for life!

[Rushes upon Felton, and wrests the sword from him. At the same moment, Officers and Servants enter.
First Officer.
Hold! Stop!—Proceed
At your peril! You are all our prisoners, sirs;
Sir William Sutton's warrant makes you so,
Which here I show to you. Surrender, then,
And to his niece's bear us company.

[They all go out. Walsingham and Helen last, who stop a litle behind the rest.
Wal.
Thou half hast kill'd me, boy! How couldst thou do so!
Or keep from one, who loved thee as I do,
A secret like to this? Her brother—so!
Her brother!—I shall love thee better still—
And better yet—yet not so well as her!

[They follow.

SCENE III.

—The Street.
Enter Sir Valentine.
Sir Val.
Spite of my failing heart, thus far I've come
With love to urge me, love to waive me back.
My duty tender'd, fortune made or lost—
Not tender'd, absolutely lost—no chance
Permitted me to win! 'Tis Hero's form
With the fair essence—match for thing so fair!—
To Hero's form, without! It is a whole,
Past calculation rich, against a part,
And that the poorest—yet consummate rich,
And I must play for both, or neither win!
Or winning one, the other quite forego!
It cannot be she loves me! Hero love me!
A prideful pleasure kindles at the thought—
But comes the gentle Ruth, and puts it out
With genial brightness of bland nature, as
The sun a little fire. O sun most fair,
I richer were ne'er to have known thy light
Than knowing it to lose it. Ne'er did man
Draw lots with chances more opposed than mine.
A little moment I am made or lost;
Lost past retrieving—past addition made!
Then must I, like a desperate gamester, on!
Throw fear of loss aside—though loss of all—
And think of nothing but the chance of gain
That makes me rich for life!—past affluence!

[Goes out.

SCENE LAST.

—A Room in Hero's House.
Sir William Sutton seated in the centre—Walsingham, Helen, Lord Athunree, Felton, Officers, &c.
Sir Wil.
Lord Athunree, charged with intent thou stand'st
To break the peace of our right sovereign lord
The king. What answer'st? Or refusest
To plead?—Is this thy hand?—Wilt answer that?
Whose'er it is, it is a villain's, lord!
For the same writer that arranged a fray
Had plann'd a felony—in danger put
A lady's jewelry, so rich to her—
Not all the caskets of the proudest line
Of noble dames, pour'd out into one heap,
Could make a blaze to match it!

Ath.
[Aside.]
Curse my haste
For such remissness, on the back to write
Of the instructions first I pencill'd down
To give the caitiff wretch—whose guess'd miscarriage
Is now accounted for!

Sir Wil.
Lord Athunree,
How say you?

Ath.
For the combat you have marr'd,
My silence or denial nought avails.
You found me in the act. The challenger
You need to seek elsewhere.—I am not he.

Wal.
Sir William, he says right.—He challenged not;
But he such provocation gave, as makes
The challenger more the challenged.—He had stain'd
A lady's credit, bringing it to naught,
Or causing it to pass for nothing more;
Which trespass, capital, her brother here—
In form a stripling, but in mind a man—
Indeed demanded reparation for,
Which to exact, my arm assay'd, but fail'd—
For I had woo'd, and won, and, as I thought,
Alone engaged the maid. Sir William, try,
If from that sacred seat of justice, voice
Of solemn adjuration can avail
To bring the truth to light—first, if the maid
Fell—the knowledge he, alone, of the truth,
Possessing.

Sir Wil.
No, sir! Another
Can vouch she never fell!

Wal.
She never fell?
O, ponder what you say!—Not rashly—O,
Not rashly raise a wretch from the abyss
Into the light, to cast him in again
On darkness heaving darkness! Now, I faint
With the day-flood that seems to burst upon me!
I say, “that seems,” for such transition mocks
The doting of belief!—or heard I right?
Or knew'st thou what thou saidst? or, knowing it,
Knew'st thou didst speak on grounds of solid footing,
Something akin to rock?—It should be rock
Itself, to bear the fabric thou dost raise
Against the sea of doubts that surges on it!
O did she never fall? Did love itself
Take sides with hate to do her hateful wrong?
To blast her—to abandon her—and leave her
A prey to haggard fortune—death or madness?

Sir Wil.
Collect thyself, and further audience lend,
Or bid me hold my tongue. The maiden lives.

Wal.
Lives? Lives? Is innocent, perhaps, and loves;
O does she?

Sir Wil.
Yes.

Wal.
Thou seem'st to know what makes
My all, or naught of being! Innocent,
And lives and loves?

Ath.
First prove her innocent.

Sir Wil.
He cannot! what of that?—Another can!

Ath.
Produce that other.

[Sir William beckons—Lewson enters.
Lew.
Here he is.

Ath.
Betrayed!

Wal.
He hath confess'd—take notice all! The lips
That blurr'd fair Helen's name hath oped themselves,
To damn themselves, and do the maiden right!

Sir Wil.
No need confession from that riven wretch!
To that abhorréd house thou saw'st her quit,
A letter, as from one she knew and loved,
In mortal strait enticed her. There, assail'd
With show of violence from this same man,
That lord premeditated succour brought her,
The whole his foul contrivance! You may leave!
You are known!—What penalty the law awards
For such default, be sure, shall be exacted!

Ath.
Exacted? I defy you! Do your worst!

[Goes out.
[Helen swooning, is caught by Walsingham.
Sir Wil.
Look to thy mistress, Walsingham.

Wal.
Where is she?—
I nothing see except this fainting boy,
Whom help me to restore.

Sir Wil.
To wake him up,
Breathe in his ear the name thou lovest most!
Throw back those ebon clusters thoroughly,
And consciousness will start upon thee straight,
Thou never dream'dst of, and thou shalt confess
That love, howe'er it hath a jealous eye,
Hath not a piercing one.

Wal.
Herself!—my own!
My sweet!—my idolized!—my innocent
Helen!—her eyelids quiver—Helen! Helen!
They ope! Dost thou not know me, love? Revive!
Die not away again! Core of my life!
Helen—my gentle one! My patient one!
My faithful one, unwarp'd by rudest strain!
My loving one!—More loving—yes, I say it
That love thee best—more loving yet than loved!
Look at me! Answer me! This semblance but
Of death, is death itself to me! 'Tis I—
'Tis Walsingham!—'Tis I—repentingly,
Humbly, imploring thee to speak to him,
To look upon him—pity him!—forgive him!

Helen.
I love thee, Walsingham. Have all thou ask'st
In that one little word!

[They retire.
Sir Valentine enters.
Sir Wil.
Sir Valentine!

Sir Val.
The same, Sir William Sutton.

Sir Wil.
You are welcome.

Sir Val.
In strait where things like life and death depend,
Suspense is but the rack—I'll know my fate!
Sir William Sutton, I am come to crave
An audience of your niece.

Sir Wil.
Apprise my niece
Sir Valentine de Grey would speak with her.

Sir Val.
At thought of sight of that proud form again,
Old motions in me stir—but only stir.
Come thought of Ruth—they are, at once, at rest!
Hero enters, most magnificently attired.
O what a tower of grace and loveliness,
And stateliness, and absolute command,
She bursts upon mine eyes! Were't tenanted
As I would have it!

Hero.
Well, Sir Valentine!
Your will?

Sir Val.
I come a promise to redeem,
Thou'lt think most strange, as I do, though I made it.
A suit I have, the gain or loss of which
Depends on thee, although to thee not pleaded!
Shall I be pardon'd, who, against my will,
Past sufferance presume?

Hero.
Not mine! Say on.

Sir Val.
It is the voice of Ruth! I wonder not
At that—but breathing Ruth's benignity!

Hero.
Shall I entreat thee say thy wish?

Sir Val.
More bland
The accents yet! Can Ruth have told me right,
And does she love me?

Hero.
Sir, 'tis painful to me
To mark such hesitation, when, to have,
You only have to ask; and, asking, do
A pleasure—giving leave to pleasure you.

Sir Val.
[Aside.]
No strain hath love, if this be not its mood.
I win her, and am lost! Yet lose with gain!

Sir Wil.
My niece awaits your question.

Hero.
Uncle, peace.
Give him his time—the measure on't his will!
To look for pleasure is itself a pleasure.
But half they feast who to a feast sit down
The moment it is named. Say, that he wait
An hour, why then, so much I banquet more,
And yet fall to with relish.

Sir Val.
O such words
To fall from Hero's lips a month before!
Come certainty, whate'er along with it!
Dost thou affect me?

Hero.
Yes, Sir Valentine.

Sir Val.
Wilt take me for thy husband?

Hero.
Yes, again.

Sir Val.
Good bye, sweet Ruth!

Hero.
Strange welcome this!

Sir Val.
Good bye
To sweet content of modest happiness!
Lady, my title 's gone!

Hero.
For that receive
More hearty welcome than thou gav'st to me.

Sir Val.
My fortune dwindled.

Hero.
As it sinks, you rise.
For that receive more hearty welcome yet.

Sir Val.
My tastes are alter'd.

Hero.
Tell me what their kind,
They shall be mine—whate'er thy taste, rank, state,
My state, my rank, my tastes, shall be the same!

Sir Val.
Then must we wed.—O for that plumed tiar,
The simple hood!—that costly lace, the coif
Close-pinn'd and modest—clear!—that gorgeous dress,
The gown embroider'd with humility!

Hero.
They are donn'd at thy command, and these cast off.

Sir Val.
And canst thou, too, the vesture of the mind
That made thee cherish these, cast off?

Hero.
I can!
Hard things which love cannot for love perform.

Sir Val.
Such bounty should enrich.—Alas! for me,
Who, spite of all its granting, must be poor.

Clever.
[Entering.]
Friend Ruth, the dinner waits.—Friend Peter here!
And to the world, like thee, gone back again!
Then change of gear for me! Bold serving-man,
Who would be other than his betters are!
No more, friend Obadiah—know me hence
For Master Clever, name and nature one!

Sir Val.
Have I but dreamt 'tis night, and is it day!
A masque is it, I have been acting in,
And known it not? Canst thou be both, yet one?
Is Ruth but Hero—Hero none but Ruth?
Then welcome Hero for the sake of Ruth,
And Ruth more welcome yet for Hero's sake!
And is it so?—or does the fable end
In cold return to dull reality?

Hero.
No; in reality that's born of it
And is its fairer likeness!—real grown
What first was only seeming. I have become
The part, I lately play'd; the thing I was
Before, have ceased to be! Such virtue hath
The only show of virtue! For which change
Thy noble nature do I thank, although
Perhaps, with more than prudent jealousy,
Exacting; and precipitate, where patience
Might well have counsell'd pause. With Hero's form,
Take Ruth's contentment and humility—
Their dress, whate'er your love would have it be!
But here is one unchanged, nor needing change,
[To Helen.
Except where seeming goes for next to naught!
My Helen! thou art happy now!

Helen.
I am!

Wal.
And I, that scarce deserve my happiness!
But what shall make me misbeliever hence?
How could I doubt thee! Strong appearances
By stronger vouchers back'd, it was, that made me.
But that detected now—and these explain'd—
Thy virtue rises like a pyramid
I wonder aught could hide!—A life of trust
Shall for a season of misgiving pay thee!
Yet more I have to say—of that anon—
For guests are here you thought not of, before,
On whom your feast that waits for us depends—
Marr'd, if disrelish'd,—made, if they're content!