University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber in the Duke of Gaveston's house.
Enter the Duke.
Duke.
How changed my daughter is!—I know her not
Since our adventure on the king's highway.
Or love has turn'd her wits for her, or fright.
The staid recluse of yesterday, to-day
Is lady of the crowd! She now frequents
Assemblies—plays—all haunts of throng'd resort.
What draws her forth so much? I can't surmise!
But from herself the knowledge of the cause
Of such a metamorphosis can come.
For quiet, restlessness!—from books to sights!
I'll tax her home upon it. She's obedient;
Yet, once her purpose fix'd, is hard to move.
Suitor she never brook'd!—Men's merits, still
Has thought, should ever 'bove their stations mount.
I had a fear—but no!—But once they met—
The heart forgets, when cease the eyes to prompt.
See where she thoughtful moves with eyes on ground!
Another time—when she's in lighter mood.
Her heart, upon its guard, might foil me now.

[Goes out.
Enter Lady Laura.
Lady Lau.
Where does he hide, while gallants, not his tithe
In manly bearing, beauty, and desert,
Vie for the lead, and with comparisons
Set all the world at odds?—Let him appear
Among them, all will shrink, at once, to one!
The world will be one eye, one ear, one tongue,
Awarding him the palm, past all compare!
Or would it slight his merits for his rank?
What of his rank?—Is't his disparagement
That Fortune 's blind?—Let Fortune take the blame—
Or rather men, who laud, where she prefers,
Even while they know she sees not what she does!
Why, let them like idolaters bow down
Before the works of their own hands!—Love bends
At Heaven's command alone—informing Love!
Honest and clear of sight, whose piercing eye
Vies with the lapidary's—knows the gem,
Whate'er the setting! Strange that I, a maid,
Who held her single state so sovereignly,
No suitor ever twice drew near to woo,
Should now regard it as a barren sway,
Dominion of some far and desert isle,
Which he who owns it gladly would exchange
For slavery in some blest continent!
Love, if I slighted thee, thou'rt well revenged;
I'm all thy subject now; but for my gains
Have nought, except my servitude, to boast;
Denied exchange of speech or sight with him
Who made me doff defiance of thy rule!

Enter Emmeline.
Emme.
Lord Sherbrooke, madam, and a friend—

Lady Lau.
A friend?
What! has his friend no name?—No lofty one,
Or he'd be sure to give it!—Show him in.
Stay! Do you know the gentleman that comes
Along with him?

Emme.
Not, as I think, my lady.
His back was towards me, but I dare be sworn
He has a noble presence.

Lady Lau.
To be sure!
He comes in noble company. The sun
Makes vapours that are near him turn to gold!
Go!— [Emmeline goes out.]
I am sick of you and all the world!—
And all the world!—I would the jest were o'er!
The poor—poor jest, that so misplaces things,
We know not what we look at! Everywhere,
Except in human nature, qualities
Determine uses. No one sets to build
A garden-wall to train a sloe or crab,
Or rears a thistle in a hothouse bed!
Well, well! if essences, in other things,
Keep rule, 'tis fit perhaps they jumble men.
I'm sick of life! 'Tis one against the million,
So let the million have its way!—It will!
Lord weds with lady.—Why?—Because a lord!
A common match would find a better reason!
Yet no; 'tis rank all through—nothing but rank!
Craft weds with craft—profession with profession
Weddings for clothes! From top to bottom all's
At odds with reason! Human life is ravell'd,
And love itself can't make the thread run clear.
The work that only frets 'twere best give o'er;
Only don't help to make the puzzle worse!
Let the world be! It is too old to mend;
What 'tis, it was, and will be to the end!

[Emmeline enters, conducting Wilton and Sherbrooke, and retires.
Sher.
Madam, I take leave to present myself,
And, with myself, my friend.

Lady Lau.
Your friend and you,
My lord, are welcome in all courtesy.

Sher.
[Aside to Wilton.]
A welcome for a lover! Mark you that?
An answer, too, before the question's put!
She never raised her eyes—That's hope! They say
A maid in love still goes with downcast looks.
But she may lock her vision in her heart;
And, if she does, I'll stake my coronet
You're there along with it.

Wilt.
[Uneasily.]
Accost her, Sherbrooke!

Sher.
And if I do, what shall I say to her?
That 'tis a fair day?—that 'tis very warm?
Or very cool?—Or that I hope she's well,
And hope his Grace, her father, is the same?
That the new fashions are come out, and belles,
To please their beaux, now meet them with sour looks?
That beaux, to wive, come wooing for their friends?
That, nowadays, things find their proper way
By going contrary?—a paradox!
Or that the world is in its childhood yet,
And hopes to come to manhood—if it lives?
Or what? Come, Wilton, you take up the word,
And help a man that can't get through his task!
Speak to her, Wilton—Wish her a good morning!
Say anything to her.

Lady Lau.
A fine day, my lord!
The tables turn when ladies must speak first.

[Aside.
Sher.
Madam, the day is very fine indeed;
At least, I think so. But what thinks my friend?—
For he is a philosopher, and knows
Fine weather is the kind that's wanted most.
A calm is fine—the sailor wants a breeze:
Sunshine is fine—the farmer wants a cloud:
One looks for frost, another looks for snow,
Another looks for rain—though none for sleet!
Thus, uses make the excellence of things;
At least, I think so, madam. What thinks Wilton?

Lady Lau.
Wilton!

Wilt.
Nay, Sherbrooke.

Sher.
I will have you speak!
Madam, my friend is very weatherwise.
You call it a fine day, and so do I;
But come, what think you, Wilton?

Lady Lau.
It is he!
Oh, sir, I'm glad to see you!—very glad!
Though somewhat too confused to show it you.
Because—because—I saw you not at once—
And—find you standing—and his lordship too—
Pray you excuse a moping, absent girl,
And let her make amends—and—Pray take chairs!

Sher.
[Aside to Wilton.]
I might have dropp'd, you see, if not for you.
Now will I court her to your very face!
Fair Lady Laura Gaveston!

Lady Lau.
[Coldly.]
Well, my lord?

Sher.
My friend suspects the weather.

Wilt.
[Aside to Sherbrooke.]
Nay!

Sher.
You do.
He thinks, though now so fine, there's chance of hail;
For it is April, as you know—a month
When here will be a shower, and sunshine there;
So one goes dry, another dripping wet.
The sky's a puzzle; but there are stranger things!
You know my errand, Lady Laura; still
I tell it you to show I know it too;
And, for your answer, that, I well foresee!
But would not balk your bright lips of their right
To speak, themselves, the will of her they serve.
My father hither sends his hopeful son—
Although in hopeless mood—to seek a wife.
I say, in hopeless mood; for bonds, you know,
Although they be of silk, are things that bind;
And, to be plain, I love my liberty!
I'll make but a poor husband at the best;
But, if you will, I'll make the best I can.
I court you, lady, for my father's sake,
In the first place—a son can say no less;
In the next place, I court you for your own:
A lover, I presume, can say no more.
Now, as I know brief wooing prospers best,
One way or t'other bringing to an end
What else had cost much time, were better saved;
My courtship, promptly, as you see, begun,
I bring as promptly to a graceful close.
But as 'tis fit my merits you should know—
The proper ground of failure or success—
And as wise men speak little of themselves,
But trust, in these regards, to others' tongues;
The blanks which I have left—and not a few—
I leave my friend in kindness to fill up!
Wilton, I'll wait you in the ante-room.

Wilt.
[Rising.]
Sherbrooke—

Sher.
[Pushing him down again.]
Nay, take your seat again. For shame!
What! Frighted of a lady's company?
Or, madam, is the gentleman to stay
At my request—or do you wish him gone?

Lady Lau.
The gentleman will stay—at my request!

Sher.
[Aside to Wilton.]
Wilton, what think you of the weather now?
Madam, I dare be bound he'll do your will,
Though 'twere not back'd by mine—I take my leave;
And with the more content, because I know—
And here I speak the bare and steadfast truth—
I leave with you the man—I boast my friend.

[Goes out.
Lady Lau.
Sir, you will deem me bold to wish you stay;
Yet, sooth, the blame is yours. When creditors
Are modest, and hold off, the debtor's shamed
That comes not forth—if not to pay his debt,
At least to grace it with acknowledgment!

Wilt.
You owe me nothing, lady.

Lady Lau.
Nothing!—No!—
And weighs my life, sir, nothing in your eyes?
Although perhaps a trifle in my own!

Wilt.
Your life!—O, lady!—

Lady Lau.
Well, sir?—Well?—Say on!
Is't nothing?—Yet my gratitude's a heap;
But that, perhaps, is nothing!

Wilt.
Were't deserved,
So much—save one thing—I could wish no more!

Lady Lau.
I will believe you; yet, could almost doubt;
For let me ask why what you valued so
You took no pains to learn, if render'd you?—
Don't speak!—I know!—desert that's true holds back!
Ere challenge its reward, would let it go!
Yet, in my own defence I must be frank,
And tell you I have wish'd to see you, sir;
Nor once, but oft; nor much, but earnestly,
To tell you all I feel I owe you, sir;
And still, though I defended you just now,
Charging your absence to the proper cause,
Yet must you bear some blame—for though you had
Your feelings, sir, we had our feelings too,
For which 'twere not unjust to credit us;
Which crediting, 'twere hardly generous
To grieve with needless pain!—our name—abode
My father gave you—so methinks did I.
They were not idly given, but for a purpose;
They were not coldly given, but heartily;
They meant an invitation—It is true
'Twas not accepted by your lips, and yet
I thought your looks gave token of as much.
If I thought wrong, I grieve for my mistake—
I would not think you never meant to come!

Wilt.
'Twas true!

Lady Lau.
'Twas strange!—To risk your life for us,
Yet grudge a step to see—that we were well.

Wilt.
I heard that you were well—I knew you were.

Lady Lau.
And that contented you. Sir, I have friends
I know are well, yet I would see them too.
But then, they are dear friends—you are very right.
'Twere almost bold to say we are acquaintance;
Yet, though you think me forward, I shall say
We were not losers, did you rate us more.

Wilt.
More?—O much more!—More than I dare to name!

Lady Lau.
[Aside.]
I could believe the wish that's in my breast
Is throbbing now in his—I am beloved!
Sir, you say nothing, or you say too much—
I mean too much for faith.—More than acquaintance—
Would be a friend—much more were—more than that—
O lips, be mute—when looks can talk so well!
The more his tongue refrains, the more he speaks!

Wilt.
O, were I sure—

Lady Lau.
Of what?

Wilt.
That I could claim
A royal stock!

Lady Lau.
What then?—Be frank!—What then?

Wilt.
Why then I might to lady high as you
Proffer my heart.

Lady Lau.
You then would condescend!
And, think you, none can condescend but you?
Wouldst like me—for a friend?

Wilt.
No!

Lady Lau.
No?

Wilt.
A friend
Lies near the heart; but then there is the core,
That looks for something else.

Lady Lau.
Which you have found!
No?

Wilt.
Yes!

Lady Lau.
A mistress?

Wilt.
Yes!

Lady Lau.
Where does she bide?

Wilt.
Where does she bide! O Honour, is it right
To take advantage of the love for us
That would undo itself—descend for us
From state—make partnership with namelessness—
Convert high veneration into scorn—
Quit the bright pageant of emblazon'd life,
To play a poor part in the daily crowd?

Lady Lau.
Nothing!—All nothing!

Wilt.
Cast itself away—
Give all—gain naught—unless abasement's gain—
Naught but a heart, which any one could give?

Lady Lau.
No!—only one—worth all that ever beat,
Cheap purchased with her own!

Wilt.
[Aside.]
O, generous maid!
And shall I take thy sterling gold for dross?
I must, or I must fly! Lady, farewell!

Lady Lau.
Stay! You have stopp'd too long to go so soon!
Was there not something to be said? A word
About your friend? Well, sir; sit down and say it.

Wilt.
My friend is noble.

Lady Lau.
Ay! He is noble, is he?
Has he a heart?

Wilt.
A brave, and warm one, too!
A man more modest than he loves to show.

Lady Lau.
Sir, let him show the most he may, I'll find
The man will prove him very braggart there,—
A man to love whom is to boast one's self,
So is he lord of all true nobleness!
A man who rescued once a lady's life;
Who, for the chance of such salvation only,
Would risk that life again 'gainst twice the odds!
Why do you hang your head? Desert for shame!
Assert yourself, erect your brow, and cast
A thousand round you down, that only tower,
Because you please to droop! O doubtful pass
To come to!—for a maiden unenforced
To tell her love!—What can be urged for her?
What can she urge herself?—Why this, that Heaven
Inform'd her; so she knew its handiwork,
And worshipp'd Heaven in it!—Almost, and more
Than once, you've said you loved me, but stopp'd short!
I hold a virtue higher than a grace,
So prefer honesty to bashfulness—
As, by this time, perhaps, you more than guess:
Then, where you halted, will I e'en go on,
And tell you—yet why need I?—all is said
But the plain downright word, which, if I speak,
I shall not make you wise a tittle more;
Yet 'tis the word, and I will out with it—
You love me, Wilton, and 'tis love for love!
Why, Wilton, where's your heart?

Wilt.
Here at your feet!

Lady Lau.
Then 'tis a contract.

Wilt.
Yes.

Lady Lau.
How long to last?

Wilt.
For life.

Lady Lau.
No less a term!—Were't but a jot
Shorter than that, I'd have the compact torn
And scatter'd to the winds! For life?

Wilt.
For life!

[The Duke of Gaveston enters.
Lady Lau.
Then, Wilton, I am yours. But mark me, yet;
My father cannot wed me 'gainst my will—
Against my father's will I'll never wed—
If I wed ever, Wilton, 'tis with you!

Duke.
What means this, daughter?

Lady Lau.
Did you overhear?

Duke.
I did! For shame!

Lady Lau.
Nay, father, say for shame
When I recall that, which you overheard!
What I'll repeat, nor pay, nor owe, a blush!
You are a duke—I am your grace's child.
We both are debtors to this gentleman
To an amount that's something near the worth
Of both our lives!—You oft have mention'd him
With gratitude—and, what you spoke, I felt,
And call'd to mind the time when heroes wore
The trophies that they won, though emperors';
And wish'd—ay did I, from my heart's deep core—
Such times were now for him! Up to him, father!
Give him the generous hand. If fault there is,
The penalty be mine—o'erleap the gap
Rank sets between you—reverence the thing
You owe your title to—whereby alone
The ancestor that sent it down to you
Won it!—Desert!—The stamp were, else, a brand!

Duke.
I own myself your grateful debtor, sir,
And what I owe you, sir, I would repay;
And pray you take my hand as warranty,
Which, as I reckon'd you a man of honour,
I think you know the proper limits of,
And, knowing, will respect them.—Sir, your leave
To hold some brief communion with my child,
As what has pass'd behoves her to review!

Lady Lau.
Wilton, 'twas all review'd before it pass'd.
Father, I utter it with reverence
To you!—It was no idle passing thought—
A seedling just appearing above ground,
A foot could mock of growth and sweep away;
But a deep, fibrous, and abounding root,
Which, tearing up, you tear up all the ground,
And that is—all my heart!—With this, farewell!
What fruit the tree may bear but time can tell!

[They go out severally.