University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Lord Byerdale's Study.
Enter Lord Sherbrooke and Wilton.
Sher.
A maid of mettle, Wilton!—a warm heart,
And honest too—too noble in her wish,
To stint her tongue. She does not mew her love,
As thus: A well-deserving gentleman,
She'd fain believe. Deny it, she would swear to't;
She would!—sufficient comely—all the while
She thinks him paragon. A man, no doubt,
A lady might affect!—while she is smit
Beyond all doubt! A very proper stature;
What some would call a straight and well-shaped man!
Companion e'en for him of Belvidere!
One whom a maiden might for husband take!
When she has married him the hundredth time
That morning, conning o'er the ceremony,
And, louder than the clerk gives out the psalm,
Chanting obey!—A well-conducted maid!
Spring on her lips—a very backward Spring!
And in her heart Midsummer!—Out upon it!
The love, that knows 'tis justified, is wrong
To hang its head, and droop its lids and make
Its lips a jailer's porch that opes by halves,
In constant watch of whom it may let out—
Sure token that delinquents bide within!
'Tis even as I say. My eager sire
Has got his answer. She will none of me;
Nor stops she there, but all the truth avows.
Her heart is pledged to you!—She will be wife
To none, but Wilton Brown.

Wilt.
Declared she that?

Sher.
Yes; soon as urged thereon,
From something stronger than a hint, the Duke
In converse with my father dropp'd.

Wilt.
And gave
The Duke no promise to enforce your suit?

Sher.
My father's suit, you mean! None, Wilton; but
Excused himself on fair and valid grounds—
A pledge unto a dying mother given
Ne'er to coerce her child's affections.

Wilt.
How
Brooks my good lord your father, the o'erturn
Of what he plann'd with so much care, and thought
Beyond mischance assured?

Sher.
I fear to speak,
When what I ought to speak lacks reverence,
And to a name revered! Content thee, Wilton.
Bethink thee of a heart o'erfraught with hate,
Revenge, aught else in passion's murky list,
And guess how brooks my father his balk'd wish!
He will be here anon!—Look to the Duke!
You may befriend him, and I know you would,
Though now the let that keeps you from your hopes!
Spin volumes out of hints—and, Wilton, mind,
Inquires my father how I bear myself
On this reverse, you tell him I am sped—
Gone in the dumps—in doubt to hang or drown;
That horrid things I mumble to myself,
Biting my nails—portent of direst things;
That I am clean distraught, and measure rather
For a strait jacket than a coat and vest!
A man, in brief, whose wits are out o' sorts;
And so it is!—for is it not enough
To drive one mad, when one's content, with frets
To try and make him more content? I hate
A man to fill my cup till it runs o'er!
Wilton, farewell!—Report me, if you love me,
Not what I am, but what I should be.—Mind,
Keep eye on the well-being of the Duke!

[Goes out.
Wilt.
There's danger toward the Duke. I do not blame
His slight of me!—Did I not slight myself?
Rebuke my love?—forbid my hopes to look
For entertainment at their master's hands?
Owe the Duke grudge? I bear ill-will to none;
My heart is all astonishment and love.
The Earl!—My task. [Sits down.]
Look to the Duke? I'll look
To my own honour—then is all assured!

Enter Lord Byerdale.
Lord Byer.
Yes, I shall crush him there, where he will break—
Crumble to dust—in his pride! The match was made—
Conditions, quick as I propounded them,
Accorded! Nothing wanting but consent,
There where consent was duty! There!—upon
The very threshold of completion—there
We stop and all's undone! She shall accept,
In lieu of one who claims a noble stock,
A mate without a name!—a spurious graft,
For a fair scion!—for a boast, a blush!
And there he sits, at hand! His grace the Duke
Is, in a net of his own weaving, caught;
Complots with noted traitors, whose designs
We yet but guess at—to whose haunts, to-night
I'll have him dogg'd, and, thence as he returns,
Arrested and committed to the Tower.
Thus shall I strike one blow, but feather-light
To one that is to come. My instrument!
[Looking at Wilton.
I have borne him hard! I loathe him for the blood
I more than guess he shares with me! Too near
He neighbours with the title and estates
My brothers' timely deaths without attaint
Have handed down to me. Conjecture, busy
While yet a cast remains for chance to throw,
Conjures up visions full of claims to come,
On rights usurp'd, of which the wearer stripp'd,
Is left as beggar bare! Not trustfully
Men, wont to scowl, look sweet; yet show the wind,
That turns foul weather all at once to fair,
The wonder's gone. A reason will suffice.
Wilton, good morning!

Wilt.
“Wilton!” When before
'Twas ever Mr. Brown!

Lord Byer.
Wilton—

Wilt.
Again!

Lord Byer.
The soundest tree is still of slowest growth:
Poplars shoot up to towers, while oaks are twigs.
So loves and friendships vary just as trees;
The quickest form'd are scarce the most robust.
I am not one who gives his heart away
Upon a fit of liking. I take time;
Time is the test of truth. 'Tis many a day
Since we knew one another—all which time
I have thought much—felt much—but little said;
And e'en that little churlishly enough—
Morosely, may be.—What, though, if I say
It went against the grain? It did so, Wilton.
I oft have chid myself for slighting thee—
Tax'd myself roundly—but my after-thought
Has ta'en my part; for who should nourish love
While chance remains of sudden withering
From some unknown, too late reveal'd defect?
Thus have I kept aloof, but with the aim
To know the thing, I wish'd to draw more near,
That, once embracing it, the lock might last!
I know thee now, and henceforth we are friends!

Wilt.
My lord!—

Lord Byer.
Enough! I guess what thou wouldst say;
I know thy modest nature. Be assured
Thou canst not teach me, there;—yet, it may be
This seeming strange transition genders doubt.

Wilt.
My lord!—

Lord Byer.
I know you do not doubt me. Men,
Single themselves, are always large of trust.
I own I stand in need of some; but you
Can give, and have to spare. You are a free,
A most deserving, more foregoing man.
Have I not seen your patience? Has it fail'd,
And has it not been tried? Ay, has it, Wilton!
Ay, to my shame, I would say, knew I not
My heart, and the fair end it had in view.
The end, at times, transforms the means, that what
We pass'd in hate, our love looks back upon!
Wilton, you ought to rise!—You have the worth;
The palm should come, and shall!

Wilt.
Alas!—

Lord Byer.
I say
I know your modesty—and modesty
Is that rare quality men most applaud
But nourish least, because 'tis not its art
To enrich itself. The wealthy and the high
Are the world's idols. Wilton, you must rise,
And then, have modesty, or have it not,
You will be hugg'd! You have the merit, sir,
But not the front; and, better have the front
If you would make your way. There's not a week
In the year but mere Pretension plays and wins,
And Merit looking on, that knows the game,
But doubts to take the cards! Do I not know,
The very debts that men contract with you,
So far from claiming, you have ever shunn'd
The sight of those who owe them!

Wilt.
Debts, my lord?

Lord Byer.
Ay, debts!

Wilt.
I know of none.

Lord Byer.
Indeed! Why, then,
The Duke of Gaveston and his daughter do!
Moreover, as I learn, acknowledge them;
Farther, would render payment—One, at least.
I know the Lady Laura loves you, Wilton.

Wilt.
Forbear, my lord! O speak not lightly of
A lady's love! It is her paramount
Especial jewel, over which keep guard
All things most rare in her tenacious sex;
Its radiant truth; its fragrant chastity;
Its goodness of the 'haviour of the heavens;
Its modesty—enhancement of all these—
Setting them off with veil more rare and rich
Than ever needle broider'd, or the loom!
If I were rich, my lord, as you would say,
'Twere scarce a theme for my rapt soul and me
To enter on so freely!

Lord Byer.
You are worth
Her love, and have it, Wilton! Nay, she makes
No secret on't. Her father told me so;
Founded thereon rejection of my son,
Although with bitterness of galléd pride.

Wilt.
No wonder! He's a duke; and what am I?

Lord Byer.
Why, Wilton, not the humble man you think!

Wilt.
Again! You know the secret of my birth!
[Rushing up to Lord Byerdale.
Who were my parents!—O the loneliness
To live and feel, unknowing whence we sprung!
To bear most gratefully a heavy debt,
Enjoying boundless reverence and love,
Without a token of the benefactors
We owe it to! My lord, you are a father,—
You have a thought of what a son must feel
In plight so blank as mine! Who were my parents?—
Though they were peasants, tell me! All I want
Is but to know to whom my yearning heart
Has nature's right to cleave! That they are dead
I know.—Who were they? Tell me, that I make
Out of their memories, breathing, glowing things,
To keep with me and cherish and revere!

Lord Byer.
Good Wilton—

Wilt.
Nay, you have the knowledge.

Lord Byer.
Yes.

Wilt.
Then tell me what you know!—You would relieve
A famish'd man—my lord, I hunger more!

Lord Byer.
Be patient!—Hear me!—Now is not the time;
Content you, what I know you shall be told.
Yet learn thus far:—Your veins are fraught with streams
Were running rich ere those that fill the Duke's
Were known to flow. Spare unavailing pains;
To that thou hast the power to compass, give
Your cares alone. The Lady Laura loves you;
You covet her; you shall possess her, ay,
With will of the proud Duke—if not—with suit!
I tell thee, Wilton, he will seek thee soon,
More heartily than he would shun thee now.
Reckon on that thou hast within thy reach,
And, as to other ventures, trust the winds!—
They'll bring them home before you look for them.

[Goes out.
Wilt.
More light—not more content!—Better be dark
As ever.—Better not to know a part,
Than, knowing that, to have the rest withheld!
Who halts at prospect of the pinnacle
That gives him note his journey's end is nigh,
Except with fever of inquietude?
Way-gone and crippled, rather would he on,
Than lay him down and rest another night.
But I must rest, it seems, howe'er I can!
The knowledge of my birth brings knowledge else
He would withhold! Who has good news to tell
And does not tell it out?—Nay, if he stops,
It is for something that undoes the whole!
Conjecture's waste, that ends where it began!
Yet must I on again, nor better speed!
The Duke consent to mate his child with me?
How?—When?—A reason?—'Tis deception all!
He plays a part! Said not Lord Sherbrooke now
His heart was fraught with malice 'gainst the Duke,
And means he the Duke well?—He loves not me,
And does he mean me well? Tell me the Duke
Will sue to me to wed his noble child!
Oh, I would wed her!—but will wed her never,
Except with free and full consent of honour!

[Goes out.