University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.—

An upper room in a rather dilapidated old house, brightened by growing flowers, and tokens of feminine presence and occupation. A large bow-window overlooking the Thames at Fulham. The walls painted with frescoes from the Niebel- ungen Lied. On one side a mirror in an antique frame. Winifred Wynne discovered writing at a table covered with MS.
Enter Jenny Owen knitting a stocking.
JENNY.
Name o' goodness! How you can, Miss Wynny!
Scratching that paper all the blessed day!

WINIFRED.
[ Wearily.]
Yes, Jenny,—all the day since nine o'clock.

JENNY.
I like to see a lady doing nothing;
It's what they're made for, but there's many ways
O' doing it.

WINIFRED.
Well, I only know this one.
Our troubles came before my education
Was fairly finished. I'm but half a lady.

JENNY.
You half a lady! Where's the whole ones then?
A Wynne, and of Wynhavod, though she rose
At five o' the morn and made the bed she'd slept on,
Would be a better lady, still, than many
Of those who lay till noon!

WINIFRED.
You dear old Jenny!
I'll vary my diversions with a walk
To-morrow,—not to-day. My lazy ladyship
Is bent on filling four more of these pages,
Before I go to bed. You know I am subject
To idle whims like this.

JENNY.
Yes, quality
Is full of flimsy-whimsies.

[Knitting fiercely.
WINIFRED.
I wonder where
The piles of stockings that you knit all go to?

JENNY.
'Deed, and Miss Wynny, we've six feet between us.

WINIFRED.
We might have sixty, Jenny; yes, we might,—
We might be centipedes, to wear them all.
You knit as hard and harder than I write.

JENNY.
Work isn't much more hard than play, Miss Wynny. [Aside.]

They neither o' them note that all the fowls
I buy have got four wings, and legs to match.
They eat one with the usual number, then,
How should they know what's hidden in a pie?
Giblets I say, and they're as green as geese.

WINIFRED.
[Looking at the clock, covering her writing, and arranging the room.]
Is it so late? Mostyn will soon be here;
He will be weary, for his writing, Jenny,
Is more than play-work, and the air to day
Must weigh like lead in golden Lombard Street.
How good it is that we can see the sun
Doubled upon the river, and can feel
The breezes cooled in passing over it!
I love this river-road, this water high-way.
I fear you miss your mountains?

JENNY.
'Deed, Miss Wynny,
I've got too much to do to heed such trifles.

WINIFRED.
So much the better; but our lodging here,—
It was no trifling piece of luck which got us
Cheap quarters in this dear old house, and friends,
Great geniuses, to paint the mouldy walls
With frescoes that can bring the glow of Venice
Into a chamber looking on the Thames.

JENNY.
It was not done by geniuses, Miss Wynny,
But all by Mr. Drayton, and I reckon
A gold-ground paper would have done as well.
But here comes Master Mostyn, and I'm wasting
My time along o' you. One sloth makes many.
[Exit Jenny.
Enter Mostyn Wynne.

MOSTYN.
I bring you evil news; our holiday
Will be no holiday; we shall not spend it
With Drayton on the river,—shall not float
At noon upon the shadow of the shade
Of Clieveden Woods, or—

WINIFRED.
Mostyn, what is this?
You startle me. Some sudden thing has chanced
To overturn a plan we made—

MOSTYN.
I know
A plan we made before the leaves were green.
It is a sudden thing, or a slow thing
Come suddenly to light. I must be off,—
Yes, to Wynhavod by the earliest train;
It leaves at eight.

WINIFRED.
Off to Wynhavod? You?

MOSTYN.
Yes, I. Who else but I have the poor souls
Who suffer there to look to? Had you heard
What I have heard—

WINIFRED.
From whom?

MOSTYN.
From Robert Murdock.
Had you heard half, I think your tenderer heart
Would have found swifter means to get to them.
I leave—

WINIFRED.
You leave me in the dark! Say, first,
What is this thing beyond the wrong we know of?

MOSTYN.
This: that our foster-brother, Owen Owen,
Has fallen into the pit that has been dug
For him, and all of them, by their devourer,—
Him who slays bodies and lays snares for souls
At every corner of the land he wrung
From helpless hands of orphans,—yours and mine;—
Poor lad! poor Owen! they have got him under;
Temptation had too many stations for him;
His blood was poisoned with their devil's-drink,
And now, a prison offers him State cure
For ills the State promotes.

WINIFRED.
What has he done?

MOSTYN.
Bodily hurt to some one,—nothing much,—
A blow delivered in a drunken fray,
Where all was give and take. But in his case
A sentence means destruction; it means hurling
A man from the incline where they have lured him
Over the rampart to the pit of Hell.
Now, you will see, good sister, where my place is.
No one can plead so well on his behalf
The character he bore so long, and no one—

WINIFRED.
Oh, Mostyn, you must save him! Our poor Jenny!

MOSTYN.
No word of this to her, until we tell her
Her son is free, and sobered by his fright.
This journey will take something from our hoard,
That niggards such as we are loth to spare.
I must not make those poor, proud eyes that love us,
Too shamed and sorry by my altered state.

WINIFRED.
Nay, we are richer than I thought. These last
Six months have not been lean ones. You are weary
Of figures, or you should have proof of it.

MOSTYN.
Weary of figures in the Banking-books;
But like cures like.

WINIFRED.
Well, then, a gentle dose.
See here! Our capital demands three figures
To write it. If the first is but a unit—
A bachelor we'll call it—still, the second
Is growing, and will soon be marriageable.
In ten years' time—

MOSTYN.
I shall be thirty-two;
You thirty, with the brightest of the gold
Faded from out your hair.

WINIFRED.
I shall have coined it.
Let us not count our losses, but our gains.
You will be ten times more a man than now;
Wynhavod will be ours—or, rather, yours.
Then you must marry.

MOSTYN.
Yes.

WINIFRED.
You are the only
Heir of our line. You are the one sole vessel
That holds the treasure of our house's hope.

MOSTYN.
Yes, we have had a legacy of pride,
And little else.

WINIFRED.
We'll get high interest on it;
It was our mother's portion. In good truth,
There is as much humility as pride
In looking past your individual life,
Backwards and forwards, thinking of yourself
But as a link which binds the past and future,
And glorying that the chain has been so long,
Because the links that hold, are stout and true.

MOSTYN.
A grave the depth of half the world were shallow,
To hide the wretch who broke it in dishonour.

WINIFRED.
Dishonour! Do not breathe of it; the air
So stirred, is pestilent.

MOSTYN.
[Regarding her.]
Why, what is this?

WINIFRED.
It is that there are words which stand for things
So past my bearing, that I'd liefer hear
An oath rapped out, than have them said in whisper.
This chain is safe with us; it has, perchance,
Had brighter links, but none of purer metal.
Cherish yourself a little, for its sake;
This journey is too hurried.

MOSTYN.
I am not
So weak a link, but I can bear the shaking.
And then for me there needs no cherishing;
‘Wynnes have been never wanting to Wynhavod,
Since Pridain Blythen took it for his own.’
You know the distich.

WINIFRED.
Surely, and that other:
‘The day the stock of Gwyn ap Blythen fails,
Make the last bed of the last Prince of Wales.’
Historians and prophets—all are with us.

MOSTYN.
Historians and prophets have no word
To say for you, my sister; you had best
Look to yourself; you work too hard, I think;
One-half our capital is of your earning;
Those tomes that you translate—

WINIFRED.
Are heavy reading,
Which always is the case with easy writing.
You would not have me idle? Our old Jenny—
How shall we face her with her unknown sorrow?—
Knits as she goes, I think she knits in sleep,
She surely does in dreams; if all her knitting
Had gone to make one stocking, she could hide
The world within it. Do you know, she sells them
And buys us dainties, which she serves us up
In various disguises.

MOSTYN.
That must cease;
We cannot suffer it.

WINIFRED.
Indeed, we can.
She put in part and lot with us; she left
Her kith and kin and country for our sakes;
She knows that we would cherish her in age
And sickness. Shall we play at Providence—
We two, so young; take the great rôle,and keep it,
Denying her her humble part, the due
Of so much faithful service?

MOSTYN.
You are right;
We must not limit love—

WINIFRED.
For if we could,
The world would be dismembered. Here she comes.

Enter Jenny, announcing.
JENNY.
It's Mr. Drayton. [To Mostyn.]
Master Mostyn, dinner
Is ready in the lobby-room, for one.
Enter Norman. Mostyn and Norman converse in dumb-show.
Miss Wynny, will I bring tea here?

WINIFRED.
Yes, Jenny,
And Mostyn's dinner too; I'll promise you
Your Benjamin will get his mess unshared.

JENNY.
[Aside.]
A mess she makes of it! You'll have your will,
Miss Wynny; but such like was never seen,
Not even in the Colonel's time at home.
We should have locked the doors, and done as though
The house was empty, if the larder failed.

WINIFRED.
That's true, but Mr. Drayton dines somewhere,—
Somewhen,—I think.

JENNY.
[Aside.]
I see what food he lives on,
And where he gets it.

WINIFRED.
[ To Norman.]
You have heard the tidings?
Our midsummer day's dream has been a dream,
And so is ended.

NORMAN.
Yes, the infernal gods
Were struck with envy! One such perfect day
Could make a man immortal. If we bring
Forth little fruit, and die before our time,
It is that we are starved for lack of joy.

JENNY.
[Who has been laying the cloth.]
[Aside.]
If he was starved, he wouldn't talk so big.
I've laid a second cover, anyway.

[Exit Jenny.
WINIFRED.
[Lays her hand upon his arm, and draws him to the table, where all sit.]
We must not make this duty hard to Mostyn.

NORMAN.
I will not; you shall teach me to endure:
You need the rest, I only crave the bliss.

WINIFRED.
Mostyn has told you where he goes, and why?

NORMAN.
Only that he obeys a sudden call.

WINIFRED.
[To Mostyn.]
You have not told him—

MOSTYN.
[Motioning Winifred to silence.]
Only that I start
To-night, and that my business leaves no choice.

NORMAN.
[Aside, rising and sauntering towards the window.]
She should command me wholly, and she shall;
But why must she be nodded into silence?

WINIFRED.
[To Mostyn.]
May he not know?

MOSTYN.
'Twould give him pain.

WINIFRED.
Why so?

MOSTYN.
I may not tell you. Talk of other matters.
He'll follow where you lead.

WINIFRED.
[To Norman, who reseats himself.]
You still are eager,
Still constant in your study of the drama?

NORMAN.
I see these foreign fellows now and then.

WINIFRED.
That's what I mean; that gallant company
Of artists teach us something more than art;
They show us on the stage what may be wrought
By sympathy, and mutual help, and fairness;
In short, by human brotherhood. [Aside.]

Dead silence!
A poet in the dumps might sink a ship.

NORMAN.
They should have stopped at home, for none can teach
Or learn such things in London, where each man
Fears to be trampled in the crowd, and rends
His throat with cries to mark his whereabout.
Our life is lyrical, and not dramatic.
I own some pity for our money'd fools
Who throw their thousands in the mud, and struggle
To rise upon the heap, and thence proclaim
Their rescued individuality.
Their cry is human.

MOSTYN.
[To Winifred.]
Keep him on this tack,
And he will ask no questions.

WINIFRED.
[To Mostyn.]
You are strange. [To Norman.]

For all the scornful pity you bestow
Upon our age's lyric tendencies,
I know you think that now, as in the past,
The poetry that moves the world's deep heart
Must reach its ear as drama. You have said so.

NORMAN.
Yes, poetry has been a living voice,
Whenever it has been a living power.

MOSTYN.
It never will be that again. The world
Is old and fussy, and it wants to speak,
And does not want to hear.

NORMAN.
Has it revealed
Its age to you?

MOSTYN.
I judge it by its seeming.

NORMAN.
Oh noble judge! Oh excellent young man!
The world you reckon senile, is a phœnix,
That many a time has risen from its ashes,
And will again.

MOSTYN.
A poet's dream.

NORMAN.
Say flatly
A fool's,—men always club the two together.
Dreams are for money-grubbers, men who drive
Unwholesome trades which else would go unfollowed.
A poet's business is to see, not dream.

MOSTYN.
We know too much; the minds of men are dwarfed,
Brow-beaten by the growing mountain-ranges
Of fact that rise above us, and shut out
The light of Heaven. We are faint and hopeless,—
Degenerate,—like the men who mope about
The skirts of Chimborazo.

NORMAN.
Let them perish,—
Go hang or drown themselves, or just die out,
And yield their places to a hardier race!
The Alps and Andes crumble, and the Earth—
A pebble long abraded by the waves
Of Time—is wearing smooth; but the wide world
Of thought is plastic still, is young, is growing;
Is throwing up new continents to range,
Vast summits glorious to climb; our powers
Grow with the tasks they tackle; we are rising
With our surroundings. Honoured be our day,
For all the patient workers who cast up
Those mountains that you say obscure the Sun;
The time is not far off when daring spirits—
Poets to match those toilers in the dark—
Will stand upon their crowns, and shout the news,
The latest news from heaven, to the crowd
A waiting them below.

[Rises.
WINIFRED.
[Rising too.]
When that day comes,
The voice I hope to hear will be familiar.

NORMAN.
For in it you will find your own again.
You have not heard it yet; I have but dallied
Upon the fringes of the snow, and made
Toys of the flowers I found there. I might say
Had flapped some ineffectual wings of song,
If wings pertained to creatures of the fancy
So poor in essence, maugre cheap perfection
Of borrowed form, and surface iridescence.
These foreign growths that trail their limbless length
Over our pages, smooth, invertebrate,
Are of base order; they would lose no life
Nor anything of nobler form, bisected
Like earthworms by the spade. For all their grace
I hold them creeping things. I now ‘unpack’
My heart of ‘stuff’that might wax‘perilous,’
Hoping to find the world that lends its ear
To such, will hearken when a weightier theme
Is borne by me aloft. These lays of mine
Which men think fit to take into their mouths
As olives after meat, it's clear that no one
So much as dreams of in his bill of fare;
All know that souls are fed on stronger stuff.

WINIFRED.
Be just to beauty.

NORMAN.
Beauty but skin deep?
Beauty of borrowed pigments? What we want
Is nobler life within. Like happiness,
Beauty is found of those who seek it not.
It asks wide passage; is a dainty sprite
That baffles overmuch of observation;
And we, word-mongers, who would set it tasks,
Keep it the prisoner of our base self-love,
When most we think it ours are mostly mocked;
It passes out, and leaves our empty labours
Just dusted with the glory of its wings.

WINIFRED.
So jealous of pursuit? Is there no way
To win this Ariel's service?

NORMAN.
We may widen
The gates of life, the everlasting doors,—
That so the kingly spirit of Art may enter;
And beauty is his body of revelation.
We think we worship relics which bear witness
To such a presence in the Classic Past;
Vain boast! Our cult is mere idolatry;
Those forms to us are stocks and stones; if shells,
The life has left and shut the door for us.
We praise the work, but half deny the worker,
Seeing what cunning craft is ours unaided.
We praise the work, and in our hearts believing
Our better skill, we take it home, and—varnish!
Our priests of culture make their genuflexions
Before those deep sea cockles, but they win
Small grace of them. I too have knelt, and sought
Morning and night in reverent contemplation
Their secret of perfection. I have seen
That much of them in silent hours like these,
That never will I touch palate or pen
To follow with my humbler means the great ones
Who wrought these moulds which now are filled with sand,
Wanting the impulse of a living thought!
Pray, pardon this taxation of your time;
I keep you.

WINIFRED.
We are glad to be so kept.

MOSTYN.
I have to leave you, though, to throw together
The few effects I need. You'll still be here
In half-an-hour?

NORMAN.
Scarcely.

MOSTYN.
Then, farewell,
Until we meet again.

[Exit Mostyn.
NORMAN.
Farewell. [To Winifred.]
You saw
Too clearly how this disappointment touched me;
I thought to-morrow to have made a day
Of time eternal; to have drunk a draught
So deep, so plugged all senses with content,
That I should never thirst or hunger more.
The white swan-feathers drifting down the stream
Would not have been more aimless. I have lost
A day in heaven,—a day without a morrow.

WINIFRED.
Well for the day; how very poor and pale
It might have looked, beside your glowing picture!

NORMAN.
I have known days that kept their promise richly.

WINIFRED.
[Aside.]
The ground grows dangerous. [To Norman.]

I'll look you out
Those Tryads of our ancient Bards; you said
You wished to see them. They are here; I have
A page or two to finish; we can bear
Each other silent company; our friendship,
I think, is equal to the test.

[Puts the book into his hand, and pointing to a distant chair, seats herself at a writing-table.
NORMAN.
All tests!
I speak of mine. [Aside.]
And spoke too soon of friendship,
Which is a mask of love, her every breath,
Or but the air she stirs in passing near,
Could shatter, if I did not hold it firm.

WINIFRED.
[Aside, preparing to write.]
I never knew till now the intimate charm
Of comradeship like this; now, when I sit
Calmly at work, as if the man before me
Were such a household thing as Mostyn is.

NORMAN.
[Who has furtively drawn his chair to where he can see Winifred reflected in the mirror.]
She shines from out the mirror like a star,
And gazing thus unseen, I dare to pasture
My eyes upon her, and to breathe unheard
The hungry love that wastes my heart of flesh.
Fair Winifred! well named, since to possess you
Were in this world to win the peace of heaven;
And even thus to love you, barred of hope,
Is purifying pain. The heavens themselves
Are not so eloquent of light and law,
As this white soul that takes its radiant course
About an unknown centre, and withholds
My life, and others that attend on hers,
From drifting into darkness. Oh my love!
Yes, I will breathe my secret to her image,
She near, but all unwitting,—to her image,
Her sacred image in the golden frame,
Which shrines and cuts it off from me. Dear Saint!
I lay my heart and all its silent worship
Low at your feet; I may not offer it.
Would it could something serve you; its desires,
Subdued, should make a carpet for your tread,—
Should bend as rushes to your maiden will.
How calm she is; she does not feel the waves
That break so near her.
[Winifred shades her eyes with her hands.
See, she veils her eyes,
To make a twilight for her thoughts, and leaves
The world eclipsed; me waiting in the dark.

WINIFRED.
[Still shading her face.]
I cannot write; I know not whence it comes;
The air has grown electrical, the charm
Of mute companionship becomes too keen;
At first, it seemed the odour of a flower
Breathed but in passing; now it penetrates,
Makes faint the sense as with the malediction
Of dying blossoms crushed by ruthless fingers.

NORMAN.
So near my love you seem, and are so far.
Could we but meet a moment,—not like sea
And shore, but like two waves brought face to face,
Bounding with equal impulse each towards each,
Mingling and breaking, mingling for a second,—
Oh God, a second of Thy æons of time!
Could we so meet as in some truer world,
Some world that knows of no constraint but love,
Meet, mingle, eye to eye, and heart to heart,
My life might fall to ruin as the wave,
Rounding itself, grown perfect, breaks and parts;—
One moment of pure being wherein our souls
Should orb themselves, I ask no more of time
But this, just this.
[Norman rises; Winifred lets fall her hands, and their eyes encounter in the glass.
[Aloud.]
Oh Heaven, my love,—just this!

[Winifred rises, still gazing at Norman in the mirror. He turns, and faces her.
WINIFRED.
You called,—

NORMAN.
My love!—you answer to the name?

WINIFRED.
Oh, Norman.

NORMAN.
Ah, you answer!

WINIFRED.
[Turning.]
You compel me.

[They join each other. Norman drops on one knee.
NORMAN.
We are not dreaming? No, I hold your hand.
This is the solid earth we stand upon.
Oh, tell me what I dare not ask.

WINIFRED.
I—no!
[Norman springs towards her. She pushes him away.
I have not said the word, I dare not say it!
Pity me, and forget me,—I was mad.

NORMAN.
Not mad love, but I saw your soul unveiled,
And what it told me I can dare repeat.
You love me! But my love is such sheer flame
You cannot bear it, and you seek to hide
Yourself, as seraphs hide who stand wing-folded
Before the face of God.

WINIFRED.
Oh, Norman, help me!
I have undone myself; my life and love
Are not my own. I gave them long ago
As offerings to the living, and,—the dead
And from the dead we cannot take again.
But see how weak I am! I almost told
My love unasked.

NORMAN.
Now tell it at my prayer;
Come, crown me with my name upon your lips.

WINIFRED.
O Norman, could we dare to live a moment,—
Just one before we died to joy for ever!

NORMAN.
They cannot die to joy who live to love.

WINIFRED.
But we must die to love.

NORMAN.
When love is dead.

WINIFRED.
Oh, treacherous Love, that parts us; we have spoken
Words neither can forget.

NORMAN.
They will sustain us
Till our beleaguered souls have got release.
Such utter love as this of mine I think
Could send warm waves throughout the universe,
And thrill with happy life the slumbering germs
Of some unpeopled star. Oh, Winifred,
Say once, but once you love me!

WINIFRED.
Ah, no more!
Do not abuse the strength that makes me weak.
Help me against yourself.

NORMAN.
Alas! our doom
Has parted so our lives, there is no need.
Heaven lies before us, but we dare not enter.
We saw it in a glass, a wonderland,—
And turning found it here; but still the gate
Is guarded,—life's long labour lies without.
Our love flashed forth a moment and might make
Havoc where all was peace, but we will hide it—
Yes, hide it as the jealous earth its jewels;
I will not stir it, touch it with a word;
I'll pluck my eyes out, if their fires should vex you.
One cry broke forth as from another world,—
My love will never dare to speak again;
I am a nameless man—

WINIFRED.
You nameless?

NORMAN.
Yes,—
The name the world has noted is not mine.
The one that fell to me was overlaid
With such base coinage that—well, well, no more;
You would not blush for me—But no, not now;
It is enough that we are doubly parted.
To you I consecrate my life, my youth,
With all its stormy elements, its heat
Of blood and brain; all shall be tame before you;
You shall subdue them to your temperate will,
But do not banish me.

WINIFRED.
No, we will keep
True to ourselves, and all things still shall seem
As heretofore between us; we will meet,
And talk, and part as friends,—unmated helpmates.
But leave me now; I need to find my place
In life again; this gleam has blinded me,
But only for a moment; soon the path
Will show the clearer for it. Go, farewell.
[Norman half raises his arms, then lets them fall.
No, if you love me, leave me to myself;
I lay my first command upon you,—leave me.

[They look silently upon each other. Winifred extends her hand, which Norman takes sub-missively, and they part in silence. Exit Norman.
WINIFRED.
[Alone.]
Dear God, what is the value of the prize
For which I barter life,—my life and his?
A name, which lacking he can yet be nobler
Than kingly titles ever made a man.
A breath, a word from dying lips,—a wish
That may have perished ere the lips that spoke it.
For this I crucify true love,—love dear
As water to the desert wanderer,
Love rightful as the light of day, almost
As needful as the breath of heaven. How changed
My mind and thoughts! a sudden breeze of passion
Has blown upon my stagnant life, and lo!
It drifts from all its moorings. I must find
My purpose and myself. Help me, oh mother!

[Exit Winifred.
MOSTYN.
[Looking in at the door, after a pause.]
She is not here; you need not fear to meet her.
One word,—I hope this will not part true friends.

Re-enter Norman.
NORMAN.
As such, she suffers me; I had not dared
To ask for more; my love broke bounds unbidden.

MOSTYN.
You will forgive her, Drayton?

NORMAN.
Let me go!

MOSTYN.
Her pride-

NORMAN.
I did not ask its sacrifice;
Do not profane her; she is loftier far
Than thought of man could reach her, but by love.
I told her that there stood a bar betwixt us,
On my side, as on hers. Tell her no more;
I told you all long since, as I felt bound;
No need that she should mix me in her thought
With sufferings of the poor she loves so well
And usurpation.

MOSTYN.
She shall know no more.

NORMAN.
I go now.

-Exit Norman.
MOSTYN.
Good-bye, until we meet again.
I leave in half an hour, and have still
Some trifles to arrange.
[Goes to his own secretary, and writes hastily, then rises, whistling, and calling to his dog.
Gelert, old dog,
Where are you? At his post beside the river;
Watching as if for wolves. And Winifred?—
No one to wish me well upon my way.

[Exit Mostyn. Jenny, looking in at another door.
JENNY.
I heard him, Mr. Murdock, Not a second
Agone; he called to Gelert. I'll go and seek him.

Enter Robert Murdock and Carteret.
ROBERT MURDOCK.
[Looking furtively round the room.]
The Fates are with us; see, the coast is clear.
Now for all gifts of cunning,—hand, and eye.
Her writing-table, by the manuscript;
Then this is his, open,—I see, one key
Masters the whole. Soh, here I plant my seed.
[Opening the drawer, and placing the cover of the letter within it.
To Cass and Co., my father's hand, and dated.

CARTERET.
A Devil's crop will follow.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
No, a harvest,
Which I shall reap, and you glean after me.
Our bread will taste the sweeter for our toil.

CARTERET.
You keep the notes.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
I keep the notes to forward,
When this has done my bidding; oh, no fear,
I'll clear the premises when all is finished.
One who respects his craft will hardly fail
To—

[Listening.
CARTERET.
Clean his tools?

ROBERT MURDOCK.
No, I'll not promise that.
But Wynne,—he does not come.

CARTERET.
We're here too long.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
He's making ready for his journey. See,
[Looking at frescoes.
Her portrait; it is Drayton's work; that fellow
Has caught her spirit or been caught of it.
Her beauty—and it is her very own
That frowns upon us in this vast Brunhilda—
Is awful as Medusa; it might slay
A man to look on her, if—

CARTERET.
What?

ROBERT MURDOCK.
No matter.
And yet this woman's perfect soul could melt,
Dissolve in love as wholly as the pearl
That made so rich the drink of Anthony!

CARTERET.
I hear—

[Both listening.
ROBERT MURDOCK.
Not her. It is but for a day
That this will damn him. It's a piece of work
Not meant to last,—a sort of skeleton key
To force her pride, and open me a door.
She'll follow him to Wales, to break the blow
As it descends on him—and all the surer
That she'll be made to think he's lying sick there.

CARTERET.
That's your infernal sketch, your crude design.
I wonder—

ROBERT MURDOCK.
Hah! I wonder, too, how first
This madness seized me. Now I cannot stem it.
It sweeps me onward; steady, I shall steer
My course upon it so I keep but cool.
She shall not find him, and,—she shall find me!

CARTERET.
You'll want your blinkers.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
True, but she'll be shorn
Of half her power, thus seeing herself in mine.
She does not know Festigniog; all that part
Is strange to her. She must believe him there.
I little thought, when taking that old place
Upon the banks of Cynfael, it would serve me
To fish for such a pearl! It's muddy work,
The trawling; but the haul is glorious!
I shall be proud of the exploit,—when ended.
Hush! there's a step! If hers, I cannot face her;
I could not meet her eye with these upon me.
Yes, it's her voice; take them,—she comes this way,—
Take them!

[Trying to force the notes upon Carteret.
CARTERET.
Not I.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
Take them I say; I feel—
A felon.

CARTERET.
Tut! She cannot see through broadcloth.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
The churl! You will not? Then here goes.
[Hastily rolling the notes in a paper that he takes from his pocket, and casting them from the window.
[Aside.]
That brings him
To heel again.

CARTERET.
[Aghast.]
What have you done!

ROBERT MURDOCK.
Just flung
The dirt away to cleanse my hand in case
It touches hers.

CARTERET.
You've flung those notes—where to?

ROBERT MURDOCK.
[Listening.]
Reprieved! Her voice grows less. Into the river!
Ha ha! You'd see me drown a man I think
With less compunction.

CARTERET.
Murdock, you are not safe
To go at large.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
I'm safe to win the lady!
There's many a prince has spent as big a sum
In Roman candles, man, to celebrate
A lesser victory; I've done by water
What others do by fire. You look aghast.

CARTERET.
[Hurrying away.]
I'm off to have the river dragged.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
Waste labour.
I've lodged that money safe as in the bank,
There, in that ivy; there has come no soul
To take or touch it. Hush, here's Mostyn Wynne.
Enter Mostyn.

MOSTYN.
I heard that you were here, but I am off
In,— [Looking at his watch]
just five minutes.

ROBERT MURDOCK.
I looked in to tell you
You'll need to make no haste. Your place is filled,—
And for a week; I've made all straight for you.
I may be following close upon your heels.
Commend me to Miss Wynne; I will not stay.
You have [Looks round the room, and lets his eye dwell for a moment on Mostyn's secretary[
forgotten nothing?

MOSTYN.
Only this.

[Closes the lid of the secretary with a snap.
ROBERT MURDOCK.
[Aside, watching him from the door.]
He locks our hands together. She is mine!