University of Virginia Library

ACT THIRD.

SCENE I.

An open Country.
Caroline, Esther, in mean tattered habits.
Est.
Oh! I am ruin'd!—Hapless, wayworn Esther!
'Tis hard that thou should'st victim fall to love,
Now when so far beyond his arrow's range!

Car.
Be comforted, dear Esther; better days
Await us nigh.—'Tis but a pilgrimage,
A short one, and will end in happiness.

Est.
Ah me! I sorely dread the event, my Caroline!
My race is nearly run, and for myself
I care not; but for thee my heart is sick.
I see nought but mishap and misery
Awaiting on us.—What are we two like?
I've studied all this day for simile,
But none can find so low.—Once on a time
I cross'd the Stanmore waste; the day was cold,
Chill, chill and barren, for the eastern blast
Was hazed with driving hail; a feeble ewe,
Outworn with age and famine, had sunk down
By the way side.—Such look of misery
And hagard want in brute I never look'd on.
A pretty lamb stood hanging over her,
A mute meek innocent, that seem'd to share
In all her sufferings; and I ween'd her looks
Betray'd that half her pains were not her own;
For ever and anon, as we drew nigh,
These looks were rueful turn'd upon her lamb.
She could not rise, for she had sunk to earth
To rise no more; but, lifting her lean limb,
Presented to her starving brood the dug.
Fond it assayed—but vainly—for alas!
No kindly juice remain'd!—With hopeless eye
It turn'd around and patted on its dam,
As urging her to rise.—All unavailing,
It tried to pick the scanty frozen shrubs,
Then crept down in its feeble parent's bosom,
With her to die.

Car.
Did you not rescue them?
Ah, Esther! could you leave the hapless pair
To perish thus?

Est.
Anon there came a hind
Of brown uncourteous mein—he pass'd the dam
With slight regard, but took the yeanling up
Below his plaid, while the old dying thing
Look'd after him with many a tremulous bleat.
“Thou most unfeeling boor!” enraged I cried,
“Can'st thou thus leave the feeble of thy flock,
Ruthless, to perish?” Mildly he replied:
“Alas! dear madam, it is o'er with her,
And I must needs her little orphan save.
Poor beast!—'Twas a good sheep to me and mine;
Not nice of food, but pick'd upon this waste
For many a year, and I will miss her sore.
But she has served her time to us.”—The tear
Stood in the good lad's eye when he said this.

Car.
Prithee give over, Esther. Whether 'tis
My poignant feelings at this time, I wot not,
Or the incitement of your simple tale,
But never did I feel so much disposed
To play the child and cry.

Est.
And well thou may'st—
And well may I—it is our archetype.
Here we are on the waste—the world's wide waste,
Turn'd out to pine with famine and repentance.
Some pitying hind, when we are far from hence,
And sinking under misery, will come,
And, seeing thee so young and beautiful,
And fit for useful life, will take thee up
And shield thee in his bosom; but poor Esther
He'll scarcely deign to look on, but pass by,
Saying the while, in feigned mournful mood,
“Ay, let her lie there—she has served her time.”

Car.
No more, dear Esther.
Know'st thou that I rejoice in this?

Est.
I give you joy on't then,
With all my heart.—But lately you did wish
That you had more to give and more to suffer,
In token of your love to your dear lord;
As to the giving part, 'tis somewhat baulk'd,
For neither of us two can give one mite
To save us from perdition; but no lack
Of suffering presents—You shall have roth
Of that indulgence, I stand warrantise.

Car.
'Tis sweet to suffer ill for those we love.
O it will make me doubly dear to him!
And you shall see the kindness of the knight
You dared to doubt of constancy in love.

Est.
God grant my fears are vain.

Car.
Where shall we go to wait his coming, Esther?
Think'st thou that he will place me in the north,
Where he has lands and towers, that I may be
Nigh him in this approaching northern war?
Or leave me with my retinue at home
At beauteous Castle-Benendine?

Est.
Then list:—First I arrede you haste
From off your sire's domain, for we are watch'd,
And none dare shelter us or give us bread.
Come, Caroline, we must, like other beggars,
Take rest a while—complain—and journey on.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

A Cottage.
Jasper, Kate.
Kate.
Ha, my old Jasper, hast thou heard the news?
The wondrous news?

Jas.
Not that I know of, dame.
But every thing's so wonderful with thee,
I cannot tell whether I have or not.

Kate.
Well, since you're in your taunting, testy moods,
You shall not hear a word on't.

Jas.
Oh, alack!
What a sore pity!—Great misfortune that!

Kate.
Dost mock? Or are you serious, Master Jasper?

Jas.
Mock! I am serious as religion is.

Kate.
Oh, then I'll tell you all—But had you mock'd!—

Jas.
'Tis much the same—'twill out.

Kate.
Come, be good-natured, Jasper, and give up
That quippish way with me.

Jas.
Well, that I will, my good old Kate—As erst
I'll hear this wondrous mighty secret out,
And smile, although it should be a full hour
Before you reach the point, and haply then
I may not mark, or find the secret out;
Yet I will list well pleased, and say, “Indeed?
That is most wondrous!—Ay!—and is it thus?”
I'll do all this.
(Sits down and puts himself all right.)
Now, prithee, Kate, go on.

Kate.
Thou shalt not be so tried—The story's this,
We've changed our master.

Jas.
(Starting up.)
Eh?—What?

Kate.
Is that a trifle?

Jas.
No—Eh? What of it?—say.

Kate.
We've changed our master.
Cecil, our lord, hath forfeited and fallen,
And all the land, farther than I know where,
Is given to that young Moore of Benendine,
And now we hold of him.

Jas.
I'm sorry for't.
A pest upon that Moore, if he hold on
He'll soon possess all England.—Is this truth?

Kate.
Most pointed, upright truth.

Jas.
I'm sorry for it!

Kate.
Why, Cecil was a tyrant.

Jas.
He was.

Kate.
And took our horses and our sons to service
Whene'er he listed.

Jas.
He did.

Kate.
Then why regret that we are freed of him?

Jas.
I like not innovation so express,
Ere men have time to think on't—Nor to see
Old families pull'd down that long have borne
The credit of the land, through good and evil.
I'll not pay doit to Moore.

Kate.
Jasper, you're crazed—Oft have I heard you curse
Cecil, our lord, in bitterness of heart.

Jas.
'Tis false—I ne'er did so—and, if I did,
'Twas very wrong.

Kate.
Besides, remember we're in deep arrears,
Which we can ill repay—this frees us all.

Jas.
No, dame, it does not free us—true it is,
Mid such combustion it will ne'er be claim'd;
But something here tells me I am not free.
Hard though my ancient master was, I'll pay him,
Ay, to the utmost mail-mite.

Enter Cubbin.
Cub.
Ha, feather and muother!
Here's such a tragedy to be transacted!
O, it will be a garland for the maids
An' hundred years ago—when they shall hear
The Reldon tragedy how they will pipe!

Jas.
How now, son Cubbin?—stand, I pray thee, still,
And give us key to this your tragedy.

Cub.
(Pulling them.)
Come, come along, they're just a dying, sir.

Jas.
Who?—Pray, who are dying, boy?

Cub.
The women, sir—the women—come along,
What devil makes you stay?

Jas.
Hold—Stay—What women mean'st thou, boy?

Cub.
Why, the poor dying women—sure, I told you.

Jas.
Not that I mark'd.

Cub.
I found them starving—one is the most lovely,
The other the most queer of all the seck.
She scarce had voice remaining when I went;
I look'd at her, and thought her gone indeed.
Poor wife, said I—and I was weeping too—
I fear thy glass is run—'tis o'er with thee!
But 'tis less matter, thou hast served thy time!
I must take care of thee, thou pretty young thing.
And, when I said so, the old creature laugh'd.

Jas.
Laugh'd!—Did she laugh?

Cub.
She laugh'd outright.
And though 'twas like the cackle in the dawn
Of starving hen that hatches in the wood,
Yet still she laugh'd. (Mimicking.)
I told you so, cried she.
Did I not tell you so, love Caroline?
And then she held her sides, and laugh'd, and cried.
Come, feather, muother, have you christian souls,
That you'll not run to save the dead?—

(Exit, pulling them.)

SCENE III.

A Grove.
Enter Faucet.
Fau.
I've scaled a dubious venture, and yet won,
Turning the beam by throwing in mere sound,
By some unform'd, unsubstanced things call'd words,
Born of the passing air—Ay, but the air
That woos the heart and tongue of policy
Issues with matter in't, and sets the world
In bustle or in flame.
Enter Collier.
How does our general, brave Sir Anthony?
Does he hold calm—or is his mind unfix'd,
No more to square?

Col.
Heaven knows, Sir Barnard!
My heart misgives me grievously in this;
To see a noble mind so overpower'd
By machinations of such vile proportion
With honest truth.—Now he is reasonable—
Anon the current of his mind recedes
Back on a gloomy vale, and stagnates there.
Hard then the task to drain it to its channel,
In which it flows still with uncertainty.

Fau.
But is his hate and indignation fix'd?
For that's our first concern.

Col.
He shudders at the very name of Caroline,
And all that tends to Cecil.

Fau.
That's well, that's well—On that continued hate,
And that alone, rests our stabiliment.
All passions else must to our purpose yield.
And to secure our point beyond control,
He needs must wed another, and that shortly—
Ay, and more publicly than he did Caroline.

Col.
Ah! grief!—Where will this end?—Would I had had
No hand in it—farther I will not have.

Fau.
One single glance will shew thee how decisive
This stroke must be—Come, we will jointly go
And break the matter to him.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE IV.

Before a Cottage.
Jasper, Kate, Cubbin.
Jas.
I tell thee, wife, no more—pray let them go.
Can we afford to keep two idle vagrants,
Who have nought wherewithal to recompence?
We scarce can help ourselves.

Kate.
But they are distress'd,
And kind, and good—pray, my good Jasper, shield them,
Though but a little while—heaven will reward it.

Jas.
I fear they are not better than behoves.
We know them not—But you're so newfangled!
Yes, all your sex are so—Well, keep them, Kate.
If I aught know of you, you shall the first
Urge their dismissal—Prithee, keep them, Kate,
Long as you will, you have my free consent.

Kate.
That's my kind husband—Now let's visit them.

SCENE V.

Inside of the Cottage.
Caroline—Esther, looking at a letter.
Est.
The letter's very well—just as it should be.
This sets his love and honour in true light.
Seal it, and I will send it by the youth
As from myself.

Enter Jasper, Kate, Cubbin.
Jas.
Give you good morning, folk—
Are you restored and well?

Car.
Refresh'd and well, thanks to your generous hearts,
And might I farther on your goodness tread,
I would beseech short sanctuary here,
Till rescued from this plight.

Kate.
Pray, Jasper, welcome them.

Jas.
I leave that office to yourself, good Kate;
They are your guests, I do not like them much.

Kate.
Good folk, my husband says you are most welcome
To make this house your own and all that's in it,
While your convenience suits.

Jas.
I never said such word—you're mad, old wife!
Oh! you slim women folk!—ye're all so newfangled!

Car.
Know'st thou, good Cubbin, where the army lies?

Cub.
Yes.

Est.
Is't far from hence?

Cub.
No.

Est.
And is the general with it?

Cub.
Yes.

Est.
Wilt thou go ere he moves into the north,
And give this letter to him?

Cub.
Yes.

Est.
And he will well requite you for your trouble.

Car.
Yes, he will pay you well—O you will be
A welcome messenger to him.

Jas.
(Aside.)
Wife, is it thus?
Does our new noble lord consort with beggars?
I do not like them, Kate!

Kate.
Some great ones, husband—
Some great folks in disguise—Ah, you've a head!

Jas.
I do not like them—see how beautiful
That young one is.

Kate.
And what harm can her beauty do to you?

Jas.
But, Cubbin, you know—may— (Nods.)
Eh?

Kate.
Go! ye're a weak old man!

Est.
Now, have you noted these directions, Cubbin?

Cub.
Yes. (Going out, returns.)
But are you sure there is not small mistake?
Is it the general, Sir Anthony,
To whom you send me?

Est.
The same—Have I not told you?

Cub.
(Aside.)
This is beyond me!—My capacity
Cannot about it!—Mother, do you ween
She's quite well hereabouts?

Jas.
Peace, boy, and go thy message.

Cub.
Yes.

(Exeunt Cubbin, Jasper, and Kate.)
Car.
O, Esther, I am sick till his return!
Would it were over, for I dread my heart
Can scarcely bear such burst of tenderness,
And kind endearment.—If you loved as I do,
Then would you feel how the rapt soul is thrill'd,
And all the sensous filaments of mind
Steep'd in delirious agony, the while
We anxious wait the long-wish'd lingering moment
That gives us to the arms we love for ever.
Our day is now o'ercast with lowering clouds;
But when the sun breaks through the darksome folds,
O it will be more sweet!

SCENE VI.

A Grove.
Enter Moore.
Moore.
It is not true.—My mind does not get mazed
Whene'er I talk of women.—I can talk,
And think, and reason, well as heretofore,
And more to th'point, which now I state for trial,
And will maintain it—Female Purity!—
No—the position's false.—Men are flagitious,
And every libertine lets go the rein,
Arms him with lures and guilt insatiate,
And spurs the steed to havock.—Down amain
What numbers mark his course!—
Make then the estimate, and where remains
The sacred spot where female purity
Grows uncontaminate?—O misery!
Is this most fair and goodly heritage,—
This garden which the hand of God hath planted
With flowers of life, one half of them so lovely
That but for them beauty had never been,
Nor term to know it by,—Oh, are they all
What I now deem them!—There was one that bloom'd
So pure, that on its opening breast I ween'd
I saw the dyes of heaven; that I watch'd,
And, ere full blown, with tenderest guidance cropp'd
And took it for my all.—But then I loved it!—
O God! how I did love it!
But in its folding buds I found enclosed—
Ay I found that, will blur the world's fair face,
And turn it to a hell to me for ever!

Enter Collier.
Col.
Give up these toilsome thoughts, my lord, for they
But madden and distract you.

Moore.
'Tis false; I am not mad whene'er I talk
Of women and their ways. I love the sex
Well as I ought—I'll wed the Lady Ellen
Whene'er you list, because I love the sex
Just as I ought.—But O, that purple flower
That grew upon the wall, the eastern tower—
Did you not say it was the eastern turret?
Ah, that can never be replaced again!
The wounded stem will never heal, but bleed,
And bleed, and bleed! and then the brain will burn!
Should I not therefore love her?—I but said,
That in her mould there was a flame would spread
And scorch the soul to films, or to a vapour.
But that's no cause I should not love her, Collier;
For when the thunder breaks, thou wot'st—

Col.
What then, my lord?

Moore.
Why then, 'tis Heaven that thunders;
For I have seen't myself work such deray,
And pour forth liquid fire to sear and waste;
And should we not love Heaven?—Oh fie!—Go to!
Thy reasons will not hold.

Col.
(Aside.)
Wretch that I am,
Thus to connive in grossest calumny,
And see two precious minds uprooted quite,
And their possessors doom'd to misery.
I'll give the truth to light, for I set not
My life or my possessions at a pin
In such heart-breaking case.—Cheer thee, my lord,
For the foul tale thou heard'st of Caroline
Is false as hell.—

Moore.
Hush! thou know'st nought of hell.
If thou had'st stood thus on its brink as I do,
A thousand, thousand years, breathing thin flame—
The tale's equivocal, and fits thee not.

(During the following speech Moore listens with eager and unstable attention.)
Col.
My lord, give heed to what I say to thee:
It thee befits thy broken heart to heal;
Dispel that gloom and be thyself again;
For all the shameful charges thou hast heard
Against thy blooming bride, fair Caroline,
Are framed and impious lies.—I do not ween
That in the list of living dames there is
One so unstain'd and pure as Caroline Cecil.

Enter Faucet behind, who hears part of the speech.
Fau.
(Aside to Collier.)
Thou baby-hearted fool! what hast thou said?

Col.
I'll say more yet, Sir Barnard.

Fau.
My lord, the fiery Douglas is advancing,
Before him terror spreads with withering breath,
And ruin sleeps behind—we must begone.

Moore.
Douglas advancing?—It is well remember'd.
To-morrow Pembroke warriors will arrive,
Then forthwith hie we to the north to meet
That restless Douglas.—Ha?—What said'st thou, Collier?

Fau.
(Aside to Collier.)
If not for thy own sake, for mine refrain.

Moore.
What did you say, Sir Richard?

Col.
Nought, my good lord.

Moore.
Then what said I?—For something sure was said,
Or was to say, I would not for an empire
That I had lost.

Fau.
We talk'd of Douglas, captain,
And of the havock that his army makes
Among our friends and countrymen.

Moore.
Douglas?—'tis true—No, this was not of Douglas.
Can none of you remind me what we talk'd of?
Was it not of a blossom'd stem?—A wall-flower?
Or something that took flame?—I have it here,
Yet it lies folded in my soul so deep
That memory cannot reach it.—Ah, is it gone?
Then I would travel to the utmost verge
Of the green world to regain that thought,
Or word, or tale, or whatsoe'er it was.

Fau.
My lord, these thoughts that in a moment fly
Leave shadow of importance on the mind,
And set it hunting after them intense;
But if by chance, or by associate word,
The anxiously regretted thing is caught,
It is so trivial we're ashamed to own it,
Or give it utterance—pray let it pass,
The search is unavailing.

Moore.
Well, well, 'tis lost—I would it were not so.
But it is lost, and haply it avails not.
I'm somewhat feverish—let us mount our steeds
And view our warriors' rendezvous—lead on.

(Exeunt.)