The Hunchback by James Sheridan Knowles — Free Audiobook

1 01 - ACT I 34:05

Dramatis Personae. Julia. Read by Kelly Taylor. Helen. Read by Wendy Katzhiller. Master Walter. Read by Wayne Cook. Sir Thomas Clifford. Read by Andrew Latheron. Master Wilford, later Earl of Rochdale, read by Alan Mapstone. Lord Tinsel, read by Todd. Modus, read by Andrew James. Fathom, read by Adrian Stevens. Master Hartwell, read by Jim Hedrick. Gaylove, read by Kat. Holdwell, read by Lurie Wilson. Simpson, read by Greg Giordano. Thomas, read by Larry Wilson. Stephen, read by Greg Giordano. First Attendant, read by Michelle Eaton. Second Female Attendant, read by Hannah Dormer. Williams, read by Greg Giordano. Waiter, read by Rebecca Brown. Servant, read by Jake Milizia. Stage Directions, read by Joanna Michael Hoyt.

Act One. Scene I. A tavern. On one side, Sir Thomas Clifford, at a table, with wine before him. On the other, Master Wilford, Gaylove, Holdwell, and Simpson, likewise taking wine. Your wine, sirs, your wine. You do not justice to mine host of the Three Tons, nor credit to yourselves. I swear the beverage is good. It is as palatable poison as you will purchase within a mile round Ludgate. Drink, gentlemen, make free. You know I am a man of expectations, and hold my money as light as the purse in which I carry it. We drink, Master Wilford. Not a man of us has been chased as yet. But you fill not fairly, sirs. Look at my measure. Where for a large glass, if not for a large draught? Fill, I pray you, else let us drink out of thimbles.

This will never do for the friends of the nearest kin to the wealthiest peer in Britain. We give you joy, Master Wilford, of the prospect of advancement which has so unexpectedly opened to you. Unexpectedly indeed. But yesterday arrived the news that the earl's only son and heir had died. And to-day has the earl himself been seized with a mortal illness. His dissolution is looked for hourly. And I, his cousin in only the third degree, known to him but to be unnoticed by him, a decayed gentleman's son, glad of the title and revenues of a scrivener's clerk, I am the undoubted successor to his estates and coronet. Have you been sent for? No, but I have certified to his agent, Master Walter, the Hunchback, my existence and peculiar propinquity, and momentarily expect him here.

Lives there anyone that may dispute your claim? I mean... Vexatiously. Not a man, Master Gaylove. I am the sole remaining branch of the family tree. Doubtless you look for much happiness from this change of fortune. A world. Three things have I any special passion for. The finest hound, the finest horse. And the finest wife in the kingdom, Master Gaylove. The finest wife? Yes, sir, I marry. Once the earldom comes into my line, I shall take measures to perpetuate its remaining there. I marry, sir. I do not say I shall love. My heart has changed mistresses too often to settle down in one servitude now, sir. But, Phil, I pray you friends, this, if I mistake not, is the day whence I shall date my new fortunes.

And for that reason, hither have I invited you, that, having been so long my boon companions, you shall be the first to congratulate me. Enter Waiter. You are wanted, Master Wilford. By whom? One Master Walter. His Lordship's agent. News, sirs. Show him in. Waiter goes out. My heart's a prophet, says the Earl is dead. Enter Master Walter. Well, Master Walter, how accost you me? As your impatience shows me you would have me, my lord, the Earl of Rochdale. Give you joy! All happiness, my lord. Long life and health unto your lordship. Come, we'll drink to his lordship's health. Two o'clock? We'll eat in crowds till midnight. Health, my lord! My lord, much joy to you. All good to your lordship. Give something to the dead.

Give what? Respect. He has made the living. First to him that's gone, say peace, and then with decency to revels. What means the knave by revels? Knave? Aye. Knave. Go to, thou art flushed with wine. Thou sayest false. Though didst thou need a proof thou speakest true, I'd give thee one. Thou seest but one lord here, and I see two. Reflectest thou my shape? Thou art a villain. Gay love, starting up. Ha! A coward too, draw. Drawing his sword. Only mark him, how he struts about. How laughs his straight sword at his noble back? Does it? It cuffs thee for a lyre, then. Strikes Galov with his sword. A blow! Another, lest you doubt the first. His blood on his own head. I'm for you, sir. Draws. Hold, sir.

This quarrel's mine. Coming forward and drawing. No man shall fight for me, sir. By your leave. Your patience, pray. My lord, for so I learn behoose me to accost you. For your own sake, draw off your friend. Not till we have a bout, sir. My lord, your happy fortune ill you greet. Ill greet it those who love you, greeting thus the herald of it. Sir, what's that to you? Let go my sleeve. My lord, if blood be shed on the fair dawn of your prosperity, look not to see the brightness of its day. T'will be all cast throughout. My lord, I'm struck. You gave the first blow, and the hardest one. Look, sir. If swords you need must measure, I'm your mate, not he. I mate for any man. Draw off your friend, my lord, for your own sake.

Come, Gaylove. Let's have another room. With all my heart, since tis your lordship's will. That's right. Put up. Come, friends. Wilford and friends go out. I'll follow him. Why do you hold me? Tis not courteous of you. Thinkest thou I fear them? Fear? I rate them but a dust. Drows, offals, let me at them. Nay, call you this kind? Then kindness know I not, nor do I thank you for it. Let go, I say. Nay, Master Walter, they're not worth your wrath. How know you me for Master Walter? But my hunchback, eh? My stilts of legs and arms, the fashion more of apes than man's. Aha! So you have heard them too. There savage jives as I pass on. There goes my lord, aha. God made me serve as well as them and you.

S'death, I demand of you, unhand me, sir. There, sir. You're free to follow them. Go forth, and I'll go too. So on your willfulness shall fall whate'er of evil may ensue. Is't fit you waste your collar on a burr? The nothings of this town, whose sport it is to break their villain jests on worthy men, the graver still the fitter. Fie for shame! Regard what such would say! So would not I, no more than he'd occur. You're right, sir, right, for twenty crowns. So there's my rapier up. You've done me a good turn against my will, which, like a wavered child whose pet is off, that made him restive under a wholesome check. I now write humbly own, and thank you for. No thanks, good Master Walter. O you me.

I'm glad to know you, sir. I pray you now. How did you learn my name? Guest I not right? Was not my comely hunch that taught it you? I own it. Right, I know it. You tell truth. I like you for it. But when I heard it said that Master Walter was a worthy man, whose word would pass on, change soon as his bond, A liberal man for schemes of public good, that sets down tens where others' units write. A charitable man, the good he does, that's told of, not the half. I never more could see the hunch on Master Walter's back. You would not flatter a poor citizen? Indeed, I flatter not. I like your face. A frank and honest one, your frame's well knit, proportioned, shaped. Good sir! Your name is Clifford, Sir Thomas Clifford.

You're not here direct to the fair berency. He that was was drowned abroad. Am I not right? Your cousin, twas not. So succeeded you to rank in wealth your birth ne'er promised you. I see you know my history. I do. You're lucky, who can join the benefits of penury and abundance. For I know your father was a man of slender means. You do not blush, I see. That's right. Why should you? What merit to be dropped on Fortune's Hill? The honor is to mount it. You have done it, for you were trained to knowledge, industry, frugality, and honesty. The sinews that shouldest help the climber to the top, and keep him there. I have a clerk, Sir Thomas, once served your father. There's the riddle for you. Humph!

I may thank you for my life to-day. I pray you say not so. But I will say so, because I think so, know so. Feel so, sir. Your fortune, I have heard, I think, is ample, and doubtless you live up to it. Twas my rule, and is so still, to keep my outlay, sir, a span within my means. A prudent rule. The turf is a seductive pastime. Yes. You keep a racing stud? You bet? No, neither. Twas still my father's precept. Better owe a yard of land to labour, than to chance be a debtor for a rood. Twas a wise precept. You are fair house. You'll get a mistress for it? In time. In time. Tis time thy choice were made. It's not so yet? Or is thy lady-love the newest still thou seest? Nay, not so. I'd marry, Master Walter.

But old use, for since the age of thirteen I have lived in this world has made me jealous of the thing that flattered me with hope of profit. Bargains another would snap up might be for me till I had turned and turned them. Speculations that promised twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. I sent percent returns. I would not launch in when others were at float and out at sea, whereby I made small gains, but missed great losses. As ever then, I looked before I leaped. So do I now. Thou art all the better for it. Let's see. Hand free. Heart held. Well favored. So. Rich titled. Let that pass. Kind, valiant, prudent. Sir Thomas, I can help thee to a wife. Hast thou the luck to win her? Master Walter, you jest.

I do not jest. I like you, Mark. I like you, and I like not everyone. I say, a wife, sir. Can I help you too? The pearly texture of whose dainty skin alone were worth thy berency. Form and features has she. Wherein move and glow the charms that in the marble, cold and still, culled by the sculptor's jealous skill, and joined there, inspired us. Sir, a maid before whose feet a duke, a duke, might lay his coronet to lift her to his state and partner. A fresh heart, too, a young fresh heart, sir, one that Cupid has not toyed with, and a warm one. Fresh, young, and warm. Mark that. A mind to boot. Wit, sir. Sense, taste. A garden strictly tended, where naught but what is costly flourishes. A consort for a king, sir.

Thou shalt see her. I thank you, Master Walter. As you speak, methinks I see the altar foot. Her hand fast locked in mine, the ring put on. My wedding-bell rings merry in my ear, and round me throng glad tongues that give me joy to be the bridegroom of so fair a bride. What sparks so thick will have a blaze anon? Servant entering. The chariot's at the door. It waits in time. Sir Thomas, it shall bear thee to the bower where dwells this fair, for she is no city-bell but e'en a sylvan goddess. Have with you. You'll bless the day you served the hunchback, sir. They go out. Scene Two. A garden before a country house. Enter Julia and Helen. I like it not, Julia. This your country life? I'm weary on it.

Indeed. So am not I. I know no other would no other know. You would no other know? Would you not know another relative? Another friend? Another house, another anything, because the ones you have already please you? That's poor content. Would you not be more rich, more wise, more fair? The song that last you learned you fancy well, and therefore shall you learn no other song? Your virginal, tis true, hath a sweet tone, but does it follow thence you shall not have another virginal? You may, love. And a sweeter one. And so a sweeter life may find than this you lead. I seek it not. Helen, I'm Constancy. So is a cat, a dog, a silly hen, an owl, a bat, where they are wont to lodge that still sojourn, nor care to shift their quarters.

Thou art Constancy. I am glad I know thy name. The spider comes of the same family, that in his meshy fortress spends his life, unless you pull it down and scare him from it. And so thou art constancy, art proud of that. I'll warrant thee, I'll match thee with a snail from year to year that never leaves his house. Such constancy forsooth, a constant grub that houses ever in the selfsame nut where he was born, till hunger drives him out, or plunder breaketh through his castle wall. And so, in very deed, thou'rt constancy. Helen, you know the adage of the tree. I tain the bind. This rural life of mine, enjoined me by an unknown father's will, I've led from infancy. Debarred from hope of change, I'm ne'er sighed for change.

The town to me was like the moon, for any thought e'en should I visit it, nor was I schooled to think it half so fair. Not half so fair. The town's the sun, and thou hast dwelt in night. Ere since thy birth not to have seen the town, their women there are queens, and kings their men, their houses, palaces. And what of that? Have your town-palaces a hall like this, couches so fragrant, walls so high-adorned, casements with such festoons, such prospects, Helen, as these fair vistas have? Your kings and queens, see me a may-day queen, and talk of them. Extremes are ever neighbors. Tis a step from one to the other. Were thy constancy a reasonable thing, a little less of constancy, a woman's constancy, I should not wonder wert thou ten years hence the maid I know thee now.

But, as it is, the odds are ten to one. That this day year we'll see our May Day Queen, a city one. Never! I'm wedded to a country life. Oh, did you hear what Master Walter says? Nine times in ten, the town's a hollow thing, where what things are is naught to what they show. Where merits name, laughs merits self to scorn, where friendship and esteem that ought to be the tenants of men's hearts lodge in their looks and tongues alone, where little virtue with a costly keeper passes for a heap, a heap for none that has a homely one, where fashion makes the law, your umpire which you bow to, whether it has brains or not. Where folly taketh off his cap and bells, to clap on wisdom, which must bear the jest.

Where to pass current you must seem the thing, the passive thing, that others think, and not your simple, honest, independent self. Ay, so says Master Walter. See I not? What can you find in Master Walter, Julia, to be so fond of him? He's fond of me. I've known him since I was a child, e'en then, the week I thought a weary heavy one that brought not Master Walter. I had those about me then that made a fool of me, as children oft are fooled, but more I loved good Master Walter's lesson than the play with which they'd surfeit me. As I grew up, More frequent Master Walter came, and more I loved to see him. I had tutors then, men of great skill and learning, but not one that taught like Master Walter.

What they'd show me, and I, dull as I was, but doubtful saw, a word from Master Walter made as clear as daylight. When my schooling days were o'er, That's now a good three years past. Three years, I vow. I'm twenty, Helen. Well, as I was saying, when I was done with school, and all were gone, still Master Walter came, and still he comes, summer or winter, frost or rain. I've seen the snow upon a level with the hedge, and yet there was Master Walter. Who comes here? A carriage, and a gay one. Who alights? Pshaw! Only Master Walter. What see you which thus repairs the arch of the fair brow a frown was like to spoil? A gentleman! One of our town kings, Mark! How say you now? Wouldst be a town queen, Julia?

Which of us, I wonder, comes he for? For neither of us, he's Master Walter's clerk most like. Most like. Mark him as he comes up the avenue. So looks a clerk. A clerk has such a gait. So does a clerk dress, Julia. Mind his hoes. They're very like a clerk's. A diamond loop and button note you for his clerkship's hat. Oh, certainly a clerk. A velvet cloak. Jerkin of silk, and doublet of the same. For all the world, a clerk. See, Julia, see, how master Walter bows and yields him place that he may first go in. A very clerk. I'll learn of thee, love, when I'd know a clerk. I wonder who he is. Wouldst like to know. Wouldst for a fancy ride to town with him. I prophesy he comes to take thee thither.

He ne'er takes me to town. No, Helen, no. To town who will. A country life for me. We'll see. Enter Fathom. You're wanted, madam. Julia embarrassed. Which of us? You, madam. Julia, what's the matter? Nay, mount not the rose so soon. He must not see it a month hence. "'Tis love's flower, which once she wears, the maid is all his own." Go to. Be sure he comes to woo thee. He will bear thee hence. He'll make thee change the country for the town. I'm Constancy. Name he the town to me. I'll tell him what I think on it. Then you guess he comes a-wooing? I guess not. You do. At your grave words, your lips more honest smile. And show them to be traitors. Hie to him. Hie thee to soberness. Goes out. Ay, will I, when thy bridesmaid I shall hie to church with thee.

Well, fathom, who is come? I know not. What? Didst thou not hear his name? I did. What is it? I noted not. What hast thou ears for, then? What good were it for me to mind his name? I do but what I must do. To do that is labor quite enough. Master Walter, without. What fathom? Here. Master Walter, entering. Here, sir, wherefore didst not come to me? You did not bid me come. I called thee? Yes, and I said here, and waited then to know your worship's will with me. We go to town, the mistress, thou, and all the house. Well, sir? Makest thou not ready then to go to town? Hence, knave, dispatch. Fathom goes out. Go we to town? We do. Fis now her father's will she sees the town. I'm glad on it. Goes she to her father?

No, at the desire of thine, she for a term shows roof with thee. I'm very glad on it. What? You like her, then? I thought you would. Tis time she sees the town. It has been time for that, these six years. By thy wisdoms count. No doubt you've told her what a precious place it is. I have. I even guessed as much, for that I told thee of her, brought thee here to see her, and prayed thee to sojourn a space with her, that its fair space from thy too fair report might strike a novice less, so less deceive her. I did not put thee under check. Twas right, else had I broken loose and run the wilder. So knows she not her father yet. That's strange. I prithee, how does mine? Well, very well. News for thee.

What? Thy cousin is in town. My cousin Modus. Much do I suspect that cousins ne'er to thy heart than blood. Pshaw! Wed me to a musty library. Love him who nothing loves but Greek and Latin. But Master Walter. You forget the main surpassing point of all. Who's come with you? Aye, that's the question. Is he soldier or civilian? Lord or gentleman? He's rich, if that's his chariot. Where is his estate? What brings it in? Six thousand pounds a year? Twelve thousand, maybe. Is he bachelor or husband? Bachelor, I'm sure he is. Comes he not hither wooing Master Walter? Nay, prithee, answer me. Who says thy sex are curious? That their patient I'd be sworn, and reasonable, very reasonable. It took for twenty answers in a breath.

Come, thou shalt be enlightened. But propound thy questions one by one. Thou art far too apt a scholar. My ability to teach will ne'er keep pace, I fear, with thine to learn. They go out. Scene 3. An apartment in the house. and her Julia, followed by Clifford. No more! I pray you, sir, no more! I love you. You mock me, sir. Then there is no such thing on earth as reverence, honor, Filial, the fear of kings, the The awe of Supreme Heaven itself are only shows and sounds that stand for nothing. I love you. You have known me scarce a minute. Say but a moment. Still say I love you. Love's not a flower that grows on the dull earth. Springs by the calendar must wait for the sun, for rain. Matures by parts must take its time to stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow.

It owns a richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed. You look for it, and see it not, when lo, e'en while you look, the peerless flower is up, consummate in the birth. Is it fear I feel? Why else should beat my heart? It can't be fear. Something needs I must say. You're from the town. How comes it, sir, you seek a country wife? Me thinks t'will tax his wit to answer that. In joining contrasts, Lethe loves delight, complexion, stature, nature, mateth it, not with their kinds, but with their opposites. Hence hands of snow in palms of russet lie. The forms of Hercules affects the sylphs. And breasts that case that lion's fear-proof heart, find their meat-lodge in arms where tremors dwell. Haply for this, on Afric's swarthy neck hath Europe's pricely pearl been seen to hang, that makes the Orient poor.

So with degrees rank passes the circlet-graced brow upon the forehead bare of notelessness to print the nuptial kiss. As with degrees, so is't with habits. Therefore I Indeed, a gallant of the town, the town for sake, to win a country wife. His prompt reply my backward-challenge shames. Must I give war? I'll try his wit again. Who marries me must lead a country life. The life I'd lead, but fools would fly from it, for oh, tis sweet to find the heart out, be their want to find. And corners in it, where store of pleasures lodge, we never dreamed were there. Is it to dwell mid smiles that are not neighbors to deceit? Music whose melody is of the heart, and gifts that are not made for interest, abundantly bestowed by nature's cheek, and voice and hand.

It is to live on life, and husband it. It is to constant scan the handiwork of heaven. It is to constant scan its mercy, bounty, wisdom, power. It is to nearer see our God. How like he talks to Master Walter. Shall I give it o'er? Not yet.

Thou wouldst not live one half a year. A quarter, mightst thou, for the novelty of fields and trees. But then it needs must be in summer time, when they go dressed. Not yet. In any time. Say winter. Fields and trees have charms for me in very wintertime. But snow may clothe them then. I like them full as well in snow. You do. I do. But night will hide both snow and them, and that sets in ere afternoon is out. A heavy thing, a country fireside in a winter's night, to one bred in the town, where winter said... For the sun of gaiety and sportiveness, to beggar shining summer. I should like a country winter's night especially. You'd sleep by the fire. Not I. I'd talk to thee. You'd tire of that. I'd read to thee.

And that. I'd talk to thee again. And sooner tire than first you did, and fall asleep at last. You'd never do to lead a country life. You deal too harshly with me, matchless maid. As loved instructor Brighton's dullest wit, fear not to undertake the charge of me. A willing pupil kneels to thee, and lays his title and his fortune at your feet. His title and his fortune? And her master Walter and Helen. Julia, disconcerted, retires with the latter. Clifford rises. So, Sarah Thomas, aha, you husband of time. Well was I right? Is not the jewel that I told you it was? Wouldst thou not give thine eyes to wear it, eh? It has an owner, though. Nay, start not, one that may be bought to part with it. And with whom I'll stand thy friend.

I will, I say, I will. A strange man, sir, and unaccountable. But I can humor him. We'll humor him for thy sake, good Sir Thomas, for I like thee. Well, is it a bargain? Come, thy hand upon it. A word or two with thee. They retire. Julia and Helen come forward. Go up to town! Have I not said it ten times o'er to thee? But if thou likest it not, protest against it. Not if tis Master Walter's will. Thou wouldst not break thy heart for Master Walter. That follows not. What follows not? That I should break my heart, because we go to town. Indeed. Oh, that's another matter. Well, I'd even advise thee, then, to do his will, and ever after, when I prophesy, believe me, Julia. They retire. Master Walter comes forward.

Enter Fathom. So please you, sir, a letter, a post-haste letter. The bearer on horseback, the arse in a foam, smoking like a baller at the eat. Be sure, a post-haste letter. Look to the horse and rider. What's this? A testament addressed to me, found in his lordship's escortoir, and thence directed to be taken by no hand of it mine. My presence instantly required? Sir Thomas, Julia, and Helen come forward. Come, my mistresses. You dine in town to-day. Your father's will, it is, my Julia, that you see the world. And thou shalt see it in its best attire, its gayest looks, its richest finery, it shall put on for thee, that thou mayest judge betwixt it, and this rural life you've lived. Business of moment I am but thus advised of, touching the will of my late noble master, the Earl of Roschdale, recently deceased, commands me for a time to leave thee there.

Sir Thomas, hand her to the chariot. Nay, I tell thee true. We go, indeed, to town. They go out.

2 02 - ACT II 22:46

An apartment in Master Hartwell's house. Enter Fathom and Thomas. Fathom Well, Fathom is thy mistress up. She is, Master Thomas, unbreakfasted. She stands at twelve. "'Twas five," you say, when she came home, and wants it now three-quarters of an hour of ten. Wait till her stock of country health is out. "'Twill come to that, Master Thomas, before she lives another month in town. Three, four, five, six o'clock are now the hours she keeps. "'Twas otherwise with her in the country. There my mistress used to rise what time she now lies down." Why, yes. She's changed since she came hither. Changed, do you say, Master Thomas? Changed forsooth. I know not the thing in which she is not changed, serving that she is still a woman.

I tell thee, there is no keeping pace with her moods. In the country she had none of them. When I brought what was asked for, it was, thank you, Fathom, and no more to do. But now nothing contents her. Hark ye, were you a gentleman, Master Thomas? For then you know you would be a different kind of man. How many times would you have your coat altered? Why, Master Fathom, as many times as it would take to make it fit me. Good. But supposing it fitted thee at first— Then would I have it altered not at all? Good. Thou wouldst be a reasonable gentleman. Thou wouldst have a conscience. Now hark to a tale about my lady's last gown. How many times, think you, took I it back to the semestress? Thrice may be.

Thrice may be. Twenty times may be. Not a turn too many for the truth on't. Twenty times on the oath of the semstress. Now, mark me. Can you count? After a fashion. You have much to be thankful for, Master Thomas. You London-serving men have a world of things which we in the country never dream of. Now, mark. Four times took I it back for the flounce. Twice for the slaves, three for the tooker. How many times in all is that? Eight times to a fraction, Master Fathom. What a master of figures you are! Eight times? Now, recollect that. And then she found fault with the trimmings. Now tell me, how many times took I back the gown for the trimmings? Eight times more, perhaps. Ten times to a certainty.

Now, how many times makes that? Eighteen, Master Fathom, by the rule of addition. And how many times more will make twenty? Twice by the same rule. Thou hast worked with thy pencil and slate, Master Thomas. Well, ten times, as I said, took I back the gown for the trimmings, and was she content after all? I warrant you no, my ears did not pay for it. She wished, she said, that the slattened samstress had not touched the gown, for naught she had done but botched it. Now, what think ye had the sempstress done to the gown? To surmise that, I must be learned in the sempstress's art. The sempstress's art! Thou hast hit it! Oh, the sweet sempstress, the excellent sempstress, mistress of her scissors and needles, which are pointless and edgeless to her art!

The sempstress had done nothing to the gown, yet. Raves and storms my mistress at her for having botched it in the making and mending, and orders her straight to make another one, which home the sempstress brings on Tuesday last. And found thy fair mistress as many faults with that? Not one. She finds it a very pattern of a gown, a well-sitting flounce, the sleeves a-fit, the tucker a-fit, the trimmings her fancy to a tee. And she praised the semstress. And she smiles at me, and I smile.

And the semstress smiles.

Now, why did the semstress smile? That she had succeeded so well in her art. Thou hast hit it again. The jade must have been born a semstress. If ever I marry, she shall work for my wife. The gown was the same gown, and there was my mistress's twentieth mood. What to think you will Master Walter say when he comes back? I fear he'll hardly know his country maid again. Has she yet fixed her wedding day? She has, Master Thomas. I coaxed it from her maid. She marries Monday week. Comes not Master Walter back today? Your master expects him. A ringing. Perhaps that's he. I prithee go and open the door. Do, Master Thomas, do, for proves it my master. He'll surely question me. And what should I do? Answer him, Master Thomas, and make him none the wiser.

He'll go mad when he learns how my lady flaunts it. Go, open the door, I prithee. Fifty things, Master Thomas, know you, for one thing that I know. You could turn and twist a matter into any other kind of matter, and then twist and turn it back again if needs be. So much you servants of the town beat us of the country, Master Thomas. Open the door now. Do, Master Thomas, do. They go out. Scene Two. A garden with two arbors. Enter Master Hartwell and Master Walter meeting. Good, Master Walter. Welcome back again. I'm glad to see you, Master Hartwell. How, I pray you, sped the mighty business which so sudden called you hence? Wait, indeed, what thou wouldst ne'er expect, wilt scarce believe. Long hidden wrong wondrously come to light, and great right done.

But more of this anon, now of my ward discourse. Like she the town? How does she? Is she well? Canst match me her among your city maids? Nor caught ones neither. She far outstrips them all. I knew she would. What else could follow in a maid so bred? A pure mind, Master Hartwell, not a taint from intercourse with the distempered town, with which all contact was walled out until, matured in soundness, I could trust her to it, and sleep amidst infection. Master Walter! Well? Tell me, prithee, which is likelier, to plough a sea in safety? He that's wont to sail in it? Or he that by the chart is the master of its surroundings, bearings, knows its headlands, havens, currents, where tis bold, and where behooves to keep a good lookout, the one will swim.

Where sinks the other one? The drift of this? Do you not guess it? If you would train a maid to live in town, breed her not in the country. Say you so, and stand she not the test? As snow stands fire, your country maid has melted all away and plays the city lady to the height. Her mornings gives to mercers, millners, shoemakers, jewelers, and haberdashers. Her noons to calls, her afternoons to dressing, evenings to plays and drums, and nights to routes, balls, masquerades. Sleep only ends the riot, which waking still begins. I'm all amazed. How bears Sir Thomas this? Sir Thomas, why patiently, though one can see with pain? She loves him? Ha! That shrug is doubt. She ne'er consent to wed him unless she loved him.

Never! Her young fancy, the pleasures of the town, and new things, have caught and on their hold will slacken. She'll become her former self again. To this old train of sober feelings will her heart return. and then she'll give it wholly to the man her virgin wishes to. Here comes Sir Thomas, and with him, Master Modus. Let them pass. I would not see him till I speak with her. They retire into one of the arbors. Enter Clifford and Modus. A dreadful question, is it, when we love, to ask if love's returned? I did believe fair Julia's heart was mine. I doubt it now. But once last night she danced with me. Her hand to this gallant or that engaged as soon as asked for. May that love would scarce do this.

Nor visit we together as we used when first she came to town. She loves me less than what she did, or loves me not at all. I'm little skilled, Sir Thomas, in the world. What mean you now to do? Remonstrate with her, come to an understanding, and at once, if she repents her promise to be mine, absolve her from it, and say farewell to her. Lo, then, your opportunity. She comes, my cousin also. Her will I engage, whilst you converse together. Nay, not yet. My heart turns coward at the sight of her. Stay till it finds new courage. Let them pass. Clifford and Modus retire into the other arbor. Enter Julia and Helen. So, Monday week we'll say good morn to the a-maid. And bid good night, a sober wife.

That Monday week, I trust, will never come that brags to make a sober wife of me. How changed you are, my Julia! Change makes change. Why wets thou, then? Because I promised him. Thou lovest him. Do I? He's a man to love, a right well-favored man. Your point's well-favored. Where did you purchase it? In Grace Church Street? Pshaw. Never mind my point, but talk of him. I'd rather talk with thee about the lace. Where bought you it? In Grace Church Street? Cheapside? Whitechapel? Little Britain? Can't you say where twas you bought the lace? In Cheapside, then, and now then, to Sir Thomas. He's just the height I like a man. Thy feather's just the height I like a feather. Mine's too short. What shall I give thee in exchange for it?

What shall I give thee for a minute's talk about Sir Thomas? Why, thy feather. Take it. Clifford, aside to Modus. What? Likes she not to speak of me? And now, let's talk about Sir Thomas. Much I'm sure he loves you. Much I'm sure he has a right. Those know I who would give their eyes to be Sir Thomas for my sake. Such, too, know I. But mong them none that can compare with him. Not one so graceful. What a graceful set your feather has! Nay, give it back to me, unless you pay me for it. What was to get? A minute's talk with thee about Sir Thomas. Talk of his title and his fortune, then. Clifford sighed. Indeed, I would not listen. And yet I must. An ample fortune, Helen. I shall be a happy wife.

What routes, what balls, what masks, what gala days! Clifford sighed. For these she marries me. She'll talk of these? Think not when I am wed, I'll keep the house, as Owlet does her tower, alone. When every other bird's on wing, I'll use my palfrey, Helen, and my coach. My barge, too, for excursions on the Thames. What drives to Barnet, Hackney, Islington? What rides to Epping, Hounslow, and Blackheath? What sails to Greenwich, Woolwich, Fulham, and Kew? I'll set a pattern to your ladywives. Clifford, aside. Aye, lady? Trust me, not at my expense. And what a wardrobe! I'll have a change of suits for every day in the year, and sets for day. My morning dress, my noon dress, dinner dress, and evening dress.

Then I'll show you lace a foot deep, can I purchase? If not, I'll specially bespeak it. Diamonds, too. Not buckles, rings, and earrings only, but whole necklaces and stomachers of gems. I'll shine. Be sure I will. Clifford sighed. Then shine away. Who covets thee may wear thee. I'm not he. And then my title. Soon as I put on the ring, I'm Lady Clifford. So I take precedence of plain mistress, where she e'en the richest heiress in the land. At town or country ball, you'll see me take the lead, while wives that carry on their backs the wealth to dour princess shall give place. To me, will I not profit, think you, by my right? Be sure I will. Marriage shall prove to me a never-ending pageant. Every day shall show how I am spoused.

I will be known for Lady Clifford, all the city through, and fifty miles the country roundabout. Wife. Of Sir Thomas Clifford, Baronet. Not perishable knight, who, when he makes a lady of me, doubtless must expect to see me play the part of one. Clifford, coming forward. Most true, but not the part which you designed to play. A listener, sir? By chance and not intent. Your speech was forced upon mine ear. That ne'er more thankless duty to my heart discharged. I would for that heart it ne'er had known the sense which tells it tis a bankrupt, where most it coveted to be rich, and thought it was so. Oh, Julia, is it you? Could I have set a coronet upon that stately brow, where partial nature hath already bound a brighter circlet, radiant beauty's own?

I had been proud to see thee proud of it, so for the donor thou hast taken the gift. Not for the gift taken him. Could I have poured the wealth of richest Croesus in my lap? I had been blessed to see thee scatter it, so I was still thy richest paramount. Know you me, sir? I do. On Monday week we were to wed, and are. So you're content. The day that weds wives you to be widowed. Take the privilege of my wife, be Lady Clifford, outshine the title in wearing on't. My coffers, land, all are at thy command. Wear all. But for myself she wears not me. Although the coveted of every eye, who would not wear me for myself alone? And do you carry it so proudly, sir? Proudly, but still more sorrowfully, lady.

I'll lead thee to a church on Monday week. Till then, farewell, and then farewell forever. O, Julia, I have ventured for thy love, as the bold merchant who for only hope of some rich gain All former gains will risk. Before I asked a portion of thy heart, I perilled all my own. And now, all's lost. Clifford and Modius go out. Helen. What ails you, sweet? I cannot breathe. Quick, loose my girdle. Oh! Faints. Master Walter and Master Hartwell come forward. Good Master Hartwell, help to take her in, whilst I make after him, and look to her. Unlucky chance that took me out of town. They go out severally. Scene Three. The Street. Enter Clifford and Stephen, meeting. Letters, Sir Thomas. Take them home again.

I shall not read them now. Your pardon, sir, but here's one directed strangely. How? To Master Clifford, gentlemen, now styled, Sir Thomas Clifford, Baronet. Indeed? Whence comes that letter? From abroad. Which is it? So please you, this, Sir Thomas. Give it me. That letter brings not news to wish him joy upon. If he was disturbed before, which I guessed by his looks he was, he is not more at ease now. His hand to his head, a most unwelcome letter. If it brings him news of disaster, fortune does not give him his deserts. For never waited servant upon the kinder master. Stephen. Sir Thomas. From my door remove the plate that bears my name. The plate, Sir Thomas. The plate. Collect my servants and instruct them to make out each their claims unto the end of their respective terms, and give them to my steward.

Him and them a prize, good fellow, that I keep my house no more. As you go home, call at my coachmakers, and bid him stop the carriage I bespoke, the one I have. Send with my horses to the mart, whereas such things are sold by auction. They're for sale. Pack up my wardrobe, have my trunks conveyed to the inn in the next street, and when that's done, go around my tradesmen and collect their bills, and bring them to me at the inn." The inn? Yes. I go home no more.

Why, what's the matter? What has fallen out to make your eyes fill up? You'll get another place. I'll certify that you're honest and industrious, and all that a servant ought to be. I see, Sir Thomas. Some great misfortune has befallen you. No, I have health, I have strength, my reason, Stephen, and a heart that's clear in truth, with trust in God. No great disaster can befall the man who's still possessed of these. Good fellow, leave me. What you would learn, and have a right to know, I would not tell you now. Good Stephen hence. Miss Chance has fallen on me. But what of that? Miss Chance has fallen on many a better man. I pray thee, leave me. I grow sadder while I see the eye with which you view my grief.

Steath, will they out? I would have been a man had you been less a kind and gentle one. Now as you love me, leave me. Never, Master, so well deserved the love of him that served him. Stephen goes out. Miss Fortune liketh company. It seldom visits its friends alone. Ah, Master Walter, and Ruffled, too. I'm in no mood for him. Enter Master Walter. So, sir, Sir Thomas Clifford, what with speed and color, I do gasp for want of breath. Well, Master Walter? You're a rash young man, sir. Strong-headed and wrong-headed, and I fear, sir, not over-delicate in the fine sense which men of honor pride themselves upon. Well, Master Walter? A young woman's heart, sir, is not a stone to carve a posy on, which knows not what is writ on it, which you may buy, exchange or sell, sir, keep or give away, sir.

It is a richer, yet a poorer thing, priceless to him that owns and prizes it, worthless when owned, not prized, which makes the man that covets it, obtains it and discards it, a fool, if not a villain, sir. Well, sir? You never loved my ward, sir. The bright heavens bear witness that I did. The bright heavens, sir, bear not false witness. That thou loved her not is clear. For had you loved her, you'd have plucked your heart from out your breast, ere cast her from your heart. Old as I am, I know what passion is. It is the summer's heat, sir, which in vain we look for frost in. Ice, like you, sir, knows but little of such heat. We are wrong, sir, wronged. You wear a sword, and so do I. Well, sir?

You know the use, sir, of a sword? I do. To whip a knave, sir, or an honest man. A wise man or a fool, atone for wrong, or double the amount on it. Master Walter, touching your ward, if wrong is done, I think on my side lies the grievance. I would not say so, did I not think so. As for love? Luck, sir. That hand's a widow's, to its first mate sworn to clasp no second one. As for a men, sir, you're free to get them from a man in whom you've been forestalled by fortune, for the spite which she has vented on him, if you still esteem him worth your anger. Please, you read that letter. Now, sir, judge of life is dear to one so much a loser. What all gone? Thy cousin living, they reported dead? Title and land, sir.

And to which add love. All gone, save life and honour. Which'er I lose, I'll let the other go. We'll public here, and may be interrupted. Let us seek some spot of privacy. Your letter, sir. Gives it back. Though fortune slights you, I'll not slight you. Not your title, nor the lack of it I heed. Whether upon the score of love or hate, with you and you alone I settle, sir. We've gone too far. "'T'will folly now to part without a reckoning." Just as you please. You've done a noble lady wrong. That lady, sir, has done me wrong. Go to. Thou art a boy fit to be trusted with a plaything, not a woman's heart. Thou knowest not what it is, and that I'll prove to thee soon as we find convenient place. Come, sir, you shall get a lesson that shall serve you for the rest of your life.

I'll make you own her, sir, a piece of nature's handiwork. As costly, free from bias, flaw, and fair, as ever yet her cunning hand turned out. Come on, sir, come. They go out.

3 03 - ACT III 23:41

A Drawing Room. Enter Lord Tinsel and the Earl of Rochdale. Refuse a lord? A saucy lady, this. I scarcely can credit it. Mr. She'll change her mind. My agent, Master Walter, is her guardian. Mr. How can you keep that hunchback in his office? He mocks you. Mr. He is useful. Never heed him. My offer now do I present through him. He has the title deeds to my estates. She'll listen to their wooing. I must have her. Not that I love her, but that all allow, she's the fairest of the fair. Distinguished well, twere most unseemly for a lord to love. Leave that to commoners. Tis vulgar. She's bethrothed, you tell me. To Sir Thomas Clifford? Yes. That a commoner should thwart a lord. Yet not a commoner.

A baronet is fish and flesh, nine parts plebeian and patrician in the tenth. Sir Tom Clifford. A man, they say, of brains. I abhor brains, as I do tools. They're things mechanical. So far are we above our forefathers. They did to their brains did owe their titles, as do lawyers, doctors. We to nothing owe them, which makes us far the nobler. Is it so? Believe me, you shall profit by my training. You grow a lord apace. I see you meet a bevy of your former friends, who fain had shaken hands with you. You gave them fingers. You're now another man. Your house is changed, your table changed, your retinue, your horse, where once you rode a hack, you now back blood. Befits it then? You also change your friends.

Enter Williams. Mr. A gentleman would see your lordship. Sir, what's that? A gentleman would see his lordship. at home. Bring up the name of the gentleman, and then your lord will know if he's at home or not. Your man was porter to some merchant's door, who never taught him better breeding than to speak the foger truth. Williams having re-entered. His name. So please your lordship, Markham. Do you know the thing? Right well. If faith a hearty fellow, son of a worthy tradesman, who would do great things with little means, so entered him in the temple. A good fellow on my life. No smacking of his stock. Mr. Brown. You've said enough. His lordship's not at home. We do not go by hearts, but orders.

Had he family, blood, though it only were a drop, his heart would pass for something. Lacking such dessert, were it ten times the heart it is, tis not. One master Jones hath asked to see you lordship. And what was your reply to Master Jones? I knew not if his lordship was at home. Hmm. You'll do. Who's Master Jones? A curate's son. A curate's? Better be a yeoman's son. Was it the rector's son, he might be known. Because the rector is a rising man, and may become a bishop, he goes light. The curate ever hath a loaded back. He may be called the yeoman of the church. The sweating does his work and drudges on, while lives the hopeful rector at his ease. How made you his acquaintance, pray? We read Latin and Greek together.

Dropping them, as, now that you're Lord, of course you've done, drop him. You'll say his Lordship's not at home. So, please your Lordship, I forgot to say. One Richard Cricket, likewise, is below. Who? Richard Cricket? You must see him, Rockdale. A noble little fellow, a great man, sir. Not knowing whom, you would be nobody. I won five thousand pounds by him. Who is he? I never heard of him. What? Never heard of Richard Cricket? Never heard of him? Why, he's the jockey of New Market. You may win a cup by him, or else a sweepstakes. I bade him call upon you. You must see him. His Lordship is at home to Richard Cricket. Mr. Bid him wait in the ante-room. The ante-room? The best room in the house.

You do not know the use of Richard Cricket. Show him, sir, into the drawing-room. Your Lordship needs must keep a racing stud, and you'll do well to make a friend of Richard Cricket. Well, sir, what's that? Enter Williams. At tradesmen's, shopkeepers, and merchants only. Have such things leave to knock. Make thy lord's gate a wicket to a workhouse. Let us see it. Hmm. Subscriptions to a book of poetry. Cornelius Tenths M A, which means he construes Greek and Latin, works problems in mathematics, can chop logic and is a conjurer in philosophy, both natural and moral. Pshaw! A man whom nobody—that is anybody—knows. Who think you follow him? Why, an M D, an F R S, an F A S, and then a D D, Doctor of Divinity, Ushering in an L.L.D., which means Doctor of Laws, their harmony no doubt the difference of their trades.

There's nothing here but languages and sciences and arts. Not an iota of nobility. We cannot give our names. Take back the paper and tell the bearer there's no answer for him. That is the lordly way of saying no. But, talking of subscriptions, here is one. to which your lordship may evict your name. Mr. Pray, who's the object? Mr. A most worthy man, a man of singular deserts, a man in serving whom your lordship will serve me. Signor Cantata. Mr. He's a friend of yours? Mr. Oh, no, I know him not. I've not that pleasure. But Lady Dangle knows him. She's his friend. He will oblige us with a set of concerts. Six concerts to the set. The set, three guineas. Your lordship will subscribe? Mr. Oh, by all means.

How many sets of tickets? Two, at least. You'll like to take a friend. I'll set you down six guineas to Signor Cantata's concerts. And now, my lord, we'll to him. Then we'll walk. Mr. Nay, I would wait the lady's answer. Wait? Take an excursion to the country? Let her answer wait for you? Mr. Indeed. Mr. Indeed! Befits a lord not like indifference. Say an estate should fall to you, you'd take it as it concerned more a stander by than you. As your lord, be sure you ever of that, make little other men make much of, nor do the thing they do, but the right contrary. Where'd the distinction else, twixt them and you? Mr. They go out. Scene Two. An apartment in Master Hartwell's house. Master Walter discovered, looking through title-deeds and papers.

So falls everything as I would have it, exact in place and time. This Lord's advance is received she, as I augur in the spleen of wounded pride she will. My course is clear. She comes. All's well. The tempest rages still. Julia enters, and paces the room in a state of high excitement. What have my eyes to do with water? Fire suits them better. True. Yet must I weep, to be so monitored, and by a man, A man that was my slave, whom I have seen kneel at my feet from morn till noon, content with leave to only gaze upon my face and tell me what he read there, till the page I knew by heart I gained to doubt I knew, emblazoned by the comment of his tongue, and he to lessen me. Let him come here on Monday week.

He ne'er leads me to church. I would not profit by his rank or wealth, though kings might call him cousin for their sake. I'll show him I have pride. You are very right. He would have had to-day our wedding day. I fixed a month from this. He prayed and prayed. I dropped a week. He prayed and prayed the more. I dropped a second one. Still more he prayed, and I took off another week. And now I have his leave to wed or not to wed. He'll see that I have pride. So he ought. Oh, for some way to bring him to my foot. But he should lie there. Why, twill go abroad that he has cast me off, that there should live the man could say so, or that I should live to be the leavings of a man. By case I own a hard one.

Hard? Twill drive me mad. His wealth and title. I refused a lord. I did, that privily implored my hand, and never cared to tell him on't. So much I hate him now, that lord should not in vain implore my hand again. You'd give it to him? I would. You'd wed that lord? That lord I'd wed, or any other lord, only to show him that I could wed above him. Give me your hand and word to that. There, take my hand and word. The lord hath offered you his hand again. He has. Your father knows it. He approves of him. There are the title-deeds of his estates, sent for my jealous goodly. All sound, no flaw nor speck. That e'en the lynx aid law itself could find, O Lord of many lands.

Julia, eagerly. Give me the paper. There, here's Penany. Sit down. Why do you pause? A flourish of the pen, and you're a countess. My poor brain whirls round and round. I would not wed him now, were he more lowly at my feet to sue than e'er he did. Wed whom? Sir Thomas Clefford. You're right. His rank and wealth are roots to doubt, and while they lasted, still the weed would grow. Howe'er you plucked it? No, that's all, that's done. Was never, lady, wrong so foul as I. Weeps. Thou art to be pitied. Julia, aroused. Pitied? Not so bad as that. Indeed thou art to love the man that spurns thee. Love him? Love? If hate could find a word more harsh than its own name. I take it, to speak the love I bear him.

Weeps. Write thy own name, and show him how near a kin that hates to hate. Julia writes. Tis done. Tis well. I'll come to you an hour. Goes out. Julia alone. I'm glad tis done. I'm very glad tis done. I've done the thing I ought. From my disgrace, this lord shall lift me above the reach of scorn that idly wags its tongue, where wealth and state need only beckon to the crowds to laud. Then how the tables change! The hand he's spurned his betters take! Let me remember that. I'll grace my rank. I will. I'll carry it. As I was born to it. I'll warrant none shall say it fits me not. But one and all, confess, I'll wear it bravely as I ought. And he shall hear it. Aye, and he shall see it. I will roll by him.

In an equipage would mortgage his estate. But he shall own his slight of me. Was my advancement. Love me. He never loved me. If he had, he'd never have given me up. Love's not a spider's web, but fit to mesh a fly, that you can break by only blowing on it. He never loved me. He knows not what love is. Or, if he does, he has not been o'er cherry of his peace, and that he'll find when I'm another's wife, lost. Lost to him forever.

Tears again? Why should I weep for him? Who makes their woes deserve them? What have I to do with tears? News, Julia, news. What? Is it about Sir Thomas? Sir Thomas, say you? He's no more Sir Thomas. That cousin lives, as heir to whom his wealth and title came to him. Was he not dead? No more than I am dead. I would, t'were not so. What say you, Julia? Nothing. I could kiss that cousin. Couldn't you, Julia? Wherefore? Why, for coming back to life again, as twere, upon his cousin to revenge you. Helen! Indeed, tis true. With what a sorry grace the gentleman will bear himself without his title, Master Clifford. Have you not some token to return him—some love letter, some brooch, some pin, some anything?

I'll be your messenger, for nothing but the pleasure of calling him plain Master Clifford. Helen. Or has he ought of thine? Write to him, Julia, demanding it. Do, Julia, if you love me, and I'll direct it in a schoolboy's hand, as round as I can write, to Master Clifford. Helen. I'll think of fifty thousand ways to mortify him. I've a twentieth cousin, a care-for-nought, at mischief. Him I'll set with twenty other madcaps like himself to walk the streets the traitor most frequents, and give him salutation as he passes. How do you do, Master Clifford? Julia, highly incensed. Helen! Bless me! I hate you, Helen! Enter Modus. Joy for you, fair lady! Our baronet is now plain gentleman, and hardly that, not master of the means to bear himself as such.

The kinsman lives, whose only rumour But death gave wealth to him and title. A hard creditor, he proves, who keeps strict reckoning will have interest as well as principal. A ruined man is now Sir Thomas Clifford. I am glad on it. And so am I. A scurvy trick it was. He served you, madam. You's a lady so. I merely bore with him. I never liked him. No more did I. No, never could I think he looked his title. No, nor acted it. If rightly, they report, he ne'er dispersed to entertain his friends, tis broadly said. A hundred pounds in the year he was most put in the appointments of a man of rank possessing wealth like his. His horses, hacks, his gentlemen a footman, and his footman a groom, the sports that men of quality and spirit countenance he kept aloof from, from scruple of economy, not taste, as racing and the like.

In brief, he lacked those shining points that more than name denote high breeding, and, moreover, was a man of very shallow learning. Silence, sir! For shame! Why, Julia! Speak not to me. Poor, most poor. I tell you, sir, he was the making of fifty gentlemen, each one of whom were more than peer afore thee. His title, sir, lent him no grace he did not pay it back. Though it had been the highest of the high, he would have looked it, felt it, acted it, as thou couldst ne'er have done. When found you out, you liked him not. It was not ere to-day, or that base spirit I must reckon yours, which smiles where it would scowl, can stoop to hate and fear to show it. He was your better, sir, and is, aye, is, though stripped of rank and wealth, his nature's bough, or fortune's love or spite, to blazon or to blur it.

Modus to Helen. I was told. Much to disparage him, I know not wherefore. And so was I, and know as much the cause. And her master Walter, with parchments. Joy, my Julia, impatient love has foresight. Lo, you, here the marriage deeds filled up, except a blank to write your joint here. What will you, my girl? Is this a lover? Look, three thousand pounds per annum for your private charges. There's pin-money. Is this a lover? Mark what acres, forests, tenements are taxed for your revenue, and so set apart that finger cannot touch them save thine own. Is this a lover? What good fortune's thine? Thou doth not speak? But tis the way of joy. With richest heart it has the poorest tongue. What great good fortune's this you speak of, sir?

A coronet, master modus. You behold the wifey Lexar of no less a man than the new Earl of Rochdale, heir of him that recently deceased. My dearest Julia, much joy to you. All good. Attend you, madam. This letter brings excuses from his lordship, whose absence it accounts for. He repairs to his estate in Lancashire, and thither we follow. When, sir? Now, this very hour. This very hour? Oh, O cruel, fatal haste! O cruel, fatal haste! What meanest thou? Have I done wrong to do thy bidding, then? I have done no more. Thou wast an offcast bride, and wouldst be an affianced one. Art thou so? Thou didst have the slight that mocked thee out for scorn, converted to a means of gracing thee. It is so. If our wishes come too soon, what can make sure of the welcome?

In my zeal to win thee thine, thou knowest at any time I'll play the steed, whose will to serve his lord with his last breast gives his last bound for him. Since only noon have I despatched what well had kept a brace of clerks, and more on foot, and then perhaps had been to do again. Not finished, sure, complete, the compact firm, as fate itself had sealed it. Give you thanks! Thou tour my death, my death! Thou tour my death, my death! Thou death? Indeed, for happiness like this one well might die. Take thy lord's letter. Well? Enter Thomas with a letter. This letter, sir, the gentleman that served Sir Thomas Clifford, or him that was Sir Thomas, give it to me for Mistress Julia. Give it to me.

Throwing away the one she holds. Master Walter, snatching it. For what? Wouldst read it? He's a bankrupt, stripped of title, house, chattel's land, and all. The naked bankrupt with neither purse nor trust. Wouldst read his letter? A beggar, yea, a very beggar, fasts, unless he dines on alms. How durst he send thee a letter? A fellow cut on this hand and that, bows, and is cut again, and bows again, who pays you fifty smiles for half a one. And that given grudgingly. To you, a letter? I burst with cor. Thus I treat his letter. So I was wrong to let him ruffle me. He is not worth the spending anger on. A prithee, Master Morriss. Use dispatch, and presently make ready for a ride. You, Helen, to my Julia, look.

A change of dresses will suffice. She must have new ones. Matches for her new state. "'Haste, friends. My Julia, why stand you pouring there over the ground? Time flies. Your eyes astound you? Never heed. You'll play, my lady-countess, like a queen.' They go out. End of act.

4 04 - ACT IV 33:49

A Room in the Earl of Rochdales. Enter Helen. I'm weary wandering from room to room. A castle, after all, is but a house, the dullest one when lacking company. Were I at home, I could be company unto myself. I see not Master Walter. He's ever with his ward. I see not her. By Master Walter's will, she bides a loan. My father stops in town. I can't see him. My cousin makes his books his company. I'll go to bed and sleep. No, I'll stay up and plague my cousin into making love. For that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect, how dull he is that hath not sensed to see what lies before him, and he'd like to find. I'll change my treatment of him, cross him, where before I used to humor him. He comes, pouring upon a book.

Enter Modus. What's that you read? Lot's in, sweet cousin. Tis a naughty tongue, I fear, and teaches men to lie. To lie. You study it. You call your cousin sweet, and treat her as you would a crab. As sour t'would seem you think her, as you covet her. Why, how the monster stares and looks about. You construe Latin, and can't construe that. I never studied women. No, nor men, else would you better know their ways, nor read in the presence of a lady. Strikes the book from his hand. Right, you say, and well you served me, cousin, so to strike the volume from my hand. I own my fault. So, please you, may I pick it up again? I'll put it in my pocket. Pick it up? He fears me as I were his grandmother.

What is the book? Tis Ovid's Art of Love. That Ovid was a fool. In what? In that, to call that thing an art. Which art is none. And is not love an art? Are you a fool as well as Ovid? Love an art. No art but taketh time and pains to learn. Love comes with neither. Is it to hoard such grain as that you went to college? Better stay at home and study homely English. Nay, you know not the arguments. I don't. I know it better than ever Ovid did. The face. The form, the heart, the mind we fancy, cousin. That's the argument. Why, cousin, you know nothing. Suppose a lady were in love with thee. Couldst thou by Ovid, cousin, find it out? Couldst find it out wast thou in love thyself? Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love?

I could, that never read him. You begin with melancholy, then to sadness, then to sickness, then to dying, but not die. She would not let thee, were she of my mind. She'd take compassion on thee. Then for hope, from hope to confidence, from confidence to boldness, then you'd speak. At first, entreat, then urge, then flout, then argue. Then enforce. Make prisoner of her hand, besiege her waist, threaten her lips with storming, keep thy word and carry her. My sampler against thy Ovid. My cousin, are you frightened that you stand as you were stricken dumb? The case is clear. You are no soldier. You'll ne'er win a battle. You care too much for blows. You wrong me there. At school I was the champion of my form, and since I went to college.

That for college. Nay, hear me. Well, what, since you went to college? You know what men are set down for who boast of their own bravery? Go on, brave cousin. What, since you went to college? Was there not one Quentin Hallworth there? You know there was, and that he was your master. He, my master? Twice was he worsted by me. Still he was your master. He allowed I had the best. Allowed it, mark me. Not me alone, but twenty I could name. And mastered you at last. Confess it, cousin, tith the truth. A proctor's daughter you did both affect, look at me and deny it, of the twain. She more affected you. I've caught you now, bold cousin. Mark you. Opportunity on opportunity she gave you, sir. Deny it if you can.

But though to others, when you discoursed of her, you were a flame. To her you were a wick that would not light, though held in the very fire. And so he won her. Won her because he wooed her like a man. For all your cuffings, cuffing you again with most usurious interest. Now, sir, protest that you are valiant. Cousin Helen. Well, sir? The tale is all a forgery. A forgery? From first to last, ne'er spoke I to a proctor's daughter when I was at college. Twas a scrivener's, then, or somebody's. But what concerns it whose? Enough, you loved her. And shame upon you, let another take her. Cousin, I'll tell you if you'll only hear me, I loved no woman while I was at college, save one, and her I fancied ere I went there.

Indeed. Now I'll retreat if he's advancing. Comes he not on? Oh, what a stock's the man. Well, cousin? Well, what more must have me say? I think I've said enough. And so think I. I did but jest with you. You are not angry. Shake hands. Why, cousin, do you squeeze me so? Modus, letting her go. I swear, I squeezed you not. You did not? No. I'll die if I did. Why, then, you did not, cousin. So let's shake hands again. He takes her hand as before. Oh, go, and now read Ovid. Cousin. Will you tell me one thing? Wore lovers' ruffs in Master Ovid's time? Behoved him teach them, then, to put them on. And that you have to learn. Hold up your head. Why, cousin, how you blush! Plague on the ruff. I cannot give it a set.

You're blushing still. Why do you blush, dear cousin? So... Twill beat me. I'll give it up. Nay, Prithy, don't. Try on. And if I do, I fear you'll think me bold. For what? To trust my face so near to thine. I know not what you mean. I'm glad you don't. Cousin, I own right well-behaved you are, most marvellously well-behaved. They've bred you well at college. With another man. My lips would be in danger. Hang the ruff. Nay, give it up, nor plague thyself, dear cousin. Dear fool. Throws the ruff on the ground. I swear the ruff is good for just as little as its master. There. Tis spoiled. You'll have to get another. High for it, and wear it in the fashion of a wisp ere I adjust it for thee. Farewell, cousin.

You'd need to study Ovid's art of love. Helen goes out. Modus, Solus. Weren't she in anger? I will follow her. No, I will not. Hey-ho, I love my cousin. Oh, and that she loved me. Why did she taunt me with backwardness in love? What could she mean? Sees she I love her, and so laughs at me, because I lack the front to woo her. Nay, I'll woo her, then. Her lips shall be in danger, when next she trusts them near me. Looked she at me to-day, as never did she look before. A bold heart, Master Merodis. Tis a saying, a faint one never won, fair lady yet. I'll woo my cousin. Come, what willant. Yes. Hang Ovid's art of love. I'll woo my cousin. goes out. Scene Two. The Banqueting Room in the Earl of Rochdale's Mansion.

Enter Master Walter and Julia. This is the Banqueting Room. Thou seest as far as it leaves the last behind, as it excels the former ones. All disproportion here, in harmony, observe. The massy pillars may well look proud to bear the gilded dome. You mark those full-length portraits? They're the heads, the stately heads, of his ancestral line. Here, over the feast, they haply still preside. Mark those medallions. Stand they forth or not in bold and fair relief? Is not this brave? Julia, abstractedly. It is. It should be so, to cheer the blood that flows in noble veins has made the feast that gladdens here. You see this drapery? The richest velvet. Fringe and tassels, gold. Is not this costly? Yes.

And chaste the wire, both chaste and costly? Yes. Come hither. There's a mill for you. See? One sheet from floor to ceiling. Look into it. Salute its mistress. Dost not know her? Julia, sighing deeply. Yes. And sighest thou to know her? Wait until tomorrow, when the banquet shall be spread in the fair hall, the guests already bid around it, here her lord, and there herself, presiding o'er the cheer that hails him, bridegroom, and her the happy bride. Dost hear me? Julia, sighing still more deeply. Yes. These are the day-rooms only we have seen. for public and domestic's use kept. I'll show you now the lodging-rooms. You're tired. Let it be till after dinner, then. Yet one I'd like thee much to see.

The bridal-chamber. I see you're tired, yet it is worth the viewing. If only for the tapestry which shows the needle like the pencil glows with life. Brings down chairs. They sit. The stories of a page who loved the dame he served, a princess, loves a heedless thing, that never takes account of obstacles, makes plains of mountains, rivulets of seas, that part it from its wish. So proved the page, who from a state so lordly Look so high. But love's a greater lackwit still than this. Say it aspires? That's gain. Love stoops? That's loss. You know what comes. The princess loved the page. Shall I go on, or here leave off? Go on. Each side of the chamber shows a different stage of this fond page, and fonder lady's love.

First, No, it is not that. Oh, recollect. And yet it is. No doubt it is. What is it? He holds to her a salver with a cup, his cheeks more mantling with his passion than the cup with the ruby wine. She heeds him not, for too great heed of him, but seems to hold debate betwixt her passion and her pride that's like to lose the day. You read it in her vacant eye, knit brow and parted lips, which speak a heart too busy all within to note what's done without. Like you the tale? I list every word. The next side paints the page upon his knee. He has told his tale, and found that when he lost his heart, he played no losing game, but won a richer one. There you may read in him how love would seem most humble when most bold.

You question which appears to kiss her hand, his breath, or lips. In her you read how wholly lost is she who trusts her heart to love. Shall I give o'er? Nay, tell it to the end. Is it melancholy? To answer that would mar the story. Right. The third side now we come to. What shows that? The page and princess still, but stands her side between them. Stern he grasped his daughter's arm, whose eyes like fountains play. While through her tears her passion shines, as through the fountain drops the sun. His minions crowd round the page. They drag him to a dungeon. Hapless youth. Hapless, indeed, yet twice a captive, heart and body both in bonds. But that's the chain which balance cannot weigh. Rule measure.

Touch define the texture of or I detect that's forged by the subtle craft of love. No need to tell you that he wears it. Such the cunning of the hand that plied the loom. You've but to mark the straining of his eye to feel the coil yourself. I feel it without. You've finished the third side. Now the fourth. It brings us to the dungeon, then. The page, the thrall of love, more than the dungeon's thrall, is there? He is. He lies in fetters. Hard. Hard as the steel, the hand that puts them on. Someone unrivets them. The princess? Tis. It is another page. It is herself. Her skin is fair. His is berry brown. His locks are raven black. Hers are gold. Love's cunning of disguises. Spide of locks, skin, vesture, it is she, and only she.

What will not constant woman do for love that's loved with constancy? Set her the task, virtue approving, that will baffle her, or tax her stooping, patient courage, wit, my life upon it. Tis the princess's self, transformed into a page. The dungeon door stands open, and you see beyond. Her father. Noah Steed. Julia, starting up. Oh, welcome, Steed! My heart bounds at the thought of thee. Thou comest to bear the page from Barnes to Liberty. What else? Master Walter, rising. The story's told. Too briefly told. Oh, happy princess that had wealth and state. To lay them down for love, whose constant love appearances approved, not falsified. A winner in thy loss, as well as gain. Weighs love so much.

What would you weigh gainst love that's true? Tell me with what you'd turn the scale. Yea, make the index waver. Wealth? A feather. Rank? Tinsel against bullion in the balance. The love of kindred? That is said against love. Friendship comes nearest to it, but to put it in, friendship will kick the beam, weigh nothing against it, weigh love against the world. Yet are they happy that have naught to say to it. And such a one art thou, who wisely wed, wed happily. The love thou speakest of, a flower is only, that its season has, which they must look to see the withering of, who pleasure in its budding and its bloom. But wisdom is the constant evergreen, which lives the whole year through. Be that your flower.

Enter a servant. Well? My lord's secretary is without. He brings a letter for her ladyship, and craves admittance to her. Show him in. No. Thou must see him. To show slight to him were slighting him that sent him. Show him in. Some errand proper for thy privateer, besides the letter he may bring. What mean this paleness and this trembling? Mock me, Julia, if from these nuptials which thyself invited, which at thy seeking came, thou wouldst be freed, thou hast gone too far. Receding with disgrace, sooner than see thee suffer which the hearts that love thee most would wish thee dead. Reflect, take thought, collect thyself. With dignity receive thy bridegroom's messenger, for sure as dawns tomorrow's sun, tomorrow night sees thee a wedded bride.

Goeth out. Julia, alone. A wedded bride? Is it a dream? Is it a phantasm? "'Tis too horrible for reality, for aught else too palpable. Oh, would it were a dream! How would I bless the sun that waked me from it? I perish, like some desperate mariner, impatient of a strange and hostile land. Who rashly hoists his sail and puts to sea, and being fast on reefs and quicksands borne, essays in vain once more to make the land, whence wind and currents drive him, I'm wrecked by my own act. What? No escape, no hope? None. I must even abide these hated nuptials. Hated? Ah, own it. And then curse thyself. Thou madest the bane thou loathest, for the love thou bearest to one who can never be thine. Yes, love.

Deceive thyself no longer. False to say, tis pity for his fall. Respect engendered by a hollow world's disdain, which hoots whom fickle fortune cheers no more. "'Tis none of these. "'Tis love. And if not love, why then idolatry? Aye, that's the name. To speak the broadest, deepest, strongest passion that ever woman's heart was borne away by." He comes. Thus play the lady. Play it now. Enter a servant, conducting Clifford, plainly attired as the Earl of Rochdale's secretary. His Lordship's secretary. Servant goes out. Speak he not? Or does he wait for orders to unfold his business? Stopped his business till I spoke. I'd hold my peace forever. Clifford kneels, presenting a letter. Does he kneel?

A lady I am to my heart's content. Could he unmake me that which claims his knee, I'd kneel to him, I would, I would. Your will? This letter from my lord. Oh fate! Who speaks? The secretary of my lord. I breathe. I could have sworn t'was he. Makes an effort to look at him, but is unable. So like the voice. I dare not look, lest there the form should stand. How came he by that voice? Tis Clifford's voice, if ever Clifford spoke. My fears come back. Clifford, the secretary of my lord. Fortune hath freaks, but none so mad as that. It cannot be. It should not be. A look. And all were set at rest. Tries to look at him again, but cannot. So strong my fears, dread to confirm them, takes away the power to try to end them.

Come the worst, I'll look. She tries again, and again is unequal to the task. I'd sink before him if I met his eye. Wilt please your ladyship to take the letter? There Clifford speaks again. Not Clifford's heart. Could more make Clifford's voice? Not Clifford's tongue, and the lips more frame it into Clifford's speech. A question enters over. Know I you? Reversive Fortune Lady changes friends. It turns them into strangers. What I am I have not always been. Could I not name you? If your disdain for one, perhaps too bold, when Hollow Fortune called him favourite, now by her fickleness perforce reduced to take a humble tone, would suffer you? I might. You might. Oh, Clifford. Is it you? Your answer to my lord.

Gives the letter. Your lord. Mechanically taking it. Wilt write it, or will it please you send a verbal one? I'll bear it faithfully. You'll bear it? Madam, your pardon, but my haste is somewhat urgent. My lord's impatient, and to use dispatch were his repeated orders. Orders? Well, I'll read the letter, sir. Tis right you mind his lordship's orders. They are paramount. Nothing should supersede them. Stand beside them. They merit all your care, and have it. Fit. Most fit they should. Give me the letter, sir. You have it, madame. So, how poor a thing I look, so lost while he is all himself. Have I no pride? She rings. The servant enters. Paper and pen and ink. If he can freeze, tis time I grow cold.

I'll read the letter. Opens it, and holds it as about to read it. Mind his orders, so. Quickly he fits his habits to his fortunes. He serves, my lord, with all his will, his heart's in his vocation. So, is this the letter? Tis upside down, and here I'm pouring on it. Most fit if I let him see me play the fool. Shame. Let me be myself. A servant enters with materials for writing. A table, sir, and chair. The servant brings a table and chair and goes out. She sits a while, vacantly gazing on the letter, then looks at Clifford. How plainly shows his humble suit! It fits him not that wears it. I have wronged him. He can't be happy, does not look it, is not. That eye which reads the ground is argument enough.

He loves me. There I let him stand, and I am sitting. Rises, takes a chair, and approaches Clifford. Pray, you take a chair. He bows, as acknowledging and declining the honor. She looks at him a while. Clifford, why don't you speak to me?

She weeps. I trust you're happy? Happy. Very, very happy. You see, I weep. I am so happy. Tears are a sign, you know, of naught but happiness. When first I saw you, little did I look to be so happy, Clifford. Madam? Madam, I call thee Clifford, and thou call'st me Madam. Such the address my duty stints me to. Thou art the wife-elect of a proud earl, whose humble secretary soul am I. Most right. I had forgot. I thank you, sir, for so reminding me and give you joy that what I see had been a burthen to you is fairly off your hands. A burthen to me? Mean you yourself? Are you that burthen, Julia? Say that the sun's a burthen to the earth. Say that the blood's a burthen to the heart. Say health's a burden, peace, contentment, joy, fame, riches, honors.

Julia, aside. On the brink of what a precipice I'm standing. Back, back, while the faculty remains to do it. A minute longer, not the Whirlpool's self, more sure to suck me down. One effort.

There. She returns to her seat, recovers her self-possession, takes up the letter, and reads, To wed tomorrow night. Wed whom? A man who I can never love? I should before have thought of that. Tomorrow night. This hour. Tomorrow. How I tremble. Happy bands to which my heart such freezing welcome gives, as sends ague through me. And what means will not the desperate snatch? What honor's price? Nor friends, nor lovers, no, nor life itself. Clifford. This moment, leave me. Clifford retires up the stage out of Julia's sight. Is he gone? Oh, docile lover. Do his mistress wish that went against his own. Do it so soon, ere well t'was uttered. No good-bye to her, no word, no look. T'was best he so went.

Alas, the strait of her who owns that best, which last she'd wish were done. What's left of me now? Do weep. Do weep. Leans her head upon her arm, which rests upon the desk, her other arm hanging listlessly at her side. Clifford comes down the stage, looks a moment at her, approaches her and, kneeling, takes her hand. My Julia. Here again? Up, up, by all thy hopes of heaven, go hence, to stay's perdition to me. Look at you, Clifford. Were there a grave where thou art kneeling now, I'd walk into it, and be in earth alive, ere Tate should touch my name. Should someone come and see thee kneeling thus? Let go my hand. Remember, Clifford, I'm a promised bride. And take thy arm away. It has no right to clasp my waist.

Judge you so poorly of me as to think I'll suffer this. My honor, sir. She breaks from him, quitting her seat. I'm glad you've forced me to respect myself. You'll find that I can do so. I was bold, forgetful of your station and my own. There was a time I held your hand and cheered. There was a time I might have clasped your waist. I had forgot that time was past and gone. I pray you, pardon me. Julia. I do so, Clifford. I shall no more offend. No longer is it fit thou keepest thy post in Lordship's house. Give it up. A day, an hour, remain not in it. Wherefore? Live in the same house with me and I and others. Put miles, put leagues between us. The same land should not contain us. Oceans should divide us with barriers of constant tempests, such as mariners durst not tempt.

O Clifford, rash was the act so light that gave me up, that stung a woman's pride and drove her mad, till in her frenzy she destroyed her peace. What was rashly done? Had you reproved, expostulated, had you reasoned with me, tried to find out what was indeed my heart, I would have shown it. You'd have seen it. All had been as naught can ever be again. Lovest thou me, Julia? Dost thou ask me, Clifford? These nuptials may be shunned. With honour? Yes. Then take me. Stop. Hear me. And take me, then. Let not thy passion be my counsellor. Deal with me, Clifford, as my brother. Be the jealous guardian of my spotless name. Scan thou my cause as t'were thy sisters. Let thy scrutiny o'erlook no point of it, nor turn it over once, but many a time.

That flaw, speck, yea, the shade of one, a soil so slight, not one out of a thousand eyes could find it out, may not escape thee. Then say if these nuptials can be shunned with honor. They can. Then take me, Clifford. They embrace. Master Walter entering. Ah, what's this, heart reason? What am I baronet that was, my secretary now, your servant, sir? Esth thus to do pleasure of your lord, that for your service feeds you, clothes you, pays you, or takest thou with the name of his dependent? What's here? A letter? Fifty crowns to one afford Walter, I'm wrong. It is his hand. This proves thee double traitor. Traitor? Nay, control thy wrath, good Master Walter, do, and I'll persuade him to go hence.

Master Walter retires up the stage. I see for me thou bearest this, and thank thee, Clifford. As thou hast truly shown thy heart to me, so truly I to thee have opened mine. Time flies. Tomorrow, if thy love can find a way, such as thou sayest, for my enlargement, by any means thou canst, apprise me of it, and, soon as shown, I'll take it. Is he gone? He is this moment. If thou covetest me, win me, and wear me, may I trust thee? Oh, if that's thy soul that's looking through thine eyes, thou lovest me, and I may, I sicken lest I never see thee more. As life is mine, the ring that on thy wedding finger goes, no hand but mine shall place there. Lingers he? For my sake, now away, and yet a word. By all thy hopes, most dear, be true to me.

Now go, yet stay. Clifford, while you are here, I'm like a bark, distressed and compassless, that by a beacon steers. When you are away, that bark alone, and tossing miles at sea, now go. Farewell, my compass, beacon, land. When shall my eyes be blessed with thee again? Farewell. Art gone? All's chance, all's care, all's darkness. End of Act Four.

5 05 - ACT V 34:19

An apartment in the Earl of Rochdale's. Enter Helen and Fathom. For the long and short of it is this. If she marries this lord, she'll break her heart. I wish you could see her, madam. Poor lady. How looks she, prithee? Marry for all the world like a dripping wet cambric handkerchief. She has no colour nor strength in her, and does nothing but weep. Poor lady. Tell me again what she said to thee. She offered to me all she was mistress of, to take the letter to Master Clifford. She drew her purse from her pocket, the ring from her finger. She took the very earrings out of her ears. But I was forbidden and refused, and now I am sorry for it, poor lady. Thou shouldst be sorry. Thou hast a hard heart, Fathom.

Aye, madam. My heart is as soft as a woman's. You should have seen me when I came out of her chamber, poor lady. Did you cry? No, but I was as near it as possible. Aye, a hard heart. I would do anything to serve her, poor sweet lady. Will you take her letter? asks she you again. No, I am forbid. Will you help Master Clifford to an interview with her? No, Master Walter would find it out. Will you contrive to get me into her chamber? No, you would be sure to bring me into mischief. Go to. You would do nothing to serve her. You, a soft heart, you have no heart at all. You feel not for her. But I tell you I do, and good right I have to feel for her. I have been in love myself. With your dinner? I would it had been.

My pain would soon have been over, and at little cost. A fortune I squandered upon her. Trinkets, trimmings, treatings. What swallowed up the revenue of a whole year. Wasn't I in love? Six months I courted her, and a dozen crowns, all but one did I disperse for her in that time. Wasn't I in love? An ostler, a tapster, and a constable courted her at the same time, and I offered to cudgel the whole three of them for her. Wasn't I in love? You art a valiant man, Fathom. Am I not? Walks not the earth, the man I am afraid of? Fear you not, Master Walter. No. You do. I don't. I'll prove it to you. You see him breaking your young mistress's heart, and have not the manhood to stand by her. What could I do for her?

Let her out of prison. It were the act of a man. That man am I. Well said, brave Fathom. But my place— I'll provide thee with a better one. Tis a capital place. So little to do, and so much to get for it. Six pounds in the year, two suits of livery, shoes and stockings, and a famous larder. It be a bold man that would put such a place in jeopardy. My place, madam, my place. I tell thee, I'll provide thee with a better place. Thou shalt have less to do and more to get. Now, Fathom, hast thou the courage to stand by thy mistress? I have. That's right. I'll let my lady out. Enter Master Walter, unperceived. That's right. When, Fathom? Tonight. She is to be married tonight. This evening, then. Master Walter is now in the library.

The key is on the outside, and I'll lock him in. Excellent. You'll do it. Rely upon it. How he'll stare when he finds himself a prisoner and my young lady at liberty. Most excellent. You'll— Be sure to do it. Depend upon me. When Fathom undertakes a thing, he defies fire and water. Master Walter coming forward. Fathom. Sir? Assemble straight to servants. Yes, sir. Mind, then, have them in the hall when I come down. Yes, sir. And see you do not stir a step for where I order you. Not an inch, sir. See that you don't. Away. Fathom goes out. So, my fair mistress. What's this you have been plotting? An escape for Mistress Julia? I avow it. Do you? Yes. And moreover to your face, I tell you, most hardly do you use her.

Verily. I wonder, where's her spirit? Had she mine, she would not take it so easily. Do you mean to force this marriage on her? With your leave? You laugh. Without it, then. I don't laugh now. If I were she, I'd find a way to escape. What would you do? I'd leap out the window. Your window should be barred. I'd cheat you still. I'd hang myself ere I'd be forced to marry. Well said. You shall be married, then, tonight. Married tonight? As sure as I have said it. Two words to that. Pray who's to be my bridegroom. A daughter's husband is her father's choice. My father's daughter ne'er shall wed such husband. Indeed. I'll pick a husband for myself. Indeed. Indeed, sir, and indeed again. Go dress yourself in a marriage ceremony.

But, Master Walter, what is it you mean? And her motives. Here comes your cousin. He shall be your bridesman. The thought's a sudden one. That will excuse defect in your appointments. A plain dress, and so tis of white, will do. I'll dress in black. I'll quit the castle. That you shall not do. Its doors are guarded with my lord's domestics, its avenues, its grounds. What you must do, do with a good grace. In an hour or less, your father will be here. Make up your mind to take with thankfulness the man he gives you. Now. If they find not out how... Beat their hearts. I have no skill, not I, in feeling pulses. Goes out. Why, Cousin Modus, what, will you stand by and see me forced to marry? Cousin Modus, have you not got a tongue?

Have you not eyes? Do you not see? I'm very, very ill, and not a chair in all the corridor. I'll find one in the study. Hang the study. My room's at hand. I'll fetch one thence. You shan't. I'd faint ere you came back. What shall I do? Why don't you offer to support me? Well, give me your arm. Be quick. Modus offers his arm. Is that the way to help a lady when she's like to faint? I'll drop unless you catch me. Modus supports her. That will do. I'm better now. Modus offers to leave her. Don't leave me! Is one well because one's better? Hold my hand. Keep so. I'll soon recover so you move not. Loves he. Shall be sworn he does. He'll own it now. Well, cousin Modus? Well, sweet cousin. Well, you heard what Master Walter said?

I did. And would you have me marry? Can't you speak? Say yes or no. No, cousin. Bravely said. And why, my gallant cousin? Why? Ay, why? Women, you know, are fond of reasons. Why would you not have me marry? How you blush. Is it because you do not know the reason? You remind me of a story of a cousin who once her cousin such a question asked. He had not been to college, though. For books, he passed his time in reading ladies' eyes, which he could construe marvellously well, though written language all symbolical. Thus stood they once together, on a day, as we stand now, discoursed as we discourse, but with this difference. Fifty gentle words he spoke to her, for one she spoke to him. What a dear cousin!

Well, As I did say, as now I questioned thee, she questioned him. And what was his reply? To think of it sets my heart beating. "'Twas so kind a one, so like a cousin's answer, a dear cousin, a gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin. What did he say? A man might find it out, though never read he Ovid's art of love." What did he say? He'd marry her himself. How stupid you are, cousin. Let me go. You are not well yet? Yes. I'm sure you're not. I'm sure I am. Nay. Let me hold you, cousin. I like it. Do you? I would wager you could not tell me why you like it. Well, you see how true I know you. How you stare. What see you in my face to wonder at? A pair of eyes. At last he'll find his tongue. And saw you ne'er a pair of eyes before?

Not such a pair. And why? They are so bright. You have a Grecian nose. Indeed. Indeed. What kind of mouth have I? A handsome one. I never saw so sweet a pair of lips. I ne'er saw lips at all. Till now, dear cousin. Cousin, I'm well. You need not hold me now. Do you not hear? I tell you I am well. I need your arm no longer. Take it away. So tight it locks me. Tis with pain I breathe. Let me go, cousin. Wherefore do you hold your face so close to mine? What do you mean? You've questioned me. Now I'll question you. What would you learn? The use of lips. To speak. Not else. How bold my modest cousin grows. Why, other use know you? I do. Indeed. You're wondrous wise. And pray, what is it? This. Attempt to kiss her.

Soft. My hand thanks you, cousin, for my lips I'll keep them for a husband. Nay, stand off. I'll not be held in manacles again. Why do you follow me? I love you, cousin. Oh, cousin, say you so. That's passing strange. Falls out most crossly is a dire mishap, a thing to sigh for, weep for, languish for, and die for. Die for? Yes, with laughter, cousin. For, cousin, I love you. And you'll be mine. I will. Your hand upon it. Hand and heart. Hide to thy dressing-room, and aisle to mine. Attire thee for the altar, so will I. Whore'er may claim me, thou art the man shall have me. Away, dispatch, but hark you, ere you go, ne'er brag of reading Ovid's art of love. Aunt Cursten, stop. One little word with you.

She returns. He snatches a kiss. They go out severally. Scene Two. Julia's Chamber. Enter Julia. No word from him. An evening now set in. He cannot play me false. His messenger is dogged, or the letter intercepted. I am beset with spies. No rescue, no escape. The hour at hand that brings my bridegroom home. No relative to aid me, friend to counsel me. Come in.

Your will. Your toilet waits, my lady. Tis time you dress. A peal of bells. What's that? Your wedding bells, my lady. Merrily they ring my nail. And pray you, what are these? Your wedding jewels. Set them by. Indeed. Was ne'er a braver set. A necklace, brooch, and earrings all of brilliance, with a hoop to guard your wedding ring. "'T'would need a guard that lacks a heart to keep it." Here's a heart suspended from the necklace, one huge diamond embedded in a host of smaller ones. Oh, how it sparkles! Show it me. Bright heart, thy lustre, should I wear thee, would be false. For thou the emblem art of love and truth, from her that wears thee unto him that gives thee. Back to thy case, better thou shouldst never leave it, better thy gems a thousand fathoms deep in their native mine again, than grace my neck and lend thy fair face to palm off a lie.

Wilt please you dress? In infected clothes, new from a pest-house. Leave me. If I dress, I dress alone. Oh, for a friend. Time gallops. He that should guard me is mine enemy, constrains me to abide the fatal dye, my rashness, not my reason cast. He comes that will exact the forfeit. Must I pay it? E'en at the cost of utter bankruptcy, what's to be done? Pronounce the vow that parts my body from my soul? To what it loathes links that, while this is linked to what it loves. Condemned to such perdition, what's to be done? Stand at the altar in an hour from this? An hour from thence, seated at his board, a wife. Thence, frenzies in that thought. What is to be done? Enter Master Walter. What? Ran the waves so high?

Not ready yet? Your lord will soon be here. The guests collect. Show me some way to scape these nuptials. Do it! Some opening for avoidance or escape. Or to thy charge I'll lay a broken heart. It may be broken vows and blasted honor, or else a mind distraught. What's this? The strait I'm fallen into my patience cannot bear. It frights my reason, warps my sense of virtue. Religion changes me into a thing I look at with abhorring. Listen to me. Listen to me. If this contract thou holdest me to, abide thou the result. Answer to heaven for what I suffer. Prepare thyself for such calamity to fall on me and those whose evil stars have linked them with me as no past mishap, however rare, and marvelously sad can parallel.

Lay thy account to live a smileless life. Die an unpityed death, abhorred, abandoned of thy kind as one who had the guarding of a young man. The young maid's peace, looked on and saw her rashly peril it, and when she saw her danger and confessed her fault, compelled her to complete her ruin. Has done? Another moment, and I have. Be warned. Beware how you abandoned me to myself. I'm young, rash, inexperienced. Tempted by a most insufferable misery, bold, desperate, and reckless. Thou hast age, experience, wisdom, and collectedness, power, freedom, everything that I have not. Yet want, as none e'er wanted. Thou canst save me. Thou ought'st. Thou must. I tell thee at his feet. I fell a course. Ere mount his bridal bed, so choose twixt my rescue and my grave, and quickly, too, the hour of sacrifice is near.

Anon the immolating priest will summon me, devise some speedy means to cheat the altar of its victim. Do it, nor leave the task to me. As done. I have. Then list to me, and silently, if not with patience, how I watched thee from thy childhood, I'll not recall to thee. Thy father's wisdom, whose humble instrument I was, directed your knowledge should be passed in privacy, from your apt mind that far outstripped your years, fearing the taint of an infected world. For in the rich grounds weeds once taking root grow strong as flowers. He might be right or wrong. I thought him right, and therefore did his bidding. Most certainly he loved you. So did I. I, well as I had been myself your father. His hand is resting upon his knee.

Julia attempts to take it. He withdraws it, looks at her. She hangs her head. Well, you may take my hand. I need not say how fast you grew in knowledge and in goodness. That hope could scarcely enjoy its golden dreams, so soon fulfillment realized them all. Enough. You came to womanhood, her heart pure as the leaf of the consummate bud, that's new unfolded by the smiling sun, and ne'er new blight nor canker. Julia attempts to place her other hand on his shoulder. He leans from her, looks at her. She hangs her head again. Put it there. Where left I off? I know. When a good woman is fitly mated, she grows doubly good. How good so'er before! I found the man I thought a match for thee, and, soon as found, proposed him to thee.

"'Twas your father's will, occasion offering. You should be married soon as you reached to womanhood. You liked my choice, accepted him. We came to town, where, by important matters summoned thence, I left you an affianced bride. You did.

You did.

Leans her head upon her hand and weeps. Nay, check thy tears. Let judgment now, not passion, be awake. On my return I found thee—what? I'll not describe the thing I found thee then. I'll not describe my pangs to see thee such a thing. The engineer who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower, had cost him years and years of toil to raise, and smiling at it, tells the winds and waves to roar and whistle now, but in a night, beholds the tempest sporting in its place, may look aghast, as I did. Julia, falling on her knees, pardon me, forgive me, pity me. Resume thy seat. Raises her. I pity thee, perhaps not thee alone. It fits to sue for pardon. Me alone? None other. But to vindicate myself, I name thy lover's stern desertion of thee.

What was thou then with wounded pride, a thing to leap into a torrent, throw itself from a precipice, rush into a fire? I saw thy madness, knew to thwart it were to chafe it, and humored it to take that course, I thought, adopted, least would rue. T'was wisely done. At least was for the best. To blame thee for it was adding shame to shame. But, master Walter, these nuptials must they needs go on. Entering. More guests arrive. Attend to them. Servant goes out. Dear Master Walter, is there no way to escape these nuptials? Master Walter, knowest not what with these nuptials comes? Hast thou forgot? What? Master Walter, nothing. I did tell thee of a thing. What was it? Master Walter, to forget it was a fault.

Look back and think. I can't remember it. Master Walter, fathers, make straws your children. Nature's nothing, blood nothing. Once in others' veins it runs. It no more yearneth for the parent flood, than doth the stream that from the source departs. Talk not of love instinctive. What you call so is but the brat of custom. Your own flesh, by habit, cleaves to you. Without has no adhesion. Aside. So you have forgot you have a father, and are here to meet him. I'll not deny it. You should blush for it. No, no here, master Walter. What's a father that you have not been to me? Nay, turn not from me. For at the name a holy awe I own, that now almost inclines my knee to earth. But thou to me, except a father's name, hast all the father been, the care, the love, the guidance, the protection of a father.

Canst wonder, then, if like thy child I feel, And feeling so, that father's claim forget, whom ne'er I knew save the name of one. Oh, turn to me, do not chide me, or thou wilt chide, chide on, but turn to me. Master Walter, struggling with emotion, my Julia embraces her. Now, dear Master Walter, hear me. Is there no way to scape these nuptials? Julia, a promise made admits not of release, save by consent or forfeiture of those who hold it. So it should be pondered well before we let it go. Ere man should say I broke the word I had the power to keep, I'd lose the life I had the power to part with. Remember, Julia, thou and I to-day must, to thy father, Of thy training render a strict account. While honor's left to us, we have something, nothing having all but that.

Now, for thy last act of obedience, Julia, present thyself before thy bridegroom. Good. My Julia's now herself. Show him thy heart, and to his honor leave it to set thee free or hold thee bound. Thy father will be by. Enter Master Walter and Master Hartwell. Thanks, Master Walter. There was a child more bent to do her father's will you'll own than mine, yet never one more froward. All runs fair. Fair may all end. Today you'll learn the cause that took me out of town, but soft a while. Here comes the bridegroom with his friends. And here the all-obedient bride. Enter on one hand, Julia, and on the other hand, Lord Rochdale, with Lord Tinsel and friends. Afterwards, Clifford. Is she not fair? She'll do.

Your servant, lady. Master Walter, we're glad to see you. Sirs, you're welcome all. What wait they for? Are we to wed, or not? We're ready. Why don't they present the bride? I hope they know she is to wed an earl. Should I speak first? Not for your coronet. I, as your friend, may make the first advance. We've come here to be married. Where's the bride? There stands she, Lord, if tis her will to wed. Is Lordship's free to take her? Not a step. I, as your friend, may lead her to your lordship. Fair lady, by your leave. No, not to you. I ask your hand to give it to his lordship. Nor to his lordship, save he will accept my hand without my heart. But I'll present my knee to him, and, by his lofty rank, implore him now to do a lofty deed, will lift its stately head above his rank, assert him nobler yet in worth than name, and, in place of an unwilling bride, unto a willing debt, make him lord, whose thanks shall be his vassals, night and day, that still shall wait upon him."

What means this? What is it behooves a wife to bring her lord? A whole heart, and a true one. I have none. Not half a heart, the fraction of a heart. Am I a woman it befits to wed? Why, where's thy heart? Gone, out of my keeping, lost past recovery. Write entitled to it. And all given up, and he that's owner on it, so fit to wear it, were it fifty hearts, I'd give it to him all. Thou dost not mean his lordship's secretary. Yes. Away disguises. In that secretary know the master of the heart, of which the poor, unvalued, empty casket at your feet. Its jewel gone, I now despairing throw. Kneels. Of his lord's bride, he's lord, lord paramount, to whom her virgin homage first she paid, against whom rebelled in frowness alone, nor knew herself how loyal to him till another claimed her duty, then awoke to sense of all she owed him, all his worth, all her undeservings.

Lady, we came not here to treat of hearts, but marriage. Which, so please you, is with us a simple joining by the priest of hands. A ring's put on, a prayer or two is said, your man and wife, and nothing more. For hearts we oftener do without them than with them, lady. So does not wed this lady. Who are you? I'm secretary to the Earl of Rochdale. My lord. I know him not. I know him now. Your lordship's rival. Once Sir Thomas Clifford. Yes, and the bridegroom of that lady then, then loved her, loves her still. Was loved by her, though she knew it not, is loved by her, as now she knows, and all the world may know. We can't be laughed at. We are here to wed, and shall fulfill our contract. Clifford.

Julia, you will not give your hand? A pause. Julia seems utterly lost. You have forgot again. You have a father. Bring him now, to see thy Julia, justify thy training, and lay her life down to redeem her word. And so redeems her all. Is it your will, my lord, these nuptials shall go on? It is. Then is it mine they stop? I told your lordship you should not keep a hunchback for your agent. Thought like my father, my good lord, who said he would not have a hunchback for his son. So do I pardon you, the savage slight. My lord, that I am not as straight as you, was blemished neither of my thought nor will, my head nor heart. It was no act of mine, yet it did cuddle nature's kindly milk, Erwin, "'Tis richest, in a parent's breast, to cast me out to heartless fosterage, nor heartless always, as it proved, and give my portion to another, the same blood.

But I'll be sworn in vain, my lord, and so, although his trunk did swerve no more than yours, not half so straight as I." "'Upon my life! You've got a modest agent, Rockdale.' Now, he'll prove himself descended, mark my words, from some small gentleman. And so you thought, where nature played the churl, it would be fit that fortune played it too. You would have had my lord solve me of my agency. Fair lord, the floor did cost me fifty times, a hundred times my agency, but all's recovered. Look, my lord, A testament to make a pension of his lordship's rent-roll. It is my father's, and was left by him, in case his heir should die without a son, then to be opened. Heaven did send a son to bless the heir.

Heaven took its gift away. He died. His father died. And Master Walter, the unsightly agent of his lordship there, the hunchback, Whom your lordship would have stripped of his agency, is now the Earl of Rochdale. We've made a small mistake here. Never mind, tis nothing in a lord. The Earl of Rochdale? And what of that? Thou knowest not half my greatness. The prouder Tyler Julia have I yet, sooner than part with which I'd give that up, and be again plain master Walter. What, dost thou not apprehend me? Yes, thou dost. Command thyself. Do not gasp. My pupil, daughter, come to thy father's heart. Julia rushes into his arms. Enter Fathom. Thievery, elopement, escape, arrest. What's the matter? Mistress Helen is running away with Master Modus.

Master Modus is running away with Mistress Helen, but we have caught them, secured them, and here they come to receive the reward of their merits. Enter Helen and Modus, followed by servants. I'll ne'er wed man if not my cousin Modus. Nor woman I, save cousin Helen's she. Master Walter to Master Hartwell. A daughter have you, and a nephew too, without their match in duty. Let them marry, for you, sir, who to-day have lost an earldom, yet would have shared that earldom with my child, my only one, content yourself with prospect of the succession. It must fall to you, and fit yourself to grace it. Ape not those who rank by pride. The man of simplest bearing is yet a lord, when he's a lord indeed.

The paradox is obsolete. Ne'er heed. Learn from his book, and practice out of mine. Sir Thomas Clifford, take my daughter's hand. If now you know the master of her heart, give it, my Julia. You suspect, I see, and rightly, that there has been some masking here. Content thee, daughter, thou shalt know anon. How jealousy of my misshapen rack made me distrustful of a child's affections, who doubted e'en a wife's, so that I dropped the title of thy father, lest thy duty should pay the debt thy love could solve alone. All this and more, that to thy friends and thee pertains, at fitting time thou shalt be told. But now thy nuptials wait. The happy close of thy hard trial, wholesome though severe. The world won't cheat thee now, thy heart is proved.

Thou knowest thy peace by finding out its bane, and ne'er will act from reckless impulse more.

queue_music Chapters 5