ACT II.
SCENE I.—An Apartment in Master Heartwell’s House.
[Enter Fathom and Thomas.]
Thos. Well, Fathom, is thy mistress up?
Fath. She is, Master Thomas, and breakfasted.
Thos. She stands it well! ’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.
Fath. ’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.
Thos. Why, yes; she’s changed since she came hither.
Fath. Changed, do you say, Master Thomas? Changed, forsooth! I know not the thing in which she is not changed, saving 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 she 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?
Thos. Why, Master Fathom, as many times as it would take to make it fit me.
Fath. Good! But, supposing it fitted thee at the first?
Thos. Then would I have it altered not at all.
Fath. 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 sempstress?
Thos. Thrice, may be.
Fath. Thrice, may be! Twenty times, may be; and not a turn too many, for the truth on’t. Twenty times, on the oath of the sempstress. Now mark me—can you count?
Thos. After a fashion.
Fath. 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 sleeves; three for the tucker—How many times in all is that?
Thos. Eight times to a fraction, Master Fathom.
Fath. What a master of figures you are! Eight times—now recollect that! And then found she fault with the trimmings. Now tell me, how many times took I back the gown for the trimmings?
Thos. Eight times more, perhaps!
Fath. Ten times to a certainty. How many times makes that?
Thos. Eighteen, Master Fathom, by the rule of addition.
Fath. And how many times more will make twenty?
Thee. Twice, by the same rule.
Fath. 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, or my ears did not pay for it. She wished, she said, that the slattern sempstress had not touched the gown, for nought had she done but botched it. Now what think you had the sempstress done to the gown?
Thos. To surmise that, I must be learned in the sempstress’s art.
Fath. 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.
Thos. And found thy fair mistress as many faults with that?
Fath. 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 T—ha! ha! ha! and she praised the sempstress—ha! ha! ha! and she smiles at me, and I smile—ha! ha! ha! and the sempstress smiles—ha! ha! ha! Now, why did the sempstress smile?
Thos. That she had succeeded so well in her art.
Fath. Thou hast hit it again! The jade must have been born a sempstress! If ever I marry, she shall work for my wife. The gown was the same gown, and there was my mistress’s twentieth mood!
Thos. What 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?
Fath. She has, Master Thomas. I coaxed it from her maid. She marries, Monday week.
Thos. Comes not Master Walter back to-day?
Fath. 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.
Thos. And what should I do?
Fath. 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 can 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 II.—A Garden with two Arbours.
[Enter Master Heartwell and Master Walter meeting.]
Heart. Good Master Walter, welcome back again!
Wal. I’m glad to see you, Master Heartwell!
Heart. How,
I pray you, sped the mighty business which
So sudden called you hence?
Wal. Weighty, 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! Likes she the town?
How does she? Is she well? Canst match me her
Among your city maids?
Heart. Nor court ones neither!
She far outstrips them all!
Wal. I knew she would.
What else could follow in a maid so bred?
A pure mind, Master Heartwell!—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!
Heart. Master Walter!
Wal. Well?
Heart. 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 master of its soundings, bearings,—knows
Is headlands, havens, currents—where ’tis bold,
And where behoves to keep a good look-out.
The one will swim, where sinks the other one?
Wal. The drift of this?
Heart. Do you not guess it?
Wal. Humph!
Heart. If you would train a maid to live in town,
Breed her not in the country!
Wal. Say you so?
And stands she not the test?
Heart. As snow stands fire!
Your country maid has melted all away,
And plays the city lady to the height;
Her mornings gives to mercers, milliners,
Shoemakers, jewellers, and haberdashers;
Her noons, to calls; her afternoons, to dressing;
Evenings, to plays and drums; and nights, to routs,
Balls, masquerades! Sleep only ends the riot,
Which waking still begins!
Wal. I’m all amaze!
How bears Sir Thomas this?
Heart. Why, patiently;
Though one can see with pain.
Wal. She loves him? Ha!
That shrug is doubt! She’d ne’er consent to wed him
Unless she loved him!—never! Her young fancy
The pleasures of the town—new things—have caught,
Anon their hold will slacken; she’ll become
Her former self again; to its old train
Of sober feelings will her heart return;
And then she’ll give it wholly to the man
Her virgin wishes chose!
Heart. Here comes Sir Thomas;
And with him Master Modus.
Wal. Let them pass:
I would not see him till I speak with her.
[They retire into one of the Arbours.]
[Enter Clifford and Modus.]
Clif. 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 and that engaged, as soon
As asked for? Maid that loved would scarce do this?
Nor visit we together as we used,
When first she came to town. She loves me less
Than once she did—or loves me not at all.
Mod. I’m little skilled, Sir Thomas, in the world:
What mean you now to do?
Clif. 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.
Mod. Lo, then, your opportunity—she comes—
My cousin also:—her will I engage,
Whilst you converse together.
Clif. 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 Arbour.]
[Enter Julia and Helen.]
Helen. So, Monday week will say good morn to thee
A maid, and bid good night a sober wife!
Julia. That Monday week, I trust, will never come,
That brags to make a sober wife of me!
Helen. How changed you are, my Julia!
Julia. Change makes change.
Helen. Why wedd’st thou, then?
Julia. Because I promised him!
Helen. Thou lovest him?
Julia. Do I?
Helen. He’s a man to love!
A right well-favoured man!
Julia. Your point’s well favoured.
Where did you purchase it? In Gracechurch Street?
Helen. Pshaw! never mind my point, but talk of him.
Julia. I’d rather talk with thee about the lace.
Where bought you it? In Gracechurch Street, Cheapside,
Whitechapel, Little Britain? Can’t you say
Where ’twas you bought the lace?
Helen. In Cheapside, then.
And now, then, to Sir Thomas! He is just
The height I like a man.
Julia. Thy feather’s just
The height I like a feather! Mine’s too short!
What shall I give thee in exchange for it?
Helen. What shall I give thee for a minute’s talk
About Sir Thomas?
Julia. Why, thy feather.
Helen. Take it!
Clif. [Aside to Modus.] What, likes she not to speak of me?
Helen. And now
Let’s talk about Sir Thomas—much I’m sure
He loves you.
Julia. Much I’m sure, he has a right!
Those know I who would give their eyes to be
Sir Thomas, for my sake!
Helen. Such too, know I.
But ’mong them none that can compare with him,
Not one so graceful.
Julia. What a graceful set
Your feather has!
Helen. Nay, give it back to me,
Unless you pay me for’t.
Julia. What was’t to get?
Helen. A minute’s talk with thee about Sir Thomas.
Julia. Talk of his title, and his fortune then.
Clif. [Aside.] Indeed! I would not listen, yet I must!
Julia. An ample fortune, Helen—I shall be
A happy wife! What routs, what balls, what masques,
What gala-days!
Clif. [Aside.] For these she marries me!
She’ll talk of these!
Julia. 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 excursion on the Thames:
What drives to Barnet, Hackney, Islington!
What rides to Epping, Hounslow, and Blackheath!
What sails to Greenwich, Woolwich, Fulham, Kew!
I’ll set a pattern to your lady wives!
Clif. [Aside.] Ay, lady? Trust me, not at my expense.
Julia. And what a wardrobe! I’ll have change of suits
For every day in the year! and sets for days!
My morning dress, my noon dress, dinner dress,
And evening dress! Then will I 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.
Clif. [Aside.] Then shine away;
Who covets thee may wear thee;—I’m not he!
Julia. And then my title! Soon as I put on
The ring, I’m Lady Clifford. So I take
Precedence of plain mistress, were 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 dower a 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 round about.
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.
Clif. [Coming forward.] Most true;
But not the part which you design to play.
Julia. A listener, sir!
Clif. By chance, and not intent,
Your speech was forced upon mine ear, that ne’er
More thankless duty to my heart discharged!
Would for that heart it ne’er had known the sense
Which tells it ’tis a bankrupt, there, where most
It coveted to be rich, and thought it was so!
O 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 hadst ta’en the gift,
Not for the gift ta’en him. Could I have poured
The wealth of richest Croesus in thy lap,
I had been blest to see thee scatter it,
So I was still thy riches paramount!
Julia. Know you me, sir!
Clif. 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 the wearing on’t!
My coffers, lands, 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.
Julia. And do you carry it so proudly, sir?
Clif. Proudly, but still more sorrowfully, lady!
I’ll lead thee to the church on Monday week.
Till then, farewell and then, farewell for ever!
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 Modus go out.]
Julia. Helen!
Helen. What ails you, sweet?
Julia. I cannot breathe—quick, loose my girdle, oh!
[Faints.]
[Master Walter and Master Heartwell come forward.]
Wal. Good Master Heartwell, 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 III.—The Street.
[Enter Clifford and Stephen, meeting.]
Ste. Letters, Sir Thomas.
Clif. Take them home again,
I shall not read them now.
Ste. Your pardon, sir,
But here is one directed strangely.
Clif. How?
Ste. “To Master Clifford, gentleman, now styled
Sir Thomas Clifford, baronet.”
Clif. Indeed!
Whence comes that letter?
Ste. From abroad.
Clif. Which is it?
Ste. So please you, this, Sir Thomas.
Clif. Give it me.
Ste. 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 a kinder master.
Clif. Stephen!
Ste. Sir Thomas!
Clif. From my door remove
The plate that bears my name.
Ste. The plate, Sir Thomas!
Clif. The plate—collect my servants and instruct them
To make out each their claims, unto the end
Of their respective terms, and give them in
To my steward. Him and them apprise, good fellow,
That I keep house no more. As you go home,
Call at my coachmaker’s and bid him stop
The carriage I bespoke. The one I have
Send with my horses to the mart whereat
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 round my tradesmen and collect their bills,
And bring them to me at the inn.
Ste. The inn!
Clif. 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
You’re honest and industrious, and all
That a servant ought to be.
Ste. I see, Sir Thomas,
Some great misfortune has befallen you?
Clif. 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!
Mischance has fallen on me—but what of that?
Mischance has fallen on many a better man.
I prithee leave me. I grow sadder while
I see the eye with which you view my grief.
’Sdeath, they will out! I would have been a man,
Had you been less a kind and gentle one.
Now, as you love me, leave me.
Ste. Never master
So well deserved the love of him that served him.
[Stephen goes out.]
Clif. Misfortune liketh company; it seldom
Visits its friends alone. Ha! Master Walter,
And ruffled too. I’m in no mood for him.
[Enter Master Walter.]
Wal. So, Sir—Sir Thomas Clifford! what with speed
And choler—I do gasp for want of breath.
Clif. Well, Master Walter?
Wal. You’re a rash young man, sir;
Strong-headed and wrong-headed, and I fear, sir,
Not over delicate in that fine sense
Which men of honour pride themselves upon!
Clif. Well, Master Walter?
Wal. A young woman’s heart, sir,
Is not a stone to carve a posy on!
Which knows not what is writ on’t; 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.
Clif. Well, sir?
Wal. You never loved my ward, sir!
Clif. The bright Heavens
Bear witness that I did!
Wal. The bright Heavens, sir,
Bear not false witness. That you 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 wronged, sir, wronged!
You wear a sword, and so do I.
Clif. Well, sir!
Wal. You know the use, sir, of a sword?
Clif. 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’t! 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—look, sir,
That hand’s a widower’s, to its first mate sworn
To clasp no second one. As for amends, 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 if life is dear
To one so much a loser.
Wal. What, all gone!
Thy cousin living they reported dead!
Clif. Title and land, sir, unto which add love!
All gone, save life and honour, which, ere I’ll lose,
I’ll let the other go.
Wal. We’re 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 or 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. ’Twere folly now to part
Without a reckoning.
Clif. Just as you please.
Wal. You’ve done
A noble lady wrong.
Clif. That lady, sir,
Has done me wrong.
Wal. 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 on, 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.]