ACT III.
SCENE I.—A Drawing-room.
[Enter Lord Tinsel and the Earl of Rochdale.]
Tin. Refuse a lord! A saucy lady this.
I scarce can credit it.
Roch. She’ll change her mind.
My agent, Master Walter, is her guardian.
Tin. How can you keep that Hunchback in his office?
He mocks you.
Roch. He is useful. Never heed him.
My offer now do I present through him.
He has the title-deeds of my estates,
She’ll listen to their wooing. I must have her.
Not that I love her, but that all allow
She’s fairest of the fair.
Tin. Distinguished well!
’Twere most unseemly for a lord to love!—
Leave that to commoners! ’Tis vulgar—she’s
Betrothed, you tell me, to Sir Thomas Clifford?
Roch. Yes.
Tin. 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 Thomas 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 to their brains did owe their titles, as
Do lawyers, doctors. We to nothing owe them,
Which makes us far the nobler.
Roch. Is it so?
Tin. Believe me. You shall profit by my training;
You grow a lord apace. I saw 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.]
Will. A gentleman would see your lordship.
Tin. Sir!
What’s that?
Will. A gentleman would see his lordship.
Tin. How know you, sir, his lordship is at home?
Is he at home because he goes not out?
He’s not at home, though there you see him, sir;
Unless he certify that he’s at home!
Bring up the name of the gentleman, and then
Your lord will know if he’s at home or not.
[Williams goes out.]
Your man was porter to some merchant’s door,
Who never taught him better breeding
Than to speak the vulgar truth! Well, sir?
[Williams having re-entered.]
Will. His name,
So please your lordship, Markham.
Tin. Do you know
The thing?
Roch. Right well! I’faith a hearty fellow,
Son to a worthy tradesman, who would do
Great things with little means; so entered him
In the Temple. A good fellow, on my life.
Nought smacking of his stock!
Tin. You’ve said enough!
His lordship’s not at home.
[Williams goes out.]
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 desert,
Were it ten times the heart it is, ’tis nought!
[Enter Williams.]
Will. One Master Jones hath asked to see you lordship.
Tin. And what was your reply to Master Jones?
Will. I knew not if his lordship was at home.
Tin. You’ll do. Who’s Master Jones?
Roch. A curate’s son.
Tin. 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,
That sweating does his work, and drudges on,
While lives the hopeful rector at his ease.
How made you his acquaintance, pray?
Roch. We read
Latin and Greek together.
Tin. Dropping them—
As, now that you’re a lord, of course you’ve done—
Drop him—You’ll say his lordship’s not at home.
Will. So please your lordship, I forgot to say,
One Richard Cricket likewise is below.
Tin. Who?—Richard Cricket! You must see him, Rochdale!
A noble little fellow! A great man, sir!
Not knowing whom, you would be nobody!
I won five thousand pounds by him!
Roch. Who is he?
I never heard of him.
Tin. What! never heard
Of Richard Cricket!—never heard of him!
Why, he’s the jockey of Newmarket; 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.
Roch. Bid him wait in the ante-room.
[Williams goes out.]
Tin. The ante-room!
The best room in your 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.]
Will. So please your lordship, a petition.
Tin. Hadst not a service ’mongst the Hottentots
Ere thou camest hither, friend? Present thy lord
With a petition! At mechanics’ doors,
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—
Subscriptions to a book of poetry!
Cornelius Tense, 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, follows him? Why, an M.D.,
An F.R.S., an F.AS., and then
A D.D., Doctor of Divinity,
Ushering in an LL.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 affix your name.
Roch. Pray, who’s the object?
Tin. A most worthy man!
A man of singular deserts; a man
In serving whom your lordship will serve me,—
Signor Cantata.
Roch. He’s a friend of yours?
Tin. 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?
Roch. Oh, by all means.
Tin. 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.
Roch. Nay, I would wait the lady’s answer.
Tin. Wait! take an excursion to the country; let
Her answer wait for you!
Roch. Indeed!
Tin. Indeed!
Befits a lord nought like indifference.
Say an estate should fall to you, you’d take it
As it concerned more a stander by
Than you. As you’re a 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 the distinction else ’twixt them and you?
[They go out.]
SCENE II.—An Apartment in Master Heartwell’s House.
[Master Walter discovered looking through title-deeds and papers.]
Wal. So falls out everything, as I would have it,
Exact in place and time. This lord’s advances
Receives 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.]
Julia. What have my eyes to do with water? Fire
Becomes them better!
Wal. True!
Julia. 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 ’gan to doubt I knew,
Emblazoned by the comment of his tongue!
And he to lesson 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!
Wal. You’re very right!
Julia. 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!
Wal. And so he ought.
Julia. O! 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!
Wal. Thy case
I own a hard one!
Julia. 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!
Wal. You’d give it him?
Julia. I would.
Wal. You’d wed that lord?
Julia. That lord I’d wed;—
Or any other lord,—only to show him
That I could wed above him!
Wal. Give me your hand
And word to that.
Julia. There! Take my hand and word!
Wal. That lord hath offered you his hand again.
Julia. He has?
Wal. Your father knows it: he approves of him.
There are the title-deeds of the estates,
Sent for my jealous scrutiny. All sound,—
No flaw, or speck, that e’en the lynx-eyed law
Itself could find. A lord of many lands!
In Berkshire half a county; and the same
In Wiltshire, and in Lancashire! Across
The Irish Sea a principality!
And not a rood with bond or lien on it!
Wilt give that lord a wife? Wilt make thyself
A countess? Here’s the proffer of his hand.
Write thou content, and wear a coronet!
Julia. [Eagerly.] Give me the paper.
Wal. There! Here’s pen and ink.
Sit down. Why do you pause? A flourish of
The pen, and you’re a countess.
Julia. 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!
Wal. Wed whom?
Julia. Sir Thomas Clifford.
Wal. You’re right.
Julia. 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 o’er—that’s done.
Was never lady wronged so foul as I! [Weeps.]
Wal. Thou’rt to be pitied.
Julia. [Aroused.] Pitied! Not so bad
As that.
Wal. Indeed thou art, to love the man
That spurns thee!
Julia. Love him! Love! If hate could find
A word more harsh than its own name, I’d take it,
To speak the love I bear him! [Weeps.]
Wal. Write thy own name,
And show him how near akin thy hate’s to hate.
Julia. [Writes.] ’Tis done!
Wal. ’Tis well! I’ll come to you anon! [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 ’bove the reach of scorn—
That idly wags its tongue, where wealth and state
Need only beckon to have crowds to laud!
Then how the tables change! The hand he 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 warrant none
Shall say it fits me not:—but, one and all
Confess I wear it bravely, as I ought!
And he shall hear it! Ay, 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 ne’er
Had given me up! Love’s not a spider’s web
But fit to mesh a fly—that you can break
By only blowing on’t! He never loved me!
He knows not what love is!—or, if he does,
He has not been o’erchary of his peace!
And that he’ll find when I’m another’s wife,
Lost!—lost to him for ever! Tears again!
Why should I weep for him? Who make their woes.
Deserve them! What have I to do with tears?
[Enter Helen.]
Helen. News, Julia, news!
Julia. What! is’t about Sir Thomas?
Helen. Sir Thomas, say you? He’s no more Sir Thomas!
That cousin lives, as heir to whom, his wealth
And title came to him.
Julia. Was he not dead?
Helen. No more than I am dead.
Julia. I would ’twere not so.
Helen. What say you, Julia?
Julia. Nothing!
Helen. I could kiss
That cousin! couldn’t you, Julia?
Julia. Wherefore?
Helen. Why
For coming back to life again, as ’twere
Upon his cousin to revenge you.
Julia. Helen!
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.”
Julia. Helen!
Helen. Or has he aught 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.”
Julia. Helen!
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, Master Clifford?”
Julia. [Highly incensed.] Helen!
Helen. Bless me!
Julia. I hate you, Helen!
[Enter Modus.]
Mod. 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 rumoured 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!
Helen. I’m glad on’t.
Mod. And so am I,
A scurvy trick it was
He served you, madam. Use a lady so!
I merely bore with him. I never liked him.
Helen. No more did I. No, never could I think
He looked his title.
Mod. No, nor acted it.
If rightly they report, he ne’er disbursed
To entertain his friends, ’tis broadly said,
A hundred pounds in the year! He was most poor
In the appointments of a man of rank,
Possessing wealth like his. His horses, hacks!
His gentleman, 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.
Julia. Silence, sir!
For shame!
Helen. Why, Julia!
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 for 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!—Ay, is! though stripped of rank and wealth,
His nature’s ’bove or fortune’s love or spite,
To blazon or to blurr it! [Retires.]
Mod. [To Helen.] I was told
Much to disparage him—I know not wherefore.
Helen. And so was I, and know as much the cause.
[Enter Master Walter, with parchments.]
Wal. Joy, my Julia!
Impatient love has foresight! Lo you here
The marriage deeds filled up, except a blank
To write your jointure. What you will, my girl!
Is this a lover? Look! Three thousand pounds
Per annum for your private charges! Ha!
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 dost not speak; but, ’tis the way with joy!
With richest heart, it has the poorest tongue!
Mod. What great good fortune’s this you speak of, sir?
Wal. A coronet, Master Modus! You behold
The wife elect, sir, of no less a man
Than the new Earl of Rochdale—heir of him
That’s recently deceased.
Helen. My dearest Julia,
Much joy to you!
Mod. All good attend you, madam!
Wal. This letter brings excuses from his lordship,
Whose absence it accounts for. He repairs
To his estate in Lancashire, and thither
We follow.
Julia. When, sir?
Wal. Now. This very hour.
Julia. This very hour! O cruel, fatal haste!
Wal. “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—thou art so!
Thou’dst have the slight that marked 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 welcome? In my zeal
To win thee thine, thou know’st, at any time
I’d play the steed, whose will to serve his lord,
With his last breath 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!
Julia. Give you thanks!
Though ’twere my death! my death!
Wal. Thy death! indeed,
For happiness like this, one well might die!
Take thy lord’s letter! Well?
[Enter Thomas, with a letter.]
Thos. This letter, sir,
The gentleman that served Sir Thomas Clifford—
Or him that was Sir Thomas—gave to me
For Mistress Julia.
Julia. Give it me!
[Throwing away the one she holds.]
Wal. [Snatching it.] For what?
Wouldst read it? He’s a bankrupt! stripped of title,
House, chattels, lands, and all! A 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 on 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 choler! Thus I treat his letter!
[Tears and throws it on the ground.]
So! I was wrong to let him ruffle me;
He is not worth the spending anger on!
I prithee, Master Modus, use despatch,
And presently make ready for our 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 poring there upon the ground?
Time flies. Your rise astounds you? Never heed—
You’ll play my lady countess like a queen!
[They go out.]