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!