Presently, good uncle.
Northlake.
Dimly these lights do burn, as if this boudoir
A cloister were; but these fair ornaments,
Arranged in chaste profusion, show a maiden
Mind dwells here that doth delight in beauty.
Yonder, enshrined with wreaths of evergreen
And immortelles, a precious picture hangs,—
Her mother and my sister, looking most
Pityingly on me. What is this? Why, here’s
The carven image of a maid at prayer;
And here’s a tender picture of a youth
And maiden in a flower-garden, done
In placid oils upon a patch of canvas.
Methinks the artist had done better had
He put here in the corner of the picture
Some quaint and curious demon, peeping o’er
The garden wall. Why, looking at these toys,
So fitting for a maiden’s bower, almost
Moves me from my purpose. Must all these
Vanish? Will not some angel answer me?
No; Heaven answers not a bankrupt’s prayer.
My fortune and her fortune swallowed in
The hideous maw of speculation; both
Banished, completely banished! Why, I’d rather
Be exiled from my country than my fortune.
But all, all is not lost. She hath a girlish
Beauty and a heart most rare; and in
This age of rude massed gold there’s value in it.
A heaven-dowered woman hath an alchemy
That can refine base gold. The bargain’s good....
Ninon, is not thy lady nearly ready?
Ninon [within].
My lady does demur to wear ze dress,
And says she’d rather be plain Violet.
Northlake.
Thy scruples, Violet, are pretty whims;
But more become a simpering maid than thy
Chaste self. [Aside] Alas, the plague of poverty!
[Aloud] Thou dost obedient service to thy guardian
Uncle, and mayst save him from a plague
That’s worse than all the plagues that e’er beset
The town of Coventry.
Violet [within].
Plague take the costume! I do not like it.