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<h1>THE HUNCHBACK.</h1> <h1>THE LOVE-CHASE.</h1> by JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES <h3>DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.</h3> (AS ORIGINALLY PERFORMED AT COVENT GARDEN IN 1832.) <table> <tr> <td> Julia </td> <td> Miss F. Kemble. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Helen </td> <td> Miss Taylor. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Master Walter </td> <td> Mr. J. S. Knowles. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Sir Thomas Clifford </td> <td> Mr. C. Kemble. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Lord Tinsel </td> <td> Mr. Wrench. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Master Wilford </td> <td> Mr. J. Mason. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Modus </td> <td> Mr. Abbott. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Master Heartwell </td> <td> Mr. Evans. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Gaylove </td> <td> Mr. Henry. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Fathom </td> <td> Mr. Meadows. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Thomas </td> <td> Mr. Barnes. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Stephen </td> <td> Mr. Payne. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Williams </td> <td> Mr. Irwin. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Simpson </td> <td> Mr. Brady. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Waiter </td> <td> Mr. Heath. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Holdwell </td> <td> Mr. Bender. </td> </tr> <tr> <td> Servants </td> <td> Mr. J. Cooper. Mr. Lollett. </td> </tr> </table> <h3>ACT I.</h3> <h4>SCENE I.—A Tavern.</h4> 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. Wilf.  Your wine, sirs! your wine!  You do not justice to mine host of the Three Tuns, 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. Gay.  We drink, Master Wilford.  Not a man of us has been chased as yet. Wilf.  But you fill not fairly, sirs!  Look at my measure!  Wherefore 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 of kin to the wealthiest peer in Britain. Gay.  We give you joy, Master Wilford, of the prospect of advancement which has so unexpectedly opened to you. Wilf.  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—am the undoubted successor to his estates and coronet. Gay.  Have you been sent for? Wilf.  No; but I have certified to his agent, Master Walter, the Hunchback, my existence, and peculiar propinquity; and momentarily expect him here. Gay.  Lives there anyone that may dispute your claim—I mean vexatiously? Wilf.  Not a man, Master Gaylove.  I am the sole remaining branch of the family tree. Gay.  Doubtless you look for much happiness from this change of fortune? Wilf.  A world!  Three things have I an especial passion for.  The finest hound, the finest horse, and the finest wife in the kingdom, Master Gaylove! Gay.  The finest wife? Wilf.  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 that I shall love.  My heart has changed mistresses too often to settle down in one servitude now, sir.  But fill, 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] Waiter.  You are wanted, Master Wilford. Wilf.  By whom? Waiter.  One Master Walter. Wilf.  His lordship’s agent!  News, sirs!  Show him in! [Waiter goes out] My heart’s a prophet, sirs—The Earl is dead. [Enter Master Walter] Well, Master Walter.  How accost you me? Wal.  As your impatience shows me you would have me. My Lord, the Earl of Rochdale! Gay.  Give you joy! Hold.  All happiness, my lord! Simp.  Long life and health unto your lordship! Gay.  Come! We’ll drink to his lordship’s health!  ’Tis two o’clock, We’ll e’en carouse till midnight!  Health, my lord! Hold.  My lord, much joy to you! Simp.  All good to your lordship! Wal.  Give something to the dead! Gay.  Give what? Wal.  Respect! He has made the living!  First to him that’s gone, Say “Peace!”—and then with decency to revels! Gay.  What means the knave by revels? Wal.  Knave? Gay.  Ay, knave! Wal.  Go to!  Thou’rt flushed with wine! Gay.  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! Wal.  Reflect’st thou on my shape? Thou art a villain! Gay.  [Starting up.]  Ha! Wal.  A coward, too! Draw! [Drawing his sword.] Gay.  Only mark him! how he struts about! How laughs his straight sword at his noble back. Wal.  Does it?  It cuffs thee for a liar then! [Strikes Gaylove with his sword.] Gay.  A blow! Wal.  Another, lest you doubt the first! Gay.  His blood on his own head!  I’m for you, sir! [Draws.] Clif.  Hold, sir!  This quarrel’s mine! [Coming forward and drawing.] Wal.  No man shall fight for me, sir! Clif.  By your leave, Your patience, pray!  My lord, for so I learn Behoves me to accost you—for your own sake Draw off your friend! Wal.  Not till we have a bout, sir! Clif.  My lord, your happy fortune ill you greet! Ill greet it those who love you—greeting thus The herald of it! Wal.  Sir, what’s that to you? Let go my sleeve! Clif.  My lord, if blood be shed On the fair dawn of your prosperity, Look not to see the brightness of its day. ’Twill be o’ercast throughout! Gay.  My lord, I’m struck! Clif.  You gave the first blow, and the hardest one! Look, sir; if swords you needs must measure, I’m Your mate, not he! Wal.  I’m mate for any man! Clif.  Draw off your friend, my lord, for your own sake! Wilf.  Come, Gaylove! let’s have another room. Gay.  With all my heart, since ’tis your lordship’s will. Wilf.  That’s right!  Put up!  Come, friends! [Wilford and Friends go out.] Wal.  I’ll follow him! Why do you hold me?  ’Tis not courteous of you! Think’st thou I fear them?  Fear!  I rate them but As dust! dross! offals!  Let me at them!—Nay, Call you this kind? then kindness know I not; Nor do I thank you for’t!  Let go, I say! Clif.  Nay, Master Walter, they’re not worth your wrath. Wal.  How know you me for Master Walter?  By My hunchback, eh!—my stilts of legs and arms, The fashion more of ape’s than man’s?  Aha! So you have heard them, too—their savage gibes As I pass on,—“There goes my lord!” aha! God made me, sir, as well as them and you. ’Sdeath!  I demand of you, unhand me, sir! Clif.  There, sir, you’re free to follow them!  Go forth, And I’ll go too: so on your wilfulness Shall fall whate’er of evil may ensue. Is’t fit you waste your choler on a burr? The nothings of the 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 heed a cur. Wal.  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 wayward child, whose pet is off, That made him restive under wholesome check, I now right humbly own, and thank you for. Clif.  No thanks, good Master Walter, owe you me! I’m glad to know you, sir. Wal.  I pray you, now, How did you learn my name?  Guessed I not right? Was’t not my comely hunch that taught it you? Clif.  I own it. Wal.  Right, I know it; you tell truth.  I like you for’t. Clif.  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! Wal.  You would not flatter a poor citizen? Clif.  Indeed, I flatter not! Wal.  I like your face— A frank and honest one!  Your frame’s well knit, Proportioned, shaped! Clif.  Good sir! Wal.  Your name is Clifford— Sir Thomas Clifford.  Humph!  You’re not the heir Direct to the fair baronetcy?  He That was, was drowned abroad.  Am I not right? Your cousin, was’t not?—so succeeded you To rank and wealth, your birth ne’er promised you. Clif.  I see you know my history. Wal.  I do. You’re lucky who conjoin 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 honour is to mount it.  You’d have done it; For you were trained to knowledge, industry, Frugality, and honesty,—the sinews That surest 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. Clif.  I pray you say not so. Wal.  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’t? Clif.  ’Twas my rule, And is so still, to keep my outlay, sir, A span within my means. Wal.  A prudent rule! The turf is a seductive pastime! Clif.  Yes. Wal.  You keep a racing stud?  You bet? Clif.  No, neither. ’Twas still my father’s precept—“Better owe A yard of land to labour, than to chance Be debtor for a rood!” Wal.  ’Twas a wise precept. You’ve a fair house—you’ll get a mistress for it? Clif.  In time! Wal.  In time!  ’Tis time thy choice were made. Is’t not so yet?  Or is thy lady love The newest still thou seest? Clif.  Nay, not so. I’d marry, Master Walter, but old use— For since the age of thirteen I have lived In the 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, Ay, cent-per-cent. returns, I would not launch in, When others were afloat, 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. Wal.  Thou’rt all the better for it! Let’s see!  Hand free—heart whole—well-favoured—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! Clif.  Master Walter! You jest! Wal.  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 to, The pearly texture of whose dainty skin Alone were worth thy baronetcy!  Form And feature has she, wherein move and glow The charms, that in the marble, cold and still, Culled by the sculptor’s jealous skill and joinèd there, Inspire us!  Sir, a maid, before whose feet, A duke—a duke might lay his coronet, To lift her to his state, and partner her! 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 nought but what is costly flourishes! A consort for a king, sir!  Thou shalt see her! Clif.  I thank you, Master Walter!  As you speak, Methinks I see me at 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! Wal.  What! sparks so thick?  We’ll have a blaze anon! Servant.  [Entering.]  The chariot’s at the door. Wal.  It waits in time! Sir Thomas, it shall bear thee to the bower Where dwells this fair—for she’s no city belle, But e’en a sylvan goddess! Clif.  Have with you! Wal.  You’ll bless the day you served the Hunchback, sir! [They go out.] <h4>SCENE II.—A Garden before a Country House.</h4> [Enter Julia and Helen.] Helen.  I like not, Julia, this your country life. I’m weary on’t! Julia.  Indeed?  So am not I! I know no other; would no other know! Helen.  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! Julia.  I seek it not.  Helen, I’m constancy! Helen.  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’rt 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’rt constancy?  Ar’t 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 self-same 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! Julia.  Helen, you know the adage of the tree;— I’ve ta’en the bend.  This rural life of mine, Enjoined me by an unknown father’s will, I’ve led from infancy.  Debarred from hope Of change, I ne’er have sighed for change.  The town To me was like the moon, for any thought I e’er should visit it—nor was I schooled To think it half so fair! Helen.  Not half so fair! The town’s the sun, and thou hast dwelt in night E’er since thy birth, not to have seen the town! Their women there are queens, and kings their men; Their houses palaces! Julia.  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! Helen.  Extremes are ever neighbours.  ’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 Will see our May-day queen a city one! Julia.  Never!  I’m wedded to a country life: O, did you hear what Master Walter says! Nine times in ten the town’s a hollow thing, Where what things are is nought to what they show; Where merit’s name laughs merit’s 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! Helen.  Ay: so says Master Walter.  See I not What can you find in Master Walter, Julia, To be so fond of him! Julia.  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 good three years past—three years—I vow I’m twenty, Helen!—well, as I was saying, When I had 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, Yet there was Master Walter! Helen.  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? Julia.  For neither of us; He’s Master Walter’s clerk, most like. Helen.  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 hose— They’re very like a clerk’s! a diamond loop And button, note you, for his clerkship’s hat,— O, 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! Julia.  I wonder who he is! Helen.  Wouldst like to know? Wouldst for a fancy ride to town with him? I prophesy he comes to take thee thither! Julia.  He ne’er takes me to town!  No, Helen, no! To town who will, a country life for me! Helen.  We’ll see! [Enter Fathom.] Fath.  You’re wanted, madam. Julia.  [Embarrassed.]  Which of us? Fath.  You, madam. Helen.  Julia! what’s the matter?  Nay, Mount not the rose so soon!  He must not see it A month hence.  ’Tis loves flower, which once she wears, The maid is all his own. Julia.  Go to! Helen.  Be sure He comes to woo thee!  He will bear thee hence; He’ll make thee change the country for the town. Julia.  I’m constancy.  Name he the town to me, I’ll tell what I think on’t! Helen.  Then you guess He comes a wooing? Julia.  I guess nought. Helen.  You do! At your grave words, your lips, more honest, smile, And show them to be traitors.  Hie to him. Julia.  Hie thee to soberness. [Goes out.] Helen.  Ay, will I, when, Thy bridemaid, I shall hie to church with thee. Well, Fathom, who is come? Fath.  I know not. Helen.  What!  Didst thou not hear his name? Fath.  I did. Helen.  What is’t? Fath.  I noted not. Helen.  What hast thou ears for, then? Fath.  What good were it for me to mind his name? I do but what I must do.  To do that Is labour quite enough! Wal.  [Without.]  What, Fathom! Fath.  Here. Wal.  [Entering.]  Here, sirrah!  Wherefore didst not come to me? Fath.  You did not bid me come. Wal.  I called thee. Fath.  Yes. And I said “Here;” and waited then to know Your worship’s will with me. Wal.  We go to town. Thy mistress, thou, and all the house. Fath.  Well, sir? Wal.  Mak’st thou not ready then to go to town? Hence, knave, despatch! [Fathom goes out.] Helen.  Go we to town? Wal.  We do; ’Tis now her father’s will she sees the town. Helen.  I’m glad on’t.  Goes she to her father? Wal.  No: At the desire of thine she for a term shares roof with thee. Helen.  I’m very glad on’t. Wal.  What! You like her, then?  I thought you would.  ’Tis time She sees the town. Helen.  It has been time for that These six years. Wal.  By thy wisdom’s count.  No doubt You’ve told her what a precious place it is. Helen.  I have. Wal.  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. Helen.  ’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? Wal.  Well—very well. News for thee. Helen.  What? Wal.  Thy cousin is in town. Helen.  My cousin Modus? Wal.  Much do I suspect That cousin’s nearer to thy heart than blood. Helen.  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? Wal.  Ay, that’s the question! Helen.  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, may be!  Is he bachelor, Or husband?  Bachelor I’m sure he is Comes he not hither wooing, Master Walter? Nay, prithee, answer me! Wal.  Who says thy sex Are curious?  That they’re patient, I’ll be sworn; And reasonable—very reasonable— To look for twenty answers in a breath! Come, thou shalt be enlightened—but propound Thy questions one by one!  Thou’rt far too apt A scholar!  My ability to teach Will ne’er keep pace, I fear, with thine to learn. [They go out.] <h4>SCENE III.—An Apartment in the House.</h4> [Enter Julia, followed by Clifford.] Julia.  No more!  I pray you, sir, no more! Clif.  I love you! Julia.  You mock me, sir! Clif.  Then is there no such thing On earth as reverence; honour filial, the fear Of kings, the awe of supreme heaven itself, Are only shows and sounds that stand for nothing. I love you! Julia.  You have known me scarce a minute! Clif.  Say but a moment, still I 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; and lo! E’en while you look, the peerless flower is up. Consummate in the birth! Julia.  Is’t fear I feel? Why else should beat my heart?  It can’t be fear! Something I needs must say.  You’re from the town; How comes it, sir, you seek a country wife? Methinks ’twill tax his wit to answer that. Clif.  In joining contrasts lieth love’s delight. Complexion, stature, nature, mateth it, Not with their kinds, but with their opposites. Hence hands of snow in palms of russet lie; The form of Hercules affects the sylph’s; And breasts, that case the lion’s fear-proof heart, Find their meet lodge in arms where tremors dwell! Haply for this, on Afric’s swarthy neck, Hath Europe’s priceless pearl been seen to hang, That makes the orient poor!  So with degrees, Rank passes by 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 forsake, To win a country wife. Julia.  His prompt reply My backward challenge shames!  Must I give o’er? I’ll try his wit again.  Who marries me Must lead a country life. Clif.  The life I’d lead! But fools would fly from it; for O! ’tis sweet! It finds the heart out, be there one to find; And corners in’t where store of pleasures lodge, We never dreamed were there!  It is to dwell ’Mid smiles that are not neighbours 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 con Its mercy, bounty, wisdom, power!  It is To nearer see our God! Julia.  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. Clif.  Not it! In any time—say winter!  Fields and trees Have charms for me in very winter time. Julia.  But snow may clothe them then. Clif.  I like them full As well in snow! Julia.  You do? Clif.  I do. Julia.  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’s said, For sun of gaiety and sportiveness, To beggar shining summer. Clif.  I should like A country winter’s night especially! Julia.  You’d sleep by the fire. Clif.  Not I; I’d talk to thee. Julia.  You’d tire of that! Clif.  I’d read to thee. Julia.  And that! Clif.  I’d talk to thee again. Julia.  And sooner tire Than first you did, and fall asleep at last. You’d never do to lead a country life. Clif.  You deal too harshly with me!  Matchless maid, As loved instructor brightens 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. Julia.  His title and his fortune! [Enter Master Walter and Helen.—Julia, disconcerted, retires with the latter.—Clifford rises.] Wal.  So, Sir Thomas! Aha! you husband time!  Well, was I right? Is’t not the jewel that I told you ’twas? 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’t, and with whom I’ll stand thy friend—I will—I say, I will! A strange man, sir, and unaccountable: But I can humour him—will humour him For thy sake, good Sir Thomas; for I like thee. Well, is’t a bargain?  Come, thy hand upon it. A word or two with thee. [They retire.  Julia and Helen come forward.] Julia.  Go up to town! Helen.  Have I not said it ten times o’er to thee? But if thou likest it not, protest against it. Julia.  Not if ’tis Master Walter’s will. Helen.  What then? Thou wouldst not break thy heart for Master Walter? Julia.  That follows not! Helen.  What follows not? Julia.  That I Should break my heart, because we go to town. Helen.  Indeed?—Oh, that’s another matter.  Well, I’d e’en advise thee then to do his will; And, ever after, when I prophesy, Believe me, Julia! [They retire.  Master Walter comes forward.] [Enter Fathom.] Fath.  So please you, sir, a letter,—a post-haste letter!  The bearer on horseback, the horse in a foam—smoking like a boiler at the heat—be sure a posthaste letter! Wal.  Look to the horse and rider. [Opens the letter and reads.] What’s this?  A testament addressed to me, Found in his lordship’s escritoire, and thence Directed to be taken by no hand But 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 may’st judge Betwixt it, and this rural life you’ve lived. Business of moment I’m but thus advised of, Touching the will of my late noble master, The Earl of Rochdale, 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.] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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