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<h3>ACT IV.</h3> <h4>SCENE I.—A Room in the Earl of Rochdale’s</h4> [Eater Helen.] Helen.  I’m weary wandering from room to room; A castle after all is but a house— The dullest one when lacking company. Were I at home, I could be company Unto myself.  I see not Master Walter, He’s ever with his ward.  I see not her. By Master Walter’s will she bides alone. My father stops in town.  I can’t see him. My cousin makes his books his company. I’ll go to bed and sleep.  No—I’ll stay up And plague my cousin into making love! For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect. How dull he is that hath not sense to see What lies before him, and he’d like to find! I’ll change my treatment of him.  Cross him, where Before I used to humour him.  He comes, Poring upon a book.  What’s that you read? [Enter Modus.] Mod.  Latin, sweet cousin. Helen.  ’Tis a naughty tongue, I fear, and teaches men to lie. Mod.  To lie! Helen.  You study it.  You call your cousin sweet, And treat her as you would a crab.  As sour ’Twould seem you think her, as you covet her! Why how the monster stares, and looks about! You construe Latin, and can’t construe that! Mod.  I never studied women. Helen.  No; nor men. Else would you better know their ways: nor read In presence of a lady.  [Strikes the book from his hand.] Mod.  Right you say, And well you served me, cousin, so to strike The volume from my hand.  I own my fault; So please you—may I pick it up again? I’ll put it in my pocket! Helen.  Pick it up. He fears me as I were his grandmother! What is the book? Mod.  ’Tis Ovid’s Art of Love. Helen.  That Ovid was a fool! Mod.  In what? Helen.  In that: To call that thing an art, which art is none. Mod.  And is not love an art? Helen.  Are you a fool, As well as Ovid?  Love an art!  No art But taketh time and pains to learn.  Love comes With neither!  Is’t to hoard such grain as that, You went to college?  Better stay at home, And study homely English. Mod.  Nay, you know not The argument. Helen.  I don’t?  I know it better Than ever Ovid did!  The face—the form— The heart—the mind we fancy, cousin; that’s The argument!  Why, cousin, you know nothing. Suppose a lady were in love with thee: Couldst thou by Ovid, cousin, find it out? Couldst find it out, wast thou in love thyself? Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love? I could, that never read him!  You begin With melancholy; then to sadness; then To sickness; then to dying—but not die! She would not let thee, were she of my mind! She’d take compassion on thee.  Then for hope; From hope to confidence; from confidence To boldness;—then you’d speak; at first entreat; Then urge; then flout; then argue; then enforce; Make prisoner of her hand; besiege her waist; Threaten her lips with storming; keep thy word And carry her!  My sampler ’gainst thy Ovid! Why cousin, are you frightened, that you stand As you were stricken dumb?  The case is clear, You are no soldier.  You’ll ne’er win a battle. You care too much for blows! Mod.  You wrong me there, At school I was the champion of my form; And since I went to college— Helen.  That for college! Mod.  Nay, hear me! Helen.  Well?  What, since you went to college? You know what men are set down for, who boast Of their own bravery!  Go on, brave cousin: What, since you went to college?  Was there not One Quentin Halworth there?  You know there was, And that he was your master! Mod.  He my master! Thrice was he worsted by me. Helen.  Still was he Your master. Mod.  He allowed I had the best! Allowed it, mark me! nor to me alone, But twenty I could name. Helen.  And mastered you At last!  Confess it, cousin, ’tis the truth! A proctor’s daughter you did both affect— Look at me and deny it!  Of the twain She more affected you;—I’ve caught you now, Bold cousin!  Mark you? opportunity On opportunity she gave you, sir— Deny it if you can!—but though to others, When you discoursed of her, you were a flame; To her you were a wick that would not light, Though held in the very fire!  And so he won her— Won her, because he wooed her like a man. For all your cuffings, cuffing you again With most usurious interest.  Now, sir, Protest that you are valiant! Mod.  Cousin Helen! Helen.  Well, sir? Mod.  The tale is all a forgery! Helen.  A forgery! Mod.  From first to last; ne’er spoke I To a proctor’s daughter while I was at college. Helen.  ’Twas a scrivener’s then—or somebody’s. But what concerns it whose? Enough, you loved her! And, shame upon you, let another take her! Mod.  Cousin, I’ll tell you, if you’ll only hear me, I loved no woman while I was at college— Save one, and her I fancied ere I went there. Helen.  Indeed!  Now I’ll retreat, if he’s advancing. Comes he not on!  O what a stock’s the man! Well, cousin? Mod.  Well!  What more wouldst have me say? I think I’ve said enough. Helen.  And so think I. I did but jest with you.  You are not angry? Shake hands!  Why, cousin, do you squeeze me so? Mod.  [Letting her go.]  I swear I squeezed you not. Helen.  You did not? Mod.  No.  I’ll die if I did! Helen.  Why then you did not, cousin, So let’s shake hands again— [He takes her hand as before.]  O go and now Read Ovid!  Cousin, will you tell me one thing: Wore lovers ruffs in Master Ovid’s time? Behoved him teach them, then, to put them on;— And that you have to learn.  Hold up your head! Why, cousin, how you blush!  Plague on the ruff! I cannot give’t a set.  You’re blushing still! Why do you blush, dear cousin?  So!—’twill beat me! I’ll give it up. Mod.  Nay, prithee, don’t—try on! Helen.  And if I do, I fear you’ll think me bold. Mod.  For what? Helen.  To trust my face so near to thine. Mod.  I know not what you mean. Helen.  I’m glad you don’t! Cousin, I own right well behaved you are, Most marvellously well behaved!  They’ve bred You well at college.  With another man My lips would be in danger!  Hang the ruff! Mod.  Nay, give it up, nor plague thyself, dear cousin. Helen.  Dear fool!  [Throws the ruff on the ground.] I swear the ruff is good for just As little as its master!  There!—’Tis spoiled— You’ll have to get another!  Hie for it, And wear it in the fashion of a wisp, Ere I adjust it for thee!  Farewell, cousin! You’d need to study Ovid’s Art of Love. [Helen goes out.] Mod.  [Solus.]  Went she in anger!  I will follow her,— No, I will not!  Heigho!  I love my cousin! O would that she loved me!  Why did she taunt me With backwardness in love?  What could she mean? Sees she I love her, and so laughs at me, Because I lack the front to woo her?  Nay, I’ll woo her then!  Her lips shall be in danger, When next she trusts them near me!  Looked she at me To-day as never did she look before! A bold heart, Master Modus!  ’Tis a saying A faint one never won fair lady yet! I’ll woo my cousin, come what will on’t.  Yes: [Begins reading again, throws down the book.] Hang Ovid’s Art of Love!  I’ll woo my cousin! [Goes out.] <h4>SCENE II.—The Banqueting-room in the Earl of Rochdale’s Mansion.</h4> [Enter Master Walter and Julia.] Wal.  This is the banqueting-room.  Thou seest as far It leaves the last behind, as that excels The former ones.  All is proportion here And harmony!  Observe!  The massy pillars May well look proud to bear the gilded dome. You mark those full-length portraits?  They’re the heads, The stately heads, of his ancestral line. Here o’er the feast they haply still preside! Mark those medallions!  Stand they forth or not In bold and fair relief?  Is not this brave? Julia.  [Abstractedly.]  It is. Wal.  It should be so.  To cheer the blood That flows in noble veins is made the feast That gladdens here!  You see this drapery? ’Tis richest velvet!  Fringe and tassels, gold! Is not this costly? Julia.  Yes. Wal.  And chaste, the while? Both chaste and costly? Julia.  Yes. Wal.  Come hither!  There’s a mirror for you.  See! One sheet from floor to ceiling!  Look into it, Salute its mistress!  Dost not know her? Julia.  [Sighing deeply.]  Yes. Wal.  And sighest thou to know her?  Wait until To-morrow, when the banquet shall be spread In the fair hall; the guests—already bid, Around it; here, her lord; and there, herself; Presiding o’er the cheer that hails him bridegroom, And her the happy bride!  Dost hear me? Julia.  [Sighing still more deeply.]  Yes. Wal.  These are the day-rooms only, we have seen. For public and domestic uses kept. I’ll show you now the lodging-rooms. [Goes, then turns and observes Julia standing perfectly abstracted.] You’re tired. Let it be till after dinner, then.  Yet one I’d like thee much to see—the bridal chamber. [Julia starts, crosses her hands upon her breast, and looks upwards.] I see you’re tired: yet it is worth the viewing, If only for the tapestry which shows The needle like the pencil glows with life; [Brings down chairs—they sit.] The story’s of a page who loved the dame He served—a princess!—Love’s a heedless thing! That never takes account of obstacles; Makes plains of mountains, rivulets of seas, That part it from its wish.  So proved the page, Who from a state so lowly, looked so high,— But love’s a greater lackwit still than this. Say it aspires—that’s gain!  Love stoops—that’s loss! You know what comes.  The princess loved the page. Shall I go on, or here leave off? Julia.  Go on. Wal.  Each side of the chamber shows a different stage Of this fond page, and fonder lady’s love. [2] First—no, it is not that. Julia.  Oh, recollect! Wal.  And yet it is. Julia.  No doubt it is.  What is ’t? Wal.  He holds to her a salver, with a cup; His cheeks more mantling with his passion than The cup with the ruby wine.  She heeds him not, For too great heed of him:—but seems to hold Debate betwixt her passion and her pride— That’s like to lose the day.  You read it in Her vacant eye, knit brow, and parted lips, Which speak a heart too busy all within To note what’s done without.  Like you the tale? Julia.  I list to every word. Wal.  The next side paints The page upon his knee.  He has told his tale; And found that when he lost his heart, he played No losing game: but won a richer one! There may you read in him, how love would seem Most humble when most bold,—you question which Appears to kiss her hand—his breath, or lips! In her you read how wholly lost is she Who trusts her heart to love.  Shall I give o’er? Julia.  Nay, tell it to the end.  Is’t melancholy? Wal.  To answer that, would mar the story. Julia.  Right. Wal.  The third side now we come to. Julia.  What shows that? Wal.  The page and princess still.  But stands her sire Between them.  Stern he grasps his daughter’s arm, Whose eyes like fountains play; while through her tears Her passion shines, as through the fountain drops The sun!  His minions crowd around the page! They drag him to a dungeon. Julia.  Hapless youth! Wal.  Hapless indeed, that’s twice a captive! heart And body both in bonds.  But that’s the chain, Which balance cannot weigh, rule measure, touch Define the texture of, or eye detect, That’s forgèd by the subtle craft of love! No need to tell you that he wears it.  Such The cunning of the hand that plied the loom, You’ve but to mark the straining of his eye, To feel the coil yourself! Julia.  I feel’t without! You’ve finished with the third side; now the fourth! Wal.  It brings us to a dungeon, then. Julia.  The page, The thrall of love, more than the dungeon’s thrall, Is there? Wal.  He is.  He lies in fetters. Julia.  Hard! Hard as the steel, the hands that put them on. Wal.  Some one unrivets them! Julia.  The princess?  ’Tis! Wal.  It is another page. Julia.  It is herself! Wal.  Her skin is fair; and his is berry-brown. His locks are raven black; and hers are gold. Julia.  Love’s cunning of disguises! spite of locks, Skin, vesture,—it is she, and only she What will not constant woman do for love That’s loved with constancy!  Set her the task, Virtue approving, that will baffle her! O’ertax her stooping, patience, courage, wit! My life upon it, ’tis the princess’ self, Transformed into a page! Wal.  The dungeon door Stands open, and you see beyond— Julia.  Her father! Wal.  No; a steed. Julia.  [Starting up.]  O, welcome steed, My heart bounds at the thought of thee!  Thou comest To bear the page from bonds to liberty. What else? Wal.  [Rising.]  The story’s told. Julia.  Too briefly told; O happy princess, that had wealth and state To lay them down for love!  Whose constant love Appearances approved, not falsified! A winner in thy loss, as well as gain. Wal.  Weighs love so much? Julia.  What would you weigh ’gainst love That’s true?  Tell me with what you’d turn the scale? Yea, make the index waver?  Wealth?  A feather! Rank?  Tinsel against bullion in the balance! The love of kindred?  That to set ’gainst love! Friendship comes nearest to’t; but put it in, Friendship will kick the beam!—weigh nothing ’gainst it! Weigh love against the world! Yet are they happy that have naught to say to it. Wal.  And such a one art thou.  Who wisely wed, Wed happily.  The love thou speak’st of, A flower is only, that its season has, Which they must look to see the withering of, Who pleasure in its budding and its bloom! But wisdom is the constant evergreen Which lives the whole year through!  Be that, your flower! [Enter a Servant.] Well? Serv.  My lord’s secretary is without. He brings a letter for her ladyship, And craves admittance to her. Wal.  Show him in. Julia.  No. Wal.  Thou must see him.  To show slight to him, Were slighting him that sent him.  Show him in! [Servant goes out.] Some errand proper for thy private ear, Besides the letter he may bring.  What mean This paleness and this trembling?  Mark me, Julia! If, from these nuptials, which thyself invited— Which at thy seeking came—thou wouldst be freed, Thou hast gone too far!  Receding were disgrace, Sooner than see thee suffer which, the hearts That love thee most would wish thee dead!  Reflect! Take thought! collect thyself!  With dignity Receive thy bridegroom’s messenger! for sure As dawns to-morrow’s sun, to-morrow night Sees thee a wedded bride! [Goes out.] Julia.  [Alone.]  A wedded bride! Is it a dream?  Is it a phantasm?  ’Tis Too horrible for reality! for aught else Too palpable!  O would it were a dream! How would I bless the sun that waked me from it! I perish!  Like some desperate mariner Impatient of a strange and hostile land, Who rashly hoists his sail and puts to sea, And being fast on reefs and quicksands borne, Essays in vain once more to make the land, Whence wind and current drive him; I’m wrecked By mine own act!  What! no escape? no hope? None!  I must e’en abide these hated nuptials! Hated!—Ah! own it, and then curse thyself! That madest the bane thou loathest—for the love Thou bear’st to one who never can be thine! Yes—love!  Deceive thyself no longer.  False To say ’tis pity for his fall—respect, Engendered by a hollow world’s disdain, Which hoots whom fickle fortune cheers no more! ’Tis none of these; ’tis love—and if not love, Why then idolatry!  Ay, that’s the name To speak the broadest, deepest, strongest passion, That ever woman’s heart was borne away by! He comes!  Thou’dst play the lady,—play it now! [Enter a Servant, conducting Clifford, plainly attired as the Earl of Rochdale’s Secretary.] Servant.  His lordship’s secretary. [Servant goes out.] Julia.  Speaks he not?  Or does he wait for orders to unfold His business?  Stopped his business till I spoke, I’d hold my peace for ever! [Clifford kneels; presenting a letter.] Does he kneel? A lady am I to my heart’s content! Could he unmake me that which claims his knee, I’d kneel to him—I would!  I would!—Your will? Clif.  This letter from my lord. Julia.  O fate!  Who speaks? Clif.  The secretary of my lord. Julia.  I breathe! I could have sworn ’twas he! [Makes an effort to look at him, but is unable.] So like the voice— I dare not look, lest there the form should stand! How came he by that voice?  ’Tis Clifford’s voice, If ever Clifford spoke!  My fears come back— Clifford the secretary of my lord! Fortune hath freaks, but none so mad as that! It cannot be!—It should not be!—A look, And all were set at rest. [Tries to look at him again, but cannot.] So strong my fears, Dread to confirm them takes away the power To try and end them!  Come the worst, I’ll look. [She tries again; and again is unequal to the task.] I’d sink before him if I met his eye! Clif.  Will’t please your ladyship to take the letter? Julia.  There Clifford speaks again!  Not Clifford’s heart Could more make Clifford’s voice!  Not Clifford’s tongue And lips more frame it into Clifford’s speech! A question, and ’tis over!  Know I you? Clif.  Reverse of fortune, lady, changes friends; It turns them into strangers.  What I am I have not always been! Julia.  Could I not name you? Clif.  If your disdain for one, perhaps too bold When hollow fortune called him favourite,— Now by her fickleness perforce reduced To take an humble tone, would suffer you— Julia.  I might? Clif.  You might! Julia.  Oh, Clifford! is it you? Clif.  Your answer to my lord. [Gives the letter.] Julia.  Your lord! [Mechanically taking it.] Clif.  Wilt write it? Or, will it please you send a verbal one? I’ll bear it faithfully. Julia.  You’ll bear it? Clif.  Madam, Your pardon, but my haste is somewhat urgent. My lord’s impatient, and to use despatch Were his repeated orders. Julia.  Orders?  Well, I’ll read the letter, sir.  ’Tis right you mind His lordship’s orders.  They are paramount! Nothing should supersede them!—stand beside them! They merit all your care, and have it!  Fit, Most fit, they should!  Give me the letter, sir. Clif.  You have it, madam. Julia.  So!  How poor a thing I look! so lost, while he is all himself! Have I no pride? [She rings, the Servant enters.] Paper, and pen, and ink! If he can freeze, ’tis time that I grow cold! I’ll read the letter. [Opens it, and holds it as about to read it.] Mind his orders!  So! Quickly he fits his habits to his fortunes! He serves my lord with all his will!  His heart’s In his vocation.  So!  Is this the letter? ’Tis upside down—and here I’m poring on’t! Most fit I let him see me play the fool! Shame!  Let me be myself! [A Servant enters with materials for writing.] A table, sir, And chair. [The Servant brings a table and chair, and goes out.  She sits a while, vacantly gazing on the letter—then looks at Clifford.] How plainly shows his humble suit! It fits not him that wears it!  I have wronged him! He can’t be happy—does not look it!—is not. That eye which reads the ground is argument Enough!  He loves me.  There I let him stand, And I am sitting! [Rises, takes a chair, and approaches Clifford.] Pray you take a chair. [He bows, as acknowledging and declining the honour.  She looks at him a while.] Clifford, why don’t you speak to me? [She weeps.] Clif.  I trust You’re happy. Julia.  Happy!  Very, very happy! You see I weep, I am so happy!  Tears Are signs, you know, of naught but happiness! When first I saw you, little did I look To be so happy!—Clifford! Clif.  Madam? Julia.  Madam! I call thee Clifford, and thou call’st me madam! Clif.  Such the address my duty stints me to. Thou art the wife elect of a proud Earl, Whose humble secretary, sole, am I. Julia.  Most right!  I had forgot!  I thank you, sir, For so reminding me; and give you joy, That what, I see, had been a burthen to you, Is fairly off your hands. Clif.  A burthen to me! Mean you yourself?  Are you that burthen, Julia? Say that the sun’s a burthen to the earth! Say that the blood’s a burthen to the heart! Say health’s a burthen, peace, contentment, joy, Fame, riches, honours! everything that man Desires, and gives the name of blessing to E’en such a burthen, Julia were to me, Had fortune let me wear her. Julia.  [Aside.]  On the brink Of what a precipice I’m standing!  Back, Back! while the faculty remains to do’t! A minute longer, not the whirlpool’s self More sure to suck me down!  One effort!  There! [She returns to her seat, recovers her self-possession, takes up the letter, and reads.] To wed to-morrow night!  Wed whom?  A man Whom I can never love!  I should before Have thought of that.  To-morrow night!  This hour To-morrow!  How I tremble!  Happy bands To which my heart such freezing welcome gives, As sends an ague through me!  At what means Will not the desperate snatch!  What’s honour’s price? Nor friends, nor lovers,—no, nor life itself! Clifford!  This moment leave me! [Clifford retires up the stage out of Julia’s sight.] Is he gone? O docile lover!  Do his mistress’ wish That went against his own!  Do it so soon Ere well ’twas uttered!  No good-bye to her! No word! no look!  ’Twas best that he so went! Alas, the strait of her, who owns that best, Which last she’d wish were done?  What’s left me now? To weep!  To weep! [Leans her head upon her arm, which rests upon the desk,—her other arm hanging listlessly at her side.  Clifford comes down the stage, looks a moment at her, approaches her, and kneeling, takes her hand.] Clif.  My Julia! Julia.  Here again! Up! up!  By all thy hopes of Heaven, go hence! To stay’s perdition to me!  Look you, Clifford! Were there a grave where thou art kneeling now, I’d walk into ’t, and be inearthed alive, Ere taint should touch my name!  Should some one come And see thee kneeling thus!  Let go my hand! Remember, Clifford, I’m a promised bride— And take thy arm away!  It has no right To clasp my waist!  Judge you so poorly of me, As think I’ll suffer this?  My honour, sir! [She breaks from him, quitting her seat.] I’m glad you’ve forced me to respect myself— You’ll find that I can do so! Clif.  I was bold— Forgetful of your station and my own; There was a time I held your hand unchid! There was a time I might have clasped your waist— I had forgot that time was past and gone! I pray you, pardon me! Julia.  [Softened.]  I do so, Clifford. Clif.  I shall no more offend. Julia.  Make sure of that. No longer is it fit thou keep’st thy post In’s lordship’s household.  Give it up!  A day— An hour remain not in it! Clif.  Wherefore? Julia.  Live In the same house with me, and I another’s? Put miles, put leagues between us!  The same land Should not contain us.  Oceans should divide us— With barriers of constant tempests—such As mariners durst not tempt!  O Clifford! Rash was the act so light that gave me up, That stung a woman’s pride, and drove her mad— Till in her frenzy she destroyed her peace! Oh, it was rashly done!  Had you reproved— Expostulated,—had you reasoned with me— Tried to find out what was indeed my heart,— I would have shown it—you’d have seen it.  All Had been as naught can ever be again! Clif.  Lovest thou me, Julia? Julia.  Dost thou ask me, Clifford? Clif.  These nuptials may be shunned!— Julia.  With honour? Clif.  Yes! Julia.  Then take me!—Stop—hear me, and take me then! Let not thy passion be my counsellor! Deal with me, Clifford, as my brother.  Be The jealous guardian of my spotless name! Scan thou my cause as ’twere thy sister’s.  Let Thy scrutiny o’erlook no point of it,— Nor turn it over once, but many a time:— That flaw, speck—yea,—the shade of one,—a soil So slight, not one out of a thousand eyes Could find it out, may not escape thee; then Say if these nuptials can be shunned with honour! Clif.  They can. Julia.  Then take me, Clifford!  [They embrace.] Wal.  [Entering.]  Ha!  What’s this? Ha! treason!  What! my baronet that was, My secretary now?  Your servant, sir! Is’t thus you do the pleasure of your lord,— That for your service feeds you, clothes you, pays you! Or takest thou but the name of his dependent? What’s here?—a letter.  Fifty crowns to one A forgery!  I’m wrong.  It is his hand. This proves thee double traitor! Clif.  Traitor! Julia.  Nay, Control thy wrath, good Master Walter!  Do— And I’ll persuade him to go hence— [Master Walter retires up the stage.]  I see For me thou bearest this, and thank thee, Clifford! As thou hast truly shown thy heart to me, So truly I to thee have opened mine! Time flies!  To-morrow!  If thy love can find A way, such as thou saidst, for my enlargement By any means thou canst, apprise me of it; And, soon as shown, I’ll take it. Wal.  Is he gone? Julia.  He is this moment.  If thou covetest me, Win me, and wear me!  May I trust thee?  Oh! If that’s thy soul, that’s looking through thine eyes, Thou lovest me, and I may!—I sicken, lest I never see thee more! Clif.  As life is mine, The ring that on thy wedding-finger goes No hand but mine shall place there! Wal.  Lingers he? Julia.  For my sake, now away!  And yet a word. By all thy hopes most dear, be true to me! Go now!—yet stay!  Clifford, while you are here, I’m like a bark distressed and compassless, That by a beacon steers; when you’re away, That bark alone and tossing miles at sea! Now go!  Farewell!  My compass—beacon—land! When shall my eyes be blessed with thee again! Clif.  Farewell!  [Goes out.] Julia.  Art gone?  All’s chance—all’s care—all’s darkness. [Is led off by Master Walter.] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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