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Love Chase

<h2>ACT II.</h2> <h3>SCENE I.—A Room in Sir William’s House.</h3> [Enter Trueworth and Wildrake.] Wild. Nay, Master Trueworth, I must needs be gone! She treats me worse and worse! I am a stock, That words have none to pay her. For her sake I quit the town to-day. I like a jest, But hers are jests past bearing. I am her butt, She nothing does but practise on! A plague!— Fly her shafts ever your way? True. Would they did! Wild. Art mad?—or wishest she should drive thee so? True. Thou knowest her not. Wild. I know not neighbour Constance? Then know I not myself, or anything Which as myself I know! True. Heigh ho! Wild. Heigh ho! Why what a burden that for a man’s song! Would fit a maiden that was sick for love. Heigh ho! Come ride with me to Lincolnshire, And turn thy “Heigh ho!” into “hilly ho!” True. Nay, rather tarry thou in town with me. Men sometimes find a friend’s hand of avail, When useless proves their own. Wilt lend me thine? Wild. Or may my horse break down in a steeple-chase! True. A steeple-chase. What made thee think of that? I’m for the steeple—not to ride a race, Only to get there!—nor alone, in sooth, But in fair company. Wild. Thou’rt not in love! True. Heigh ho! Wild. Thou wouldst not marry! True. With your help. Wild. And whom, I prithee? True. Gentle Mistress Constance! Wild. What!—neighbour Constance?—Never did I dream That mortal man would fall in love with her. [Aside.] In love with neighbour Constance!—I feel strange At thought that she should marry!—[Aside.] Go to church With neighbour Constance! That’s a steeple-chase I never thought of. I feel very strange! What seest in neighbour Constance? True. Lovers’ eyes See with a vision proper to themselves; Yet thousand eyes will vouch what mine affirm. First, then, I see in her the mould express Of woman—stature, feature, body, limb— Breathing the gentle sex we value most, When most ’tis at antipodes with ours! Wild. You mean that neighbour Constance is a woman. Why, yes; she is a woman, certainly. True. So much for person. Now for her complexion. What shall we liken to her dainty skin? Her arm, for instance?— Wild. Snow will match it. True. Snow! It is her arm without the smoothness on’t; Then is not snow transparent. ’Twill not do. Wild. A pearl’s transparent! True. So it is, but yet Yields not elastic to the thrilléd touch! I know not what to liken to her arm Except her beauteous fellow! Oh! to be The chosen friend of two such neighbours! Wild. Would His tongue would make a halt. He makes too free With neighbour Constance! Can’t he let her arms Alone! I trust their chosen friend Will ne’er be he! I’m vexed. [Aside.] True. But graceful things Grow doubly graceful in the graceful use! Hast marked her ever walk the drawing-room? Wild. [Snappishly.] No. True. No! Why, where have been your eyes? Wild. In my head! But I begin to doubt if open yet. [Aside.] True. Yet that’s a trifle to the dance; down which She floats as though she were a form of air; The ground feels not her foot, or tells not on’t; Her movements are the painting of the strain, Its swell, its fall, its mirth, its tenderness! Then is she fifty Constances!—each moment Another one, and each, except its fellow, Without a peer! You have danced with her! Wild. I hate To dance! I can’t endure to dance!—Of course You have danced with her? True. I have. Wild. You have? True. I have. Wild. I do abominate to dance!—could carve Fiddlers and company! A dancing man To me was ever like a dancing dog! Save less to be endured.—Ne’er saw I one But I bethought me of the master’s whip. True. A man might bear the whip to dance with her! Wild. Not if I had the laying of it on! True. Well; let that pass. The lady is the theme. Wild. Yes; make an end of it!—I’m sick of it. [Aside.] True. How well she plays the harpsichord and harp! How well she sings to them! Whoe’er would prove The power of song, should hear thy neighbour sing, Especially a love-song! Wild. Does she sing Such songs to thee? True. Oh, yes, and constantly. For such I ever ask her. Wild. Forward minx! [Aside.] Maids should not sing love-songs to gentlemen! Think’st neighbour Constance is a girl to love? True. A girl to love?—Ay, and with all her soul! Wild. How know you that? True. I have studied close the sex. Wild. You town-rakes are the devil for the sex! [Aside.] True. Not your most sensitive and serious maid I’d always take for deep impressions. Mind The adage of the bow. The pensive brow I have oft seen bright in wedlock, and anon O’ercast in widowhood; then, bright again, Ere half the season of the weeds was out; While, in the airy one, I have known one cloud Forerunner of a gloom that ne’er cleared up— So would it prove with neighbour Constance. Not On superficial grounds she’ll ever love; But once she does, the odds are ten to one Her first love is her last! Wild. I wish I ne’er Had come to town! I was a happy man Among my dogs and horses. [Aside.] Hast thou broke Thy passion to her? True. Never. Wild. Never? True. No. I hoped you’d act my proxy there. Wild. I thank you. True. I knew ’twould be a pleasure to you. Wild. Yes; A pleasure!—an unutterable pleasure! True. Thank you! You make my happiness your own. Wild. I do. True. I see you do. Dear Master Wildrake! Oh, what a blessing is a friend in need! You’ll go and court your neighbour for me? Wild. Yes. True. And says she “nay” at first, you’ll press again? Wild. Ay, and again! True. There’s one thing I mistrust—yea, most mistrust, That of my poor deserts you’ll make too much. Wild. Fear anything but that. True. ’Twere better far You slightly spoke of them. Wild. You think so? True. Yes. Or rather did not speak of them at all. Wild. You think so? True. Yes. Wild. Then I’ll not say a word About them. True. Thank you! A judicious friend Is better than a zealous: you are both! I see you’ll plead my cause as ’twere your own; Then stay in town, and win your neighbour for me; Make me the envy of a score of men That die for her as I do. Make her mine, And when the last “Amen!” declares complete The mystic tying of the holy knot, And ’fore the priest a blushing wife she stands, Be thine the right to claim the second kiss She pays for change from maidenhood to wifehood. [Goes out.] Wild. Take that thyself! The first be mine, or none! A man in love with neighbour Constance! Never Dreamed I that such a thing could come to pass! Such person, such endowments, such a soul! I never thought to ask myself before If she were man or woman! Suitors, too, Dying for her! I’ll e’en make one among ’em! Woo her to go to church along with him, And for my pains the privilege to take The second kiss? I’ll take the second kiss, And first one too—and last! No man shall touch Her lips but me. I’ll massacre the man That looks upon her! Yet what chance have I With lovers of the town, whose study ’tis To please your lady belles!—who dress, walk, talk, To hit their tastes—what chance, a country squire Like me? Yet your true fair, I have heard, prefers The man before his coat at any time; And such a one may neighbour Constance be. I’ll show a limb with any of them! Silks I’ll wear, nor keep my legs in cases more. I’ll learn to dance town-dances, and frequent Their concerts! Die away at melting strains, Or seem to do so—far the easier thing, And as effective quite; leave naught undone To conquer neighbour Constance. [Enter Lash.] Lash. Sir. Wild. Well, sir? Lash. So please you, sir, your horse is at the door. Wild. Unsaddle him again and put him up. And, hark you, get a tailor for me, sir— The rarest can be found. Lash. The man’s below, sir, That owns the mare your worship thought to buy. Wild. Tell him I do not want her, sir. Lash. I vow You will not find her like in Lincolnshire. Wild. Go to! She’s spavined. Lash. Sir! Wild. Touched in the wind. Lash. I trust my master be not touched in the head! I vow, a faultless beast! [Aside.] Wild. I want her not, And that’s your answer. Go to the hosier’s, sir, And bid him send me samples of his gear, Of twenty different kinds. Lash. I will, sir.—Sir! Wild. Well, sir. Lash. Squire Brush’s huntsman’s here, and says His master’s kennel is for sale. Wild. The dogs Are only fit for hanging!— Lash. Finer bred— Wild. Sirrah, if more to me thou talkest of dogs, Horses, or aught that to thy craft belongs, Thou mayst go hang for me!—A cordwainer Go fetch me straight—the choicest in the town. Away, sir! Do thy errands smart and well As thou canst crack thy whip! [Lash goes out.] Dear neighbour Constance, I’ll give up horses, dogs, and all for thee! [Goes out.] <h3>SCENE II.</h3> [Enter Widow Green and Lydia.] W. Green. Lydia, my gloves. If Master Waller calls, I shall be in at three; and say the same To old Sir William Fondlove. Tarry yet!— What progress, think you, make I in the heart Of fair young Master Waller? Gods, my girl, It is a heart to win and man as well! How speed I, think you? Didst, as I desired, Detain him in my absence when he called, And, without seeming, sound him touching me? Lydia. Yes. W. Green. And effects he me, or not? How guess you? What said he of me? Looked he balked, or not, To find me not at home? Inquired he when I would be back, as much he longed to see me? What did he—said he? Come!—Is he in love, Or like to fall into it? Goes well my game, Or shall I have my labour for my pains? Lydia. I think he is in love.—O poor evasion! O to love truth, and yet not dare to speak it! [Aside.] W. Green. You think he is in love—I’m sure of it. As well have asked you has he eyes and ears, And brain and heart to use them? Maids do throw Trick after trick away, but widows know To play their cards! How am I looking, Lydia? Lydia. E’en as you ever look. W. Green. Handsome, my girl? Eh? Clear in my complexion? Eh?—brimful Of spirits? not too much of me, nor yet Too little?—Eh?—A woman worth a man? Look at me, Lydia! Would you credit, girl, I was a scarecrow before marriage? Lydia. Nay!— W. Green. Girl, but I tell thee “yea.” That gown of thine— And thou art slender—would have hung about me! There’s something of me now! good sooth, enough! Lydia, I’m quite contented with myself; I’m just the thing, methinks, a widow should be. So, Master Waller, you believe, affects me? But, Lydia, not enough to hook the fish; To prove the angler’s skill, it must be caught; And lovers, Lydia, like the angler’s prey— Which, when he draws it near the landing-place, Takes warning and runs out the slender line, And with a spring perchance jerks off the hold— When we do fish for them, and hook, and think They are all but in the creel, will make the dart That sets them free to roam the flood again! Lydia. Is’t so? W. Green. Thou’lt find it so, or better luck Than many another maid! Now mark me, Lydia: Sir William Fondlove fancies me. ’Tis well! I do not fancy him! What should I do With an old man?—Attend upon the gout, Or the rheumatics! Wrap me in the cloud Of a darkened chamber—’stead of shining out, The sun of balls, and routs, and gala-days! But he affects me, Lydia; so he may! Now take a lesson from me—Jealousy Had better go with open, naked breast, Than pin or button with a gem. Less plague, The plague-spot; that doth speedy make an end One way or t’other, girl. Yet, never love Was warm without a spice of jealousy. Thy lesson now—Sir William Fondlove’s rich, And riches, though they’re paste, yet being many, The jewel love we often cast away for. I use him but for Master Waller’s sake. Dost like my policy? Lydia. You will not chide me? W. Green. Nay, Lydia, I do like to hear thy thoughts, They are such novel things—plants that do thrive With country air! I marvel still they flower, And thou so long in town! Speak freely, girl! Lydia. I cannot think love thrives by artifice, Or can disguise its mood, and show its face. I would not hide one portion of my heart Where I did give it and did feel ’twas right, Nor feign a wish, to mask a wish that was, Howe’er to keep it. For no cause except Myself would I be loved. What were’t to me, My lover valued me the more, the more He saw me comely in another’s eyes, When his alone the vision I would show Becoming to? I have sought the reason oft, They paint Love as a child, and still have thought, It was because true love, like infancy, Frank, trusting, unobservant of its mood, Doth show its wish at once, and means no more! W. Green. Thou’lt find out better when thy time doth come. Now wouldst believe I love not Master Waller? I never knew what love was, Lydia; That is, as your romances have it. First, I married for a fortune. Having that, And being freed from him that brought it me, I marry now, to please my vanity, A man that is the fashion. O the delight Of a sensation, and yourself the cause! To note the stir of eyes, and ears, and tongues, When they do usher Mistress Waller in, Late Widow Green, her hand upon the arm Of her young, handsome husband!—How my fan Will be in requisition—I do feel My heart begin to flutter now—my blood To mount into my cheek! My honeymoon Will be a month of triumphs!—“Mistress Waller!” That name, for which a score of damsels sigh, And but the widow had the wit to win! Why, it will be the talk of east to west, And north and south!—The children loved the man, And lost him so—I liked, but there I stopped; For what is it to love, but mind and heart And soul upon another to depend? Depend upon another? Nothing be But what another wills? Give up the rights Of mine own brain and heart? I thank my stars I never came to that extremity. [Goes out.] Lydia. She never loved, indeed! She knows not love, Except what’s told of it! She never felt it. To stem a torrent, easy, looking at it; But once you venture in, you nothing know Except the speed with which you’re borne away, Howe’er you strive to check it. She suspects not Her maid, not she, brings Master Waller hither. Nor dare I undeceive her. Well might she say Her young and handsome husband! Yet his face And person are the least of him, and vanish When shines his soul out through his open eye! He all but says he loves me! His respect Has vanquished me! He looks the will to speak His passion, and the fear that ties his tongue— The fear? He loves not honestly, and yet I’ll swear he loves—I’ll swear he honours me! It is but my condition is a bar, Denies him give me all. But knew he me As I do know myself! Whate’er his purpose, When next we speak, he shall declare it to me. [Goes out.] <h3>SCENE III.—Sir William Fondlove’s.</h3> [Enter Constance, dressed for riding, and Phœbe.] Con. Well, Phœbe, would you know me? Are those locks That cluster on my forehead and my cheek, Sufficient mask? Show I what I would seem, A lady for the chase? My darkened brows And heightened colour, foreign to my face, Do they my face pass off for stranger too? What think you? Phœbe. That he’ll ne’er discover you. Con. Then send him to me. Say a lady wants To speak with him, unless indeed it be A man in lady’s gear; I look so bold And speak so gruff. Away! [Phœbe goes out.] That I am glad He stays in town, I own, but if I am, ’Tis only for the tricks I’ll play upon him, And now begin, persuading him his fame Hath made me fancy him, and brought me hither On visit to his worship. Soft, his foot! This he? Why, what has metamorphosed him, And changed my sportsman to fine gentleman? Well he becomes his clothes! But, check my wonder, Lest I forget myself. Why, what an air The fellow hath. A man to set a cap at! [Enter Wildrake.] Wild. Kind lady, I attend your fair commands. Con. My veiléd face denies me justice, sir, Else would you see a maiden’s blushing cheek Do penance for her forwardness; too late, I own, repented of. Yet if ’tis true, By our own hearts of others we may judge, Mine in no peril lies that’s shown to you, Whose heart, I’m sure, is noble. Worthy sir, Souls attract souls when they’re of kindred vein. The life that you love, I love. Well I know, ’Mongst those who breast the feats of the bold chase, You stand without a peer; and for myself I dare avow ’mong such, none follows them With heartier glee than I do. Wild. Churl were he That would gainsay you, madam. Con. [Curtseying.] What delight To back the flying steed, that challenges The wind for speed!—seems native more of air Than earth!—whose burden only lends him fire!— Whose soul, in his task, turns labour into sport; Who makes your pastime his! I sit him now! He takes away my breath! He makes me reel! I touch not earth—I see not—hear not. All Is ecstasy of motion! Wild. You are used, I see, to the chase. Con. I am, sir. Then the leap, To see the saucy barrier, and know The mettle that can clear it! Then, your time To prove you master of the manège. Now You keep him well together for a space, Both horse and rider braced as you were one, Scanning the distance—then you give him rein, And let him fly at it, and o’er he goes Light as a bird on wing. Wild. ’Twere a bold leap, I see, that turned you, madam. Con. [Curtseying.] Sir, you’re good! And then the hounds, sir! Nothing I admire Beyond the running of the well-trained pack. The training’s everything! Keen on the scent! At fault none losing heart!—but all at work! None leaving his task to another!—answering The watchful huntsman’s cautions, check, or cheer. As steed his rider’s rein! Away they go! How close they keep together! What a pack! Nor turn, nor ditch, nor stream divides them—as They moved with one intelligence, act, will! And then the concert they keep up!—enough To make one tenant of the merry wood, To list their jocund music! Wild. You describe The huntsman’s pastime to the life. Con. I love it! To wood and glen, hamlet and town, it is A laughing holiday! Not a hill-top But’s then alive! Footmen with horsemen vie, All earth’s astir, roused with the revelry Of vigour, health, and joy! Cheer awakes cheer, While Echo’s mimic tongue, that never tires, Keeps up the hearty din! Each face is then Its neighbour’s glass—where Gladness sees itself, And at the bright reflection grows more glad! Breaks into tenfold mirth!—laughs like a child! Would make a gift of its heart, it is so free! Would scarce accept a kingdom, ’tis so rich! Shakes hands with all, and vows it never knew That life was life before! Wild. Nay, every way You do fair justice, lady, to the chase; But fancies change. Con. Such fancy is not mine. Wild. I would it were not mine, for your fair sake. I have quite given o’er the chase. Con. You say not so! Wild. Forsworn, indeed, the sportsman’s life, and grown, As you may partly see, town-gentleman. I care not now to mount a steed, unless To amble ’long the street; no paces mind, Except my own, to walk the drawing-room, Or in the ball-room to come off with grace; No leap for me, to match the light coupé; No music like the violin and harp, To which the huntsman’s dog and horn I find Are somewhat coarse and homely minstrelsy: Then fields of ill-dressed rustics, you’ll confess, Are well exchanged for rooms of beaux and belles; In short, I’ve ta’en another thought of life— Become another man! Con. The cause, I pray? Wild. The cause of causes, lady. Con. He’s in love! [Aside.] Wild. To you, of women, I would name it last; Yet your frank bearing merits like return; I, that did hunt the game, am caught myself In chase I never dreamed of! [Goes out.] Con. He is in love! Wildrake’s in love! ’Tis that keeps him in town, Turns him from sportsman to town-gentleman. I never dreamed that he could be in love! In love with whom?—I’ll find the vixen out! What right has she to set her cap at him? I warrant me, a forward, artful minx; I hate him worse than ever. I’ll do all I can to spoil the match. He’ll never marry— Sure he will never marry! He will have More sense than that! My back doth ope and shut— My temples throb and shoot—I am cold and hot! Were he to marry, there would be an end To neighbour Constance—neighbour Wildrake—why, I should not know myself! [Enter Trueworth.] Dear Master Trueworth, What think you!—neighbour Wildrake is in love! In love! Would you believe it, Master Trueworth? Ne’er heed my dress and looks, but answer me. Knowest thou of any lady he has seen That’s like to cozen him? True. I am not sure— We talked to-day about the Widow Green! Con. Her that my father fancies. Let him wed her! Marry her to-morrow—if he will, to-night. I can’t spare neighbour Wildrake—neighbour Wildrake! Although I would not marry him myself, I could not hear that other married him! Go to my father—’tis a proper match! He has my leave! He’s welcome to bring home The Widow Green. I’ll give up house and all! She would be mad to marry neighbour Wildrake; He would wear out her patience—plague her to death, As he does me. She must not marry him! [They go out.] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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