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Love Chase

<h2>ACT IV.</h2> <h3>SCENE I.—A Room in Master Waller’s House.</h3> [Enter Alice, hastily.] Alice. [Speaking to the outside.] Fly, Stephen, to the door! your rapier! quick!— Our master is beset, because of one Whose part he takes, a maid, whom lawless men Would lawlessly entreat! In what a world We live!—How do I shake!—with what address [Looking out of window.] He lays about him, and his other arm Engaged, in charge of her whom he defends! A damsel worth a broil!—Now, Stephen, now! Take off the odds, brave lad, and turn the scale! I would I were a swordsman! How he makes His rapier fly!—Well done!—O Heaven, there’s blood. But on the side that’s wrong!—Well done, good Stephen! Pray Heaven no life be ta’en!—Lay on, brave lad! He has marked his man again. Good lad—Well done, I pray no mischief come!—Press on him, Stephen! Now gives he ground.—Follow thy advantage up! Allow no pause for breaths!—Hit him again! Forbid it end in death!—Lounge home, good Stephen! How fast he now retreats!—That spring, I’ll swear, Was answer to thy point!—Well fenced!—Well fenced! Now Heaven forefend it end in death!—He flies! And from his comrade, the same moment, hath Our master jerked his sword—The day is ours! Quick may they get a surgeon for their wounds, And I, a cordial for my fluttered spirits: I vow, I’m nigh to swoon! Wal. [Without.] Hoa! Alice! Hoa! Open the door! Quick, Alice! Quick! Alice. Anon! Young joints take no thought of agéd ones, But ever think them as supple as themselves. Wal. Alice! Alice. [Opening the door.] I’m here!—A mercy!— Is she dead? [Enter Master Waller, bearing Lydia, fainting.] Wal. No, she but faints.—A chair!—Quick, Alice, quick! Water to bathe her temples. [Alice goes out.] Such a turn Kind fortune never do me. Shall I kiss To life these frozen lips?—No!—of her plight ’Twere base to take advantage. [Alice returns, &c.] All is well, The blood returns. Alice. How wondrous fair she is! Wal. Thou think’st her so? [Aside.] No wonder then should I. [Aloud.] How say you?—Wondrous fair? Alice. Yes; wondrous fair! Harm never come to her! So sweet a thing ’Twere pity were abused! Wal. You think her fair? Alice. Ay, marry! Half so fair were more than match For fairest she e’er saw mine eyes before! And what a form! A foot and instep there! Vouchers of symmetry! A little foot And rising instep, from an ankle arching, A palm, and that a little one, might span. Wal. Who taught thee thus? Alice. Why who, but her, taught thee? Thy mother!—Heaven rest her!—Thy good mother! She could read men and women by their hands And feet!—And here’s a hand!—A fairy palm! Fingers that taper to the pinky tips, With nails of rose, like shells of such a hue, Berimmed with pearl, you pick up on the shore! Save these the gloss and tint do wear without. Wal. Why, how thou talk’st! Alice. Did I not tell thee thus Thy mother used to talk? Such hand and foot, She would say, in man or woman vouched for nature High tempered!—Still for sentiment refined; Affection tender; apprehension quick— Degrees beyond the generality! There is a marriage finger! Curse the hand Would balk it of a ring! Wal. She’s quite restored, Leave us!—Why cast’st thou that uneasy look? Why linger’st thou? I’m not alone with her. My honour’s with her too. I would not wrong her. Alice. And if thou wouldst, thou’rt not thy mother’s son. [Goes out.] Wal. You are better? Lydia. Much!—much! Wal. Know you him who durst Attempt this violence in open day? It seemed as he would force thee to his coach, I saw attending. Lydia. Take this letter, sir, And send the answer—I must needs be gone. Wal. [Throwing the letter away.] I read no letter! Tell me, what of him I saw offend thee? Lydia. He hath often met me, And by design I think, upon the street, And tried to win mine ear, which ne’er he got Save only by enforcement. Presents—gifts— Of jewels and of gold to wild amount, To win an audience, hath he proffered me; Until, methought, my silence—for my lips Disdained reply where question was a wrong— Had wearied him. Oh, sir, whate’er of life Remains to me I had foregone, ere proved The horror of this hour!—and you it is That have protected me? Wal. Oh, speak not on’t! Lydia. You that have saved me from mine enemy— Wal. I pray you to forget it. Lydia. From a foe More dire than he that putteth life in peril— Wal. Sweet Lydia, I beseech you spare me. Lydia. No! I will not spare you.—You have brought me to safety, You whom I fear worse than that baleful foe. [Rises to go.] Wal. [Kneeling and snatching her hand.] Lydia! Lydia. Now, make thy bounty perfect. Drop My hand. That posture which dishonours thee, Quit!—for ’tis shame on shame to show respect Where we do feel disdain. Throw ope thy gate And let me pass, and never seek with me, By look, or speech, or aught, communion more! Wal. Thou saidst thou lovedst me? Lydia. Yes! when I believed My tongue did take of thee its last adieu, And now that I do know it—for be sure It never bids adieu to thee again— Again, I tell it thee! Release me, sir! Rise!—and no hindrance to my will oppose, That would be free to go. Wal. I cannot lose thee! Lydia. Thou canst not have me! Wal. No! Lydia. Thou canst not. I Repeat it.—Yet I’m thine—thine every way, Except where honour fences!—Honour, sir, Not property of gentle blood alone; Of gentle blood not always property! Thou’lt not obey me. Still enforcest me! Oh, what a contradiction is a man! What in another he one moment spurns, The next—he does himself complacently! Wal. Wouldst have me lose the hand that holds my life? Lydia. Hear me and keep it, if thou art a man! I love thee—for thy benefit would give The labour of that hand!—wear out my feet! Rack the invention of my mind!—the powers Of my heart in one volition gather up! My life expend, and think no more I gave Than he who wins a priceless gem for thanks! For such goodwill canst thou return me wrong? Wal. Yet, for awhile, I cannot let thee go. Propound for me an oath that I’ll not wrong thee! An oath, which, if I break it, will entail Forfeit of earth and heaven. I’ll take it—so Thou stay’st one hour with me. Lydia. No!—Not one moment! Unhand me, or I shriek!—I know the summons Will pierce into the street, and set me free! I stand in peril while I’m near thee! She Who knows her danger, and delays escape, Hath but herself to thank, whate’er befalls! Sir, I may have a woman’s weakness, but I have a woman’s resolution, too, And that’s a woman’s strength! One moment more!— Wal. Lo! Thou art free to go! [Rises and throws himself distractedly into a chair.] [Lydia approaches the door—her pace slackens—she pauses with her hand upon the lock—turns, and looks earnestly on Waller.] Lydia. I have a word To say to thee; if by thy mother’s honour, Thou swear’st to me thou wilt not quit thy seat. Wal. I swear as thou propound’st to me. Lydia. [After a pause, bursting into tears.] Oh, why— Why have you used me thus? See what you’ve done! Essayed to light a guilty passion up, And kindled in its stead a holy one! For I do love thee! Know’st thou not the wish To find desert doth bring it oft to sight Where yet it is not? so, for substance, passes What only is a phantasm of our minds! I feared thy love was guilty—yet my wish To find it honest, stronger than my fear, My fear with fatal triumph overthrew! Now hope and fear give up to certainty, And I must fly thee—yet must love thee still! Wal. Lydia! by all— Lydia. I pray you hear me out! Was ’t right? was ’t generous? was ’t pitiful? One way or other I might be undone: To love with sin—or love without a hope! Wal. Yet hear me, Lydia!— Lydia. Stop! I’m undone! A maid without a heart—robbed of the soil, Wherein life’s hopes and wishes root and spring, And thou the foe that did me so much hate, And vowed me so much love!—but I forgive thee! Yea, I do bless thee! [Rushing up and sinking at his feet.] Recollect thy oath!— Or in thy heart lodged never germ of honour, But ’tis a desert all! [She kisses his hand—presses it to her heart, and kisses it again.] Farewell then to thee! [Rises.] Mayst thou be happy. [Going.] Wal. Wouldst ensure the thing Thou wishest? [She moves towards the door with a gesture that prohibits further converse.] Stop! [She continues to move on.] Oh, sternly resolute! [She still moves.] I mean thee honour! [She stops and turns towards him.] Thou dost meditate— I know it—flight. Give me some pause for thought, But to confirm a mind almost made up. If in an hour thou hearest not from me, then Think me a friend far better lost than won! Wilt thou do this? Lydia. I will. Wal. An hour decides. [They go out severally.] <h3>SCENE II.—A Room in Sir William Fondlove’s House.</h3> [Enter Wildrake and Trueworth.] Wild. You are not angry? True. No; I knew the service I sent you on was one of danger. Wild. Thank you. Most kind you are—And you believe she loves me: And your own hopes give up to favour mine. Was ever known such kindness! Much I fear ’Twill cost you. True. Never mind! I’ll try and bear it. Wild. That’s right. No use in yielding to a thing. Resolve does wonders! Shun the sight of her— See other women!—Fifty to be found As fair as she. True. I doubt it. Wild. Doubt it not. Doubt nothing that gives promise of a care. Right handsome dames there are in Lancashire, Whence called their women, witches!—witching things! I know a dozen families in which You’d meet a courtesy worthy of a bow. I’ll give you letters to them. True. Will you? Wild. Yes. True. The worth of a disinterested friend! Wild. O Master Trueworth, deeply I’m your debtor! I own I die for love of neighbour Constance! And thou to give her up for me! Kind friend! What won’t I do for thee?—Don’t pine to death; I’ll find thee fifty ways to cure thy passion, And make thee heart-whole, if thou’rt so resolved. Thou shalt be master of my sporting stud, And go a hunting. If that likes thee not, Take up thy quarters at my shooting-lodge; There is a cellar to ’t—make free with it. I’ll thank thee if thou emptiest it. The song Gives out that wine feeds love—It drowns it, man! If thou wilt neither hunt nor shoot, try games; Play at loggats, bowls, fives, dominoes, draughts, cribbage, Backgammon—special recipes for love! And you believe, for all the hate she shows, That neighbour Constance loves me? True. ’Tis my thought. Wild. How shall I find it out? True. Affect to love Another. Say your passion thrives; the day Is fixed; and pray her undertake the part Of bridemaid to your bride. ’Twill bring her out. Wild. You think she’ll own her passion? True. If she loves. Wild. I thank thee! I will try it! Master Trueworth, What shall I say to thee, to give her up, And love her so? True. Say nothing. Wild. Noble friend! Kind friend! Instruct another man the way To win thy mistress! Thou’lt not break my heart? Take my advice, thou shalt not be in love A month! Frequent the playhouse!—walk the Park! I’ll think of fifty ladies that I know, Yet can’t remember now—enchanting ones! And then there’s Lancashire!—and I have friends In Berkshire and in Wiltshire, that have swarms Of daughters! Then my shooting-lodge and stud! I’ll cure thee in a fortnight of thy love! And now to neighbour Constance—yet almost I fear accosting her—a hundred times Have I essayed to break my mind to her, But still she stops my mouth with restless scorn! Howe’er, thy scheme I’ll try, and may it thrive! For I am sick for love of neighbour Constance. Farewell, dear Master Trueworth! Take my counsel— Conquer thy passion! Do so! Be a man! [Goes out.] True. Feat easy done that does not tax ourselves! [Enter Phœbe.] Phœbe. A letter, sir. [Goes out.] True. Good sooth, a roaming one, And yet slow traveller. This should have reached me In Lombardy.—The hand! Give way, weak seal, Thy feeble let too strong for my impatience! Ha! Wronged!—Let me contain myself!—Compelled To fly the roof that gave her birth!—My sister! No partner in her flight but her pure honour! I am again a brother. Pillow, board, I know not till I find her. [Enter Waller.] Wal. Master Trueworth! True. Ha! Master Waller! Welcome, Master Waller. Wal. Good Master Trueworth, thank you. Finding you From home, I e’en made bold to follow you, For I esteem you as a man, and fain Would benefit by your kind offices. But let me tell you first, to your reproof, I am indebted more than e’er I was To praise of any other! I am come, sir, To give you evidence I am not one Who owns advice is right, and acts not on’t. True. Pray you explain. Wal. Will you the bearer be Of this to one has cause to thank you, too, Though I the larger debtor?—Read it, sir. True. [Reading the letter.] “At morn to-morrow I will make you mine; Will you accept from me the name of wife— The name of husband give me in exchange?” Wal. How say you, sir? True. ’Tis boldly—nobly done! Wal. If she consents—which affectation ’twere To say I doubt—bid her prepare for church, And you shall act the father, sir, to her You did the brother by. True. Right willingly, Though matter of high moment I defer, Mind, heart, and soul, are all enlisted in! Wal. May I implore you, haste! A time is set!— How light an act of duty makes the heart! [They go out together.] <h3>SCENE III.—Another Chamber in Sir William’s house.</h3> [Constance discovered.] Con. I’ll pine to death for no man! Wise it were, Indeed, to die for neighbour Wildrake—No!— I know the duty of a woman, better— What fits a maid of spirit! I am out Of patience with myself, to cast a thought Away upon him. Hang him! Lovers cost Nought but the pains of luring. I’ll get fifty, And break the heart of every one of them! I will! I’ll be the champion of my sex, And take revenge on shallow, fickle man, Who gives his heart to fools, and slights the worth Of proper women! I suppose she’s handsome! My face ’gainst hers, at hazard of mine eyes! A maid of mind! I’ll talk her to a stand, Or tie my tongue for life! A maid of soul! An artful, managing, dissembling one! Or she had never caught. Him!—he’s no man To fall in love himself, or long ago I warrant he had fall’n in love with me! I hate the fool—I do! Ha, here he comes. What brings him hither? Let me dry my eyes; He must not see I have been crying. Hang him, I have much to do, indeed, to cry for him! [Enter Wildrake] Wild. Your servant, neighbour Constance. Con. Servant, sir! Now what, I wonder, comes the fool to say, Makes him look so important? Wild. Neighbour Constance, I am a happy man. Con. What makes you so? Wild. A thriving suit. Con. In Chancery? Wild. Oh, no! In love. Con. Oh, true! You are in love! Go on! Wild. Well, as I said, my suit’s a thriving one. Con. You mean you are beloved again!—I don’t Believe it. Wild. I can give you proof. Con. What proof? Love letters? She’s a shameless maid To write them! Can she spell? Ay, I suppose With prompting of a dictionary! Wild. Nay, Without one. Con. I will lay you ten to one She cannot spell! How know you she can spell? You cannot spell yourself! You write command With a single M—C-O-M-A-N-D: Yours to Co-mand. Wild. I did not say she wrote Love letters to me. Con. Then she suffers you to press Her hand, perhaps? Wild. She does. Con. Does she press yours? Wild. She does.—It goes on swimmingly! [Aside.] Con. She does! She is no modest woman! I’ll be bound, Your arm the madam suffers round her waist? Wild. She does! Con. She does! Outrageous forwardness! Does she let you kiss her? Wild. Yes. Con. She should be— Wild. What? Con. What you got thrice your share of when at school, And yet not half your due! A brazen face! More could not grant a maid about to wed. Wild. She is so. Con. What? Wild. How swimmingly it goes! [Aside.] Con. [With suppressed impatience.] Are you about to marry, neighbour Wildrake? Are you about to marry? Wild. Excellent. [Aside.] Con. [Breaking out.] Why don’t you answer me? Wild. I am. Con. You are— I tell you what, sir—You’re a fool! Wild. For what? Con. You are not fit to marry. Do not know Enough of the world, sir! Have no more experience, Thought, judgment, than a schoolboy! Have no mind Of your own!—your wife will make a fool of you, Will jilt you, break your heart! I wish she may, I do! You have no more business with a wife Than I have! Do you mean to say, indeed, You are about to marry? Wild. Yes, indeed. Con. And when? Wild. I’ll say to-morrow! [Aside.] Con. When, I say? Wild. To-morrow. Con. Thank you: much beholden to you! You’ve told me on’t in time! I’m very much Beholden to you, neighbour Wildrake! And, I pray you, at what hour? Wild. That we have left For you to name. Con. For me! Wild. For you. Con. Indeed. You’re very bountiful! I should not wonder Meant you I should be bridemaid to the lady? Wild. ’Tis just the thing I mean! Con. [Furiously.] The thing you mean! Now pray you, neighbour, tell me that again, And think before you speak; for much I doubt You know what you are saying. Do you mean To ask me to be bridemaid? Wild. Even so. Con. Bridemaid? Wild. Ay, bridemaid!—It is coming fast Unto a head. [Aside.] Con. And ’tis for me you wait To fix the day? It shall be doomsday, then! Wild. Be doomsday? Con. Doomsday! Wild. Wherefore doomsday? Con. Wherefore!—[Boxes him.] Go ask your bride, and give her that from me. Look, neighbour Wildrake! you may think this strange, But don’t misconstrue it! For you are vain, sir! And may put down for love what comes from hate. I should not wonder, thought you I was jealous; But I’m not jealous, sir!—would scorn to be so Where it was worth my while—I pray henceforth We may be strangers, sir—you will oblige me By going out of town. I should not like To meet you on the street, sir. Marry, sir! Marry to-day! The sooner, sir, the better! And may you find you have made a bargain, sir. As for the lady!—much I wish her joy. I pray you send me no bridecake, sir! Nor gloves—If you do, I’ll give them to my maid! Or throw them into the kennel—or the fire. I am your most obedient servant, sir! [Goes out.] Wild. She is a riddle, solve her he who can! [Goes out.] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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