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Why should I weep for him? Who make their woes.
Deserve them! What have I to do with tears?
[Enter HELEN.]
_Helen_. News, Julia, news!
_Julia_. What! is't about Sir Thomas?
_Helen_. Sir Thomas, say you? He's no more Sir Thomas!
That cousin lives, as heir to whom, his wealth And t.i.tle came to him.
_Julia_. Was he not dead?
_Helen_. No more than I am dead.
_Julia_. I would 'twere not so.
_Helen_. What say you, Julia?
_Julia_. Nothing!
_Helen_. I could kiss That cousin! couldn't you, Julia?
_Julia_. Wherefore?
_Helen_. Why For coming back to life again, as 'twere Upon his cousin to revenge you.
_Julia_. Helen!
_Helen_. Indeed 'tis true. With what a sorry grace The gentleman will bear himself without His t.i.tle! Master Clifford! Have you not Some token to return him? Some love-letter?
Some brooch? Some pin? Some anything? I'll be Your messenger, for nothing but the pleasure Of calling him plain "Master Clifford."
_Julia_. Helen!
_Helen_. Or has he aught of thine? Write to him, Julia, Demanding it! Do, Julia, if you love me; And I'll direct it in a schoolboy's hand, As round as I can write, "To Master Clifford."
_Julia_. Helen!
_Helen_. I'll think of fifty thousand ways To mortify him! I've a twentieth cousin, A care-for-nought, at mischief. Him I'll set, With twenty other madcaps like himself, To walk the streets the traitor most frequents And give him salutation as he pa.s.ses-- "How do you, Master Clifford?"
_Julia_. [Highly incensed.] Helen!
_Helen_. Bless me!
_Julia_. I hate you, Helen!
[Enter MODUS.]
_Mod_. Joy for you, fair lady!
Our baronet is now plain gentleman-- And hardly that, not master of the means To bear himself as such. The kinsman lives Whose only rumoured death gave wealth to him, And t.i.tle. A hard creditor he proves, Who keeps strict reckoning--will have interest.
As well as princ.i.p.al. A ruined man Is now Sir Thomas Clifford!
_Helen_. I'm glad on't.
_Mod_. And so am I, A scurvy trick it was He served you, madam. Use a lady so!
I merely bore with him. I never liked him.
_Helen_. No more did I. No, never could I think He looked his t.i.tle.
_Mod_. No, nor acted it.
If rightly they report, he ne'er disbursed To entertain his friends, 'tis broadly said, A hundred pounds in the year! He was most poor In the appointments of a man of rank, Possessing wealth like his. His horses, hacks!
His gentleman, a footman! and his footman, A groom! The sports that men of quality And spirit countenance, he kept aloof from, From scruple of economy, not taste,-- As racing and the like. In brief, he lacked Those s.h.i.+ning points that, more than name, denote High breeding; and, moreover, was a man Of very shallow learning.
_Julia_. Silence, sir!
For shame!
_Helen_. Why, Julia!
_Julia_. Speak not to me! Poor!
Most poor! I tell you, sir, he was the making Of fifty gentlemen--each one of whom Were more than peer for thee! His t.i.tle, sir, Lent him no grace he did not pay it back!
Though it had been the highest of the high, He would have looked it, felt it, acted it, As thou couldst ne'er have done! When found you out You liked him not? It was not ere to-day!
Or that base spirit I must reckon yours Which smiles where it would scowl--can stoop to hate And fear to show it! He was your better, sir, And is!--Ay, is! though stripped of rank and wealth, His nature's 'bove or fortune's love or spite, To blazon or to blurr it! [Retires.]
_Mod_. [To HELEN.] I was told Much to disparage him--I know not wherefore.
_Helen_. And so was I, and know as much the cause.
[Enter MASTER WALTER, with parchments.]
_Wal_. Joy, my Julia!
Impatient love has foresight! Lo you here The marriage deeds filled up, except a blank To write your jointure. What you will, my girl!
Is this a lover? Look! Three thousand pounds Per annum for your private charges! Ha!
There's pin-money! Is this a lover? Mark What acres, forests, tenements, are taxed For your revenue; and so set apart, That finger cannot touch them, save thine own.
Is this a lover? What good fortune's thine!
Thou dost not speak; but, 'tis the way with joy!
With richest heart, it has the poorest tongue!
_Mod_. What great good fortune's this you speak of, sir?
_Wal_. A coronet, Master Modus! You behold The wife elect, sir, of no less a man Than the new Earl of Rochdale--heir of him That's recently deceased.
_Helen_. My dearest Julia, Much joy to you!
_Mod_. All good attend you, madam!
_Wal_. This letter brings excuses from his lords.h.i.+p, Whose absence it accounts for. He repairs To his estate in Lancas.h.i.+re, and thither We follow.
_Julia_. When, sir?
