Part 13 (2/2)

_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?

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