Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)
Page 281
Enter
Sir Francis Dilston.
SIR FRANCIS.
Well, Frank, — how are you, Reginald? — you let
Mabel go out — and unattended?
FRANK.
Come,
Father, you would not have me (think how she
Would hate it!) hang about her like a burr?
SIR FRANCIS.
No — no. But there’s a medium, sir, between
Neglect and persecution.
FRANK.
Well, I hope
And think I’ve hit that medium.
SIR FRANCIS.
Reginald,
If you were Mabel’s lover, or in hope
To be her lover, could you slight her so?
REGINALD.
I can’t imagine that condition.
SIR FRANCIS.
Then
You youngsters are no more your fathers’ sons
Than moles are sons of eagles.
FRANK.
Rats of cats,
Say, father.
SIR FRANCIS.
Eh! was that an epigram?
The point, my boy? Because we worry you?
FRANK.
Because we scuttle where you used to spring,
And nibble when you used to bite. At least,
You say so — or they say so.
SIR FRANCIS.
Heaven forbid!
Tom Jones and Lovelace were not gods of ours.
But if we meant to win and keep a heart
Worth winning and worth keeping, Frank, we knew
We must not seem to slight it. ‘Pique and soothe,’
Young Byron bids you — don’t stand off and gape.
There may be better means than his, if you
Love as I trust you love her. There’s the bell.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
— In the Garden.
Frank
and
Mabel.
FRANK.
I may not say what any man may say?
MABEL.
To me? And any man, you think, may say
Foolish and heartless things to me? or is it
Only the heir of Heronshaw who claims
A right so undeniable?
FRANK.
Is the taunt
Fair to yourself or me? You do not think —
MABEL.
You have the right to make mock love to me?
I do not.
FRANK.
How have you the right to call
Truth mockery, knowing I love you?
MABEL.
How should I
Know it? If you mistake me now for Anne,
You may mistake her presently for me.
FRANK.
Anne?
MABEL.
If you care for either cousin — much,
It ought, by all I ever heard or read,
To be the one you are always bickering with.
FRANK.
She does not like me.
MABEL.
She does not dislike.
FRANK.
Her liking would not help nor her dislike
Forbid me to be happy. You perhaps —
I can’t guess how you can — may think so: she
Cannot. And if I did — worse luck for me! —
What chance should I have? Can you not have seen
— Not once — not ever — how her face and eyes
Change when she looks at Redgie?
MABEL.
What! — Absurd!
You love her, and are mad with jealousy.
FRANK.
Mad if I am, my madness is to love
You. But you must have seen it.
MABEL.
I am not
Jealous.
FRANK.
You need not have an eye to see it.
Her voice might tell you, when she speaks to him.
MABEL.
The tone is just like yours or mine. Of course
We all make much — or something — of him now;
Since he came back, I mean.
FRANK.
From Waterloo;
I knew it — an interesting young cousin. Well,
He does deserve his luck, I know; he did
Always: and you were always good to him.
MABEL.
He always needed somebody, poor boy,
To be so.
FRANK.
Ah, if that were all! Because
His guardian, my good father, — good to me
Always — his cousin, in whose grounds we now
Walk and discuss him — and his schoolmasters,
You think, were apt —
MABEL.
To ill-use him? No; nor yet
Misunderstand him: that I did not mean.
But she who knew him and loved him best is gone —
His aunt and mine — your mother.
FRANK.
Yes: she did
Love him! she must have loved his mother more
Than many sisters love each other.
MABEL.
More
Than I love Anne or Anne loves me? I hope
Not. But when death comes in — and leaves behind
A child for pledge and for memorial, love
Must naturally feel more — I want the word;
More of a call upon it — not a claim —
A sort of blind and dumb and sweet appeal
Out of the dark, and out of all the light
That burns no more but broods on all the past —
A glowworm on a grave. And you, I know,
Were never jealous: all the house knew that,
And loved you for it as we did.
FRANK.
Ah — as you
Did! I’d have had you love me more than they,
If it had not been too great and sweet a thing
For me to dream of.
MABEL.
Do not dream at all.
What good can come of dreaming?
FRANK.
Less than none,
If dreaming, doubt, or fear, should take away
The little comfort, such as it is — God knows,
Not much, though precious — that your kind last words
Gave me. Too kind they were, Mabel. I was,
And am, jealous of Redgie; more to-night
Than ever: but I will not be.
MABEL.
I am sure
You will not. Why?
FRANK.
Because I know — I am sure,
Mabel — more sure than you can be of me
Or I can of myself — he would not grudge
Nor envy me my happiness if you
Could bring yourself to make me happy.
MABEL.
Why
Should he?
FRANK.
Ask him.
MABEL.
A pretty thing to ask!
But, Frank, it’s good, and very good, of you
To say so — if you care for me at all,
And think it possible I could care for him.
FRANK.
I think it more than possible: but he
Does not. You’ll have to tell him. Don’t let Anne
Hear you.
MABEL.
I would not let her, certainly,
If I were tempted to propose to you.
Do you think that girls — that women do such things?
FRANK.
No: but I do think — think, by heaven! I know —
He will not tell you what a child might see,
That he can love, and does, better than I,
And all his heart is set on you. But Anne
Loves him: you must have seen it.
MABEL.
You love her,
And do not know it, and take me for her, seeing
Her features in my face, and thinking she
Loves Redgie: is not this the truth? Be frank,
Or change your name for one that means a lie —
Iscariot or Napoleon.
FRANK.
God forbid!
I tell you what I am sure of, as I am sure
I wish I were not.
MABEL.
Sure? How can you be?
FRANK.
Are you not sure? Be honest. Can you say
You doubt he would have told you — what he won’t
And can’t — had he been heir of Heronshaw
Or Anyshaw? You might have spared that taunt,
Mabel. But can you say it? You never were
A liar, and never can be. Tell him then
The truth he will not tell you.
MABEL.
What if he
Rejects me? This is past a joke.
FRANK.
It is.
MABEL.
I knew you could not love me. Why make love?
FRANK.
I love you; but I see how you love him;
And think you are right. He loves you more than I —
Yes, more than I can — more than most men could
Love even you. You are no mate for me,
I am no mate for you, the song says. Well,
So be it. God send you happiness with him!
He has done more than give you up — give up
All chance of you — he would not take the chance
That honour, as he thought, forbade. Do you
Reward him.
MABEL.
God reward you, Frank! You see
— It’s true — I love him.
FRANK.
And he will not speak.
Tell him to-morrow — and come in to-night.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
Scene I. — Another part of the grounds.
Enter Sir Arthur Clavering and Reginald.
SIR ARTHUR.
I’m glad you love the old place: to have you here —
You and the Dilstons — brings my father’s time
Back. I might almost be your father, though;
Yours, or your cousins’ — Frank’s or Mabel’s. Time
Slips on like water.
REGINALD.
Very softly, here;
Less like the Kielder than the Deadwater
Till both make up the Tyne.
SIR ARTHUR.
It wearies you,
Cousin? Make haste then and grow strong and stout,
And ride away to battle: till you can,
I mean to keep you prisoner and be proud
I have a guest who struck beside the Duke
An English stroke at Waterloo.
REGINALD.
Beside,
Arthur? There’s no one born can boast of that.
The best we can — the very best of us —
Say for each other, is just, we followed him —
His hand and eye and word and thought — and did
What might be of our duty.
SIR ARTHUR.
Well, my boy,
Did he do more? You’re just a hothead still —
The very schoolboy that I knew you first —
On fire with admiration and with love
Of some one or of something, always. Now,
Who is it — besides your general? who — or which?
Anne’s chestnut shell, or Mabel’s golden fire —
Her emerald eyes, or Anne’s dark violets — eh?
You have them both (a happy hero you!)
Dancing attendance on your highness. Here
Comes Mabel: have you not a glove to throw?
Enter
Mabel.
Dear cousin, make him talk to you: to me
He will not; and I have not time to dance
Attendance on him.
[Exit.
REGINALD.
Arthur’s jokes are not
Diamonds for brilliance: but he’s good.
MABEL.
Are you?
REGINALD.
You never asked me that of old times.
MABEL.
No:
That was superfluous: all the household knew
How good a boy you were.
REGINALD.
And you? A girl
There was who loved the saddle as well as I,
And was not slower at breaking bounds.
MABEL.
You have not
Forgiven me what you suffered for my sake
So often — much too often.
REGINALD.
No, of course.
How should I?
MABEL.
You remember our old rides —
Tell me about your ride at Waterloo.
REGINALD.
More like a swim against a charging sea
It was, than like a race across the moors
Yonder.
MABEL.
But when a breaker got you down —
When you lay hurt it might have been to death —
Will you not tell me what you thought of then?
REGINALD.
No.
MABEL.
Nothing?
REGINALD.
Nothing I can tell you of.
MABEL.
Was all a mist and whirlwind — like the shore
Out yonder when the north-east wind is high?
That I can fancy. But when sense came back
You thought of nothing you can tell me of,
Reginald? nothing?
REGINALD.
Nothing I can tell
Any one — least of all, women or men,
Frank’s wife that is to be, Mabel.
MABEL.
And where
Has Frank concealed her from all eyes but yours?
You are too sharp-sighted, Redgie.
REGINALD.
Did she not
Ask me just now what if she knew — she must
Have known the answer that I could not make —
It was not right or kind to ask?
MABEL.
Not she.
REGINALD.
Mabel!
MABEL.
She’s innocent, at least.
REGINALD.
You mean — ?
MABEL.
I mean she is not here. Nor anywhere
But in the silliest dreamiest brain alive —
The blindest head cheating the trustiest heart
That ever made a man — untrustworthy.
You did not dream or think of any old friend —
Anne, Frank, or me — when you were lying, cut down,
Helpless, that hideous summer night? And now
You will not speak or stir? O, Reginald,
Must I say everything — and more — and you
Nothing?
REGINALD.
My love! Mabel! What can I?
MABEL.
Say
Just that again.
REGINALD.
How can it be?
MABEL.
My love,
How could it not be?
REGINALD.
How have I deserved
This?
MABEL.
How can I tell you? Do you tell me
Now, what you would not tell Frank’s wife.
REGINALD.
You know
I need not tell you.
MABEL.
Tell me, though.
REGINALD.
I thought,
Between the shoots and swoonings, off and on,
How hard it was, if anything was hard
When one was dying for England, not to see
Mabel, when I could see the stars. I thought
How sweet it was to know they shone on her
Asleep or waking, here at home. I thought
I could have wished, and should not wish, to send
My whole heart’s love back as my life went out,
To find her here and clasp her close and say
What I could never — how much I had loved her. Then
I thought how base and bad a fool I was
To dream of wishing what would grieve her. Then
I think I fell asleep.
MABEL.
And that was all,
Redgie?
REGINALD.
And that was all, Mabel.
MABEL.
You did —
You did not think, if she had known — if she,
Asleep and dreaming here, had dreamed of it —
What love she would have sent you back for yours —
Yours — how could she be worth it? Did you not
See, as you lay — know, as your pain sank down
And died and left you yet not quite asleep —
How past all words she loved you? Reginald!
You did not?
REGINALD.
How should I have dreamed of heaven?
I’m not a saint, Mabel.
MABEL.
And what am I
Who ask a man what, being the man he is,
He will not ask me — and am not ashamed?
REGINALD.
You are more than ever a man whom heaven loved best
Saw shining out of heaven in dreams — more dear,
More wonderful than angels. How you can
Care for me really and truly — care for me,
It beats my wits to guess.
MABEL.
It’s very strange,
Of course: what is there in you to be loved?
REGINALD.