The Wynnes Of Wynhavod (Act I)

PERSONS REPRESENTED. Sir Pierce Thorne, a wealthy brewer. Mr. Murdock, a banker. Mostyn Wynne, the dispossessed heir of Wynhavod. Norman, a poet, son to Sir Pierce, who has assumed the name of "Drayton.' Robert Murdock, son of the banker. Carteret, a young man of family, confederate of Robert Murdock. Cross, friend of Robert Murdock. Payne, friend of Robert Murdock. Tom Price, the young husband of Mrs. Price. Owen Owen, foster-brother of Mostyn Wynne. Dafyth, a Welsh harper. Footmen, Waiters. Mrs. Murdock, wife of the banker Murdock. Amanda, their daughter. Winifred Wynne, sister of Mostyn Wynne. Jenny Owen, servant to the Wynnes. Mrs. Price, housekeeper to Robert Murdock.

Scene I.
A Dining-room in the Star-and-Garter Hotel at Richmond, with French window open to the garden. Sir Pierce Thorne, Robert Murdock, Carteret, Mrs. Murdock, and Amanda discovered seated at a table covered with fruit and flowers, the remains of a rich repast.
MRS. MURDOCK.Your three friends, Robert, who see fit to mulct us
Thus of their company, without excuse,
Have won a place of honour in our thoughts,
Which might have failed them had they shown their faces.

ROBERT MURDOCK.I think not, mother. Drayton—that's the poet—
Is one of those whose presence would be felt
If met with in the dark. I do not say
The shock of such a personality
Is always pleasant, mind you. That depends
On right relation.

MRS. MURDOCK.An electric eel?

ROBERT MURDOCK.Not that. This fellow would not bend or budge
For man or mountain. He's a thunder-cloud,
That sits and weighs on you, then blazes forth,
And scathes you, as with lightning.

MRS. MURDOCK.Your relation
With Mr. Drayton would not seem the right one.

ROBERT MURDOCK.I hate his Jovian airs, but take some pleasure
In picking up and tossing back his bolts,
As if I thought them plums.

AMANDA.Fair game; and yet
Such clouds are needed in our social sky;
They change the stagnant air. If Social Science
Could only find their law!

MRS. MURDOCK.Yes, rule the hour
Of their appearance, and compel them to it.

SIR PIERCE.The rules that serve their betters, should be made
To serve for them. One law for Peers and Poets,—
No demagogue could ask for more. These artists—

MRS. MURDOCK.Are outlaws; they defy the world's police.
Amanda peels a peach, and offers you
The sunny side.

SIR PIERCE.And sunnier for her smile.
[They bow.
AMANDA.Well, you have urged on us some sense of loss
In Mr. Drayton; but the boy and girl
You wished mamma to see and take to heart,—
Confess that by their absence they have gained
Consideration.

ROBERT MURDOCK.No, I can confess
To no such heresy. Wynne is a youth
Who shakes you out his heart, as children shake
Their laps of buttercups; and he has eyes,
Dark, lingering eyes, just such as women love,—
I leave him to them gladly; but for her,
His sister, Winifred, I think her eyes
Might almost win a woman to forget
The wrong they did her own.

AMANDA.Wonderful eyes.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Yes, truly wonderful!

MRS. MURDOCK. [rising.]Well, all the same—
Her eyes not being at hand to look me down—
She might have told us in a civil word
That she withheld their light.

ROBERT MURDOCK.That was my fault.
Miss Wynne—

MRS. MURDOCK.We'll hear your plea when we return,
Booted and bonnetted. Amanda, come.
[Exit Mrs. Murdock and Amanda. Carteret, having opened the door for them, saunters moodily from the window into the garden.

SIR PIERCE.Did you say Wynne?

ROBERT MURDOCK.Yes, I said Wynne, Sir Pierce;
The name is Welsh. I need not tell you that.

SIR PIERCE.No, truly. Welshmen have not many names,
And this one heads the list. My place in Flintshire
Is called Wynhavod, and was once the seat
Of some of them. I bought it for a song.

ROBERT MURDOCK.A song that was a threnody to them.

SIR PIERCE.Aye, aye, I think it was. I got the homestead
And some few hundred acres, as I say,
For nothing nearly; paid the mortgage off,
And bought up all the land that used of old
To go with it. Three parishes it covered,
And had not been in one man's hand before,
For near two hundred years. That was a chance,
Seemly, and safe, and seasonable. There,
You have my motto,—it is worth a thought,—
My fortune and repute are based on it.

ROBERT MURDOCK.A good foundation, doubtless,—deep and broad [Aside]
(as Hell),and safe, I take it, in proportion. [To Sir P.]
And truly it were well it should be so,
For this young dove-eyed Wynne, son of that colonel,
Who lost for him his dwindled heritage,
Is eager as a hawk to find a flaw
In any deed or title which might give him
The hope, that with a life of patient drudging,
He, having scraped enough to buy the purchase,
May wring it back from you.

SIR PIERCE.The boy is mad. Re-enter Mrs. Murdock and Amanda.
'Twas likely, since he had a fool for father.

MRS. MURDOCK. [To Robert.]Now say, my son, what was this fault of yours
Which seemed to me Miss Wynne's?

ROBERT MURDOCK.Miss Wynne is shy,—
Shy as the wild Welsh ponies of her hills—

MRS. MURDOCK.So shied at us? Misdoubting we were tame.

SIR PIERCE.The girl is country-bred, there are good houses
About Wynhavod, but their indigence—

ROBERT MURDOCK.No, not at all; I said Miss Wynne was shy,
As shy as are the ponies of her hills;
I might have said as shy as nightingales,
That seek out quiet haunts to fill with song.
But still it strikes me, if she were that bird
She'd sing oblivious of our listening ears.
I've seen her take her way amid the throng
Of London streets, as if St. Paul's were Snowdon,
As unconstrained by the rude gaze of men
As is a mountain brook.

MRS. MURDOCK.I wonder whether,
In hearing you speak thus, it perhaps might strike her
That you grew lyrical.

ROBERT MURDOCK. [Bitterly.]I hardly think so.

MRS. MURDOCK.Now speak, I pray, in your accustomed prose,
And let us know, at last, why we must blame
You for her failure.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Well, I thought it best,
She being—

AMANDA.Wild, not shy—

ROBERT MURDOCK.Wild, if you like,—
To try to get the noose of an engagement
Over her head, before she was aware;
So bade her brother, who is in our bank,
To hasten back to Fulham, tell his sister
That they were looked for here, then take the boat,
And so—

MRS. MURDOCK.Still scheming, Robert. [To Sir P.] 'Tis a pity
The door to fortune was not closed to him,
He would so soon have found some magic word
To cozen it. In years—too long ago—
When he was little and when I was young,
I used to hide his physic in a fig,
And, seemingly impartial, give another,
Undoctored, to his sister. How it happened,
We never could make out; but while we watched,
Amanda got the pill.

ROBERT MURDOCK.And suffered doubly,
For she grew sick, as I grew well. So much
For justice—not poetical! But pray,
Discount my mother's story; 'tis her way
Of boasting of my parts.

SIR PIERCE.She has a right;
You get them in direct descent from her.
[Bows to Mrs. M.
ROBERT MURDOCK. [Aside.]She did me, though. scant justice; one so keen
To guard his life from what it loathed would show
His finished art in grappling what he loved.

MRS. MURDOCK. [Aside to Amanda.]I owe Sir Pierce's compliment to you.
You leave the lead to me, and quite forget
The game is won by tricks. Look to your cards.
Enter Waiter, with a telegram.
ROBERT MURDOCK.A telegraphic message—from the Wynnes,
[Reading."From Wynne to Murdock.' Pithy! "We regret
The shortness of your summons, which prevents
Our forced refusal reaching you, to spare
Expectancy.' A very dainty note
To send by wire. But seventeen words in all,
Bearing her stamp as if they had been signed.

AMANDA.Miss Wynne regrets the shortness of your bidding;
Not that she cannot answer it.

ROBERT MURDOCK.How keen!
You read between these telegraphic lines.

AMANDA.Not keen at all. I quite believe you now,
This lady is not shy as—starlings are.

ROBERT MURDOCK. [Rising.]By Jove, no; cool as one of Juno's peacocks!

SIR PIERCE. [Rising.]I grieve to be the one to give the signal,
But if we would not drive into the night
We should be gone. My horses champ their bits.

MRS. MURDOCK. [Rising.]Make short farewells, you know Sir Pierce respects
The feelings of his horses.

AMANDA.When such dear ones!

ROBERT MURDOCK.I'll see you to the carriage. [To Mrs. M.] Tell my father
His absence made our cup of sorrows full.
Carteret and I will dream away an hour
Here on the terrace, then return by rail. [Exeunt all.
Re-enter Robert Murdock, and Carteret, from the garden.
ROBERT MURDOCK. [Taking up a peach, cutting, and throwing it down.] [Aside.]Soh, she "regrets the shortness of my summons;'

This girl's slight foot is on my neck; but patience! [To Carteret.]
How stands the game betwixt you and your foes,
The Israelites? Have they quite spoiled you?

CARTERET.Quite.

ROBERT MURDOCK. [Shutting the window.]What devilry is up now with those birds?
One cannot hear one's voice; they cry one down.

CARTERET.And so they may, for me. I know of nothing
That you or I am like to say worth half
The fuss they make.

ROBERT MURDOCK. [Aside.]Young beggar, he is sulky;
Since I denied him help to keep him floating
Until those cormorants had picked him clean,
He thinks there's nothing to be got from me.
What does your father say?

CARTERET.His vocables
Are mostly interjections; he does little
On my behalf but groan and shake his head.
He had a stroke last April.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Who, Sir Digby?

CARTERET.Sir Digby.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Have you told him that you kept
Those dealings with the Jews unknown to him,
When he believed he'd set you free, and found
A stool for your repentance in our bank?

CARTERET.Not I.

ROBERT MURDOCK.I gave you that advice.

CARTERET.You did.
Perhaps I might have thought more of your present,
If it had cost you more.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Aha! that's likely.
The world's a mart, and we, its chapmen, know
That what we get for nought is nothing worth;
All serviceable stock is kept for sale.
Now, if one day you did me—counter-service—
I,—should not be behind-hand with the price.

CARTERET.What do you mean?

ROBERT MURDOCK.I scarcely know, as yet.
I only feel that life is out of tune
For me, as well as you; if of our fault,
It may be that our fault can set it right.

CARTERET.If good should come to me of my own earning.
It must be by default. I hate the collar,
And like the trace as little as the whip.
This life is only jolly through misdoing.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Vices are savage masters, though, and nature
An unrelenting usher. [Aside.] Humph! a man
Might tempt this tender youth, and hardly fear
To find a cloven hoof beneath his stocking!

CARTERET.Nature has got her price; she may be bought.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Bought off, perhaps; but only for a time;
She's down upon the drunkard in the end,
Whether he's soaked in beer or Burgundy;
And so with all the rest. [Aside.]
I think I'll sound him.

CARTERET.It isn't beer and Burgundy that make
The odds to us, but Beaune and Chambertin,—
Their better cellarage, and sunnier seasons;
Malt, eaten or drunk, is only fit for pigs.
I say you fellows that are born to banks
And mines and such like, have the pull on us
Poor beggars who inherit worn-out names;
The poisons you may entertain your lives with
Kill slowly. How can yours be out of tune?

ROBERT MURDOCK.There is a poison that can fire the blood,—
You, perhaps, may never learn it, but I have;
No pleasant vice, that you may buy of higher
Or lower quality, as suits your means,
But something elemental that breaks out,
That strikes you down, and robs you of your reason,—

A lurking venom that one face alone,
Of all that throng the paths of men, has power
To vitalise for you, while not the gold
Of all the mines that ever probed the earth
Can buy its antidote. Carteret, I love—
As if the whole world held one woman only.

CARTERET.You love? The devil! Why not marry, then,
Your case being—so especial?

ROBERT MURDOCK.That, by Heaven,
I will; but you must help me. Only help me,
As I will tell you how, and I will start you
As free a Gentile as if every Jew
Were gone to meet the eldest-born of Egypt.

CARTERET.Well, tell me what you want.

ROBERT MURDOCK.I must explain. [Aside.]
This thing is just as hard to clothe in speech
As it must be to dress an ugly woman! [To C.]
You know the lady; it is she who failed
Our party here to-day.

CARTERET.Miss Wynne?

ROBERT MURDOCK.The same.

CARTERET.What more is there to do but just to ask her?

ROBERT MURDOCK.I'm not faint-hearted; but—

CARTERET.You're given to shy
At objects overbright. You should wear blinkers.

ROBERT MURDOCK.An ass's head might serve; so under cover
A fool might bray into Titania's face.
Still,—"naked'to your "langhter'as you see me,
I've got fair change from women as a rule;
But this one—Have you read the "Faerie Queene?'

CARTERET.No.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Then you can't well tell what you might feel,
On meeting Britomart in any skin
But that of Arthegal. If I'm to win,
'Twill be by strategy.

CARTERET.This love would seem
All on one side,—a sort of a—moral cripple.

ROBERT MURDOCK.May be. If so, in these æsthetic days,
Fine art, not luck or strength, may serve the turn
Of men who know their minds as I know mine,
In winning what they lust for.

CARTERET.There may be
The devil to pay for that—

ROBERT MURDOCK.The devil a doit.
Good—bad—Mere relatives! What's true on earth—
A shabby lump of clay, not even a sphere
But for the sea which puts a gloss on it—
Helps it to make a figure and to shine;—
I say what's true on earth may well be false
In Sirius; so then, not "true' and "false,'
Adept and bungler are the terms which
mark
Our quality as men. Adepts are vessels
Of honour—good alembics, that can stand
The furnace, whatsoever broth they cook.

CARTERET.Save me from fire!

ROBERT MURDOCK.Ah,—you're a half-baked pipkin,
Good for the dust-heap! All the world is cumbered
With such cracked pottery,—the non-successes
Of Chance. Your breeding should have served you better.

CARTERET.Not worth a curse! What are you driving at?

ROBERT MURDOCK. [Rising, and speaking, as to himself.]Only success succeeds. Pah! shall I suffer
My will, however come by, still the highest
Of all the forces, streams, or counter-streams,
Of what I call my life, to own constraint
Of blind, unmeaning elements, or worse,
Of some inherent hate which skill might conquer?
Not I.

CARTERET.What is to do?

ROBERT MURDOCK.Look here; this pair,
The sister, and the brother whom you know
As well as I do, live their two young lives
With but one thought between them, which is this,—
To win that old owls' nest they call Wynhavod
Back from Sir Pierce.

CARTERET.It seems you don't want me;
Her price is settled.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Once I thought that, too;
But no, she knows—or she is less than woman—
And I'm mistaken if she be not more,—
That I would help her as no other could,
Knowing Sir Pierce; the day that saw her mine
Should see Wynhavod hers, and free to give it
In transfer to her brother. I have tried
All this upon her—just by inference—
And never won a smile to give me hope.

CARTERET.What could I do, old fellow, when that fails?
Give me my cue.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Her armour is her pride;
Help me to break that down, and I shall win her.

CARTERET.I shouldn't mind her armour, if you'll warrant
That she is not inside it. Just you bring me
To where it is.

ROBERT MURDOCK.Her pride is in her brother.

CARTERET.Well?

ROBERT MURDOCK.Now, if he should seem, mind, only seem,—
And that but for a time,—to have disgraced
Himself and her, and I stepped in to ransom
Their lives of all the consequences, then—
I see my way.

CARTERET.You see your way? The devil!
I don't see mine.

ROBERT MURDOCK.You shall, though; now, look here.
To-morrow you and Wynne will both be sent for
To take a parcel to the post. My father
Is safe to give it him. It will contain
Six thousand pounds in notes, and be addressed
To Cass and Co., New York. I want that parcel.

CARTERET. [Rising.]You mean me—

ROBERT MURDOCK.Yes.

CARTERET.Me, to—

ROBERT MURDOCK.I do.

CARTERET.But how?

ROBERT MURDOCK.A hundred ways. The simplest thing might be
To ask it of him,—say you have some pocket
Safer than that wherein he has bestowed it;
You know your ways together, and his habits—

CARTERET.I will not touch it! All the world to one,
Suspicion—

ROBERT MURDOCK.Hush! Suspicion, man, will fall
On no one in the end, and, for the time,
Will only light on Wynne. Give me that parcel;
I'll find sure means to have it traced to him.
The cover shall be found in his possession;
The notes I'll take from it, and see to forward
To Cass and Co., under my father's hand.
We'll blow a storm up that shall make us feel
Like demi-gods a day or two, and then—
We'll blow it out; and you will find yourself
Sailing before the wind, glorious and free!
For me, if all go well—and I'll so shape it,
So trim and order, that by Jove it shall—
No woman's watery will should baulk a man's!—
I would not change with any god of Greece!
Come, let us have another weed out there,
And settle the conditions. [Exeunt Robert Murdock and Carteret by a door into the garden.
Enter Norman Drayton, accompanied by a Waiter.
WAITER.The gentlemen were here a while ago;
'Tis likely, Sir, they've stept into the garden.

NORMAN.Most likely. Here, a line upon my card
Will tell them all I came to let them know. [Reading as he writes.]
An unexpected complication made it
Impossible for me to keep my pledge;
Pray credit me with reason which, if stated,
Would win my pardon. [Aside.]
Had I sent him this
When first I found my father was his guest,
My writing might have told my father more
Than this will tell to Murdock. [To Waiter.]
Give this card
To Mr. Robert Murdock. [Aside.] She was here;
I wonder where she sat,—was this her place?
I should have known it by the roses' token—
The sweetness of the air where she has been.
Here it is close, as if conspiracy
Had shut the door upon it. Damask rose-leaves
Shed on the cloth.
[Gathers the leaves into his hand, then throws them down.She would not so have crushed them.

WAITER. [Aside, setting table straight.]He wears a deal of hair upon his face;
He's dropped those crumbs o'roses, but may chance on
A something better suited to his mind.
I'll pin my eye upon him.

SIR PIERCE. [Without.]I shall find them
Either upon the table, or beneath it,—
A pair of double eye-glasses.

NORMAN.That voice!
My father's! [Retreats to window.
Enter Sir Pierce and another Waiter.
SIR PIERCE.We had nearly got to Sheen
Before I missed them. I remember now,
I used them,—yes, in looking at a couple
Of boats upon the river. Where was that?
I stood before this window.
[Advances abruptly to window where Norman is standing.Who is this?
Norman? Yes,—no. Allow me, Sir, a moment,
A likeness struck me,—[Lays hold of Norman's arm] and it strikes me still.
Your name—

NORMAN.Is Drayton.

SIR PIERCE.No, two years and that
Wild growth of beard have not so changed my son.
Your name is Thorne. [To Waiter.]
Leave us, and shut the door.

NORMAN.My name is Thorne, I am your son, I wish
This meeting had been spared to both of us,
But since our paths have crossed in our despite—

SIR PIERCE.In your despite, Sir; it has been my dream
Early, and late, to cross this path of yours.
You've been in Germany,—at Göttingen—

NORMAN.I left a year ago.

SIR PIERCE.Since when I lost
All sight and sound of you. 'Tis a brave thing,
A fine, new-fangled form of wickedness,—
Something to suit the temper of the age—
This casting off a father by a son!

NORMAN.You put it so. I do not cast you off;
It is not you I shun, if you would own
My right to live my life in such a fashion,—
So to possess my soul—

SIR PIERCE.Who wants your soul?
Keep it, and make what use you will of it;
Let it rejoice in idleness, or put it
To any dainty work that suits its highness.
I want a son—without a soul, or with one,—
To bear the burthen of the heritage
I've toiled so hard to win, that I have lost
The power to reap the harvest. It is little
That fathers of our day are taught to look for,
But so much—just so much—I thought the frailest
Of youthful spirits of the modern type
Might grant us!

NORMAN.I entreat you, Sir, to leave
This question where we buried it when last
We parted. There's no sting in sarcasm
Shall make me drag it forth, and urge again
Reasons—

SIR PIERCE.That showed your mind unsettled—

NORMAN.Reasons
Whose roots have borne live branches, ripened fruit.
I see you well? I must be gone. I pray you,
No word of this to Murdock. This discretion
Is all that I may ever ask of you.
[Going.
SIR PIERCE. [Detaining him.]Stop, stop,—by heaven, are you a king, to choose
Your subjects of discourse, and to cut short
The audience when you will? Stop, boy, and solve me
A riddle that has tasked me day and night:
What meaning lies beyond that foolish feint,
That vain pretence of scorning money, earned,
As money has been earned, and will be earned,
By men who sway the counsels of the State,—
Men who are honoured of their Queen and country,
Great Brewers who have proved their worth and strength,—
Who turned the scale of—

NORMAN.Sir, what can it profit
To seek for answer, where there is no tongue
By man invented which could make the thoughts
Of one of us the other's? For my motives,
I showed them once in naked truth, when what
Was natural to me, to you seemed monstrous.

SIR PIERCE.Monstrous! I think so. Scorn a princely fortune,
Because it has been built up by your father,—
Made legally, not levied in black-mail
By some forgotten ancestor!

NORMAN.Forgotten,
That says unknown, and covers all the case.

SIR PIERCE.Refuse to take the place that has been made you
Before the world! Your labour is not asked
To keep this great machine of fortune going;
Your part is just to sit at ease, and swallow
The ripest of the fruits, and that in company
Of men who are the nation's prop, good Churchmen,
Good citizens, good subjects,—men who kneel
As humbly in their Churches' services
As if they never kissed a royal hand.

NORMAN.Ah,—men who scorn not coming from St.James's,
The courts of the house I think they call the Lord's!

SIR PIERCE.The thing is clearly madness, moon-struck madness!
Decline to take your part in the good things
Your fate provides, with worthy gentlemen
Who shine as magistrates—

NORMAN.And make the crimes
They sit in judgment on—

SIR PIERCE.Whose names are seen
To head the lists of charity with sums
To beggar German Princes!

NORMAN.All too little
To ransom any smallest soul of them
From its appropriate hell.

SIR PIERCE.Sir, you blaspheme.
I thought it only pride that set you up
Above your father's fortune; but it seems
Some devilish possession. You said Drayton!
You style yourself a Poet!

NORMAN.No, in truth.
Some that agree to call themselves the "world'
Agree to call me by the name. One day
I may not blush to answer to it, now—

SIR PIERCE.Mad! mad!—I thought it. Hah! poor fool! Poor father!
An only son, who might have had the world
Grovelling before him on bare knees. A Poet!!

NORMAN.Well, damn me by the name, and let me go.
I told you, Sir, that language means for us
Eternal discord; that the same words stand
For contraries in our vocabulary.

SIR PIERCE.Then try to clear your wits.
I say, once more,
Do you refuse to lead the life befitting
A gentleman?

NORMAN.Yes, as you use the title.

SIR PIERCE.You will not deign to spend the yearly income
Allotted to your use?

NORMAN.I will not spend it.

SIR PIERCE.Nor take the fortune, nor support the duties
That would be yours upon your father's death?

NORMAN.The one would be a burthen, and the other
A mockery.

SIR PIERCE.You choose to be a beggar,—
So be it, then; go, I have heard enough.
That I who ever strove for some high goal
Should have a son so dead to all ambition!
What did you do at College?

NORMAN. [Bitterly.]Only read.

SIR PIERCE.Yes read,—read books; I sent you to learn men.

NORMAN.Say noble-men.

SIR PIERCE.Well, noblemen; are men
The worse for being noble?

NORMAN.Let me go, Sir.
I grieve that you should have a son who answers
So little to your hopes. When I took honours
I thought, and had some pleasure in the thought,
Your pride would be contented; I was wrong,
I did not know its quality; it seems
We cannot give or take one from the other.
Let us not part in bitterness; you hold
All that you asked of life. For me, no power
Shall make me drag your growing load of wealth,
Or try to roll it on my upward way,—

SIR PIERCE.Boy, you have made of it a stone to crush me;
Such heirless wealth is—

NORMAN.Sir, would you but drop it,
Divided, it might lighten tons of care.

SIR PIERCE.He's mad,—he's moonstruck—

NORMAN.Merely sane, my father,
As you are not. Oh, could you once behold
The thing that is, the spoils that are your pride—
Spoils tempted from the feeble clutch of fools,
Or reeking with the sweat of wasted labour—
Would rise before you as a pyramid,
A huge, unprofitable pyramid
Of copper, built with pennies of the poor.
I say the pile so got must crush the getter
Beneath its weight of blasted lives, its hopes
Of human progress baffled. All the shame
And tears of tempted weakness, all the sorrow,
Disease, and crime transmitted to the race
In blood and bone must hold in bond the souls
Of those who raise such monuments of woe.
I would not have my spirit lie entombed
In such a mausoleum, though it held
The treasure of the Pharaohs.

SIR PIERCE.Boy, no more!
You rave; those words are but the sickly fume
Born of an idle brain. I did the work
Which leaves you free to scoff and vapour here.
A pyramid, you call it; be it so;
I built it; go and match it, if you can;
Make it without my aid, and use what stuff
And tools you will. I say go build your fortune,
And learn what work is with my curse upon it!
Robert Murdock and Carteret appear at the garden door.
NORMAN.I go. My mother knew the time to die.

SIR PIERCE.Your mother, yes; her grave, her very grave
Will fall to aliens, and my bones to boot.
Begone!

NORMAN.I dare not, Sir,—I see you are—

SIR PIERCE.Sick, but of you. Leave me in peace, I say,—
Alone.

NORMAN.Farewell. [Aside.] There's other help at hand,
Since mine offends him.

ROBERT MURDOCK. [At the door.]Soh; I scented somewhat
Of mystery. [Pointing after Norman.] Sir Pierce's wandering son.

CARTERET.Heir to a heap of money.

ROBERT MURDOCK.And,—Wynhavod!

CARTERETSir Pierce has cut him off.

ROBERT MURDOCK.He has, to-day.

SIR PIERCE. [Rising confused and seeking vaguely on the ground.]I've lost,—I've lost—

ROBERT MURDOCK. [Coming forward.]These "clearers,' as I think, Sir.

SIR PIERCE.Ah yes, these glasses; I forgot the glasses.
Thank ye, I'm glad of them; they've done good service.
But still this fog—this burning sense of loss—
Ah yes; gone, gone! Good evening, gentlemen.
[Exit Sir Pierce, slowly and feebly.
ROBERT MURDOCK. [Watching him.]Dispatch, dispatch! he's ill, and may repent him.
This poet, who would cross my path of love,
Shows dangerous. To work, and leave the fool
No time for chance to conjure to his profit.