It was not likely that Benedick’s changed behaviour should escape
notice, and Don Pedro and Claudio pretended to think he was in love,
and began to tease him unmercifully. Benedick met their raillery with
an air of lofty scorn, but nothing would stop the shafts of wit which
the light-hearted gentlemen levelled at their deluded companion, and
they continued to twit him on his pensive demeanour, and the new air
of fashion which he was adopting.
But all gladness and gaiety were suddenly clouded over with heavy
gloom.
Having carefully prepared his villainous plot by the aid of his
follower Borachio, Don John came to Claudio and the Prince of Arragon,
and told them what had been agreed--namely, that Hero was unworthy to
be the wife of Claudio, for she was already in love with Borachio,
and that if the Prince and Count Claudio wished to prove the truth of
his statement they had only to go that night to the street outside
Leonato’s palace, where they would see Hero speaking out of a window
to Borachio.
Don Pedro and Claudio were, of course, at first stunned and
incredulous, but Don John never faltered in the terrible lie he was
relating.
“If you will follow me I will show you enough,” he concluded, “and
when you have heard more and seen more, proceed accordingly.”
“If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow,”
said Claudio, “in the congregation where I should wed, there will I
shame her.”
“And as I helped you to woo her, I will join with you to disgrace
her,” said Don Pedro.
* * * * *
Now, the watchmen who kept the streets of Messina were a set of silly
old men, whose only idea of duty was to potter about the streets,
and keep as far as possible out of the way of anyone who was likely
to give them any trouble. Chief of them was a constable called
Dogberry, whose ignorance and stupidity were only equalled by his
enormous self-conceit. On the night before the wedding, however, these
brilliant watchmen actually did contrive to effect a capture which led
to the happiest results.
Dogberry had finished his string of ridiculous instructions to the
band, and had just taken his departure, when two wayfarers came along
from opposite directions, and stopped to speak to each other. These
were Borachio and Conrade, the two followers of the wicked Don John.
The street was quite dark, and apparently deserted, and as at that
moment it began to drizzle with rain, the two men took shelter under
a convenient pent-house. Suspicious of some treason, the watchmen
concealed themselves near, and thus overheard the whole tale of
villainy which Borachio confessed to Conrade.
“Know that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the lady Hero’s
gentlewoman, by the name of Hero,” he said. “She leans out of the
window to me, she bids me a thousand times good-night. But I should
first tell you how the Prince, Claudio, and my master, placed and
instructed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this
affectionate interview.”
“And did they think Margaret was Hero?”
“Two of them did--the Prince and Claudio--but the devil, my master,
knew she was Margaret. Deceived partly by the darkness of the night,
but chiefly by my villainy, which confirmed any slander that Don John
invented, away went Claudio enraged, swore he would meet her as was
appointed next morning at the church, and there, before the whole
congregation, shame her with what he had seen, and send her home again
without a husband.”
Borachio had scarcely finished speaking when the watchmen pounced
on the two villains. Surprised by the suddenness of the onslaught,
they were quickly overpowered, and, finding any attempt at resistance
useless, they had to submit to being led ignominiously away.
[Illustration: “A thousand times good-night.”]
“Done to Death by Slanderous Tongues”
Next morning a brilliant company were assembled in the great church
at Messina to see the wedding of Count Claudio and the lady Hero.
Beatrice, of course, was there with her cousin, and Leonato to give
his daughter away. The young maiden, in her snowy robe and veil, stood
ready, and facing her was the gallant young Count, in his bridal
splendour of white and gold.
“You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?” said the Friar.
“No,” said Claudio.
The bystanders were astonished at this curt response, but Leonato
corrected the Friar’s words.
“To be married to her; Friar, _you_ come to marry her.”
“Lady, you come hither to be married to this Count?”
“I do,” said Hero, in a low but steady voice.
“If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be
conjoined, I charge you on your souls to utter it,” said the Friar.
“Know you any, Hero?” demanded Claudio sternly.
“None, my lord,” came the slightly wondering but unfaltering answer.
“Know you any, Count?”
“I dare make his answer, none,” interposed Leonato.
“Oh, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing
what they do!” cried Claudio, in a burst of bitter scorn. Then,
turning to Leonato, he said: “Will you with free soul give me this
maid, your daughter?”
[Illustration: There, Leonato, take her back again.]
“As freely, son, as God gave her to me,” said Leonato.
“And what have I to give you that shall equal in worth this rare and
precious gift?” said Claudio.
“Nothing, unless you render her again,” said Don Pedro.
“Sweet Prince, you teach me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take
her back again.”
And then Claudio, as he had sworn, in the presence of the whole
congregation, brought forth his terrible accusations against Hero, and
declared he would not marry her. Stung to fury by what he considered
her wickedness and deceit--for the young girl’s blushing modesty and
grace appeared to him nothing but seeming--he related what he and
the Prince had seen the night before, and how Hero had spoken out of
her window with a ruffian. It was useless for Hero to protest her
innocence; nothing could destroy the evidence of their own eyes.
Unable to endure this cruel and astounding calumny, Hero sank fainting
to the ground. Don Pedro, Claudio, and Don John left the church; the
amazed wedding guests dispersed; and Leonato, Beatrice, Benedick, and
the Friar were left alone with the unhappy Hero.
“How doth the lady?” asked Benedick, approaching the spot where
Beatrice was eagerly trying to recall her cousin to consciousness.
“Dead, I think,” cried Beatrice in despair. “Help, uncle! Hero--why,
Hero! Uncle! Signor Benedick! Friar!”
“Death is the fairest cover for her shame that can be wished for,”
said the heart-broken father.
“How now, Cousin Hero!” said Beatrice, as the young girl slowly opened
her dazed eyes.
“Have comfort, lady,” said the Friar tenderly.
“Do you look up?” said Leonato.
“Yes; wherefore should she not?” said the Friar.
In his terrible grief, not questioning the truth of the story, Leonato
declared that death was the happiest thing that could happen to Hero
after such dishonour, and that if her spirit had strength enough to
survive such shame, he could almost be tempted to kill her with his
own hands.
“Sir, sir, be patient!” pleaded Benedick. “For my part, I am so
attired in wonder I do not know what to say.”
“Upon my soul, my cousin is belied!” exclaimed Beatrice.
Then the Friar stepped forward, and declared his absolute belief in
Hero’s innocence, and his words were so clear and convincing that
even Leonato began to think his daughter must be wrongfully accused.
The mystery was puzzling, for, as Benedick remarked, the Prince and
Claudio were the soul of honour, and were only too terribly convinced
themselves of the truth of what they had said. If they had been misled
in any way, it must be the work of Don John, who delighted in planning
deeds of villainy.
By the good Friar’s advice, it was agreed that for the present Hero
should stay secretly in retirement, so that the outside world should
imagine she was really dead. Slander would then be changed to remorse,
and she would be lamented, excused, and pitied by everyone. For it
generally falls out that we do not prize to its full worth what we
have; but when it is lacked and lost, then we appreciate its value. So
it would fare with Claudio. When he should hear that Hero had died at
his words, the sweet remembrance of her lovely life would creep into
his soul; then he would mourn and wish he had not so accused her.
“Signor Leonato, let the Friar advise you,” said Benedick. “And though
you know my loyalty and love to the Prince and Claudio, yet by mine
honour I will deal as secretly and justly in this matter as your soul
would with your body.”
So it was agreed, and then the good Friar and Leonato took away Hero
to put their plan into execution.
Left alone with Benedick, Beatrice’s rage and indignation found full
vent. She was justly furious at the indignity that had been put on her
gentle cousin, and though for a moment Benedick won her to a lighter
mood by confessing his love for her, yet she speedily returned to the
subject of which her heart was full.
“Oh that I were a man!” she cried, her one desire being to revenge
Hero, and punish the dastards who had wrought such an insult on her.
If Benedick really loved her, she declared, he would take this office
on himself and kill Claudio.
“Kill Claudio!”
Benedick hesitated. No, he could not do that. Claudio was his
friend.... But he loved Beatrice; her generous, whole-hearted sympathy
for her cousin could not but prevail with one of Benedick’s chivalrous
nature.
“Think you in your soul that Count Claudio has wronged Hero?” he asked
solemnly.
“Yes, as surely as I have a thought or a soul,” said Beatrice, with
noble pride.
“Enough; I am engaged. I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand,
and so I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear
account. Go, comfort your cousin. I must say she is dead. And so,
farewell.”
Benedick, the scoffer, the jester, the light-hearted wit of the
Prince’s Court, showed in this moment that he was also a high-souled
chivalrous gentleman, fitting mate for the brave and noble-spirited
Beatrice.
In accordance with his promise, Benedick went to seek Claudio. He
presently found him with Don Pedro. The two gentlemen had just had a
painful interview with Leonato, who had indignantly reproached them
for their behaviour. They felt anything but happy, although they
persisted in thinking that they were quite justified in acting as they
had done. However, at the sight of Benedick their spirits rallied,
and they tried to assume their usual teasing vein of raillery. But
Benedick was in no jesting humour. With cold self-possession he
delivered his challenge to Claudio, and then he took a dignified leave
of the Prince of Arragon.
“My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you,” he said. “I must
discontinue your company. Your brother Don John is fled from Messina;
you have among you killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord
Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet; and till then peace be with him.”
“He is in earnest,” said the Prince, as Benedick withdrew.
“In most profound earnest,” said Claudio; “and, I’ll warrant you, for
the love of Beatrice.”
“And has challenged you.”
“Most sincerely.”
“What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose, and
leaves off his wit!” said Don Pedro disdainfully.
But the self-satisfaction of the Prince and Claudio were soon to
receive a severe shock. The watchmen now approached, bringing with
them their capture of the night before, the culprits Borachio and
Conrade, and the whole miserable tale of treachery was duly unfolded.
Leonato was sent for in haste.
“Are you the slave that with your slander slew my innocent child?” he
asked of Borachio.
“Yes, even I alone.”
“No, not so, villain; you belie yourself,” said Leonato. “Here stand a
pair of honourable men; a third is fled that had a hand in it. I thank
you, Princes, for my daughter’s death: it was bravely done, if you
bethink you of it.”
Claudio was overwhelmed with remorse; he dared not ask pardon of the
deeply-wronged Leonato, but he besought him to chose his own revenge,
and to impose on him any penance he choose to invent. Don Pedro also
joined him in expressing his deep penitence.
“I cannot bid you bid my daughter live,” replied Leonato, “but I pray
you both proclaim to all the people in Messina how innocent she died.
Hang an epitaph upon her tomb, and sing it there to-night. To-morrow
morning come to my house, and since you cannot be my son-in-law, be my
nephew. My brother has a daughter almost the copy of my child that’s
dead. Marry her, as you would have married her cousin, and so dies my
revenge.”
Claudio willingly agreed to carry out this suggestion, and that night
he went to the church with a solemn company, and read aloud the
following scroll:
“Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the Hero that here lies;
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.
So the life that died with shame
Lives in death with glorious fame.”
“Hang thou there upon the tomb, praising her when I am dumb,” he
added, placing the scroll on the family monument of Leonato.
* * * * *
The following morning a large company again assembled in Leonato’s
house, for another wedding was to take place. This time all the ladies
were veiled, and it was not until the words were spoken in which
Claudio took an unknown maiden to be his wife that the bride threw
back her veil and revealed the well-loved face of Hero.
Benedick had already announced to the Friar that he intended to
marry the lady Beatrice, and Leonato had given his willing approval.
Benedick therefore approached the group of still masked figures to
find his own lady, and called Beatrice by name.
“What is your will?” she inquired, taking off her mask.
“Do not you love me?” asked Benedick.
“Why, no--no more than reason,” said Beatrice provokingly.
“Why, then, your uncle and the Prince and Claudio have been deceived;
they swore you did.”
Beatrice laughed.
“Do not you love me?” she asked in her turn.
“Troth, no; no more than reason,” said Benedick loftily.
“Why, then, my cousin, Margaret and Ursula are much deceived, for they
swore you did.”
“They swore you were almost ill for me,” declared Benedick.
“They swore that you were wellnigh dead for me,” retorted Beatrice.
“’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?”
“No, truly, but in friendly recompense,” said Beatrice, with airy
indifference.
“Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman,” said Leonato.
“And I’ll be sworn that he loves her,” said Claudio.
“Come, I will have thee,” said Benedick. “But by this light I take
thee for pity.”
“I would not deny you,” said Beatrice, “but by this good day I yield
upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told
you were in a consumption.”
“Peace, I will stop your mouth!” said Benedick; and he silenced her
merry chatter with a loving kiss.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Don Pedro, with shy malice. “How dost thou,
_Benedick the married man_?”
But the lovers’ happiness was proof against any raillery that could
be lavished on them, and no lighter hearts led off the revelry that
wedding-day than those of Beatrice and Benedick.