Aye, let us drain it, naming her name!
[_Starts._
Stop! [_Takes the goblet from her._
For meseems it is the same—
SIGNË.
’Tis Margit’s beaker.
GUDMUND.
[_Examining it carefully._]
By Heaven, ’tis so!
I mind me still of the red wine’s glow
As she drank from it on the day we parted
To our meeting again in health and glad-hearted.
To herself that draught betided woe.
No, Signë, ne’er drink wine or mead
From that goblet.
[_Pours its contents out at the window._
We must away with all speed.
[_Tumult and calls without, at the back._
SIGNË.
List, Gudmund! Voices and trampling feet!
GUDMUND.
Knut Gesling’s voice!
SIGNË.
O save us, Lord!
GUDMUND.
[_Places himself in front of her._]
Nay, nay, fear nothing, Signë sweet—
I am here, and my good sword.
[MARGIT _comes in in haste from the left._
MARGIT.
[_Listening to the noise._] What means this? Is my husband—?
GUDMUND AND SIGNË.
Margit!
MARGIT.
[_Catches sight of them._] Gudmund! And Signë! Are you here?
SIGNË.
[_Going towards her._] Margit—dear sister!
MARGIT.
[_Appalled, having seen the goblet which GUDMUND still holds
in his hand._] The goblet! Who has drunk from it?
GUDMUND.
[_Confused._] Drunk—? I and Signë—we meant—
MARGIT.
[_Screams._] O God, have mercy! Help! Help! They will die.
GUDMUND.
[_Setting down the goblet._] Margit—!
SIGNË.
What ails you, sister?
MARGIT.
[_Towards the back._] Help, help! Will no one help?
[_A_ HOUSE-CARL _rushes in from the passage-way._
HOUSE-CARL.
[_Calls in a terrified voice._] Lady Margit! Your husband—!
MARGIT.
He—has he, too, drunk—!
GUDMUND.
[_To himself._] Ah! now I understand—
HOUSE-CARL.
Knut Gesling has slain him.
SIGNË.
Slain!
GUDMUND.
[_Drawing his sword._] Not yet, I hope. [_Whispers to_
MARGIT.] Fear not. No one has drunk from your goblet.
MARGIT.
Then thanks be to God, who has saved us all!
[_She sinks down on a chair to the left._ GUDMUND
_hastens towards the door at the back._
ANOTHER HOUSE-CARL.
[_Enters, stopping him._] You come too late. Sir Bengt is
dead.
GUDMUND.
Too late, then, too late.
HOUSE-CARL.
The guests and your men have prevailed against the murderous
crew. Knut Gesling and his men are prisoners. Here they
come.
[GUDMUND’S _men, and a number of_ GUESTS _and_
HOUSE-CARLS, _lead in_ KNUT GESLING, ERIK OF
HEGGË, _and several of_ KNUT’S _men, bound_.
KNUT.
[_Who is pale, says in a low voice._] Manslayer, Gudmund.
What say you to that?
GUDMUND.
Knut, Knut, what have you done?
ERIK.
’Twas a mischance, of that I can take my oath.
KNUT.
He ran at me swinging his axe; I meant but to defend myself,
and struck the death-blow unawares.
ERIK.
Many here saw all that befell.
KNUT.
Lady Margit, crave what fine you will. I am ready to pay it.
MARGIT.
I crave naught. God will judge us all. Yet stay—one thing I
require. Forgo your evil design upon my sister.
KNUT.
Never again shall I essay to redeem my baleful pledge. From
this day onward I am a better man. Yet would I fain escape
dishonourable punishment for my deed. [_To_ GUDMUND.] Should
you be restored to favour and place again, say a good word
for me to the King!
GUDMUND.
I? Ere the sun sets, I must have left the country.
[_Astonishment amongst the_ GUESTS. ERIK, _in whispers,
explains the situation._
MARGIT.
[_To_ GUDMUND.] You go? And Signë with you?
SIGNË.
[_Beseechingly._] Margit!
MARGIT.
Good fortune follow you both!
SIGNË.
[_Flinging her arms round_ MARGIT’S _neck._]
Dear sister!
GUDMUND.
Margit, I thank you. And now farewell. [_Listening._] Hush!
I hear the tramp of hoofs in the court-yard.
SIGNË.
[_Apprehensively._] Strangers have arrived.
[_A_ HOUSE-CARL _appears in the doorway at the back._
HOUSE-CARL.
The King’s men are without. They seek Gudmund Alfson.
SIGNË.
Oh God!
MARGIT.
[_In great alarm._] The King’s men!
GUDMUND.
All is at an end, then. Oh Signë, to lose you now—could
there be a harder fate?
KNUT.
Nay, Gudmund; sell your life dearly, man! Unbind us; we are
ready to fight for you, one and all.
ERIK.
[_Looks out._] ’Twould be in vain; they are too many for us.
SIGNË.
Here they come. Oh Gudmund, Gudmund!
[_The_ KING’S MESSENGER _enters from the back, with his
escort._
MESSENGER.
In the King’s name I seek you, Gudmund Alfson, and bring you
his behests.
GUDMUND.
Be it so. Yet am I guiltless; I swear it by all that is
holy!
MESSENGER.
We know it.
GUDMUND.
What say you?
[_Agitation amongst those present._
MESSENGER.
I am ordered to bid you as a guest to the King’s house. His
friendship is yours as it was before, and along with it he
bestows on you rich fiefs.
GUDMUND.
Signë!
SIGNË.
Gudmund!
GUDMUND.
But tell me—?
MESSENGER.
Your enemy, the Chancellor Audun Hugleikson, has fallen.
GUDMUND.
The Chancellor!
GUESTS.
[_To each other, in a half-whisper._] Fallen!
MESSENGER.
Three days ago he was beheaded at Bergen. [_Lowering his
voice._] His offence was against Norway’s Queen.
MARGIT.
[_Placing herself between_ GUDMUND _and_ SIGNË.]
Thus punishment treads on the heels of crime!
Protecting angels, loving and bright,
Have looked down in mercy on me to-night,
And come to my rescue while yet it was time.
Now know I that life’s most precious treasure
Is nor worldly wealth nor earthly pleasure,
I have felt the remorse, the terror I know,
Of those who wantonly peril their soul,
To St. Sunniva’s cloister forthwith I go.—
[_Before_ GUDMUND _and_ SIGNË _can speak._
Nay: think not to move me or control.
[_Places_ SIGNË’S _hand in_ GUDMUND’S.
Take her then, Gudmund, and make her your bride.
Your union is holy; God’s on your side.
[_Waving farewell, she goes towards the doorway on
the left._ GUDMUND _and_ SIGNË _follow her, she
stops them with a motion of her hand, goes out,
and shuts the door behind her. At this moment
the sun rises and sheds its light into the
hall._
GUDMUND.
Signë—my wife! See, the morning glow!
’Tis the morning of our young love. Rejoice!
SIGNË.
All my fairest of dreams and of memories I owe
To the strains of thy harp and the sound of thy voice.
My noble minstrel, to joy or sadness
Tune thou that harp as seems thee best;
There are chords, believe me, within my breast
To answer to thine, or of woe or of gladness.
CHORUS OF MEN AND WOMEN.
Over earth keeps watch the eye of light,
Guardeth lovingly the good man’s ways,
Sheddeth round him its consoling rays;—
Praise be to the Lord in heaven’s height!
-----
Footnote 24:
This no doubt means a sort of arcaded veranda running
along the outer wall of the house.
Footnote 25:
A contest in impromptu verse-making.
-----
LOVE’S COMEDY
PERSONS OF THE COMEDY
MRS. HALM, _widow of a government official._
SVANHILD, } _her daughters._
ANNA, }
FALK, _a young author_, } _her boarders._
LIND, _a divinity student_,}
GULDSTAD, _a wholesale merchant._
STIVER, _a law-clerk._
MISS JAY, _his fiancée._
STRAWMAN, _a country clergyman._
MRS. STRAWMAN, _his wife._
STUDENTS, GUESTS, MARRIED AND PLIGHTED PAIRS.
THE STRAWMANS’ EIGHT LITTLE GIRLS.
FOUR AUNTS, A PORTER, DOMESTIC SERVANTS.
-------
SCENE.—_Mrs. Halm’s Villa on the Drammensvejen at
Christiania._
LOVE’S COMEDY
PLAY IN THREE ACTS
ACT FIRST
_The_ SCENE _represents a pretty garden irregularly but
tastefully laid out; in the background are seen the
fjord and the islands. To the left is the house, with a
verandah and an open dormer window above; to the right
in the foreground an open summer-house with a table and
benches. The landscape lies in bright afternoon
sunshine. It is early summer; the fruit-trees are in
flower_.
_When the Curtain rises_, MRS. HALM, ANNA, _and_ MISS JAY
_are sitting on the verandah, the first two engaged in
embroidery, the last with a book. In the summer-house
are seen_ FALK, LIND, GULDSTAD, _and_ STIVER: _a
punch-bowl and glasses are on the table._ SVANHILD _sits
alone in the background by the water._
FALK [_rises, lifts his glass, and sings_].
Sun-glad day in garden shady
Was but made for thy delight:
What though promises of May-day
Be annulled by Autumn’s blight?
Apple-blossom white and splendid
Drapes thee in its glowing tent,—
Let it, then, when day is ended,
Strew the closes storm-besprent.
CHORUS OF GENTLEMEN.
Let it, then, when day is ended, etc.
FALK.
Wherefore seek the harvest’s guerdon
While the tree is yet in bloom?
Wherefore drudge beneath the burden
Of an unaccomplished doom?
Wherefore let the scarecrow clatter
Day and night upon the tree?
Brothers mine, the sparrows’ chatter
Has a cheerier melody.
CHORUS.
Brothers mine, the sparrow’s chatter, etc.
FALK.
Happy songster! Wherefore scare him
From our blossom-laden bower?
Rather for his music spare him
All our future, flower by flower;
Trust me, ’twill be cheaply buying
Present song with future fruit;
List the proverb, “Time is flying;—”
Soon our garden music’s mute.
CHORUS.
List the proverb, etc.
FALK.
I will live in song and gladness,—
Then, when every bloom is shed,
Sweep together, scarce in sadness,
All that glory, wan and dead:
Fling the gates wide! Bruise and batter,
Tear and trample, hoof and tusk;
I have plucked the flower, what matter
Who devours the withered husk!
CHORUS.
I have plucked the flower, etc.
[_They clink and empty their glasses._
FALK [_to the ladies_].
There—that’s the song you asked me for; but pray
Be lenient to it—I can’t think to-day.
GULDSTAD.
Oh, never mind the sense—the sound’s the thing.
MISS JAY [_looking round_].
But Svanhild, who was eagerest to hear—?
When Falk began, she suddenly took wing
And vanished—
ANNA [_pointing towards the back_].
No, for there she sits—I see her.
MRS. HALM [_sighing_].
That child! Heaven knows, she’s past my comprehending!
MISS JAY.
But, Mr. Falk, I thought the lyric’s ending
Was not so rich in—well, in poetry,
As others of the stanzas seemed to be.
STIVER.
Why yes, and I am sure it could not tax
Your powers to get a little more inserted—
FALK [_clinking glasses with him_].
You cram it in, like putty into cracks,
Till lean is into streaky fat converted.
STIVER [_unruffled_].
Yes, nothing easier—I, too, in my day
Could do the trick.
GULDSTAD.
Dear me! Were you a poet?
MISS JAY.
My Stiver! Yes!
STIVER.
Oh, in a humble way.
MISS JAY [_to the ladies_].
His nature is romantic.
MRS. HALM.
Yes, we know it.
STIVER.
Not now; it’s ages since I turned a rhyme.
FALK.
Yes, varnish and romance go off with time.
But in the old days—?
STIVER.
Well, you see, ’twas when
I was in love.
FALK.
Is that time over, then?
Have you slept off the sweet intoxication?
STIVER.
I’m now _engaged_—I hold official station—
That’s better than in love, I apprehend!
FALK.
Quite so! You’re in the right, my good old friend.
The worst is past—_vous voilà bien avancé_—
Promoted from mere lover to _fiancé_.
STIVER [_with a smile of complacent recollection_].
It’s strange to think of it—upon my word,
I half suspect my memory of lying—
[_Turns to_ FALK.
But seven years ago—it sounds absurd!—
I wasted office hours in versifying.
FALK.
What! Office hours—!
STIVER.
Yes, such were my transgressions.
GULDSTAD [_ringing on his glass_].
Silence for our solicitor’s confessions!
STIVER.
But chiefly after five, when I was free,
I’d rattle off whole reams of poetry—
Ten—fifteen folios ere I went to bed—
FALK.
I see—you gave your Pegasus his head,
And off he tore—
STIVER.
On stamped or unstamped paper—
’Twas all the same to him—he’d prance and caper—
FALK.
The spring of poetry flowed no less flush?
But how, pray, did you teach it first to gush?
STIVER.
By aid of love’s divining-rod, my friend!
Miss Jay it was that taught me where to bore,
My _fiancée_—she became so in the end—
For then she was—
FALK.
Your love and nothing more.
STIVER [_continuing_].
’Twas a strange time; I could not read a bit;
I tuned my pen instead of pointing it;
And when along the foolscap sheet it raced,
It twangled music to the words I traced;—
At last by letter I declared my flame
To her—to her—
FALK.
Whose _fiancé_ you became.
STIVER.
In course of post her answer came to hand—
The motion granted—judgment in my favour!
FALK.
And you felt bigger, as you wrote, and braver,
To find you’d brought your venture safe to land!
STIVER.
Of course.
FALK.
And then you bade the Muse farewell?
STIVER.
I’ve felt no lyric impulse, truth to tell,
From that day forth. My vein appeared to peter
Entirely out; and now, if I essay
To turn a verse or two for New Year’s Day,
I make the veriest hash of rhyme and metre,
And—I’ve no notion what the cause can be—
It turns to law and not to poetry.
GULDSTAD [_clinks glasses with him_].
And, trust me, you’re no whit the worse for that!
[_To_ FALK.
You think the stream of life is flowing solely
To bear you to the goal you’re aiming at—
But you may find yourself mistaken wholly.
As for your song, perhaps it’s most poetic,
Perhaps it’s not—on that point we won’t quarrel—
But here I lodge a protest energetic,
Say what you will, against its wretched moral.
A masterly economy and new
To let the birds play havoc at their pleasure
Among your fruit-trees, fruitless now for you,
And suffer flocks and herds to trample through
Your garden, and lay waste its springtide treasure!
A pretty prospect, truly, for next year!
FALK.
Oh, next, next, next! The thought I loathe and fear
That these four letters timidly express—
It beggars millionaires in happiness!
If I could be the autocrat of speech
But for one hour, that hateful word I’d banish;
I’d send it packing out of mortal reach,
As B and G from Knudsen’s Grammar vanish.
STIVER.
Why should the word of hope enrage you thus?
FALK.
Because it darkens God’s fair earth for us.
“Next year,” “next love,” “next life,”—my soul is vext
To see this world in thraldom to “the next.”
’Tis this dull forethought, bent on future prizes,
That millionaires in gladness pauperises.
Far as the eye can reach, it blurs the age;
All rapture of the moment it destroys;
No one dares taste in peace life’s simplest joys
Until he’s struggled on another stage—
And there arriving, can he there repose?
No—to a new “next” off he flies again;
On, on, unresting, to the grave he goes;
And God knows if there’s any resting then.
MISS JAY.
Fie, Mr. Falk, such sentiments are shocking.
ANNA [_pensively_].
Oh, I can understand the feeling quite;
I am sure at bottom Mr. Falk is right.
MISS JAY [_perturbed_].
My Stiver mustn’t listen to his mocking.
He’s rather too eccentric even now.—
My dear, I want you.
STIVER [_occupied in cleaning his pipe_].
Presently, my dear.
GULDSTAD [_to_ FALK].
One thing at least to me is very clear;—
And that is that you cannot but allow
Some forethought indispensable. For see,
Suppose that you to-day should write a sonnet,
And, scorning forethought, you should lavish on it
Your last reserve, your all, of poetry,
So that, to-morrow, when you set about
Your next song, you should find yourself cleaned out,
Heavens! how your friends the critics then would crow!
FALK.
D’you think they’d notice I was bankrupt? No!
Once beggared of ideas, I and they
Would saunter arm in arm the selfsame way— [_Breaking off._
But Lind! why, what’s the matter with you, pray?
You sit there dumb and dreaming—I suspect you’re
Deep in the mysteries of architecture.
LIND [_collecting himself_].
I? What should make you think so?
FALK.
I observe.
Your eyes are glued to the verandah yonder—
You’re studying, mayhap, its arches’ curve,
Or can it be its pillars’ strength you ponder,
The door perhaps, with hammered iron hinges?
The window blinds, and their artistic fringes?
From something there your glances never wander.
LIND.
No, you are wrong—I’m just absorbed in being—
Drunk with the hour—naught craving, naught foreseeing.
I feel as though I stood, my life complete,
With all earth’s riches scattered at my feet.
Thanks for your song of happiness and spring—
From out my inmost heart it seemed to spring.
[_Lifts his glass and exchanges a glance,
unobserved, with_ ANNA.
Here’s to the blossom in its fragrant pride!
What reck we of the fruit of autumn-tide?
[_Empties his glass._
FALK [_looks at him with surprise and emotion, but assumes a
light tone_].
Behold, fair ladies! though you scorn me quite,
Here I have made an easy proselyte.
His hymn-book yesterday was all he cared for—
To-day e’en dithyrambics he’s prepared for!
We poets must be born, cries every judge;
But prose-folks, now and then, like Strasburg geese,
Gorge themselves so inhumanly obese
On rhyming balderdash and rhythmic fudge,
That, when cleaned out, their very souls are thick
With lyric lard and greasy rhetoric.
[_To_ LIND.
Your praise, however, I shall not forget;
We’ll sweep the lyre henceforward in duet.
MISS JAY.
You, Mr. Falk, are hard at work, no doubt,
Here in these rural solitudes delightful,
Where at your own sweet will you roam about—
MRS. HALM [_smiling_].
Oh, no, his laziness is something frightful.
MISS JAY.
What! here at Mrs. Halm’s! that’s most surprising—
Surely it’s just the place for poetising—
[_Pointing to the right._
That summer-house, for instance, in the wood
Sequestered, name me any place that could
Be more conducive to poetic mood—
FALK.
Let blindness veil the sunlight from mine eyes,
I’ll chant the splendour of the sunlit skies!
Just for a season let me beg or borrow
A great, a crushing, a stupendous sorrow,
And soon you’ll hear my hymns of gladness rise!
But best, Miss Jay, to nerve my wings for flight,
Find me a maid to be my life, my light—
For that incitement long to Heaven I’ve pleaded;
But hitherto, worse luck, it hasn’t heeded.
MISS JAY.
What levity!
MRS. HALM.
Yes, most irreverent!
FALK.
Pray don’t imagine it was my intent
To live with her on bread and cheese and kisses.
No! just upon the threshold of our blisses,
Kind Heaven must snatch away the gift it lent.
I need a little spiritual gymnastic;
The dose in that form surely would be drastic.
SVANHILD.
[_Has during the talk approached; she stands close
to the table, and says in a determined but
whimsical tone:_
I’ll pray that such may be your destiny.
But, when it finds you—bear it like a man.
FALK [_turning round in surprise_].
Miss Svanhild!—well, I’ll do the best I can.
But think you I may trust implicitly
To finding your petitions efficacious?
Heaven, as you know, to faith alone is gracious—
And though you’ve doubtless will enough for two
To make me bid my peace of mind adieu,
Have you the faith to carry matters through?
That is the question.
SVANHILD [_half in jest_].
Wait till sorrow comes,
And all your being’s springtide chills and numbs,
Wait till it gnaws and rends you, soon and late,
Then tell me if my faith is adequate.
[_She goes across to the ladies._
MRS. HALM [_aside to her_].
Can you two never be at peace? you’ve made
Poor Mr. Falk quite angry, I’m afraid.
[_Continues reprovingly in a low voice._ MISS JAY
_joins in the conversation._ SVANHILD _remains
cold and silent._
FALK [_after a pause of reflection goes over to the
summer-house, then to himself_].
With fullest confidence her glances lightened.
Shall I believe, as she does so securely,
That Heaven intends—
GULDSTAD.
No, hang it; don’t be frightened!
The powers above would be demented surely
To give effect to orders such as these.
No, my good sir—the cure for your disease
Is exercise for muscle, nerve, and sinew.
Don’t lie there wasting all the grit that’s in you
In idle dreams; cut wood, if that were all;
And then I’ll say the devil’s in’t indeed
If one brief fortnight does not find you freed
From all your whimsies high-fantastical.
FALK.
Fetter’d by choice, like Burnell’s ass, I ponder—
The flesh on this side, and the spirit yonder.
Which were it wiser I should go for first?
GULDSTAD [_filling the glasses_].
First have some punch—that quenches ire and thirst.
MRS. HALM [_looking at her watch_].
Ha! Eight o’clock! my watch is either fast, or
It’s just the time we may expect the Pastor.
[_Rises, and puts things in order on the verandah._
FALK.
What! have we parsons coming?
MISS JAY.
Don’t you know?
MRS. HALM.
I told you, just a little while ago—
ANNA.
No, mother—Mr. Falk had not yet come.
MRS. HALM.
Why no, that’s true; but pray don’t look so glum.
Trust me, you’ll be enchanted with his visit.
FALK.
A clerical enchanter; pray who is it?
MRS. HALM.
Why, Pastor Strawman, not unknown to fame.
FALK.
Indeed! Oh, yes, I think I’ve heard his name,
And read that in the legislative game
He comes to take a hand, with voice and vote.
STIVER.
He speaks superbly.
GULDSTAD.
When he’s cleared his throat.
MISS JAY.
He’s coming with his wife—
MRS. HALM.
And all their blessings—
FALK.
To give them three or four days’ treat, poor dears—
Soon he’ll be buried over head and ears
In Swedish muddles and official messings—
I see!
MRS. HALM [_to_ FALK].
Now there’s a man for you, in truth!
GULDSTAD.
They say he was a rogue, though, in his youth.
MISS JAY [_offended_].
There, Mr. Guldstad, I must break a lance!
I’ve heard as long as I can recollect,
Most worthy people speak with great respect
Of Pastor Strawman and his life’s romance.
GULDSTAD [_laughing_].
Romance?
MISS JAY.
Romance! I call a match romantic
At which mere worldly wisdom looks askance.
FALK.
You make my curiosity gigantic.
MISS JAY [_continuing_].
But certain people always grow splenetic—
Why, goodness knows—at everything pathetic,
And scoff it down. We all know how, of late,
An unfledged, upstart undergraduate
Presumed, with brazen insolence, to declare
That “William Russell” was a poor affair!
FALK.
But what has this to do with Strawman, pray?
Is he a poem, or a Christian play?
MISS JAY [_with tears of emotion_].
No, Falk,—a man, with heart as large as day.
But when a—so to speak—mere lifeless thing
Can put such venom into envy’s sting,
And stir up evil passions fierce and fell
Of such a depth—
FALK [_sympathetically_].
And such a length as well—
MISS JAY.
Why then, a man of your commanding brain
Can’t fail to see—
FALK.
Oh yes, that’s very plain.
But hitherto I haven’t quite made out
The nature, style, and plot of this romance.
It’s something quite delightful I’ve no doubt—
But just a little inkling in advance—
STIVER.
I will abstract, in rapid _résumé_,
The leading points.
MISS JAY.
No, I am more _au fait_,
I know the ins and outs—
MRS. HALM.
I know them too!
MISS JAY.
Oh Mrs. Halm! now let me tell it, do!
Well, Mr. Falk, you see—he passed at college
For quite a miracle of wit and knowledge,
Had admirable taste in books and dress—
MRS. HALM.
And acted—privately—with great success.
MISS JAY.
Yes, wait a bit—he painted, played and wrote—
MRS. HALM.
And don’t forget his gift of anecdote.
MISS JAY.
Do give me time; I know the whole affair:
He made some verses, set them to an air,
Also his own,—and found a publisher.
O heavens! with what romantic melancholy
He played and sang his “Madrigals to Molly”!
MRS. HALM.
He was a genius, that’s the simple fact.
GULDSTAD [_to himself_].
Hm! Some were of opinion he was cracked.
FALK.
A gray old stager, whose sagacious head
Was never upon mouldy parchments fed,
Says “Love makes Petrarchs, just as many lambs
And little occupation, Abrahams.”
But who was Molly?
MISS JAY.
Molly? His elect,
His lady-love, whom shortly we expect.
Of a great firm her father was a member—
GULDSTAD.
A timber house.
MISS JAY [_curtly_].
I’m really not aware.
GULDSTAD.
Did a large trade in scantlings, I remember.
MISS JAY.
That is the trivial side of the affair.
FALK.
A firm?
MISS JAY [_continuing_].
Of vast resources, I’m informed.
You can imagine how the suitors swarm’d;
Gentlemen of the highest reputation.—
MRS. HALM.
Even a baronet made application.
MISS JAY.
But Molly was not to be made their catch.
She had met Strawman upon private stages;
To see him was to love him—
FALK.
And despatch
The wooing gentry home without their wages?
MRS. HALM.
Was it not just a too romantic match?
MISS JAY.
And then there was a terrible old father,
Whose sport was thrusting happy souls apart;
She had a guardian also, as I gather,
To add fresh torment to her tortured heart.
But each of them was loyal to his vow;
A straw-thatched cottage and a snow-white ewe
They dream’d of, just enough to nourish two—
MRS. HALM.
Or at the very uttermost a cow,—
MISS JAY.
In short, I’ve heard it from the lips of both,—
A beck, a byre, two bosoms, and one troth.
FALK.
Ah yes! And then—?
MISS JAY.
She broke with kin and class.
FALK.
She broke—?
MRS. HALM.
Broke with them.
FALK.
There’s a plucky lass!
MISS JAY.
And fled to Strawman’s garret—
FALK.
How? Without—
Ahem—the priestly consecration?
MISS JAY.