William Wycherley [Four Plays]. William Wycherley
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more glad to see you! but my wonder is no less than my joy, that you would return ere you were informed Clerimont were out of danger. His surgeons themselves have not been assured of his recovery till within these two days.
Val. I feared my mistress, not my life. My life I could trust again with my old enemy Fortune; but no longer my mistress in the hands of my greater enemies, her relations.
Vin. Your fear was in the wrong place, then: for though my Lord Clerimont live, he and his relations may put you in more danger of your life than your mistress's relations can of losing her.
Val. Would any could secure me her! I would myself secure my life, for I should value it then.
Vin. Come, come; her relations can do you no hurt. I dare swear, if her mother should but say, "Your hat did not cock handsomely," she would never ask her blessing again.
Val. Prithee leave thy fooling, and tell me if, since my departure, she has given evidences of her love, to clear those doubts I went away with:—for as absence is the bane of common and bastard love, 'tis the vindication of that which is true and generous.
Vin. Nay, if you could ever doubt her love, you deserve to doubt on; for there is no punishment great enough for jealousy—but jealousy.
Val. You may remember, I told you before my flight I had quarrelled with the defamer of my mistress, but I thought I had killed my rival.
Vin. But pray give me now the answer which the suddenness of your flight denied me;—how could Clerimont hope to subdue her heart by the assault of her honour?
Val. Pish! it might be the stratagem of a rival to make me desist.
Vin. For shame! if 'twere not rather to vindicate her, than satisfy you, I would not tell you how like a Penelope she has behaved herself in your absence.
Val. Let me know.
Vin. Then know, the next day you went she put herself in mourning, and—
Val. That might be for Clerimont, thinking him dead, as all the world besides thought.
Vin. Still turning the dagger's point on yourself! hear me out. I say she put herself into mourning for you—locked herself in her chamber this month for you—shut out her barking relations for you—has not seen the sun or the face of man since she saw you—thinks and talks of nothing but you—sends to me daily to hear of you—and, and, in short, (I think,) is mad for you. All this I can swear; for I am to her so near a neighbour, and so inquisitive a friend for you—
Enter Servant.
Serv. Mr. Ranger, sir, is coming up.
Vin. What brings him now? he comes to lie with me.
Val. Who, Ranger?
Vin. Yes. Pray retire a little, till I send him off:—unless you have a mind to have your arrival published to-morrow in the coffee houses. [Valentine retires to the door behind.
Enter Ranger.
Ran. What! not yet a-bed? your man is laying you to sleep with usquebaugh or brandy; is he not so?
Vin. What punk[35] will not be troubled with you to-night, therefore I am?—is it not so?
Ran. I have been turned out of doors, indeed, just now, by a woman—but such a woman, Vincent!
Vin. Yes, yes, your women are always such women!
Ran. A neighbour of yours, and I'm sure the finest you have.
Vin. Prithee do not asperse my neighbourhood with your acquaintance; 'twould bring a scandal upon an alley.
Ran. Nay, I do not know her; therefore I come to you.
Vin. 'Twas no wonder she turned you out of doors, then; and if she had known you, 'twould have been a wonder she had let you stay. But where does she live?
Ran. Five doors off, on the right hand.
Vin. Pish! pish!—
Ran. What's the matter?
Vin. Does she live there, do you say?
Ran. Yes; I observed them exactly, that my account from you might be exact. Do you know who lives there?
Vin. Yes, so well, that I know you are mistaken.
Ran. Is she not a young lady scarce eighteen, of extraordinary beauty, her stature next to low, and in mourning?
Val. What is this? [Aside.
Vin. She is; but if you saw her, you broke in at window.
Ran. I chased her home from the Park, indeed, taking her for another lady who had some claim to my heart, till she showed a better title to't.
Vin. Hah! hah! hah!
Val. Was she at the Park, then? and have I a new rival? [Aside.
Vin. From the Park did you follow her, do you say?—I knew you were mistaken.
Ran. I tell you I am not.
Vin. If you are sure it was that house, it might be perhaps her woman stolen to the Park, unknown to her lady.
Ran. My acquaintance does usually begin with the maid first, but now 'twas with the mistress, I assure you.
Vin. The mistress!—I tell you she has not been out of her doors since Valentine's flight. She is his mistress—the great heiress, Christina.
Ran. I tell you then again, I followed that Christina from the Park home, where I talked with her half an hour, and intend to see her to morrow again.
Val. Would she talk with him too! [Aside.
Vin. It cannot be.
Ran. Christina do you call her? Faith I am sorry she is an heiress, lest it should bring the scandal of interest, and the design of lucre, upon my love.
Vin. No, no, her face and virtues will free you from that censure. But, however, 'tis not fairly done to rival your friend Valentine in his absence; and when he is present you know 'twill be dangerous, by my Lord Clerimont's example. Faith, if you have seen her, I would not advise you to attempt it again.
Ran. You may be merry, sir, you are not in love; your advice I come not for, nor will I for your assistance;—Good night. [Exit.
Val. Here's your Penelope! the woman that had not seen the sun, nor face of man, since my departure! for it seems she goes out in the night, when the sun is absent, and faces are not distinguished.
Vin. Why! do you believe him?
Val. Should I believe you?
Vin. 'Twere more for your interest, and you would be less deceived. If you believe him, you must doubt the chastity of all the fine women in town, and five miles about.
Val. His reports of them will little invalidate his testimony with me.
Vin. He spares not the innocents in bibs and aprons. I'll secure you, he has made (at best) some gross mistake concerning Christina, which to-morrow will discover; in the meantime let us go to sleep.
Val. I will not hinder you, because I cannot enjoy it myself:—
Hunger, Revenge, to sleep are petty foes,
But only Death the jealous eyes can close.
[Exeunt.
ACT THE THIRD.