The Little Left Hand - Act II

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Scene I A Sitting--room at an Inn with a recess partly screened.

Lady Marian and her Maid.
Lady Marian. Have the flowers come, Rosina?

Rosina. No, Milady.

Lady Marian. Send
For others then. I see a girl at the street's end
Selling some mignonette. What do you say?
(Putting on a bow.) This bow,
Is it too bright for the rest?

Rosina. Indeed, Milady, no.
It lights the dress up well. Milady is too young
For only greys and greens.

Lady Marian. You have a foolish tongue,
Rosina, I am thirty. And to--day, who knows
What tragedies may be if it should come to blows?
I am getting old and sad. Rosina, look at this.

Rosina.  A first grey hair means luck. It is for happiness.

Lady Marian. And you, Rosina?

Rosina. I? Milady knows me well.
I have no time to be sad.

Lady Marian. You have your Coeur fidèle?
Is he still nice to you?

Rosina. Oh, all that I desire,
Generous, devoted, gay, a temperament of fire,
And then a Sergeant, too! The men of his company
Are all afraid of him--And he is afraid of me.

Lady Marian.  You are a fortunate girl. Find me a pair of gloves
Less soiled than these.

(While Rosina looks in the drawer.)  Well, well, yours are the best of loves.

Rosina. There are none left.

Lady Marian. What, none?

Rosina. Here is an odd right hand.

Lady Marian.
(snatching it). Give it.

Rosina. The left is gone.

Lady Marian. No matter. Go now, and
Bring me that flower girl here.

Exit Rosina.

Scene II

Lady Marian alone.
Lady Marian
(looking at the glove). How strange! And just to--day
Of all the days in the year, the twenty--first of May,
Our anniversary. Strange, wonderfully strange!
And the years which still go on without perceptible change.

[Goes to a looking--glass and sits before it.  What is the use of beauty? Am I a happier woman
Because of this weariful beauty of face? Or is there a human
Being in the world to--day who goes with a lighter heart
Because I am what I am, the type of romantic art?
Rossetti called me so. I see men in the street
Who stop and turn their eyes. I heard one call me sweet
Only the other day. Lord Lightfoot writes me verse,
Just as he always did, no better and no worse.
The press still praises me. The prophets find me wit.
Am I the happier? Does it amuse me? No, not a bit.
I always was Fair Marian, beautiful Marian, names
My father gave me first, who loved to see the flames
Burn in my girlish cheeks--``The Pirate Flag'' he said.
It was his dear delight, and fairly turned my head.
But the rest--the rest of them--no. They only weary me. See,
I would give it all for an hour of folly--if folly could be.
I have been married, how many years? Six? Eight? No, ten.
Husbands are blind to all, be they the best of men.
What does he know of me? Nothing. What has he seen of it all?
The ghosts that come in the dark? The tears that in secret fall?
He is an honest soul, a brave man, all you please,
Only not with the eye that understands and sees.
Wrapped in ambition's fold, his ``Duty to his Queen,''
He hardly knows how chaste, how faithful I have been.
Ah! to be pretty and wise! It sounds well. But, in sum,
Years of silent regret for a folly that might have come.
Once in my life, once only, and then for how short a day,
I saw the man I could love. But fate has swept him away,
Fate and my own sad virtue. He stood like this, my hand
Pressed to his heart, that throbbed in a way I could understand.
He hardly told me he loved me, hardly more than a word,
But my fingers fluttered in his like the wings of a prisoned bird,
And his eyes looked in my eyes. Such joy was in my heart
I could have danced and sung. But I played my woman's part
Bravely, and bade him go. I gave him only my glove--
Who would have given how much?--a world of passion and love--
My glove, the fellow to this. He wears it still, they say,
With our last words for motto: ``Jamais! À jamais!''
Leicester, the rebel Leicester, the arch--reprobate,
The outcast from the world, the man whom all men hate,
Yet whom all women love. It lies here in its woe,
The glove that covered the hand he told me he treasured so.
Ah, this little left hand, a beautiful, wonderful thing,
With its little useless fingers, its little useless ring!
How has it played with my life! A hand is a soul. We give it
When we are married lightly, and later try to outlive it.
We face the world with a smile. We spread our sails in the sun.
We want it for some one else. It is lost and given and gone.
The deluge comes apace. The storm howls on the track.
Vainly the hand goes forth. Time heeds not, nor gives back,
And the soul is drowned in tears.
(Weeps.)
(Drums outside.)
I hate this soldiering life
With its dull mummeries and make--believe of strife,
Ending perhaps as now in a real butchery.

[Goes to the window.  How sweet the morning is. It should be hard to die
On a bright day like this, even here in this black town.
Yet all are wild for blood.

Scene III

(Re--enter Rosina with Phoebe disguised as a flower girl.)
Lady Marian. Where is my lord?

Rosina. Gone down,
Milady, to the Square. He bade me tell you this,
And not to fear the result. Ah, what a sight it is
To see them marching past in their new uniforms!

Lady Marian.  Nonsense, Rosina, nonsense! When this business warms
We shall see them with less paint, not quite such demigods.
But is your Sergeant with them?

Rosina. Yes. Though what's the odds?
He will get his clasp and medal--with no risk, they say.

Lady Marian. And that would please you?

Rosina. Yes. 'Tis as good as another way.

Lady Marian.  Well, let us hope the best.

(To Phoebe.)  Ah, you have brought the flowers!
Are you not frightened, child?

Phoebe. At what?

Lady Marian. These troops of ours,
The chance of blood being shed. The streets are full of men.
It is not safe for you.

Phoebe. I have a life to gain
(pointing to the flowers),
As well as one to lose.

(Aside.)  This is their General's house
And this his wife, whom Paul denounced as scandalous.
Her eyes are kind and good. I will make pretext to stay.
Leicester must soon be here.

Lady Marian. You shall not go away;
I will buy your mignonette--yes, the whole basketful--
And you can sit with me till things come to a lull.

Phoebe. Lady, you are most good.
[She sits in a corner.
(Enter General Bellingham.)

General Bellingham. My dear, I bring good news
From the rebel camp. Their chief has not dared to refuse
The message that I sent him. It appears that he
Is one well known to us. But
(seeing Phoebe)you have company?

Lady Marian. It is only a poor girl who brought these flowers.

General Bellingham. Well! Well!
You shall know all when he comes. A strange tale! a strange tale!
But set your mind at ease, my dear. It is to treat
The terms of their surrender. There, down in the street
I hear them challenging. I will ask you for this room
To hold our conference in. Could you, my love, sit dumb
While we debate the terms? Or should we worry you?

Lady Marian.  I will sit behind the screen. I have my own work, too.

(To Phoebe.) We will arrange the flowers.

[They sit behind the screen.
General Bellingham
(coming forward). It will be a surprise to her
To see who our guest is--the arch--conspirator!
She used to like him well, if I remember right,
Spite of his mock heroics. Who knows but she might
Be of some use to us if he should prove too keen
In driving a hard bargain? With this sort of men
Women have influence--and Marian is no fool
For all her prettiness. That public ass, John Bull,
Has small mind here for fighting, and Her Majesty
Insists on coming to terms, if terms at all there be.
We must try diplomacy. And yet, by God, I swear
We will hang you yet, Sir John, or I am no Officer.

(Enter an Aide--de--Camp with Leicester, Paul following. Leicester motions Paul to stay in the background.He comes forward. Lady Marian and Phoebe arepartly hidden by the screen.)

Scene IV

Leicester and Bellingham in front of the stage. The rest out of hearing. A servant brings in wine.
Leicester. Good morning, Sir.

Bellingham. Good morning. Sit down, General,
I am glad to see you here. Years pass, but after all
They leave us not much older. No, upon my word,
I find you hardly changed.

Leicester. You sent for me, my lord?

Bellingham.  To talk this business over. We must find a plan
Less tragical than fighting. Here, as man with man,
It should be an easy thing to come to honest terms.
We are neither of us tyros in the trade of arms,
And can afford to treat without false modesty.
You will have a glass of wine? What! No?

Leicester. Sir, pardon me,
I do not drink.

Bellingham. At all! Why, in our fighting days
You were counted a good man in this as in most ways.

Leicester. I find it wiser so.

Bellingham. Nor smoke? Here is a brand
You with your Eastern ways, no doubt, will understand.

[Leicester refuses.  By the soul of Wellington, the man is off his head.
He neither smokes nor drinks. It is all true what was said.

[Pouring out for himself.  I am younger still than you. I give you, Sir, ``The Queen.''

Leicester.  The Queen with all my heart.

(Aside.)  The one that might have been--

Bellingham.  There, that was better spoken. We shall find the way
To make a fair deal yet. Forgive me if I say,
Leicester, how strange it seems, you who were one of us
In all your thoughts and feelings, not more scrupulous
Or proud than the rest were, if I remember right,
In taking pleasant things in the most pleasant light,
A good man for all sport with saddle, rod, and gun,
And popular too with the women--when all is said and done,
An Officer of the Guards--that you should choose to spend
Your life in such a way--I speak as an old friend
And husband of my wife, who was your friend once too--
You will not have forgotten Marian?--that just you
Should take so strange a turn, I cannot make it out.
You must despise it all, the lunatics that shout,
The fools that follow you, the seeing your name in print
Always on the noisy side with knaves of every tint
And tinge of rascaldom, in furtherance of a cause
Always against your order and its social laws--
That is the thing astounds me. And then last and worst
This rising here at home. Forgive me the outburst,
But we all feel it. Now you come to me to treat
And say, ``The Queen, God bless her.'' What is the sense of it?
I make appeal to you. You know as well as I
The reason why we use our strength unwillingly.
There is no glory here to be gained on either side;
For these Idealists to fight is suicide,
While for ourselves, God knows, we have better work to do
Than firing on a mob, even though led by you.
Will you not help us then? The Queen is all clemency
I give my word for it. Trust her--at least trust me.

Leicester.  My lord, I feel your kindness. I have not yet lost
The sense of early friendships--and of all yours most.
It touches me and moves. Be sure, in what I can,
Within my line of duty as a serious man
Who has a cause to serve which is not quite his own,
I am at one with you. Yes. If I stood alone
I would not care to bargain, here a little more
Or there a little less. I would throw wide the door
And let in all your terms unquestioned as they came,
Content that they were yours and made in a friend's name.
But I am here an agent, one responsible
To others for his work. I dare not stop to feel,
Or stop to recollect. The Imperial Government
Is not a moral force with honourable intent
On which a man may lean in perfect confidence.
All governments have ways of coming to their ends
Right--minded men would scorn. The terms you sent us stood
Fair in their general sense. If you can make them good
With a more personal pledge on certain points laid down--
Reform, the amnesty, our friends here in the town
Who have made cause with us and need immunity
As well as we ourselves, a pardon plenary
In the Queen's royal name, as you suggest, and signed
By you on her behalf and with no second mind--
I have authority to bring the matter through
And on our own side sign,--this without more ado,
Only time presses us. See here--our protocol
Is easily drawn up. What shall we say? A full
And unconditional pardon to all those concerned,
Their friends, and their adherents?

Bellingham. What, the rogues that burned
The Council Hall at York? No, no, you go too fast.

Leicester.  Exactly those that burned it--all, even the last,
There must be no exception. This is not a case
Of civil misdemeanour, but of personal grace
For acts political.

Bellingham. I really must take time
To think the matter out. Where there was actual crime
You hardly would expect it.

Leicester. What is crime? The breach
Of an Act of Parliament, which in our common speech
We have confused with things theologians once called sin.
The criminal? Poor wretch, one whom our discipline
Has happened to immesh by rules of evidence,
Friends who have sworn against him, or the lack of friends,
Not any moral guilt. If I conceded this,
What would you do with it? Array your witnesses,
Mere common men and fiars till they take the oath,
When straight their words are gospel and their stammerings ``proof,''
And hang the men you hate. No. What is done is done.
There must be no law, no crime, but plain oblivion.
On this point I am strict. A second is their right
Of corporate recognition. These men, if they fight
Affirm themselves a section in full form and free.
Winning they would shake the base of England's monarchy,
Perhaps all thrones in Europe, for the popular will
Is with them in their task.

Bellingham. Of rolling stones uphill!
This really passes all. The claim is too absurd.

Leicester.  We do not claim so much. We put aside the sword,
And enter on new paths of plain legality,
Converting not coercing. You have proposed it. We
Propose in turn a status, a frank recognition
Of rights political in line with our condition,
In a word we ask a Charter, will you give it us,
My lord? Again time presses.

Bellingham. 'Tis preposterous.

Leicester. And the alternative?

Bellingham. Relief through Parliament.

Leicester
(raising his voice.)  Relief, Sir, through damnation. Time is idly spent
In riding that old warhorse. Look to its broken knees.

Phoebe
(aside).  Well spoken, Leicester. Now, who doubts his sympathies?
Who doubts his loyalty? He is true, and true to me.

Lady Marian
(aside). Leicester. It is his voice.

Bellingham. We hardly shall agree,
General, I fear, this way.

Leicester. As you please, my lord. I go.

[Moves as if to go.

Bellingham.  I had hoped for better things. Yet, if it must be so,
I suppose it must. This fight, the blood shed here to--day
In the streets of this great city, 'tis you shed it, not they;
The ruin and destruction, war and civil war,
All the long hates engendered there is no reason for,
All this lies on your head. Remember, Sir, on yours--
The responsible cause of evils far beyond our cures.
Yet, Leicester, take my hand. I acknowledge your good heart.
I would have us part as friends. Ay, and before we part
I would like you to see her.

Leicester. Who? Lady Marian?

Bellingham.  Yes, Marian, my wife. She would resent the plan
Which left her wholly out. She often talks of you,
And always with kind feeling, just as she used to do.

Leicester.
(who is looking at the clock). I must be back at noon.

Bellingham. That clock is ten minutes fast,
You have an hour to spare. I will tell her to make haste,
Indeed she is here now.

[Goes behind the screen and talks aside with Marian.

Scene V

Leicester. To be or not to be?
To see her or not see her? What fatality!
A trouble dogs my steps in all this episode.
I seem to hear a voice pleading twixt bad and good,
A voice as of a conscience. But the question lies
Still on which side right is, the unwise and the wise.
The common run of men when they are in doubt say ``No.''
I always have said ``Yes.'' It has been my rule to go
When others have hung back, to speak where they sat dumb,
To confront the imprudent thing they called too venturesome,
And always with success. What is she, Marian,
That I should fear to--day to see her? I a man
Broken to women's wiles? Yet I mistrust me here.
My heart beats at her name.

(Bellingham enters with Marian.)
Leicester
(withdrawing). My lord, to be sincere--

Marian
(aside). He has forgotten me.

Leicester
(to Bellingham). I have no time to wait.
No, Lady Bellingham. It is too unfortunate,
To--day of all the days.

Bellingham. She has something she would say
In reference to this business. Be persuaded. Stay,
If only for five minutes.

Paul
(pushing forward in Leicester's ear). Pay no heed to them.
These people are rogues all.

Leicester
(impatiently). Sir!

Paul. 'Tis a stratagem.
Their wish is to detain you. Come away from hence.
Beware, Sir, of the woman.

Leicester. Damn his insolence!
This is too much--too much. This youth's ill--tempered game
Decides me to stay on. My Lady Bellingham,
I am wholly at your orders.
(Aside.) Fate has said its word.

Bellingham.  I leave you two together. You will want no third
To talk it out.

Paul. Just so. I said he was a traitor.
He will wait dangling on, her aider and abettor,
Until the hour is past.
(Aloud.) The Council shall know this.

Leicester. Go on. I follow you.

Phoebe. I will see what the end is.

[Exeunt all but Leicester and Marian. Phoebe in the background hidden.

Scene VI

Lady Marian.  How strange we should have met. Sit down and talk to me,
Just for a short five minutes, nicely, quietly,
As in old times. You know what day it is to--day,
Our anniversary?

Leicester. Yes.

Lady Marian. We both have much to say,
And little time to say it. Where shall we begin?
But first of all believe me it was no fault of mine
They claimed me for this talk. Their thought was to deceive,
But I am not with them. I only of course grieve
And want to help and warn you. Must you really go?

Leicester.  I am bound and more than bound. What would you have me do?
You know I do not blame you, not for this at least.

Lady Marian.  Men must arrange their lives as they know and think best,
And I have sympathised as far as a woman dare,
Who has no politics, whose duty lies elsewhere,
In all that you have done. I hate to think you wrong,
You with your great ideas, so generous, so strong.
Oh no! It was not this. And yet I weep to think
How wide we are apart, you standing on the brink
Of what they will call crime, and I in the camp with those
Who every day are counted your more bitter foes,
Yes, even Bellingham, your friend, as I was too.
This is my grief.

Leicester. And yet you drove me from you. You!

Lady Marian.  No, no. You do me wrong. Unjust! Unkind! A man!
You were too quick with me, too eager in your plan.
You did not give me time to learn your happiness.
And then too unforgiving. Oh, you did not guess,
And how was I to tell you?

Leicester. You loved me then?

Lady Marian. Who knows?
If you had had more patience with my woman's woes?

Leicester. Marian!

[He takes her hand and sits beside her.
Lady Marian. Yes, it is yours. Your little white left hand,
The one I gave you once. Do you now understand
How hard it was for me that morning to say no?
How bitter when you left me?

Leicester. Was it really so?
Were you not callous then, not cruel, not unkind?

Lady Marian.  How could you fancy it? Oh, truly, men are blind.
Unless we write a label to each idle scene,
They see in our lives nothing--never the might--have--been,
Never the inner thought in instinct with their own.

Leicester. And is it still mine, this?

(Kissing her hand.)
Lady Marian. It has been given to none.

Leicester. Nor lent?

Lady Marian. Nor lent--it is yours if you like still,
Only, too late, too late.

Leicester
(half aloud). Too late! Incredible
That it should come like this--the hour foreseen, foreknown,
The hour of all the hours my fortune counted on--
And only to delude--for lack of what? The leisure
Of a few foolish minutes cheated of their pleasure,
Whereby I lose a world.
(Taking her hand--then after a pause.) How beautiful it is
This hand, the holiest of human mysteries,
With its five delicate tips, each one a separate fate
Worth all the world's desire, so frail, so passionate,
So full of sentient life--and for one moment mine
To have and hold, my own, a precious thing, divine
Beyond all human hope. What are the joys men prize?
Ambition, glory, duty? Empty mummeries!
Even in their best ideals! Nothing to this sweet hand
That soul or reasoning sense should care to understand,

(Kissing her hand.) Nothing, nothing, nothing!

Lady Marian. You have my glove still?

Leicester. See,
Here in my hat it flies, my flag of victory,
And never yet defeated. 'Tis an amulet,
The superstitious say, preserving from defeat,
As long as she who gave it shall remain unkind.

Lady Marian.  To--day it has lost virtue. She has changed her mind.
It only can undo you.

[She takes it from his hat and puts it in her bosom.
Phoebe. He has given it her!
Ah, God! He has betrayed.

[She covers her face with her hands--then rises hurriedly and goes out.
Leicester
(rising). I heard a sound in there
As of one weeping. No?

Lady Marian
(calling). Rosina! There is none.
The room is empty.

Leicester. Sweet, time is I should be gone.
Bid me to say good--bye. I have no strength to go.

[Embracing her.  Henceforth we are each other's for all weal and woe,
Throughout time and eternity. You swear it? On the faith
Of all that we have suffered? In this life and death,
And till the day of Judgment to be lead and true,
And live for our sole love?

Lady Marian. I swear it.

Leicester. Sweet, adieu.
This fight shall be my last. If I prove victor, well
My fame shall be my dowry--large and laudable
In the face of all the world. The world forgives success,
It will forgive our love its sin of happiness.
Defeated we elude them.

Lady Marian. The Queen's clemency
Is not invoked in vain where men fail honourably.

Leicester.  Or fall? No matter, love. The battle lost or won
Seals our great victory.

(A cannon shot is heard.)  Great God! the signal gun.

Curtain.

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt