When she broke off with you Her engagement, her heart did not break with it?
ALFRED.
Pooh!
Pray would you have had her dress always in black, And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack?
Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was broken.
JOHN.
Most likely. How was it?
ALFRED.
The tale is soon spoken.
She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next?
She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd.
I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I.
If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry.
I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd.
At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd.
She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason.
I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason.
In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see, Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she By whom to that crisis the matter was brought.
She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought, With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse, And declare myself uncomprehended. And so We parted. The rest of the story you know.
JOHN.
No, indeed.
ALFRED.
Well, we parted. Of course we could not Continue to meet, as before, in one spot.
You conceive it was awkward? Even Don Ferdinando Can do, you remember, no more than he can do.
I think that I acted exceedingly well, Considering the time when this rupture befell, For Paris was charming just then. It deranged All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed--
Wrote for Naples, then vacant--obtain'd it--and so Join'd my new post at once; but scarce reach'd it, when lo!
My first news from Paris informs me Lucile Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel.
I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite regret;
I ask to renew the engagement.
JOHN.
And she?
ALFRED.
Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing!
We each keep our letters . . . a portrait . . . a ring . . .
With a pledge to return them whenever the one Or the other shall call for them back.
JOHN.
Pray go on.
ALFRED.
My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin To supply the grim deficit found in our days, When love leaves them bankrupt. I preach. She obeys.
She goes out in the world; takes to dancing once more--
A pleasure she rarely indulged in before.
I go back to my post, and collect (I must own 'Tis a taste I had never before, my dear John)
Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho! now, Jack, You know all.
JOHN (after a pause).
You are really resolved to go. back?
ALFRED.
Eh, where?
JOHN.
To that worst of all places--the past.
You remember Lot's wife?
ALFRED.
'Twas a promise when last We parted. My honor is pledged to it.
JOHN.
Well, What is it you wish me to do?
ALFRED.
You must tell Matilda, I meant to have call'd--to leave word--
To explain--but the time was so pressing--
JOHN.
My lord, Your lordship's obedient! I really can't do . . .
ALFRED.
You wish then to break off my marriage?
JOHN.
No, no!
But indeed I can't see why yourself you need take These letters.
ALFRED.
Not see? would you have me, then, break A promise my honor is pledged to?
JOHN (humming).
"Off, off And away! said the stranger" . . .
ALFRED.
Oh, good! oh, you scoff!
JOHN.
At what, my dear Alfred?
ALFRED.
At all things!
JOHN.
Indeed?
ALFRED.
Yes; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed:
That the dew of your youth is rubb'd off you: I see You have no feeling left in you, even for me!
At honor you jest; you are cold as a stone To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have none;
You have lost faith in all things. You carry a blight About with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight Of such callous indifference, who could be calm?
I must leave you at once, Jack, or else the last balm That is left me in Gilead you'll turn into gall.
Heartless, cold, unconcern'd . . .
JOHN.
Have you done? Is that all?
