Listen to me, Jane--laugh at me if you will; I am mad, I am jealous!
I will tell you why. Do not get angry! It seems to me, for some time I have seen several young lords prowling around here. Do you know, Jane, I am thirty-two years old. For a poor, clumsy, badly-dressed workman like myself, who am no longer young, who am not handsome, what a misery it is to love a charming, beautiful girl of seventeen, who attracts all the handsome, gold-bedizened young n.o.bles around her, as a light attracts the b.u.t.terflies. Oh, I suffer; indeed, I do!
But I never blame you, even in my thoughts! You, so honest, so pure; you, whose brow has never been touched, except by my lips. I only feel, sometimes, that you look on the Queen"s cavalcades and retinues with too much pleasure, that you enjoy too much the fine suits of velvet and satin, under which there are no hearts, no souls. Forgive me. My G.o.d! why do so many young n.o.blemen come around here? Why am I not handsome, young, n.o.ble, rich? Gilbert the engraver--that is all I am! They are Lord Chandos, Lord Gerard Fitz-Gerard, Earl of Arundel, the Duke of Norfolk! Oh, how I hate them! I spend my life engraving the handles of their swords, which I would like to plunge into their bowels.
JANE.
Gilbert!
GILBERT.
I beg your pardon, Jane! Love makes us very wicked, doesn"t it?
JANE.
No, very good; for you are good, Gilbert.
GILBERT.
Oh, how much I love you! It increases every day. I would like to die for you! Love me or not, you can do as you please. I am mad. Forgive all that I have said. It is late: I must leave you! Good-by! Oh, how I hate to leave you! Go in! Haven"t you your key?
JANE.
No; I haven"t had it for several days.
GILBERT.
Take mine. Until to-morrow morning! Jane, don"t forget this! To-day I am still your father: in one week I shall be your husband.
[_He kisses her on the forehead and exits._
JANE (_alone_).
My husband! Oh, no! I will never commit that crime. Poor Gilbert! he loves me truly; and the other--ah, provided I have not preferred vanity to love! Unhappy woman that I am, into whose power have I fallen! Oh, I am most thankless and most guilty! I hear footsteps!
Let me get in quickly. [_Goes into house._
SCENE IV
_Gilbert, A Man enveloped in cloak and wearing a yellow cap. The Man holds Gilbert by the hand_
GILBERT.
Yes, I recognize you; you are the Jewish beggar who has been prowling around this house for several days. What do you want with me? Why have you taken hold of my hand, and why have you brought me back here?
THE MAN.
Because what I have to say to you, I can only say here.
GILBERT.
Well, what is it? Speak! Hurry!
THE MAN.
Listen, young man. One night, sixteen years ago, Lord Talbot, Earl of Waterford, was beheaded by torchlight, for the crimes of popery and rebellion, while his followers were cut to pieces in the city of London by Henry VIII."s soldiers. They shot in the streets all night.
That night a very young workman, who was much more interested in his labor than in the battle, was working in his stall. It was the first stall from the entrance of London Bridge; a low door on the right, the remains of some old red paint on the wall. It might have been two o"clock in the morning. They were fighting all around there. The b.a.l.l.s hissed across the Thames. Suddenly some one knocked at the door of the stall, through which the workman"s lamp threw a glimmer. The workman opened it. A man he did not know, entered. This man carried in his arms a baby in long clothes, who was much frightened and was crying. The man put the child down on the table and said, "Here is a creature who has neither father nor mother." Then he went out slowly and closed the door after him. Gilbert, the workman, had neither father nor mother himself. The workman accepted the child: the orphan adopted the orphan. He took it, watched over it, clothed it, fed it, tended it, brought it up, loved it. He gave himself entirely to this poor little creature whom civil war had thrown into his stall. He forgot everything for her--his youth, his love-affairs, his pleasures; he made this child the sole object of his work, his affections, his life: and it has lasted sixteen years. Gilbert, the workman was you; the child--
GILBERT.
Was Jane. All that you say is true; but what are you driving at?
THE MAN.
I forgot to say that on the child"s swaddling-clothes a paper was pinned, on which was written: "Have pity upon Jane."
GILBERT.
It was written in blood. I have kept that paper. I always carry it about me. But you torture me. What is your purpose, tell me.
THE MAN.
This. You see that I am acquainted with your affairs. Gilbert, watch over your house to-night.
GILBERT.
What do you mean?
THE MAN.
Not another word. Don"t go to your work; stay around the house: watch! I am neither your friend nor your enemy; this is only a piece of advice that I give you. Now, for your own sake, leave me! Go down that side, and come back if you hear me call for help.
GILBERT.
What does this mean? [_Goes off slowly._
SCENE V
THE MAN (_alone_).
The matter is well arranged now. I needed some one young and strong to help me if it was necessary. This Gilbert is just the man I want.
I think I hear the sound of oars and a guitar on the water. Yes.
[_He goes to the parapet. A guitar and distant singing are heard._
When you sing soft at night, love, Clasped in my arms so fond, Can you not hear the tender thoughts Which to your voice respond?
Your song brings back unto my heart The happy days of yore; Then sing, my beauty, sing, my love, Sing on for evermore!
THE MAN.