Oh, Cashel, if thou scorn’st thy mother thus,How wilt thou treat thy wife?
CASHEL. There spake my fate:
I knew you would say that. Oh, mothers, mothers,
Would you but let your wretched sons alone
Life were worth living! Had I any choice
In this importunate relationship?
None. And until that high auspicious day
When the millennium on an orphaned world
Shall dawn, and man upon his fellow look,
Reckless of consanguinity, my mother
And I within the selfsame hemisphere
Conjointly may not dwell.
ADELAIDE. Ungentlemanly!
CASHEL. I am no gentleman. I am a criminal,
Redhanded, baseborn —
ADELAIDE. Baseborn! Who dares say it?
Thou art the son and heir of Bingley Bumpkin
FitzAlgernon de Courcy Cashel Byron,
Sieur of Park Lane and Overlord of Dorset,
Who after three months’ wedded happiness
Rashly fordid himself with prussic acid,
Leaving a tearstained note to testify
That having sweetly honeymooned with me,
He now could say, O Death, where is thy sting?
POLICEMAN. Sir: had I known your quality, this cop
I had averted; but it is too late.
The law’s above us both.
Enter Lucian, with an Order in Council
LUCIAN. Not so, policeman
I bear a message from The Throne itself
Of fullest amnesty for Byron’s past.
Nay, more: of Dorset deputy lieutenant
He is proclaimed. Further, it is decreed,
In memory of his glorious victory
Over our country’s foes at Islington,
The flag of England shall for ever bear
On azure field twelve swanlike spots of white;
And by an exercise of feudal right
Too long disused in this anarchic age
Our sovereign doth confer on him the hand
Of Miss Carew, Wiltstoken’s wealthy heiress. [General acclamation.
POLICEMAN. Was anything, sir, said about me?
LUCIAN. Thy faithful services are not forgot:
In future call thyself Inspector Smith. [Renewed acclamation.
POLICEMAN. I thank you, sir. I thank you, gentlemen.
LUCIAN. My former opposition, valiant champion,
Was based on the supposed discrepancy
Betwixt your rank and Lydia’s. Here’s my hand.
BASHVILLE. And I do here unselfishly renounce
All my pretensions to my lady’s favor. [Sensation.
LYDIA. What, Bashville! didst thou love me?
BASHVILLE. Madam: yes.
’Tis said: now let me leave immediately.
LYDIA. In taking, Bashville, this most tasteful course
You are but acting as a gentleman
In the like case would act. I fully grant
Your perfect right to make a declaration
Which flatters me and honors your ambition.
Prior attachment bids me firmly say
That whilst my Cashel lives, and polyandry
Rests foreign to the British social scheme,
Your love is hopeless; still, your services,
Made zealous by disinterested passion,
Would greatly add to my domestic comfort;
And if ——
CASHEL. Excuse me. I have other views.
I’ve noted in this man such aptitude
For art and exercise in his defence
That I prognosticate for him a future
More glorious than my past. Henceforth I dub him
The Admirable Bashville, Byron’s Novice;
And to the utmost of my mended fortunes
Will back him ‘gainst the world at ten stone six.
ALL. Hail, Byron’s Novice, champion that shall be!
BASHVILLE. Must I renounce my lovely lady’s service,
And mar the face of man?
CASHEL. ’Tis Fate’s decree.
For know, rash youth, that in this star crost world
Fate drives us all to find our chiefest good
In what we can, and not in what we would.
POLICEMAN. A post-horn — hark!
CASHEL. What noise of wheels is this?
Lord Worthington drives upon the scene in his four-in-hand, and descends
ADELAIDE. Perfidious peer!
LORD WORTHINGTON. Sweet Adelaide ——
ADELAIDE. Forbear,
Audacious one: my name is Mrs. Byron.
LORD WORTHINGTON. Oh, change that title for the sweeter one
Of Lady Worthington.
CASHEL. Unhappy man,
You know
