The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 252 : MRS. FRAMPTON What mean his alter'd tones? These looks to me, Whose glances yet h

MRS. FRAMPTON What mean his alter'd tones? These looks to me, Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness?

Is the wind changed? I'll veer about with it, And meet him in all fas.h.i.+ons. [_Aside._]

All my leisure, Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here, Would not express a t.i.the of the obligements I every hour incur.

SELBY No more of that.-- I know not why, my wife hath lost of late Much of her cheerful spirits.

MRS. FRAMPTON It was my topic To-day; and every day, and all day long, I still am chiding with her. "Child," I said, And said it pretty roundly--it may be I was too peremptory--we elder school-fellows, Presuming on the advantage of a year Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much, In after years, much like to elder sisters, Are p.r.o.ne to keep the authoritative style, When time has made the difference most ridiculous--

SELBY The observation's shrewd.

MRS. FRAMPTON "Child," I was saying, "If some wives had obtained a lot like yours,"

And then perhaps I sigh'd, "they would not sit In corners moping, like to sullen moppets That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps I said, their Selby's, "with proportion'd looks Of honest joy."

SELBY You do suspect no jealousy?

MRS. FRAMPTON What is his import? Whereto tends his speech? [_Aside._]

Of whom, of what, should she be jealous, sir?

SELBY I do not know, but women have their fancies; And underneath a cold indifference, Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd A growing fondness for a female friend, Which the wife's eye was sharp enough to see Before the friend had wit to find it out.

You do not quit us soon?

MRS. FRAMPTON 'Tis as I find Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir.-- Means this man honest? Is there no deceit? [_Aside_.]

SELBY She cannot chuse.--Well, well, I have been thinking, And if the matter were to do again--

MRS. FRAMPTON What matter, sir?

SELBY This idle bond of wedlock; These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk; I might have made, I do not say a better, But a more fit choice in a wife.

MRS. FRAMPTON The parch'd ground, In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers More greedily than I his words! [_Aside_.]

SELBY My humour Is to be frank and jovial; and that man Affects me best, who most reflects me in My most free temper.

MRS. FRAMPTON Were you free to chuse, As jestingly I'll put the supposition, Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine, What sort of woman would you make your choice?

SELBY I like your humour, and will meet your jest.

She should be one about my Katherine's age; But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity.

One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun it; No puling, pining moppet, as you said, Nor moping maid, that I must still be teaching The freedoms of a wife all her life after: But one, that, having worn the chain before, (And worn it lightly, as report gave out,) Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death, Took it not so to heart that I need dread To die myself, for fear a second time To wet a widow's eye.

MRS. FRAMPTON Some widows, sir, Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt To put strange misconstruction on your words, As aiming at a Turkish liberty, Where the free husband hath his several mates, His Penseroso, his Allegro wife, To suit his sober, or his frolic fit.

SELBY How judge you of that lat.i.tude?

MRS. FRAMPTON As one, In European customs bred, must judge. Had I Been born a native of the liberal East, I might have thought as they do. Yet I knew A married man that took a second wife, And (the man's circ.u.mstances duly weigh'd, With all their bearings) the considerate world Nor much approved, nor much condemn'd the deed.

SELBY You move my wonder strangely. Pray, proceed.

MRS. FRAMPTON An eye of wanton liking he had placed Upon a Widow, who liked him again, But stood on terms of honourable love, And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife--- When to their ears a lucky rumour ran, That this demure and saintly-seeming wife Had a first husband living; with the which Being question'd, she but faintly could deny.

"A priest indeed there was; some words had pa.s.sed, But scarce amounting to a marriage rite.

Her friend was absent; she supposed him dead; And, seven years parted, both were free to chuse."

SELBY What did the indignant husband? Did he not With violent handlings stigmatize the cheek Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd Shame on their innocent babe?

MRS. FRAMPTON He neither tore His wife's locks nor his own; but wisely weighing His own offence with her's in equal poise, And woman's weakness 'gainst the strength of man, Came to a calm and witty compromise.

He coolly took his gay-faced widow home, Made her his second wife; and still the first Lost few or none of her prerogatives.

The servants call'd her mistress still; she kept The keys, and had the total ordering Of the house affairs; and, some slight toys excepted, Was all a moderate wife would wish to be.

SELBY A tale full of dramatic incident!-- And if a man should put it in a play, How should he name the parties?

MRS. FRAMPTON The man's name Through time I have forgot--the widow's too;-- But his first wife's first name, her maiden one, Was--not unlike to that your Katherine bore, Before she took the honour'd style of Selby.

SELBY A dangerous meaning in your riddle lurks.

One knot is yet unsolved; that told, this strange And most mysterious drama ends. The name Of that first husband---

_Enter Lucy._

MRS. FRAMPTON Sir, your pardon-- The allegory fits your private ear.

Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk, We shall have leisure. [_Exit._]

SELBY Sister, whence come you?

LUCY From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she droops In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps, And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks As she would pour her secret in my bosom--- Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention Of some immodest act. At her request I left her on her knees.

SELBY The fittest posture; For great has been her fault to Heaven and me.

She married me, with a first husband living, Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment Of any but indifferent honesty, Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow, Caught by my art, under a riddling veil Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all.

Your coming in broke off the conference, When she was ripe to tell the fatal _name_, That seals my wedded doom.

LUCY Was she so forward To pour her hateful meanings in your ear At the first hint?

SELBY Her newly flatter'd hopes Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt; And with a female caution she stood off Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit, Which with such honest seeming I enforced, That her cold scruples soon gave way; and now She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife, To seize the place of her betrayed friend-- My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine.

LUCY Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes My simple project has conducted you-- Were but my wit as skilful to invent A clue to lead you forth!--I call to mind A letter, which your wife received from the Cape, Soon after you were married, with some circ.u.mstances Of mystery too.

SELBY I well remember it.

That letter did confirm the truth (she said) Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true, But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise She gave him out--a hot adventurous spirit-- That had set sail in quest of golden dreams, And cities in the heart of Central Afric; But named no names, nor did I care to press My question further, in the pa.s.sionate grief She shew'd at the receipt. Might this be he?

LUCY Tears were not all. When that first shower was past, With clasped hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n, As if in thankfulness for some escape, Or strange deliverance, in the news implied, Which sweeten'd that sad news.

SELBY Something of that I noted also--

LUCY In her closet once, Seeking some other trifle, I espied A ring, in mournful characters deciphering The death of "Robert Halford, aged two And twenty." Brother, I am not given To the confident use of wagers, which I hold Unseemly in a woman's argument; But I am strangely tempted now to risk A thousand pounds out of my patrimony, (And let my future husband look to it If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow Shall name the name that tallies with that ring.

SELBY That wager lost, I should be rich indeed-- Rich in my rescued Kate--rich in my honour, Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept Your merry wager, with an aching heart For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour That I should meet my Widow in the walk, The south side of the garden. On some pretence Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness Our seeming courts.h.i.+p. Keep us still in sight, Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give, (A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,) You'll know your wager won--then break upon us, As if by chance.

LUCY I apprehend your meaning--

SELBY And may you prove a true Ca.s.sandra here, Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering sister.