The Scarlet Stigma Part 12

_Betsey._ [_Singing again, behind the scenes._]

_For her, of b.u.t.tercups and violets, A circlet for her hair he makes; And sings, in roundelays and triolets, A song that soon her fancy takes.

In Summer-tide, sweet Summer-tide, O, what can a maiden do, If, while he walks close by her side, Her lover begins to woo?_

_Diggory._ I'm not a judge of songs, but if she means half she says--and a woman sometimes does--some one is about to be the top feather in Fortune's cap; it may be me. I'll try my luck once more.

[_Going toward R. wing_] Why, here she comes.

_Enter BETSEY, with a pair of b.u.t.ter paddles._

_Betsey._ [_Entering._]

_Adown the moonlit path they walk, Through all the world called lover's lane, And hand in hand they sigh and talk Of the love that binds them, happy twain!_

What are you gaping like a great gaby for?

_Diggory._ For Fortune to drop the plum into my mouth.

_Betsey._ Where is the plum?

_Diggory._ There. [_Pointing at her._]

_Betsey._ You silly fellow! yesterday I was a peach; the day before strawberries and cream; the day before that a rose; and last week a dove--marry, I don't coo for you! Can I be all these things at once and still be Betsey Tomkins?

_Diggory._ O, Betsey, thou art all the world to me!

_Betsey._ O, Diggory, thou art a great fool to me! Why, man, thy head is as soft as a pat of b.u.t.ter; I could take it between my paddles, like this, and mold it into any shape I chose.

_Diggory._ So you may, Betsey; so you may. And, Betsey, for the love of mercy, mold it into the head of thy future husband.

_Betsey._ 'Twould take a pair of shears to do that.

_Diggory._ Wouldst thou marry me, Betsey, if I should lose my pretty locks?

_Betsey._ I would not marry you with them, that's flat.

_Diggory._ Shall I shave my head or only clip it close?

_Betsey._ Cut it off, Diggory, cut it off.

_Diggory._ Kiss me but once, Betsey, and I'll cut my head off; 'tis of little use to me now, and if thou dost marry me--well, thy head shall rest upon my shoulder, like this, and one head is enough for any pair of shoulders.

_Betsey._ _In Summer-tide, sweet Summer-tide, O, what can a maiden do_, etc. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_The same as in Scene I of this act. Dimsdell asleep upon a garden bench, half reclining. Enter ROGER PRYNNE, called Chillingworth._

_Roger._ To kill were easy; aye, but--to stretch his life As on a rack--were that not better still?

Dead, I'd bury with him my revenge; But while he lives the old account will stand At daily usury.

I'll tent his agony, prolong it here, Even here where I may feed upon it; Not send him hence beyond my reach. Aye!

I'll fight with death to keep him for mine own.

But, now-- O, I must calm myself or miss my aim!

For, like a hunter when first he sees the buck, My nerves are all unstrung. This weakling trick Of overearnestness betrays the fool In me; and yet we know it, though we profit not, The eager hand doth ever spill the cup That lifted carefully would quench our thirst.

I must a.s.sume a wise placidity; As he puts on--Ah! d.a.m.ned hypocrite!-- The air of purity. (_Approaches Dimsdell._) I'll drink dissimulation at the source; I'll study him.--Thus might an angel look When, wearied with the music of the spheres, He laid him down upon a roseate bank To dream of holiness!--He hath not stirred.-- 'Twas well I did not speak to Bellingham, For we have not been noted. Good, so far.

All eyes are busy with their own affairs; I'll wake him now and foil discovery.

_Takes vial from pocket medicine case._

Our native drugs are balanced well; one plant Sucks in the beams the sleepy moon sends down, Another drinks the waking draught of dawn.

That made him sleep, but this--Ah!

A mouldy mummied corse that in the tomb A thousand years had lain, would wake once more, If but three drops of this should touch its lips.

I'll give you, sir, but two.

_Drops liquid into gla.s.s and fills with wine._

There, swallow it.

_Administering to Dimsdell._

Now, let me see--he must not know how long He slept,--and by the sun it is not long-- I have't; I'll make him think he merely lost Himself while I was talking.

_Dimsdell stirs. Roger pours a gla.s.s of wine and takes position he occupied when Dimsdell fell asleep. Speaks as in continuation of former speech._

Mellow wine Is Nature's golden bounty unto man.

And it hath well been said: Dame Nature is A gentle mother if we follow her; But if she drives our steps no fury wields A fiercer lash; yet all her punishments Are kindly meant; our puny faculties Would nest forever fledgeling in our minds, Did not her wise austerity compel Their flight.

_Dimsdell wakes with a start and recovers himself as one who would not seem rude._

Or, put the same in other words: That man is n.o.ble who doth fear no fate Which may afflict humanity; but, like A gallant soldier, meets the charge half way, And takes his wounds a-jesting.

Now ev'ry one of us, whom Nature whips, Must take it meekly; for she means our good; And learn to go along with her.

_Dimsdell._ I fear I dozed and lost the thread of argument.

I pray you, pardon me.

_Roger._ I did not note it.

But, be it so, come sun yourself; drive out The fog and vapor that becloud your mind, And let the warmth of nature take their place.

Nature retrieves our losses, or charges them Against us; all things do rest, even the plants Do slumber as they grow.

_Dimsdell._ How greedily The flow'rs drink up the wine our golden sun Pours down on them, yet blush to own their drinking!

_Roger._ This is the New World, man; and Nature here Is l.u.s.ty; drink in thy dole of heat and light; For even I, drenched in the golden rain, Feel pulsings of lost paradise that make My blood leap with th' quick-step bound of youth.

This is the very show'r of gold in which Jove comes to fill the longing world with life.

And as he kisses her with ling'ring lips, All Nature lies wide open to th' warm embrace And quickens in his arms.--All, all, but thou!

For thou art single as the northern pole; As cold, as distant, and unreachable To what hath pa.s.sion's warmth; and, though Thy life be at its summer solstice--bright With day--thy heart still turns to barren ice, More bleak than many a wintry age.

_Dimsdell._ How can I change my disposition, Doctor?

_Roger._ Widen the thin ecliptic of thy life; Revolve upon another axis, man; Let love, the sun of life, beam meltingly Upon thy heart and thaw it into happiness.

Marry, man, marry.