GERARD. He is ever armed: his sword projects Beneath the cloak.

TRESHAM. Gerard,--I will not say No word, no breath of this!

GERARD. Thank, thanks, my lord! [Goes.]

TRESHAM [paces the room. After a pause]. Oh, thoughts absurd!--as with some monstrous fact Which, when ill thoughts beset us, seems to give Merciful God that made the sun and stars, The waters and the green delights of earth, The lie! I apprehend the monstrous fact-- Yet know the maker of all worlds is good, And yield my reason up, inadequate To reconcile what yet I do behold-- Blasting my sense! There's cheerful day outside: This is my library, and this the chair My father used to sit in carelessly After his soldier-fashion, while I stood Between his knees to question him: and here Gerard our grey retainer,--as he says, Fed with our food, from sire to son, an age,-- Has told a story--I am to believe! That Mildred... oh, no, no! both tales are true, Her pure cheek's story and the forester's! Would she, or could she, err--much less, confound All guilts of treachery, of craft, of... Heaven Keep me within its hand!--I will sit here Until thought settle and I see my course. Avert, oh God, only this woe from me! [As he sinks his head between his arms on the table, GUENDOLEN'S voice is heard at the door.]

Lord Tresham! [She knocks.] Is Lord Tresham there?

[TRESHAM, hastily turning, pulls down the first book above him and opens it.]

TRESHAM. Come in! [She enters.] Ha, Guendolen!--good morning.

GUENDOLEN. Nothing more?

TRESHAM. What should I say more?

GUENDOLEN. Pleasant question! more? This more. Did I besiege poor Mildred's brain Last night till close on morning with "the Earl," "The Earl"--whose worth did I asseverate Till I am very fain to hope that... Thorold, What is all this? You are not well!

TRESHAM. Who, I? You laugh at me.

GUENDOLEN. Has what I'm fain to hope, Arrived then? Does that huge tome show some blot In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer back Than Arthur's time?

TRESHAM. When left you Mildred's chamber?

GUENDOLEN. Oh, late enough, I told you! The main thing To ask is, how I left her chamber,--sure, Content yourself, she'll grant this paragon Of Earls no such ungracious...

TRESHAM. Send her here!

GUENDOLEN. Thorold?

TRESHAM. I mean--acquaint her, Guendolen, --But mildly!

GUENDOLEN. Mildly?

TRESHAM. Ah, you guessed aright! I am not well: there is no hiding it. But tell her I would see her at her leisure-- That is, at once! here in the library! The passage in that old Italian book We hunted for so long is found, say, found-- And if I let it slip again... you see, That she must come--and instantly!

GUENDOLEN. I'll die Piecemeal, record that, if there have not gloomed Some blot i' the 'scutcheon!

TRESHAM. Go! or, Guendolen, Be you at call,--With Austin, if you choose,-- In the adjoining gallery! There go! [GUENDOLEN goes.] Another lesson to me! You might bid A child disguise his heart's sore, and conduct Some sly investigation point by point With a smooth brow, as well as bid me catch The inquisitorial cleverness some praise. If you had told me yesterday, "There's one You needs must circumvent and practise with, Entrap by policies, if you would worm The truth out: and that one is--Mildred!" There, There--reasoning is thrown away on it! Prove she's unchaste... why, you may after prove That she's a poisoner, traitress, what you will! Where I can comprehend nought, nought's to say, Or do, or think. Force on me but the first Abomination,--then outpour all plagues, And I shall ne'er make count of them.

Enter MILDRED

MILDRED. What book Is it I wanted, Thorold? Guendolen Thought you were pale; you are not pale. That book? That's Latin surely.

TRESHAM. Mildred, here's a line, (Don't lean on me: I'll English it for you) "Love conquers all things." What love conquers them? What love should you esteem--best love?

MILDRED. True love.

TRESHAM. I mean, and should have said, whose love is best Of all that love or that profess to love?

MILDRED. The list's so long: there's father's, mother's, husband's...

TRESHAM. Mildred, I do believe a brother's love For a sole sister must exceed them all. For see now, only see! there's no alloy Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold Of other loves--no gratitude to claim; You never gave her life, not even aught That keeps life--never tended her, instructed, Enriched her--so, your love can claim no right O'er her save pure love's claim: that's what I call Freedom from earthliness. You'll never hope To be such friends, for instance, she and you, As when you hunted cowslips in the woods, Or played together in the meadow hay. Oh yes--with age, respect comes, and your worth Is felt, there's growing sympathy of tastes, There's ripened friendship, there's confirmed esteem: --Much head these make against the newcomer! The startling apparition, the strange youth-- Whom one half-hour's conversing with, or, say, Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all change This Ovid ever sang about) your soul ...Her soul, that is,--the sister's soul! With her 'Twas winter yesterday; now, all is warmth, The green leaf's springing and the turtle's voice, "Arise and come away!" Come whither?--far Enough from the esteem, respect, and all The brother's somewhat insignificant Array of rights! All which he knows before, Has calculated on so long ago! I think such love, (apart from yours and mine,) Contented with its little term of life, Intending to retire betimes, aware How soon the background must be placed for it, --I think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds All the world's love in its unworldliness.

MILDRED. What is this for?

TRESHAM. This, Mildred, is it for! Or, no, I cannot go to it so soon! That's one of many points my haste left out-- Each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film Between the being tied to you by birth, And you, until those slender threads compose A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes And fears and fancies, all her life, from yours: So close you live and yet so far apart! And must I rend this web, tear up, break down The sweet and palpitating mystery That makes her sacred? You--for you I mean, Shall I speak, shall I not speak?

MILDRED. Speak!

TRESHAM. I will. Is there a story men could--any man Could tell of you, you would conceal from me? I'll never think there's falsehood on that lip. Say "There is no such story men could tell," And I'll believe you, though I disbelieve The world--the world of better men than I, And women such as I suppose you. Speak! [After a pause.] Not speak? Explain then! Clear it up then! Move