 | Eugenia |  |
33
ACT III.
Dorimond. Mercour.Mercour.
Shew'd her Refusal in Contempt, or Hatred?
Or was it, Sir, the Consciousness of Beauty,
That would be woo'd, and not, unsought, be won.
Dorimond.
Sure it was more. At Mention of your Name,
(For she till then, I thought, with Pleasure heard me)
Trembling she stood, as if some sudden Horror
Had smote her Heart.
Mercour.
Only a Virgin Fear,
Starting at Marriage.
Dorimond.
I should rather think,
Her Heart's engag'd already.
Mercour.
Sure you wrong her.
Could she, with such a Sense of filial Duty,
Engage her Heart without your Approbation;
Or, with her open and ingenuous Nature,
Could she have Art to hide it?
Dorimond.
That I know not.
I think I might depend upon her Choice.
Would it were Clerval.
Mercour
. (Starting.)
What! My Brother, Sir?
Perhaps—impossible—yet if I thought—
Tho' terrible to think it—that Eugenia
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By all the Hopes, which my fond Soul had form'd,
I would resign, would give her, to his Arms.
Dorimond.
How noble such disinterested Passion!
Mercour.
May I confess, even Beauty's rich Possession,
Eugenia's Beauty, but my second Wish—
Nearer to be allied to you and Goodness,
In a Son's Right to wait upon your Age,
With every grateful Tenderness and Care,
First taught me how to love; first rais'd to Hope
The conscious, humble Spirit of my Wishes.
Dorimond.
You have a dearer Interest in my Love
Than yet you know of, Nephew; for my Wife,
(Whose Memory will never from my Heart,
While it retains a Sense of what is amiable
And virtuous in her Sex) esteem'd you greatly;
And her Esteem, so just was her Discernment,
Is a full Proof of Merit.
Mercour.
Sir, forgive me;
These Tears, a grateful Tribute to her Memory,
Will force their Way. My ever honour'd Aunt—
But that I know she dies to you again,
Whene'er her Name is mention'd, I could tell you—
Dorimond.
What!
Mercour.
Nothing, Sir,—or if—not much—O Fool,
Simple of Soul, and heedless that I am;
I wear my Heart upon my Lips.
Dorimond.
Yet speak.
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Sir, I must disobey you; for each Word
Will open all the bosom'd Wounds of Grief—
Dorimond.
Let my Request, if not, let my Commands—
Mercour.
With what Reluctance, tho' conjur'd thus strongly,
Do I recall to my afflicted Memory,
Much more to your's, the Hour that took from Earth
All that was good and excellent in Woman.
When you were parted from her; while the Breath
Of Life yet hardly trembled o'er her Lips,
Take this last Proof, she cry'd, of my Esteem.
To you, and to your Virtue, I bequeath
Eugenia's Youth, to watch her Beauty's Frailty,
And guard her from the World, and its Delusions.
Dorimond.
There spoke her Heart, her first, last Care was Virtue.
Why was I not inform'd of this before?
Mercour.
Fearful (perhaps from too much Delicacy)
Lest it might seem a low-intention'd Fraud,
A base and bold Attempt on your Credulity—
Dorimond.
Oh! No. I feel its Truth; 'tis in my Heart;
A Power that cannot lie: Eugenia too
Shall hear, and will obey her Mother's Will.
Mercour.
How my Soul thanks you! Yet my Heart's too delicate
To take her, Sir, from any other Influence
Than that of mutual Love. Have I your Leave
To talk to her alone?
Dorimond.
Most willingly.
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In all Engagements, where the Heart's concern'd,
The Heart alone must chuse.
[Exit.
Mercour.
So! This was lucky.
He now is mine for ever. Should his Wife
Start from her Shroud, she shall not be believ'd:
But still (such silly Dotage) his Eugenia—
Why let her chuse; or Happiness or Misery,
Be mine the Choice of Vengeance, or of Love;
To ruin, or enjoy.
Enter Eugenia.
Eugenia.
My Father, Sir,
Hath sent me hither, as I think, to hear
Some most important Secret.
Mercour.
Not he alone,
But every better Angel hovering o'er you,
Your Guardian Genius, watchful for your Welfare—
Come ye cælestial Host, descend to Earth,
And save your beauteous Charge—They bid you hear.
Eugenia.
Well, Sir, I come prepar'd to know their Pleasure,
By you, it seems, their chosen Minister.
Mercour.
Yet have they given you no kind Fore-boadings,
No secret Instincts of this Hour of Fate?
Still heaves your Bosom with its wonted Calmness,
Nor Fear, nor Terror, mix their Pantings there?
Eugenia.
What Terror, Sir? What Fear? 'Tis Guilt alone,
Like brain sick Frenzy, in its feverish Mood,
Fills the light Air with visionary Terrors,
And shapeless Forms of Fear. I know them not.
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How I admire this Dignity of Spirit,
Which my prophetic Love had long foreseen!
Why do you start? I saw your Dawn of Beauty,
Sure Pledge of Day; I saw your opening Charms,
Promise their present Bloom; and was it possible,
Without Desire to see them?
Eugenia.
Is this the Terror
For which I should invoke my better Genius,
And call my Guardian Angel to my Aid?
No, Sir: however terrible the Danger,
'Tis but to fly for ever, and be safe.
Mercour
, catching her by the Arm.
You shall not go. This Hour is Fate's and mine.
Eugenia.
Unhand me, Mercour—Sir, this ruffian Violence—
'Tis not my Father's Favour—He will hear—
Sure he'll protect his Daughter from such Outrage.
Mercour.
His Daughter! Thou presumptuous—But 'tis Time
To quell this Insolence—
(Shewing her a Paper)
You know this Hand—
Eugenia.
My Mother's! And directed to my Father!
Mercour.
The Night before she died, you may remember,
She gave some Papers to me. This was one;
And it contains a Secret of such Moment—
Eugenia.
You seem to think, 'twill mortify my Pride.
If I must learn Humility, I know not
Who better can instruct me; surely none,
Who, with more Pleasure, will accept the Office.
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Is this with Pleasure to behold your Ruin?
Thus, kneeling, to conjure you to prevent it?
Give me a Husband's sacred Right to guard—
Eugenia.
Am I to read that Paper?
Mercour.
Pause a Moment;
For still my Love, my Weakness, would preserve you.
Eugenia.
Or give it me, or let me think you dare not.
Mercour.
Ha! Dare not! (giving it to her).
Oh! Yet hold your Hand, rash Maid;
For know you stand upon a Precipice,
And your next Step is bottomless Perdition.
Eugenia.
Tho' every Letter glar'd with Blood—
Mercour.
Then read it, and be wretched.
Eugenia
reads.
Knowing, Sir, how ardently you wish'd for Children, and
willing to engage your Affection more strongly, I deceived
you—with a supposititious Child. Your Embassy
to Spain gave me an Opportunity of making Eugenia
pass for my Daughter. Death compels me to
reveal my Secret. Oh! Pardon—
(She stands gazing fixedly.)
Mercour.
Awake, Eugenia, to the Voice of Joy,
Of Happiness and Love.
Eugenia:
Where are they, Mercour?
Mercour.
Here in my Arms: here let our Fates unite;
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The Secret of your Birth.
Eugenia.
In vain: Conceal it!
Though I deceiv'd the World, can I deceive
Myself or you? Can we unknow it, Sir?
Mercour.
Yes; from this Hour I'll blot it from my Memory.
My Eye shall gaze, transported, on thy Beauty,
And my fond Heart, grown proud of your Alliance,
Shall imitate the Virtues it admires.
Such Virtues, as first made Nobility,
And best support its Honours.
Eugenia.
Suffer me
Once more to see that Paper, (Returning it.)
Sir, I'm satisfied.
Mercour.
Now timely think, Eugenia, who shall guard,
Through this tempestuous World, thy Orphan Innocence.
Oh! Should Misfortune's Hand fall rudely on you,
And, like a feeble Flower, o'er-charged with Rain,
If you should bend to Earth the weeping Head,
What powerful Hand shall then support your Sorrows?
Eugenia.
Th' all-powerful Hand
Of Virtue, Honour, Piety.
Mercour.
Yet tell me;
On what do you resolve.
Eugenia.
Not to inherit
A Fortune not my own; not to deceive
The Heart of Dorimond with false Caresses,
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Which Nature has denied him.
Mercour.
It were impious
To undeceive him. Think what Pangs, Eugenia,
To tear a bosom'd Fondness from the Soul,
However planted there.
Eugenia.
Their's be the Guilt,
Who force me to the dire Necessity:
Longer to pause would make me share that Guilt.
Mercour, farewell, for ever.
[Going.
Mercour.
Have I then
Bow'd down my Soul to Meanness? Have I sunk
My Spirit to a Girl? Yet mark me, proud one,
I see through your Design to ruin me;
But should you dare insinuate to my Uncle—
Eugenia.
Sir, I dare follow Truth, where-e'er it leads,
And own no other Guide.
Mercour.
'Tis false; I see
Your better Guide, your Passion for my Brother;
Yet know, 'tis in my Power, imperious Beauty,
To make his Pride, nay, even his Love, despise thee.
Keep your own Secret: 'tis my last Advice,
Or dread my Vengeance; mine; no trivial Vengeance.
[Exit.
Eugenia.
Is it in Fear or Fancy to imagine;
Is it in Mercour's Vengeance, or his Power,
Or even his Heart, to make me yet more wretched?
Enter Clerval.
Clerval.
Eugenia!
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No. 'Tis she, who was Eugenia,
The lost Eugenia.
Clerval.
Mercour!
Eugenia.
Ha!
Clerval.
My Brother
Eugenia.
Then he has told you—
Clerval.
What? That he has gain'd
My Uncle's Promise? But I'll fly this Moment;
I'll throw me at his Feet; he shall be sensible
Of my Despair; the Anguish of my Soul—
Shall he not see, and pity it?
Eugenia.
Stay, Clerval,
My Fate depends on Dorimond no longer.
Clerval.
Not on my Uncle? Not upon your Father?
Eugenia.
My Father, Clerval! Who, where is my Father?
Clerval.
Ye Powers, who love and guard the Innocent,
What can Eugenia mean?
Eugenia.
What can she mean
But Sorrow and Despair? What else has Meaning?
Am I not most undone?
Clerval.
Whence, where the Danger?
My Love, my Life shall guard you. What Misfortune?
Eugenia.
'Tis in myself; 'tis in my Destiny.
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Can you recall the Moment of my Birth?
Or, ere I saw the Light, can you prevent
The Shame that gave me Being? If thou canst not,
Let us give Way to Ruin. Let us part—
Oh! Must I say—for ever?
Clerval.
Part! For ever!
Nor give my Heart a Reason for this Dealing?
Let me complain of Fortune, of my Uncle.
Of any thing, but my Eugenia's Faith.
Let me not think, she can forget the Vows,
Which once—Or did a Lover's Hope deceive me?
She heard without Reluctance.
Eugenia.
Yes, with Joy;
The Words of Love and Truth (for Clerval spoke them)
Thro' my charm'd Ear, fell melting on my Heart.
They were my Bliss, my Hope, my every Care,
And I was worthy then of Vows like thine.
But now behold me well. Do you not see,
Upon my glowing Cheek, the blushing Marks
Of Lowliness and Shame?
Clerval.
Of Shame? Distraction!
Blushes and Shame! Are they not Marks of Vice,
Which, sure, Eugenia's Purity ne'er knew.
Oh! Where shall Virtue fix her sacred Throne,
If on that Cheek can loose Dishonour sit
To catch the wandering Eye? No—Thou art pure,
As Light first streaming from the Heights of Heaven.
But if you will not tell this fatal Secret,
Yet Mercour shall.
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And I become the Cause
Of foul Debate, and Quarrels between Brothers!
Clerval.
The virtuous Man and honest—He's my Brother,
And he alone; for Nature never meant
By her Affections to engage our Hearts
To Villainy and Baseness.
Eugenia.
Yet will Mercour,
Will his fierce Spirit brook the being question'd?
Will he not say, I gave her to her Fate,
And only not conceal'd her Story longer?
Rage may ensue, and Passions rise, regardless
Of Reason, as of Nature. Save me, Clerval,
From Images of Horror to distract me.
Clerval.
Yes, every Passion (Anger and Resentment)
Shall wait upon my Love. Take your own Time
T' unfold this fatal Tale. Yet, Oh! For Pity,
Hold not my Heart too long upon the Rack
Of Wonder and of Terror.
Eugenia.
'Tis in Pity,
That I refuse to tell the hard Decree,
Which parts our Loves for ever. Here, O Fortune,
Let me resign the Hopes and Promises,
(For they are yours) of titled Birth and Greatness;
Here, take them back, with every fond Idea,
That Youth had form'd of Pleasure and Ambition;
But let me still preserve the chaste Remembrance
That I was once thought worthy his Esteem,
And honour'd with his Love. Clerval, farewel.
'Tis but another Pang—Farewell, for ever.
[As she is going out, Delville enters at the opposite Door.
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Come, share my Joys, thou Friend of the Unfortunate,
For still some happier Days—What have I done?
Broke in upon the sacred Hour of Sorrow
With my ill-omen'd Joys?
Eugenia
returning.
If you're that Friend,
As I believe, whose Story I have heard,
Your own Misfortunes, Sir, will best instruct you
To pity those of others. Let your Friendship
Support his Sorrows in this Hour of Trial.
Clerval, farewell. Would it not pain your Heart,
Mine would confess the Pangs it feels in Parting.
[Exit.
Clerval. Delville.
Clerval.
She's gone; my Wishes' Hope; my Light of Life,
And Darkness is upon me.
Delville.
What could mean
Her Threats, at parting, of some worse Misfortune,
Of some severer Tryal of your Virtue?
Clerval.
I cannot tell. She bids me not inquire.
'Tis in her Fate she says; 'tis in herself,
And she no more depends upon her Father.
'Tis Wonder and Distraction.
Delville.
Some light Terror,
By Fancy form'd; her Sex's Fears are on her.
Clerval.
Oh! She has nothing of her Sex's Fears,
Their Truth alone, their Innocence, and Beauty.
And yet she's lost for ever—But, my Lord,
You talk'd of Happiness. I have a Soul,
That, through the Griefs of Love, can feel for Friendship.
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My Pardon is confirm'd, with every Grace,
That honours royal Mercy, and my Heart
Opens to new-born Hope each panting Vein,
And streams again with Joy.
Clerval.
Ill-fated Clerval,
Whose Sorrows rise from that same Fountain Stream,
Whence flow the Joys of others!
Delville.
Oh! Forgive me,
These Transports, wildly starting from the Soul.
They seem, I own, and yet they only seem,
Forgetful of our Friendship, of your Happiness,
The Interests of your Heart. Indulge me still
One little Hour—no—Love shall fill it largely
With every Bliss that Years have ravish'd from me.
Clerval.
I will do more, my Lord; enjoy it with you.
But have you seen her yet?
Delville.
I go this Moment.
The Friend, who only knew our Correspondence,
He shall direct me to the lovely Mourner,
Where she still sighs her Sorrows o'er my Absence,
Where Love sits weeping on the Wings of Time,
Weighs down his Flight, and lengthens out the Day.
Grant me but one Embrace to chear her Sadness,
To press the fair Affliction to my Heart,
And the next Hour, with all it can command,
Ambition, Fortune, Power, is your's and Friendship's.
[Exeunt.
| Eugenia | |