 | Eugenia |  |
46
ACT IV.
Enter Orphisa. Eugenia meeting.Orphisa.
Let me congratulate my dear Eugenia.
This Spirit, nobly shewn in Virtue's Cause,
She will herself reward.
Eugenia.
Too dearly purchas'd!
The generous Dorimond—For I no more,
(O Name for ever dear, although pronounc'd
By Sorrow and Despair, must call him Father)
Nature disclaims me; throws me out for ever
From her Affections; from the tender Names
Of Parent and of Child.
Orphisa.
You mention'd Dorimond—
Eugenia.
I did. But Sorrow sway'd me from my Purpose.
Yet weeping while I told my hapless Story,
Sudden his Cheek turn'd pale; his trembling Knees—
They smote each other, and his firm Chair shook
Beneath its Weight. Frighted, I call'd for Help,
But left him in such Agonies, Orphisa—
For who could bear it—such a Scene of Sadness?
Oh! Should he bend his reverend Age to Earth
With Sorrows, not his own; with my Afflictions—
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Our Actions are our own; their Consequence
Belongs to Heaven. The secret Consciousness
Of Duty well perform'd; the public Voice
Of Praise, that honours Virtue, and rewards it,
All these are yours, they shall be yours for ever.
Eugenia.
No; I disclaim these high-born Sentiments;
Th' unbending Pride, and Insolence of Virtue,
That will not own the Miseries it feels.
I will indulge to Nature, and her Sorrows.
I never shall have Cause to weep again,
And I'll enjoy it now.
Orphisa.
Yet these soft Sorrows,
That sadly sooth the Heart in its Affliction,
Unnerve its Strength, and sink it to Despair.
Eugenia.
Why should I not despair? Have I not lost,
At once, the various Charities of Nature?
Her dearest, first Relations—Child and Father?
Do I not stand amidst the Works of Heaven,
A lonely Being, where all Creatures else,
Allied by Instinct, Duty, or Affection,
Find mutual Aid and Comfort?
Orphisa.
Yet who knows,
But you're descended from a Line as noble,
As Dorimond's high Race?
Eugenia.
Am I not rather
The Child of Poverty, whose wretched Parents
For some low Interest sold her? or perhaps,
Oh! Save me from the Thought, the hapless Offspring.
Of loose forbidden Loves? Or could my Heart
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On what might Fancy found it?
Orphisa.
On the Spirit,
That has inform'd your Heart to Nobleness;
Upon the Elevation of your Sentiments,
Your Love of Truth, the Soul's best, native Greatness.
Eugenia.
All these are your's, and by your Cares imprest
Upon my Infant Heart. Should you abandon me,
Both they and I were nothing.
Orphisa.
Nor will I,
Nor Dorimond abandon you. His Heart
Will own you still the Child of his Esteem,
With almost Nature's Fondness. Here enjoy
The Fortune, that you merit, 'midst the Splendors—
Eugenia.
That once were mine—What! Live where Mercour lives!
To see his Face, to bear the secret Woundings
Of his Contempt, and Clerval's kinder Scorn!
To stand the public Gaze; the insulting Pity
Of common Friendships, or the vain Compassion
Of the good-natur'd Few! No, let me fly
To some obscure Retreat, where Virtue dwells,
And, without Blushing, dares to be unfortunate.
Enter Dorimond.
Dorimond.
Where is my Child, my Daughter, my Eugenia?
Why did you thus forsake your Father's Sorrows?
For, if I'm not a Father, whence these Tears,
That pour my bursting Heart in Fondness o'er thee?
Eugenia.
Too surely I have lost the best of Fathers.
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'Tis Falshood and Imposture. Goddess Nature,
Whose subtle Power pervades the heavy Mass
Of Earth and Water, and with Instinct pure
Inspires the light Inhabitants of Air
With genial Care to hover o'er their young,
Say, are not these thy Passions, these thy Tears?
Do they not flow fast from thy sacred Fountain
Of universal Love?
Eugenia.
Alas! My Father,
(Since you indulge me in the tender Name)
I read the fatal Truth; the well-known Hand—
Dorimond.
What other Proof? Hands may be counterfeited.
I'll not believe it. 'Tis some black Contrivance
To blast my Wife's fair Fame, to ruin thee,
And break thy Father's Heart.
Eugenia.
Oh! spare me, Sir.
This Goodness over-powers me. Your Compassion
To a poor Maid, once honour'd as your Daughter,
Is all I ask. Should my unhappy Fate
Disturb your Peace of Mind, or hurt your Health,
Misfortune then were Guilt, were Parricide.
Dorimond.
Too sure it will. If you tear up the Heart-strings
Will not the Life-blood follow? But, my Nephew—
Why comes he not? I sent for him on th' Instant.
Perhaps he doubts, perhaps he fears his Proofs;
Perhaps repents—
Orphisa
. (Aside)
How little does he know him!
He's coming, Sir.
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Permit me to retire.
Dorimond.
I fear you cannot see him without Pain;
Yet you must stay.
Enter Mercour.
Dorimond.
Mercour, you to vindicate your Honour,
Where it is much suspected. My Esteem
Would yet persuade me some Mistake has wrong'd you.
Mercour.
Of what am I accus'd?
Dorimond.
Of horrid Forgery.
Of some pretended Letter of my Wife's,
Full of strange Mystery, and foul Contrivance.
Mercour.
And who so hardy, Sir, as to inform you
Of this pretended Letter?
Eugenia.
Sir, 'twas I.
Mercour.
What need of other Proof? Is not Ingratitude
The Vice of base-born Minds? She was not ignorant
How this Discovery would affect your Peace,
And yet th' ungrateful Maid—
Dorimond.
Mercour; no more.
I am her Guardian still, if not her Father,
Nor shall she be insulted.
Mercour.
Sir, your Pardon:
My Zeal to punish—Read this Paper, Sir;
Undoubted Proof Eugenia's not your Daughter.
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Dorimond.
My unsuspecting Heart! What Treachery!
'Midst such Caresses too! Perfidious Woman!
Why plant the dear Delusion in my Soul,
Or why now tear it thence?
Ye Powers, was I to blame?
Ye gave her Beauty, to deceive the Heart,
Ye gave her Words, to steal away the Soul,
And some strong Charm for every Sense's Weakness.
(to Mercour)
You, Sir, it seems, her favour'd Counsellor,
Why, since her Death, has this bold, guilty Fraud,
For ten long Months, why has it been conceal'd?
Mercour.
Sir, should I aim the Dagger at your Life?
'Twas in my Fear, alarm'd by my Affection,
My Gratitude and Duty, I resolv'd
To wed this fair unknown; to mix our Blood
With Vileness and Obscurity.
Dorimond.
I thank you.
For me you dar'd to violate the Faith,
Due to the sacred Dead, and her Repentance.
'Twas for my Sake you shew'd this fatal Paper,
And urg'd its Terrors, Poverty and Shame,
To force her to a loath'd, detested Marriage.
Mercour, your Heart—But can it, Sir, imagine,
(Bold as you are, and sanguine in Contrivance)
That I'll resign my Child, (turning to Eugenia)
my Age's Comfort,
My only future Hope—expose her Youth,
Her Bloom of Softness, to Despair and Sorrow,
On this weak Evidence, this trivial Paper?
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You would have other Proof?
Dorimond.
I will. Such Proofs,
As cannot lie; cannot be counterfeited.
Mercour.
Behold one living Witness. Come Orphisa,
And testify a Truth—Which yet you know not.
Aside.
Dorimond.
Orphisa!
Eugenia.
She, can she be false to Honour?
Can she conspire to ruin her Eugenia?
Orphisa.
I had almost forgot this Morning's Insult,
That would have brib'd my Honesty to Vileness.
I did not, Sir, resent, because I scorn'd;
But Patience, outrag'd thus, might lose its Nature,
And alter its Complexion.
Mercour.
Spare, good Madam,
This passion'd Phrase, this Dignity of Language.
This Paper, Sir—
Dorimond.
Directed to Eugenia!
Mercour.
Sir, you may read it.
(Aside to Eugenia)
Now, my haughty Maid,
Vengeance, at least, is mine.
Dorimond
, giving it to Orphisa.
Take it, Orphisa;
My feeble Eyes are shaded o'er with Grief.
You knew her Hand. Is there a Hope to doubt?
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Beyond all Doubt, her Character.
[Going to read it.
Dorimond.
Yet hold.
Why should we search, with a too curious Eye,
For Secrets better hid? This fatal Paper—
Why not destroy it, with its Guilt, its Terrors?
Eugenia.
No, Sir. My perfect Soul, my spotless Fame
Demand the Light, and dare provoke their Trial.
Shall it be said (Looking at Mercour)
with what malignant Joy?
That, in a secret Consciousness of Ruin,
I shun'd Discovery? To avoid Misfortune
Shall I make sure of Infamy for ever?
[Kneeling to Dorimond.
Oh! Sir, if in my Days of Happiness,
If with Delight you heard my Infant Love
Repeat the Name of Father, I implore you,
That Paper may be read, though it expose
My secret Soul, with all its inmost Frailties,
Wide open to the World.
Orphisa
(Aside.)
Exalted Maid!
Oh! truly worthy of a better Fate.
(Orphisa reads.)
It is not without Pity, that I reveal this Secret to you.
But I am approaching the Moments of Truth. Your
Mother's Distresses made it not difficult to bribe those
about her; to convey you from her at your Birth, and to
tell her you were dead. All the Recompence, then, in my
Power, was to make her your Governess, and, now, to
restore you to her.
Orphisa.
My Child!
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My Mother!
Orphisa.
Yes, I am a Mother.
Great Nature's Evidence, her holy Instincts
Are in my Heart. I feel; I own their Truth.
Mercour, my Friend, my noblest Benefactor,
Receive a Mother's Thanks.—My Child, Eugenia—
Oh! How the tender Names of Child and Parent,
Till now unheard by Nature's Voice pronounc'd,
Melt on my Ear! But what new Passions these,
That with unwonted Tenderness inspire
My swelling Breast? O Daughter of Misfortune,
They burst in Tears upon thee.
Eugenia.
Shall I again
Deplore my Fate? I am the Child of Virtue.
Dorimond.
Amazing Tale! Could it be possible
To rob you of your Child, that no Inquiries,
(For such I must suppose) could e'er discover her?
Orphisa.
Torn from me midst the Pangs, that gave her Birth,
While I lay half expiring. When restor'd,
By cruel Care, unwillingly to Life,
Inquiring for her, with a Mother's Tenderness,
They told me she was dead. Could I suspect?
Could I prevent it? Could the cruel one,
In such an Hour who robb'd me, could she feel
A Mother's Griefs, in Passion for her Child?
Mercour.
If you want farther Proof—if other Evidence—
Dorimond.
Inhuman Insult! Oh! too fatal Proof!
Hardly my trembling Limbs—a cold, dead Faintness
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Who waits there?
Enter Servants.
Gently bear me to my Couch.
Nature's best Joys—my Child—is lost for ever—
I am no more a Father—poor Eugenia—
[He is led off.
Eugenia
, running to him.
Oh! Sir—
Mercour.
Away. Not your officious Cares—
Eugenia.
Permit me, Sir, (sure 'tis no great Request)
To wait upon his Griefs; to mix my Weeping;
To soften his Affliction, or to share,
Unhappy as I am, the Woes I've caus'd.
Mercour.
And who could bear to see the soft Eugenia
Bending to every menial, servile Office,
That tends a sick Man's Couch? And yet it shews
A just and humble Sense of your Condition.
Whence I presume, your better Thoughts repent
Of this perverse Discovery.
Eugenia.
No, Sir.
What I have lost, Alliance, Titles, Fortune,
Were not by Merit mine, meer casual Blessings,
Nor by my Crimes are lost. One dreaded Evil,
Thanks to my Fate, you know I have escap'd.
Mercour.
Even insolent in Ruin! Such the Precepts,
That form'd your Infant Heart. Now let th' Example
Of your illustrious Mother teach her Daughter,
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Whose Spirit can support Contempt and Poverty.
[Exit.
Eugenia. Orphisa.
Eugenia.
For me reproach'd? For me are you insulted?
Shall my first Hour of Life, for such it is,
Open with Shame and Outrage to my Mother?
Orphisa.
O young to Life, unknowing of the Wrongs,
The cruel Mockeries, Reproach, and Insult,
That Poverty must suffer. Yet I know not,
Whether my Heart exulting in thy Virtues—
Is it some secret Instinct, that high Heaven,
Which thus restores you by this Act of Wonder,
Reserves you for its own good Purposes?
Or is it Nature's Voice, that inward whispers me,
My Child shall still be happy?
Eugenia.
I am lost,
Beyond all Hope, in all Things, but your Love.
No, let us fly from this injurious World,
From its Ill-nature, Insolence, Compassion—
Orphisa.
And from its Love, Eugenia?
Eugenia.
Yes, good Madam,
Even from its Love. A Convent's Gloom shall hide us
From every Passion that distracts the Heart,
And triumphs o'er its Virtues. There sometimes
To talk of our Misfortunes; of my Father—
Orphisa.
Spare me, Eugenia; at that much-lov'd Name
A thousand sad Remembrances arise
That I was once most happy. Such a Father!
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Bless'd with each softer Sentiment of Soul,
That humanises Virtue. Such the Husband,
My widow'd Tears lament.
Eugenia.
Is he then dead?
Orphisa.
In some sad Hour hereafter,
You shall be told with what unshaken Spirit
He sacrific'd his Fortune to his Honour.
That Honour is your Portion. 'Tis a Treasure,
Purchas'd by honest Arts, in Time of Peace,
And, midst the Spoils of War, the noblest Wreath,
That crowns a Soldier's Brow. It is a Trust,
Bequeath'd you by a noble Line of Ancestors,
Who shall again demand it, pure, unsullied,
And bright in its own Lustre. Even your Father
Is present—in his Virtues—to demand it.
Eugenia.
And he shall find it, Madam, in my Heart,
In every Vein, in every Thought shall find it.
Orphisa.
I doubt it not. But see the Proof.
Eugenia
, seeing Clerval.
Ah! Clerval!
It is, indeed, a Trial of my Heart,
But not its Weakness, Madam.
Orphisa.
Pray retire.
You must not meet.
Eugenia.
Fate, Honour, Love declares,
We ne'er must meet again.
[Exit Eugenia.
Enter Clerval.
Clerval.
Saw you my Brother, Madam?
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Not lately, Sir.
Clerval,
I search for him in vain.
Yet, I will know each Circumstance—
But, Madam, you can tell my Heart's Impatience,
How does the poor Eugenia bear her Fate?
Orphisa.
As one, who feels it, Sir, most sensibly,
Yet is not quite dejected.
Clerval.
She proposes
Retiring to a Convent?
Orphisa.
Has she, Sir,
Another Choice?
Clerval.
And you attend her there?
Orphisa.
You cannot doubt it, Sir.
Clerval.
I do not, Madam.
I know your Goodness, and you always lov'd her.
How will it comfort the unhappy Mourner,
To have your Friendship near her! Thus employ'd
You can't attend the necessary Cares
For your Retirement. Let it be my Office—
Orphisa.
Your Office, Sir!
Clerval.
You do not doubt my Zeal.
Orphisa.
This Warmth to succour the Unfortunate
Would do much Honour, Sir, to your Humanity,
But, Sir, you love Eugenia—
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Love Eugenia!
Yes, with a Passion of such holy Sort—
But I perceive her Delicacy, Madam,
Has taken the Alarm. Then hear me promise,
By every Power that guides our Hearts' Affections,
I will not see her, till with your Consent,
I offer her my Hand, my Heart, my Fortune.
Orphisa.
Marry Eugenia, Sir?
Clerval.
Yes, marry her.
The chosen of my Heart, my Sense, my Judgment.
I know the feeble Reasons that oppose me.
Her Birth, her Parents yet unknown, her Poverty;
Is she not rich in Virtue? Or look round
Among the titled Great-Ones of the World,
Do they not spring from some proud Monarch's Flatterer,
Some favourite Mistress, or ambitious Minister,
The Ruin of his Country, while their Blood
Rolls down thro' many a Fool, thro' many a Villain,
To it now proud Possessors?
Orphisa.
Dare you, Sir,
In bold Defiance of the World, profess
Such Sentiments as these? How will you blush
If poor Eugenia's Birth—
Clerval.
My Soul is fix'd.
And, in the Presence of all-seeing Heaven,
Here, Madam, in Eugenia's Name, receive
My plighted Vows, my Honour's holy Promise.
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I do. Nay more; in my own Right receive them.
Eugenia is my Daughter.
Clerval.
Daughter, Madam!
How lost, or how restor'd? What Ways of Wonder!
But wherefore do I ask? Be mine t'enjoy
The Wonder that restores her; to repeat
My Vows of Love, my Promises of Truth.
Orphisa.
I must not hear such Vows. Your Promise too,
In unadvis'd and warmer Transport given,
I render back again.
Clerval.
You cannot, Madam;
'Tis registred in Heaven. The Saints have heard it.
Oh! Madam, yet accept my Services,
Let me be honour'd with your Confidence,
And give me Time to merit your Esteem.
Orphisa.
Be this a Proof, how highly I esteem,
How truly honour you, that I can trust you
To find out a Retirement proper for us,
And to provide some prudent, faithful Friend,
(Since Decency forbids your going with us)
In whom we may confide.
Clerval.
My Diligence shall prove,
How gladly I accept th' obliging Trust.
[Going.
Orphisa.
I shall expect you, Sir.
Clerval.
On th' Instant, Madam;
Swift as the Rapture of a Lover's Hope.
[Exit.
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Now for a Moment's Thinking, to recover
My agitated Spirits. Wherefore think?
Vain is all human Thought, all human Aid.
Come then, Religion, holy, heaven-born Maid,
Thou surest Refuge in our Day of Trouble,
To thy great Guidance, to thy strong Protection,
I give my Child—Oh! hear a Mother's Prayer—
Guide thou her Heart in thy own sacred Ways,
And keep thine ever-open Eye upon her,
That she be greatly worthy to inherit
Her Father's Name and Honours. Gracious Heaven,
Behold her yet untainted Innocence,
And Oh! restore whom Thou and sacred Nature
Have made her Guide, her Guardian, and Protector,
In Youth's unguarded Paths. Oh! Save her, Heaven.
[Exit.
| Eugenia | |