University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

Avice—Vernon.
AVICE
Heavens, what a pupil! Now,
He'll not enquire but cavil, asking proofs—
Not that he wants them, but that still he hopes
His teacher has them not; at every step
There shall be fence, withdrawal, and retort,
And the first fact shall stretch a two hours' talk
And be refused throughout; till with long smiles
He turns in triumph from the humbled man
Who knows so much which he shall never learn.
I see it all.

VERNON
So you revenge yourself?

AVICE
If it be vengeance, have I not been wronged?
Say if I have not!

VERNON
Well, he spoke in anger;
We toss away an old man's petulance
Like sweet wine soured by keeping.

AVICE
But good wine
Mellows with time, as true hearts soften, losing
The bitterness of youth.

VERNON
The phrase is apt.

AVICE
To me? You mean it so. Well! if he said
A tenth of these my injuries to her
You would be bitter too.

VERNON
To her? To Hope?
I've heard him chide her worse a hundred times,
But she endured it.

AVICE
Oh, but she's an angel.

VERNON
Aye, truly.

AVICE
Truly aye; and I suppose
It is an angel's work to make men fools
Lest keen experiments on angelhood
Should find out—

VERNON
What?

AVICE
O, nothing but the truth,
Whereof the angels keep monopoly
Because it is not food for men. I've done;
I did but ruffle for a moment. Now
I'm smooth again and all my friends are safe.

VERNON
I'll own you were provoked. And now, being safe,
I'll ask you boldly, was there any cause
For these aggrieved suspicions?

AVICE
Not so much
As, not being sifted, would lie easily
On a white threepence—or would match, being weighed,
A ring of infant's hair! I cannot tell
Why Raymond so mistook us—'twas a chance—
But with the ceasing of that transient chance
His transient admiration, born of it,
Died and was buried; he but thought me fair
Because he thought me Hope.

VERNON
Yet I supposed
That you were doubtful of his love for Hope;
Did you not bid me test him?

AVICE
Have you done so?

VERNON
Occasion served not; till this hour you know
We have not met.

AVICE
Ah, truly—I forgot—
But, for your question—if he love not her,
(Which I still doubt why therefore should his love
Light upon me—which I am sure it does not.
Brush off that dust before we break the shell
Of any argument!

VERNON
That set aside,
His love, that should be hers—

AVICE
‘Should be’ 's a fetter,
And ‘Is’ a fire! I know he means to love her,
Was bound, and ought, and may—pray Heaven he will;
But if he does not, Vernon, if he does not,
O, you that know what Love is, having cast
Its glory as a carpet for her feet
Whereon they tread unknowing, save her now
From that worst doom, the recognised despair,
The daily prison, of a cold embrace
Which crushes like the slow un-venomed snake
Without a wound, and being loosed, leaves Death.

VERNON
Aye such a doom, I know, were death to her,
But, being what she is, I scarce believe
That it could reach her. From the winds of earth
'Tis well to screen a taper, but the stars
Shine over all unshaken.

AVICE
So you talk,
Man-like, but ignorant of men; a woman
Reads you, in spite of critics. He shall count her
Safe as a star, too difficult for love,
While some poor taper, which his hand must shade
Lest a breath quench it, occupies his thought
And wins him from the skies. It may be so;
I say not that it is; with riper time
We shall discern.

VERNON
And so far am I fixed
To work for you.

AVICE
For her.

VERNON
I think you love her.

AVICE
So well that I would serve her even with pain
To save her from worse issues.

VERNON
Now I leave you,
And at my nearest leisure will assay
The temper of this steel.

AVICE
Mine all the joy
If you should prove it flawless.

VERNON
Mine the pain
Whichever way I find it, for her grief
Racks me, yet leaves my life a quivering thread
To grow from—but, of her sure happiness
I die outright. So pass I to my fate.

[Exit Vernon.
AVICE,
alone. (She comes forward.)
Is it my fault that I am fair? Alas
Hath Beauty any virtue, like the Spring,
Which needs but show herself a little while
And the moved greatness of reluctant Earth
Gives out its slow flower-worship everywhere?
Is this my meed? Nay rather, seem I not
But one of that poor multitude of flowers
Which some shall pass, some point at, some extol,
As straighter than its fellows, till it fades
(Not saved by any straightness) on the stem
Or in the hand, what matter? for it fades
And no man misses it. There's not a word
But Hope, and Hope, and all the world for Hope
Lost for her like a kerchief, given by her
Like a gem from her fingers. Madness all,
For I, who love her, cannot tell the cause;
Not in her face, I know, and, for her mind—
Did ever mind bewitch a heart? A touch,
A whisper, would confute these blunderers,
Breathed in the ear, ‘Look this way and discern
How, merely by not looking, you have failed
To find the fairest.’