University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A Court before Elmore's House.
Enter Eugene de Lorme, from the house, L. F.
Eug.
(L.)
I cannot stay within!—It drives me mad
To see them clustering round her, and to hear
Their glib tongues chattering their shallow vows;
While I, who love her with a depth of love
That might engulph them all, can speak no word,
But stifle in my fulness. They can offer—
Ay, even the meanest—rank and wealth; while I
Have less than nothing, for whate'er I have,
Is filched from stores that else were all her own.
Oh poverty, past poverty!

Enter Friar Dominic, R. U. E.
Friar.
'Tis here, then,
This merchant Elmore revels; and 'tis here
The latest scion of a line of nobles
Takes his inglorious rest. Ha! Is not yon
The boy himself?—alone, too: that is well.
But why this sunken aspect? Does he feel
The enervating bond that circles him?
Is nature true, in spite of circumstance?
Does subtle instinct rise and bid him hate
The hand from which he feeds?

Eug.
[Perceiving him.]
Your blessing, father.
Desire you aught in which you may be furthered
By one who has some influence in this house?

Friar.
[Aside.]
Some influence in this house! He boasts his thraldom!
His thoughts are sunk and abject as his state.
Peace to Eugene—the nameless!

Eug.
Stay, good friar!
To know me as Eugene, at least should argue
An equal knowledge of that other title
My ancestors bequeathed. I am not nameless,
But called Eugene de Lorme.

Friar.
Fie, fie, young braggart!
I knew De Lorme, whom thou would'st claim for father,
And knew him as a man of haughty soul,
And pride untameable: his boiling blood
Could never so cool down in one remove,
As with this sluggish pace to creep content
In a dependent's veins.

Eug.
Dependent, sir!—
You say you knew my father: knew you, too.
His early death—my orphaned infancy—
The doubtful guardianship that seized my means?

Friar.
Something of this, too, reached my distant convent.
But when its business called me here to Paris,
And I sought out the children of my friend,
I thought to find a stubborn courage striving
With an opposing fate; and ready, like
The olden giants, to tear from their bases
Even rocks and mountains—so they might pile up
A road to reach the persecuting gods.

Eug.
I pray you, mock not thus my helpless state.
Perhaps my nature owns a higher flight,
But I have had my pinions early clipt,
And have been made familiar with the perch.

Friar.
The eagle's egg breeds nothing but an eagle,
Hatch it whene'er you may. Could a De Lorme
Believe that he was wrong'd, yet calmly leave
The wrong unchallenged?

Eug.
What could I effect
Against my guardian's wealth?

Friar.
What hast thou tried?
Nothing!—Oh, thou rare puppet for these knaves
To play with!—Of endurance past belief!
But, stalled and crammed to drowsy lethargy,
How could I think a common wrong could move thee,
When even thy father's murder cannot stir
Thy sluggish phlegm: but his assassin roves
The world, unsought for!

Eug.
Not so, sir. The man
Who took my father's life—the Count du Barré—
Scarcely survived his victim.

Friar.
Who says so?

Eug.
The ship in which he fled from human justice,
Was tracked by the divine; and on her way
Foundered and sank.

Friar.
Who tells thee so, I ask?

Eug.
Common report.

Friar.
I'll bring thee new report,
Better than common! I have travelled much,
And I report to thee, Du Barré lives!

Eug.
Where?

Friar.
Not too distant for a son's revenge,
Though 'twere at the antipodes.

Eug.
Yet where?

Friar.
Tush! what imports it thee? Thou darest not seek him.

Eug.
I dare not! Who shall stay me?

Friar.
Who? Thy patron—
Thy merchant patron! That same crafty trader,
Who tames so cunningly the noble's brood.

Eug.
Thou would'st not speak of Elmore!

Friar.
Ay, of Elmore—
The subtle, specious Elmore.

Eug.
[Turning away.]
Then thou'rt mad!

Friar.
Not mad, thou doting boy! And yet I say,
The crafty Elmore—he whose subtle arts
Have wound their numbing influence around thee,
'Till every generous resolve is palsied.
His seeming bounties are but tricks—

Eug.
Hold, sir!
Though your words sorted ill with a profession
Which teaches pardon, not revenge of wrongs,
I yet endured your speech so far unchecked.
Because you called yourself my father's friend.
But now I tell thee, he whose venomed life
Slanders with but a breath the name of Elmore,
Grows, from that moment, to my enemy.

Friar.
Infatuated boy!

Eug.
Peace, peace, I say!
Some foe of mine has set you on to this,
To rob me of my last remaining prop.

Friar.
Wilt thou be blind to proof?

Eug.
I tell thee, monk,
Though that which seemed to my own sense most just,
Were backed by every other tongue on earth,
With Elmore's only to the contrary,
I would call Elmore right, and all the world,
With my own judgment, wrong!

Friar.
Then thou'rt past cure,
Of all but sharp experience; and to that
I'll leave thee. Thou wilt one day learn thine error,
And know me better. We shall meet again.

[Exit, L.
Eug.
Better! I know thee now, and well enough;
I know thee for a busy, meddling monk—
Some agent of Lafont's. 'Tis like his art!
And yet he rail'd against my guardian, too!
A cloak!—a cloak to hide the deeper purpose!
Yet part he said was truth—I am too sluggish—
Submit too grossly to the worst of wrongs,
And live content in ignominious ease,
Till e'en a stranger feels a right to taunt me
With biting comments. I will speak with Elmore,
And he shall guide me. Yes, I'll speak with Elmore.

Enter Elmore, from the house, L.
Elm.
Eugene, my child, why do I find thee thus
Shunning society, to brood alone on
Thoughts that do not make me their companion?
I deemed thy heart was mine.

Eug.
And so it is:
Alas, 'tis all I have to offer you,
That was not your's before it was my own!
Oh, Elmore, I am far too much your debtor!
The weight of obligation bows me down,
I cannot meet with independent brow
The bold eyes of the world, where every man
Is rightful heir or maker of his means,
And holds them without blushing. I alone
Live upon sufferance—on charity!

Elm.
What phantasy is this?—Who tells thee go?

Eug.
All I encounter: all look down upon me—
The harsh with scorn, the gentle with compassion;
Yet still all do look down—and some proud blood
Which I inherit—prouder than my fortunes—
Rebels against it.

Elm.
What would'st thou desire?

Eug.
To right myself, and call my plunderer
To an account.

Elm.
Tut, tut, thou silly boy!
Canst thou believe a puny arm like thine
Could shake Lafont?

Eug.
Ay, in a righteous quarrel!
There lies a hidden strength in a just cause,
That nothing can resist. The Syracusan
Boasted, had he but where to fix his levers,
He'd move the earth:—a righteous cause does more—
Fixed on the earth, it sways the heaven itself,
And bows it to its aid!

Elm.
No more—no more!
I will not hear of this! What would'st thou ask,
More than thou hast? What is there thou could'st win
From Paul Lafont, that Elmore has denied thee?
What have I left undone? I have grudged thee nothing;
Have lavished freely on thee every pleasure
The pulse of youth could pant for; have allowed thee
Means without limit: say, what is there more
I still can give, and I will give it still?

Eug.
Nothing: I ask not bounty, but my rights.
Oh, Elmore, pause ere you forbid my efforts!
Reflect how thus, to a censorious world,
You seem to cast a shield over my foes,
And draw suspicion even on yourself.

Elm.
Suspicion! what suspicion? What is this?
Who has been tampering with thee? Oh, my child!
As thou would'st prize thy young heart's dearest peace,
Guard from thy breast that moral pestilence!
Suspicion, like the fabled upas, blights
All healthy life, and makes a desert round it.
Nothing so fair, nothing so pure can live,
But by suspicion may be marred and blasted;
No path so straight, but to suspicion's eye
Looks tortuous and bent from its true end;
Away with it!—We know it not in youth,
When we come freshest from the hand of heaven.
It is an earth-engendered monster, springing
From the rank slime of our polluted years.
Oh, better be, in trust o'er-confident,
A thousand times deceived, than wrongly once
Wound with ungenerous doubt the breast of truth!

Eug.
Then why—

Elm.
[Impatiently.]
Why?—Boy, must I lay bare to thee
My merchant heart, and show its hidden weakness?
Canst thou not see, without express confession,
That peace is necessary to the trade
By which I live?—that I must not make foes,
And least of all of men like this Lafont;
Whose cunning, wealth, connexions, influence—

Eug.
Stay!
This is the first time I have ever heard
A selfish word issue from Elmore's lips;
And I would spare myself the shame to think
I forced it from him—

Elm.
Boy—unfeeling boy!
Thou dost not know my state. In the world's crowd
I stand alone—an isolated man
Amidst a land of strangers. True I have
Dependents, flatterers, needy hangers-on:
But yet, among them all, there is not one,
No, not a man of them, whose eager eye
Keeps not a jealous watch upon my steps:
There is not one whose heart would not rejoice
To see me stumble on my dizzy height,
Because I am a stranger, and have grown
To wealth beyond their own.—I have a child, too,
Whose tender helplessness I must protect—

Eug.
No more—no more, sir,—Call me satisfied:—
I blush to think I should have moved you thus.

Elm.
Dost think I ask thee to forego thy right
For my advantage?—Name the utmost sum
Thou deem'st thy guardian has withheld from thee—
Calculate freely—give thy fancy rein—
And if it lie within my farthest means—

Eug.
What do you think me, Elmore?

Elm.
Nothing worse
Than all the other world.—There was a time
I thought thee something better.—Do I pain thee?—
Nay, then, forgive me!—I am fretful—peevish—
I know I am—but there are things that vex me
Beyond my calmer self—and this is one.
Give me thy hand! So—we are friends again.
And now, as I refused thee a request—
I think for the first time—find out some other
With which I may content thee. Do not fear
To ask a large one—for I doubt if now
There rests that thing I own upon the earth
Which thou canst ask, and I deny to thee.
Come—thou hast still a wish!

Eug.
[Hesitating.]
I have.

Elm.
[Smiling.]
I knew it!
[Aside.]
His timid love shrinks even from the sound
Of its own breath! but Margaret's heart already
Has heard and answered it. [Aloud.]
Well! what's the wish—
That secret wish thou hoard'st so jealously?
Fearest thou to speak?

Eug.
My father's murderer—

Elm.
[Starting.]
What! [Passionately.]

Now by my life some has set thee on!
I know there has—Who is it who has toiled
To wreck thy peace on all these rocks of strife?
Stay!—I remember now, as I came down,
I saw a Gray Franciscan quit the court—
'Twas he!

Eug.
How! Do you know him?

Elm.
No—But once
To-day we met before—and then he stopped
And whispered one beside him—when his eye
Shot such a glance on mine, that the quick instinct
Which wakes antipathies within our blood,
Told me he was a man to shun.

Eug.
That's strange!
For he declared himself my father's friend.

Elm.
A trick to win thy confidence!

Eug.
And said,
Du Barré, the assassin of my father,
Still lived—

Elm.
Ha!—What!—Du Barré lived!—Thou'rt mad!
A thousand tongues will certify his death!
[Checking himself.]
And even if he lives, what is't to thee?
Is it for thee to snatch the hangman's office?
How canst thou tell what bitter provocation
May have impelled the deed?

Eug.
Shall provocation
Be found to justify a murder?

Elm.
Thou thyself;
Dost thou not seek a life—and what hast thou
To plead but provocation?

Eug.
Blood for blood!
A murdered father to his child bequeaths
A holy legacy in his revenge.

Elm.
Fie! fie! Shall twenty years not quench this thirst?
I thought I had reared thee better. Thou, who own'st
All blessings that affection can heap on thee,
Canst thou not rest content in their enjoyment,
Unless thou may'st hunt down a wretched outcast,
Proscribed of all the world—who, if he lives,
As they would have thee think—lives steeped in fears,
Listening in terror to each passing sound
By the light ear of innocence unheeded?—
Believest thou, oh thou thoughtless boy, that guilt,
So it escape detection, walks in peace?
Dost know—canst dream what 'tis to take a life?
To feel the curse of Cain upon thy steps—
To meet the blood-glazed eye in every object—
To hear the dying groan in every sound?
For years—years—years—to start from restless sleep,
And find the phantom standing by thy bed?
Go where thou wilt, to bear about with thee
A hidden wolf gnawing thy shrinking entrails—

Eug.
Hold—hold!—The passion of these burning words
Curdles my blood—

Elm.
Passion!—no, boy—not passion.
I am calm—quite calm.—I did but reason with thee
As of an unknown wretch, whose state might ask
More pity than abhorrence.

Eug.
Let him live!
A life like this is penalty enough.

Elm.
Ha! That's my own Eugene again! This Friar
Shall miss his aim.

Eug.
This Friar!

Elm.
Ay, this Friar!—
Dost thou not see he thought, by setting thee
On some vain, endless quest, to sever us?
But, as the traveller, when the tempest blows,
Girds his cloak tightlier round him,—so we,
Since plots against us are abroad, will knit
A closer bond!—Eugene, thou lovest my daughter—
Nay, do not start—it is no crime to love.

Eug.
I thought it so—and wrestled with my heart.
But now its secret's told, why should I hide,
That love of parents, station, fortune, friends,
Hope, life itself, is weak and feeble love,
To that I bear to Margaret.

Elm.
[Smiling.]
Poor boy!
And didst thou think a passion so absorbing
Could lie concealed? I saw it from the first,—
Saw it with joy, reflecting my own wish.

Eug.
Elmore, you would not mock me!

Elm.
Mock thee, boy!
It was a thought I nursed from the beginning—

Eug.
From the beginning!

Elm.
Ay—from the beginning
Of that more perfect knowledge of thy worth
That knew thy heart—which—not the outward station
Is the true man.—But still, for Margaret,
I left her free to choose—gave her full scope
To draw comparisons betwixt thyself
And the best youth of France—allowed free access
To every wooer—'twas a right I owed her—
But now—

Eug.
[Eagerly.]
What now? Oh do not torture me!

Elm.
[Smiling.]
Go question for thyself.—I am no tell-tale
Of maidens' secrets.—Yet thou shalt behold
I will dismiss, and with her own consent,
Every remaining suitor, to content thee!

Eug.
Oh speak not lightly, Elmore! for thy words
Open a glimpse of such an unthought heaven,
That if it vanish now, my bursting heart
Will break with the illusion.

Elm.
'Twill not vanish!—
There—grasp my hand!—'Tis substance, is it not?
Yet not more substance than thy promised joy!
But come with me—I see thou'lt not believe
Till Margaret's lips shall certify my words.
Oh now my labouring hope draws near a birth!
No longer orphaned, thou shalt find a father,
Whose love shall make thee lord of greater riches
Than e'er thine own could have bequeathed to thee.
My Margaret's self shall be the precious bond
To bind our hearts, souls, hopes, homes, all in one;
And thou shalt cease to mourn a father lost,
In rich content of such a father found!

[Exeunt into house, L. F.