University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

The interior of the cottage of Norman Maurice. A table spread as if supper were just concluded. Maurice and Clarice discovered seated. Maurice balances a spoon upon the cup. Clarice watches him.
Clarice.
You muse, my husband.

Maurice,
[pushing away the cup.]
'Tis with happiness!
Know you, Clarice, that fifteen months have pass'd
Since we were married?

Clarice.
Is it possible!
I had not thought it!

Maurice.
Time is wing'd with pleasure,
When that the heart, reposing where it loves,
Finds strength for fresher love in faith secure!
The world would seem to smile on me at last!
'Till we were wedded, such had been my fortune,
I question'd still the sunshine when it came;
And, in its sudden and capricious beauty,
Still dreaded something sinister and hostile.
But now I feel secure! With you beside me,
A fair, free world before me, and employment,
Grateful at once to intellect and feeling,
Affording thought due exercise for triumph,
Methinks, I have from fate a guaranty,
That she foregoes at last her ancient grudges;
And, it may be, despising our ambition,
Thus easily satisfied with love and quiet,
Turns her sharp arrows on some nobler victim,
Whose young audacity offends her pride!
Sure, Clarice, this is happiness.

Clarice.
It is more!
Such happiness as well might task the fancy,
To wing with words of sweetest poesy.

Maurice.
Then sing for me. I'm in the mood for music;
My heart is glad; my thoughts would wander freely;
Commercing with the indistinct, but sweet.

Clarice.
Nay, Norman, nay: I'm selfish in my gladness;
You sing not; but a something more than music
Swells in the verse that gathers on your lips;—
And this reminds me of the little ballad
You promised me,—once half recited me,
And fain would have me think your heart conceived it
When first it grew to mine!

Maurice.
And I said truly!
Thoughts passing fair had floated through my fancy—
Thoughts born of warmest tastes and pure affections,
Which yet had found no name! I had strange visions
Of grace and feminine beauty, such as never
The world had shown me living. Then I met thee,
And, on the instant, did they take thy image;—
And thus I first knew how, and whom, to love!
These fancies did I body forth in verses,
As one records a vision of the midnight,
That fills his soul with marvels; and the hour,
That brought me first acquainted with thy beauties,
Taught me what name to write above my record,
Which, until then, had none.

Clarice.
Norman—was it mine?

Maurice.
Thine, only, my beloved one!

Clarice.
Now, the verses,
In thy best manner, Norman.

Maurice.
What! repeat them?—
Wouldst ruin me, Clarice, in public favor;
Sap my distinction, lose me my profession,
Draw down the vulgar laughter on my head,
And make grave senators and learned statesmen
Shake reverend brows in sorrow at my folly?

Clarice.
Nay, you mock me now?

Maurice.
Wouldst have a lawyer,—
Subtle, and stern, and disputatious, still,—
Full of retorts and strange philosophies;
Whose dreams by night are of the close encounter
With rival wits and wary adversaries,—
Whose thoughts by day are still upon indictments,
Flaws, fees, exceptions, old authorities,
And worldly arguments, and stubborn juries,—
And all the thousand small details that gather,
Like strings about the giant Gulliver,
Dragging and fettering down to lowly earth
The upsoaring mind that else might scale the heavens!—
Wouldst have him in the vagrancy of fancy,
Possess his soul with spells of poesy;
Having no fear that, lurking at his threshold,
His neighbor Jones or Jenkins, Smith or Thompson,
Some round and fat, but most suspicious client,
Bringing great fees,—his heart upon his action,—
Seeking the sourest aspect in his lawyer,—
Stands, rooted, with strange horror, as he listens
To most ridiculous rhymes, and talk of flowers,
Moonbeams, and zephyrs—all that staple sweetness,
That makes the fancies of young thoughtless bosoms;—
When most he hoped to hear of Chose in action,
Trespass, assumpsit, action on the case,
And other phrases, silly as the rhymester's,—
But that they sound in money, not in music!
No! No!—no poesy! 'Twere loss of client!

Clarice.
Nay, Norman, but you jest now! Speak the verses,
If need be, in low accents.

Maurice.
Lest Jones or Jenkins
Should turn about, possess'd with holy horror,
And seek some other lawyer! You shall have them!
They are yours, Clarice, for, truly, they embody
What still meseem'd the virtues of your nature;—
Tastes, sweet and delicate as evening glories
That tend upon the passage of the day,
And, twinn'd with gleam and shadows, through the twilight,
Betoken, as it were, the unknown beauties,
That make a happier future in the far.

Clarice.
You describe the verses!

Maurice.
It needs I should!
They take a mystic tone and character,
And ask the key-note. You will hardly like them:
Thoughtful, not lyrical, nor passionate,
They need that you should pause upon each accent,
Or they will lose their due significance!
But, next to the grave folly of such doing,
Is the grave preface that still pleads for it.
You lead me erring, Clarice, to these trifles—
You, and the exulting feeling at my heart,
That deems this happiness sure!—Ha! That knock!
[Knock at the door—he starts.
Methinks it hath a meaning! A sharp instinct
Tells me that evil at our threshold lurks.

[Whispers.
Clarice.
Evil, my husband! Let me open it!

[Goes toward the door.
Maurice,
[interposing.]
You, Clarice! You mistake me.—There's an instinct,
That, though it speaks of evil, hath no fear!—
Who's there? [Aloud.]


Voice without.
A friend!

Maurice,
[throwing open the door.]
Enter, friend!

Enter Robert Warren as before, with valise in his hand.
Warren.
Pardon me this intrusion, but I'm wearied,—
I've travell'd far,—the last seven miles afoot,
Having lost my horse by the way.

Maurice.
You're welcome, sir,
To our poor fare, and shelter of our dwelling
'Till you recover. Clarice, see to it.

[Maurice points her to the supper table. She turns and leaves the room,—Warren follows her with his eye, while that of Maurice observes him.
Warren.
I thank you, sir.

Maurice.
Meanwhile, sit down and rest.
Give me your burden. 'Twill require some minutes
To get your supper, make your chamber ready;
'Till then, forget your travel.

Warren.
You are kind!
How far, sir, are we from St. Louis, here?

Maurice.
Four miles only.

Warren.
You, perhaps, can tell me
Something of persons living in St. Louis;
I'm a collector from an Eastern city,
And have a claim upon one Harry Matthews.

Maurice.
[His brow slightly contracts.]
Harry Matthews!

Warren.
Or Henry Matthews: is he good, sir?

Maurice,
[coldly.]
It may be, sir; I know not!

Warren.
You know the man?

Maurice.
I have seen him often, sir, but know him [illeg.]

Warren.
The house I represent has had suspicions;—
A Philadelphia house.

Maurice.
Of Philadelphia!

Warren.
A famous city, sir; but you have seen it?

Maurice.
I know it well, sir.

[Catches the eye of Warren, which suddenly drops at the encounter.
Warren.
Ah! you've travell'd thither?

Maurice.
Have lived there, sir; and, now I think of it,
It may be you can answer me of persons,
Whom once I knew there;—there was Mrs. Jervas—

Warren.
A widow, sir, who lived in Walnut-street?

Maurice.
The same!—

Warren.
I've heard of her. She lost her fortune lately
By failure of the bank.

Maurice.
Indeed!

Warren.
And has left the city,
'Twas said, to seek her kindred in the West.

Maurice.
[To Clarice, who reënters.]
Hear you that, Clarice?

Clarice.
Is it possible?
It cannot be she means—

Maurice.
Perhaps. 'Tis like.

Warren.
She has a niece and nephew in the West—
'Twas so reported—who have sent for her,
They being very wealthy, she in want.

Maurice,
[with a smile.]
Indeed!

Clarice.
She has no nephew living, sir.

Warren.
[smiles.]
Ah! you know her, then?

Maurice.
She is this lady's aunt, sir;
And, it may be, this excellent Mrs. Jervas
Comes hither to her niece, who is my wife, sir.
I suppose, that, as the husband of the one,
I may be held a nephew to the other;
And loving, too, makes kindred. Well, Clarice,
You'll make the good lady welcome if she comes,
Which, now, I scarcely question.—Tell me, sir,
Of other persons in that goodly city;—
There was a mute, I knew, one Nicholas Foster,
Whom much I fancied—

Warren.
A rare machinist,
Though few conceived his talent.

Maurice,
[aside.]
Yet, you knew it!

Warren.
He's well as ever.

Maurice.
Sully, the master-painter,
A pure, good man, whose exquisite art endows
The beauty with a charm beyond her own,
Caught from his delicate fancy.

Warren.
He's still famous.

Maurice.
I would you could say fortunate as famous,
As still his art deserves.—I know not why,
But these inquiries sadden me, and yet—
There was one Richard Osborne—

Warren.
An attorney—

Maurice.
A most obscure one, though of certain merits,
Who might have been distinguish'd, having powers
To raise him into something high and worthy,
But for his evil genius—

Warren,
[quickly.]
Ah! sir! He?—

Maurice.
Were you a student—an anatomist
Of character—instead of a collector;—
But—

Warren.
Yet would I hear, sir.

Maurice.
He, sir, I mean,
Were one whom it were well to analyze,
Did one design a new philosophy,
And sought in strange anomalies to embrace
The opposite things in nature. Fancy a creature,
Having the external attributes of man,—
The capacious brow—the clear, transparent eye—
The form erect—the voice most musical—
Quick talent, ready art, and specious language,
And something winning in his natural manner,
Beguiling still the unwary to belief—
Yet, as if made in mock of heaven's own purpose,
Having, in place of heart, a nest of vipers;
Whose secret venom, mastering all his powers,
Taints ever his performance—makes his doings,
When most they favor virtue, tend to vice—
Corrupts the word he utters, makes him false,
When most the truth should be his policy,—
And keeps him ever lothely in pursuit
Of purposes most loathsome. Know you, sir,
One Robert Warren?

[Laying his hand on Warren's shoulder, and eyeing him closely.
Warren,
[shrinking and stammering.]
Me, sir—Warren? No!

Maurice,
[flinging him away and rising.]
Liar and reptile, as thou still hast been,
'Twere thousand times more hopeful to endow
The serpent with the nature of the dove,
To graft the fruit of Eden on the tree,
That, with its bitter, blights the Dead Sea shore—
Appease the tiger's thirst—the leopard's spots
Pluck from his side, and bind him with a straw—
Than change the designing devil at thy heart!

Warren.
What mean you, sir?

Clarice,
[seizing his arm.]
Oh! Norman, wherefore this?

Maurice.
What! See you not? Hath sense of happiness
So totally obscured the sense of wrong,
That memory lacks each faculty, and nature,
Losing the subtle instinct which still counsels
The innocent of his peril, stoops to wanton
With the fang'd viper in his villainous coil.
The dream! the dream! my Clarice. Get thee hence!
Leave me to deal with him. Away!

Clarice.
What's he?

Maurice.
What! do his looks not answer as the reptile's,
That speak his subtle snare and silent venom!
Doth not his coward crouching show his nature,
As now I stretch the arm of vengeance o'er him?
Must I confer a name upon the victim,
Even in the moment when I strike the blow,
Lest, in their ignorant blindness, men should fancy
This were a kinsman whom in wrath I slew!

Warren.
Beware!—this violence!

[Snatches a knife from the table.
Maurice.
Is justice only—

Clarice,
[interposing.]
Norman! Husband!

Maurice.
What! See'st not still!

Clarice.
I see! I know!—and yet—

Maurice.
And yet, and yet, and yet! is the child's wisdom!
Shall we not be secure—never find refuge!
Shall hate pursue, and vengeance turn not on him!
Must we be driven from each world of peace,
To burrow with the hill fox and the wolf,
When but a stroke is needful—

Clarice.
Oh! thou must not:
He shares our hospitality—our shelter!

Maurice,
[hurling the table over.]
He hath not touch'd the bread and sacred salt,
He shall not claim the Arab's privilege,—
He dies!—

Clarice.
For my sake, Norman, spare him!
Let him go hence; the past is over now.

Warren.
She counsels wisely, Norman. Lift no hand
Against me, for I come to you in peace.

Maurice.
In peace! In peace! And wherefore this disguise?
Thy fraudulent tale of travel—this false semblance,
False hair, false speech—unless with heart and purpose
False as of old! Didst think, that I, who knew thee,
By such damn'd treachery as thou still hast shown me,
Could be deceived by wretched arts like these?—
My blindness and my confidence so perfect,
That I should sleep and dream, while at my pillow
Thou crep'st at midnight, from the hearth that warm'd thee,
To fasten on my heart! Thou com'st, an outlaw!—
What hinders that I slay thee?—that I take thee,
Thus, by the throat, and, stifling fear and feeling,
Slaughter thee, as a bullock at the altar,
Thy blood would still profane!

Clarice,
[interposing.]
Norman! Norman!
Oh! must thy Clarice plead to thee in vain?
Spare him, if but in gratitude to heaven,
For that we prosper in his hate's despite.

Maurice.
'Tis for that very reason I should slay him!
He comes to blight our brief prosperity,
To compass all our sunshine with his cloud,
And taint our flowers with poison.

Warren.
Yet, beware!
She counsels thee with wisdom, Norman Maurice;
I am not friendless here. Did aught befall me,
Here, in thy dwelling, to my mortal hurt,
'Tis known that I came hither—'tis known farther,
That I have that to speak against thy fame,
Shall blacken it forever.

Maurice.
Ha, say'st thou that!
Well thou wouldst something more!

Warren.
Only a word—
And lest thy prudence should not check thy passion,
My providence— [showing pistol.]


Maurice.
What! thou hast weapons then!
Now, by my hopes—if it were possible,
To find thee but one moment flush with manhood!—
Look on me, villain, as I now confront thee,
But, lift thine eye to mine, and let thy aim
Be deadly as thy malice! Wretched coward—
Thus do I mock thy impotence.

[Rushes upon him and wrests the weapon from his hand.
Warren.
Spare me, Norman!

Clarice.
Husband, let him live!

Maurice.
Outlaw! that masks him with deliberate purpose—

[Takes Warren by the throat.
Warren.
Mercy, Norman!

Maurice.
That seeks by night my dwelling with a lie!—

Clarice.
Husband—dear husband!

Maurice.
That lifts his deadly weapon 'gainst my bosom—

Warren.
Thou stranglest me!

Clarice.
Have pity, Norman!

Maurice.
For thy sake, I spare him!—

Warren.
Thanks—oh, thanks!

Maurice.
Yet feel how better 'twere to crush him now,
Than suffer him—

Warren.
I swear!

Maurice.
Oh!—if thou durst
Take name of God in vain to do hell service,—
I'll slay thee with a certainty of vengeance
That leaves no limb unhurt. For well I know
Thy heart is never then less free from malice,
Than when thy lips declare thy innocence.
Hence, ere I change my purpose. I will spare thee,
And fling thee from my threshold, but to show thee
How much I still forbear.

[Hurls him out headlong.
Clarice.
Oh, how I thank thee!

Maurice.
If evil follows on this mercy, Clarice,
Thine is the fault.

Clarice.
Oh, Norman, this man's hate—

Maurice.
While we can tear the falsehood from his brow
Is nothing, but—

Clarice.
Why should he follow us?

Maurice.
Oh! for some hellish purpose. But go in;
Leave me awhile.

Clarice.
Wilt thou not close the door?

Maurice.
Let it stay wide all night.

Clarice.
You go not forth?

Maurice.
One sleeps not when the wolf is in his close,
Lest that his howl should scare his infant's sleep—
And when I doubt if ill is at my threshold,
'Twere base to sleep upon the pillow of doubt.
But, go you in, dear wife!—you must not hear
The voice in anger you have heard in love.
Leave me awhile. This thing still troubles me,
But should not trouble you. Go to your prayers,
And leave the watches of the night to me.
God still presides o'er all. I see not yet,
The evil that this evil spirit brings,
But trust that we shall lack no help of angel,
Whene'er the struggle comes.

Clarice.
Norman.

Maurice.
Dear wife!

Clarice.
Forget not that my life is in thy hands.
Oh, do not rashly purpose.

Maurice.
Never fear!

[Embrace. Ex. Clarice within.
Maurice.
What can he mean! That paper is destroy'd;—
Why should I fear his malice? Yet, so truly,
I know his equal baseness and design,
I feel that he hath purposes of mischief,
Which, if he lack'd the agencies of evil,
He ne'er had underta'en. No sleep for me,
When that the dark suspicions in my soul,
Engender still the foe. I must go forth!—
[Looks out.
Oh! God, how beautiful the calm o'er earth,—
How soft the night, that, with a veil of brightness
Wraps all the subject creatures—peace and sleep,
Sharing the dreamy blessing, as if evil,
Sped not malignant spirits through the air,
And never flower of earth had cover'd reptile!

[Goes forth.