University of Virginia Library

Scene I.—A Room in Grey's House, with a large Window opening to the Garden.

Grey—Vernon.
GREY
I tell you, he forgets her, which is worse
Than scorning. Not a nerve replies to her;
She passes, and he stirs not; she departs—
He, when his meditation is complete,
Wonders a little why she went away
For her mute neighbourhood disturbed him not;
She questions him, and then he answers her
Right gently, as becomes a gentleman,
And tells her anything she wants to know,
And is content with anything she says.
Pshaw, man, I know what Love is! If he loved her,
He would be full of challenges and claims,
Unreasoning angers, desperate submissions,
Incessant sense of her through all the moods,
Like one voice speaking twenty languages,
Her presence tumult, her withdrawal pain,
Herself his breath of life.

VERNON
Is there, perchance,
Some difference of nature? Love is not
The same for all—one temper feeds on sleep,
And one on torture. He is sure of her
As she of him.

GREY
Ah! there's her placid fault!
If we could prick her with a fear, perchance
She might rise up and conquer him.

VERNON
O, sir,
You do not read her perfectly. Her love,
Like that diviner habit which priests teach,
Stands upon faith, and if the basement shakes
The temple falls, and all that dwells therein,
The sweet life, which is nothing else but love,
Is crushed—she dies of doubt!

GREY
How young you are!
You turn her to an Idyl. Such a theme
Must needs be read through pre-historic mists
To make it credible. To-day, Elaine,
After her little scrape with Lancelot,
Would give up croquet for a month or two
And then be Mrs. Galahad.

VERNON
I think
There might be mockers too at Camelot,
Who from the white appeal of that dead face
Turned volubly, and talked about the lungs.
We too shall find our poet—far enough
To see the vast proportions of the Time
And let the scratches on the surface pass.
We too shall find our poet; when he comes
He will forget the scoffers. Pardon me.

GREY
He must be more than poet to forget
The scoffs that rob him of his wreath.

VERNON
But say
You have read Raymond's heart aright (though hers
Is undecyphered), would you break the bond
For this?

GREY
Nay rather, seal and strengthen it;
I'd marry them to-morrow if I could!
These moderations suit from man to wife,
But, being thus forestalled, and in the time
When greater heat is natural, I fear
Some check we cannot master. Make them one,
(I would they were!) and he shall be content,
And new experience, not like other men's,
May teach him that his dreams were less than truth.

VERNON
There's danger in such haste.

GREY
But in delay
There is destruction. I have thought of all—
We'll have our wedding in a week. What now?
I think they have been plighted long enough,
He knows her from a child; there's not a thread
Of tangling etiquette to hold them back;
And, Vernon, think what she has been to him!
Through all his helpless unrewarding years
The patience of her heart surrounded him
As with an angel's presence—will you say
She has not earned him? As he is my son,
It angers me!

VERNON
But if he love her not,
If there be not a seed of love, you doom her
To a most barren future. You have seen
That he is frank with me. Say, shall I sound him
And tell you what he feels!

GREY
I charge you, no.
Unsounded depths may smother hosts of proof
Till some rash hand reveals their vacancy;
Your question, aptly framed, compels reply,
And the loose thought, being gathered into words,
Grows to a certain fact. Let him alone.
'Tis a maid's privilege to fix the day
Whereon she gives her fretful freedom up.
I'll make her speak—and for mere courtesy
He must respond; and so you see we snare him
For his own good.

VERNON
May you be right!

GREY
Amen!
Though your voice tolls it like an epitaph.
Look where our lovers come.

[Raymond and Hope are seen through the window.
VERNON
As slow of foot
As if they feared their goal.

GREY
For shame! For shame!
They linger in the sweetness of their way
As lovers should. See, she holds up a flower;
Now, this looks well! He takes it. I'm afraid
He is but telling her the Latin name!
Who wants intelligence in making love?
They don't know how to do it! 'Tis enough
To sting the patientest of human souls
Into mere frenzy!

VERNON
Even a married man
Might take a violet from his wife's white hand,
Without botanic prelude!

GREY
You are set
To choose the worst interpreting.

VERNON
Not so;
I do but follow yours.

GREY
Well, I have done.
I'll not disturb the lesson.

[Exit Grey.
VERNON
I must take
My news to Avice. I perceive she's right,
And we must break this knot by any means
So that 'tis broken. I that stand between
Two confidences, screening each from each,
Should see my way the clearest.

[Exit Vernon. (Scene changes to the Garden.)