University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—An elegant Apartment in Elmore's House.
Margaret seated R., embroidering—Eugene leaning over, and whispering with her.—Elmore seated on the opposite side at a table, L., with a book in his hand, but his eyes fixed upon them—discovered.
Elm.
Yes, they are happy!—who can look and doubt it?
Happy in mutual affection—happy
In guileless hearts, in youthful innocence,
That, with a cloudless sky above its head,
Sees nothing in the future for a fear,
Nor in the past for a regret. Oh, blest
Beyond all earthly bliss! Why, when I see
Such happiness in those I love the best,
Why sinks my heart in this unnatural dulness?
That Friar—I have tracked him to Lafont's—
What should he there? Tush! this is folly—weakness!
Why should he not go there? What is't to me?
I will not think of him—and yet 'tis strange!

[Resumes his book.
Eug.
[To Margaret.]
Marvellous art—and marvellously plied!
To watch those fairy fingers rove the canvass;
They show like Flora's footsteps through the fields,
Dropping a flower at every touch. Could nature
Behold her rival here, she'd blush to find
Her craft not only stolen, but exceeded
In the new execution.

Mar.
Out, you flatterer!
I do but mock, not copy nature's cunning.
Here is the form—but where's the dewy freshness?
The hues are here—but where is the perfume?
I'll work no more. [Rising.]
It is a foolish labour—
I like not counterfeits in any shape!

Eug.
And yet how often they outlive the real!
The fine and delicately organised,
Or flowers or hearts droop first. A thousand buds,
Perfumed with sweetness, ere the summer ends,
Shall wither, fade, and fall—while these fair fictions
Shall never die.

Mar.
[Smiling.]
Because they never lived!
A barren boast. I would not wear my heart
Upon such dull conditions to secure
A life of centuries! All that is bright
Trembles in quick and sensitive vibration—
All that is beautiful moves to a change.
The varying seasons shadow in their course
The sympathising earth—suns rise and set—
Clouds skim the azure sky—the light of day
Mellows to evening—evening into night—
Night into ruddy dawn—dawn to new day.
All life is ceaseless motion. To stand still
Is but a term for death—the monument,
And not the living man.

Eug.
Shall love change, too?

Mar.
Ay, like the moon, through every varying phase,
And yet be bright and beautiful in all!
Youth's heady passion—manhood's tenderness—
Old age's silent cherishing.

Eug.
And then?

Mar.
Why then, like flowers, whose summer course is done,
Their blossoms shed, their green leaves seared and fallen,
For a short season it shall seem to die:
Yet only seem,—bursting again to life
Beneath a brighter, purer sky; and there,
Amidst an endless spring, blooming for ever!

Eug.
Ere my love change, I first must change myself,
For it and I are one.

Mar.
Wilt swear to that?

Eug.
Ay, by the prettiest oath e'er framed.

Elm.
Eugene!
The man who traced that Friar to Lafont's,
Did he perceive him quit the house again,
Or mark which way he went?

Eug.
I did not ask, sir.
Content to find him what I first believed,
When I had tracked him home I sought no further.

Elm.
True: ay, as you say, home. Of course 'twas so.
He came from thence.

Mar.
Now out upon this Friar—
He has bewitched you! Ever on our talk,
Since first you saw him, breaks this spectre Friar,
And snaps the thread of it! I am beat back
From household consultations—plans of pleasure—
Matters of grave debate—all are pushed by
For some new speculation on this Friar!
Nay, even when, as now, I listen to
The prettiest common-places love can utter,
In comes your Friar again, and scatters all
To the unpitying winds!

Elm.
Well, well: 'tis folly,
I own it is. Yet the man haunts me strangely.
Hast never seen a face you could be sworn
You'd met before—yet know not when nor how?
It might be in a dream, so vaguely floats
The memory of it: yet, if such it were,
It was a painful dream. A face that wakes
More an impression than a recollection?
Such is that Friar's face some. I felt it
When first I met him.—Next I found him busy
Tampering with the quiet of my house—
And now I trace him to the doors of one
Whom many circumstances tempt to be
My active enemy.—At least 'tis strange!

Enter a Servant, L.
Ser.
Monsieur Lafont, sir, waits below, and prays
The favour of a private interview.

Elm.
[Starting up.]
Lafont! Did I not say so!—I'll not see him.

Mar.
That message will sound rude.

Elm.
I will not see him!
Say I am occupied—that there are hours
And places for affairs of business:
To-morrow he will find me.

[Exit Servant, L.
Eug.
Sir, bethink you.

Elm.
[Impatiently.]
I say I will not have my privacy
Intruded on; and who shall chain me down
In my own house?

Mar.
[Astonished.]
Father!

Enter Lafont, L.
Laf.
Ha! my dear Elmore!
You have a foolish fellow for a servant;
He said you would not see me!

Mar.
You are bold, sir,
To come unbid.

Laf.
[Bowing.]
Beauty makes cowards bold!

Elm.
[Interposing.]
I think you said you had some business—

Laf.
Ay—private business—talked of best alone.

Elm.
Here's but my daughter and her destined husband:
From them I have no secrets.

Laf.
[Whispering.]
Are you sure?
Quite sure of that?—Why do you start?—I offer
A private hearing.

Mar.
Father, you are ill!
You tremble—you look pale!—What is the matter?

Elm.
Nothing, child—nothing—but a passing faintness.

Mar.
Eugene—run—call for help!

Elm.
No!—I am well—
Quite well.

Mar.
[To Lafont.]
Sir, you perceive your coming here
Is most inopportune. My father's strength
Is tried, at times, too much. I pray you go—

Eug.
And quickly, or you'll tempt me, sir, to use
A harsher language than befits your years.

Elm.
Peace, peace, Eugene! There's nothing—nothing wrong—
We'll speak together. Margaret, there was something
You had to do—go, do it. And, Eugene,
That letter we conferred upon this morning—
Attend to it.

Mar.
I cannot leave you thus!

Elm.
[Impatiently.]
How thus? What mean you, silly girl? All's well.
Go, go, you simpleton! You interrupt us.
The sooner now we enter on our task,
The sooner I am free, and yours again.
There—go—go—go—

Mar.
He smiles—yet I can see
He only decks his lips with a false mirth,
That shows more sadly than an open sorrow.
What can this mean?

Eug.
He grows impatient. Come, love!
But keep within his call.

[Exit, R., leading out Margaret, who continues to look back, anxiously watching her father.
Elm.
[After walking about irresolutely, flings himself into a chair.]
Well, Sir?

Laf.
My friend
Forgets his ordinary courtesy.
[Elmore points to a chair, and turns his head away.
Will you forgive me—I've a foolish habit
That, when I talk, I like to see the faces
Of those I talk with. Humour me so far!

Elm.
[After a struggle, turning and looking him in the face.]
Well, sir!

Laf.
Ay, thank you.—There has been with me
A holy Friar—I think you've seen him, too—
He has been sent here from some distant convent
To gather pious alms.—I own, myself,
I'm little given to the company
Of these good churchmen; but the talk of this one
Has moved me much—'Twas of our dear Eugene—
You don't attend to me.

Elm.
I do.

Laf.
It seems
This Friar knew his father—Count De Lorme.—
In Brittany—was it not strange?

Elm.
'Tis likely
Many in Brittany knew Count de Lorme.

Laf.
True—very true. But then this worthy Friar
Told all his history with such minuteness!
He knew Du Barré, too—and he repeated
How they both loved one lady—but her friends
Gave her De Lorme.—You really don't attend!

Elm.
I have told you, sir, I do.

Laf.
And then he added,
How, after marriage, dear De Lorme grew jealous
Of Count Du Barré's interest with his wife—
'Twas said not without cause.

Elm.
[Starting up.]
'Twas false as hell!
And she as pure as angels fresh from heaven!

Laf.
You knew her then?

Elm.
[Checking himself.]
I have heard her history:
And manly sympathy may well protect
The reputation of an injured woman—
Still more, the sacred honour of her grave.

Laf.
Hm! That's so generous, so charitable!
I love you for it so! I do, indeed.
Ay, as you say, the poor young lady died
In bearing our Eugene:—on which, Du Barré,
Distracted, let us hope, by this new grief,
Turned all his rage on the bereaved De Lorme.
They met one night upon the river's bank—
You need not stir:—well, as I said, they met;
And there Du Barré stabbed him to the heart,
And flung him in the stream to hide the murder.

Elm.
The blow was given in self-defence—repented
As soon—that is, so I have heard the story.

Laf.
How very well you seem to be informed
Of every particular!

Elm.
What then?
The tale is common on a thousand lips—
What wonder I have heard it, too? What wonder
My version differs somewhat from your own?

Laf.
Hm! Oh, no wonder. Yet Du Barré fled;
He might be innocent, though, notwithstanding—
But most thought otherwise; and the law judged him,
And sentenced him to meet a felon's death,
If ever he were found—How pale you look!
This moves you very much!

Elm.
[Gasping.]
No—no—go on.

Laf.
You know, my dearest friend, how much I love you.
For worlds I would not hurt you. Re-consider
Your late decision! Give me leave again
To plead my suit with lovely Margaret,
And lend your voice to help me! Won't you, Elmore?

Elm.
[As before.]
What's this to me, or Margaret?

Laf.
Hm! The Friar—
How very strange he should have come to me,
Who am so much your friend!—he says Du Barré
Still lives, in spite of his reported loss—
Lives here in France, under another name;
That he has much to make life precious to him—
Great wealth, and a young, lovely, helpless daughter.
He says that now this murderer—this felon—
This outlaw, with a price set on his head—
This Count du Barré—is called—Matthew Elmore!

[Elmore utters a loud cry, and falls senseless.
Enter Margaret, hastily, R.
Mar.
What cry was that?—My father!

[Rushes to him.
Elm.
[Reviving, and glancing fearfully around.]
Is he gone?
Ah! he's there still!

Mar.
[To Lafont.]
Sir, can you not perceive,
Whatever the ill tidings you have brought,
Your presence makes them worse? Beseech you, go!

Laf.
When Margaret's here?

Elm.
[In a low voice.]
Cling closer to me, child!
So—closer still!

Mar.
Father! what does this mean?

Elm.
The sight of him is poison to my eyes—
Send him away!

Mar.
I bade you, sir, be gone;
You see this is no time to talk with him.

Laf.
Then I must talk with you, sweet Margaret.

Mar.
Neither with him nor me. Have you no feeling
That you can look on such a man, so moved,
And persecute him still?

Laf.
It grieves me much;
Yet be not, sweet, so peremptory. Better
Make me your friend—you had, indeed!

Mar.
[Proudly.]
Do you threaten?

Laf.
Not willingly; I love too much to threaten.
And yet you'd better think upon your answer,
Ere you reject—

Mar.
[Impatiently.]
You drive me from my nature!
My answer! To your insolence, my loathing;
To your professions, scorn; and to your threats,
Defiance!

Laf.
And is this your answer?

Mar.
Aye.

Laf.
Hm! That's a pity; for your father's life
Depended on it.

Mar.
What? my father's life!

Laf.
It rests with me!

Mar.
My father's life with thee!
Thou bold blasphemer! Would'st thou dare assert,
The Power who guards the virtuous and just,
Would give a life like his into the hand
Of such a wretch as thou? Father! speak, father!
Fling the vile falsehood back into his teeth,
And say how much you scorn him!

Laf.
He is silent!
Perhaps he does not hear you. Let me speak:
Elmore! My valued, honest, virtuous friend!
This gentle maiden disbelieves my words—
Shall I refer her to the Count du—

Elm.
[Shrieking, and flinging himself at Lafont's feet.]
Ha!
Spare me—oh, spare me! My pure, innocent child—
She'll hate me! Spare me! look, I'm kneeling!

Mar.
[Indignantly snatching him away.]
Father!
Or this is madness, or 'tis something worse.
I dare not look on it. Doubts, spite of faith,
Battle for entrance. [Seeing Lafont.]
Ha! art thou there still?
I'm glad of it! I will speak with thee, now—
But yet, not before him—nor in this place.

Enter Eugene, R.
Eug.
What stir is this?

Mar.
I know not:
Some heavy grief has crushed my father's soul.
And paralyzed his sense. Eugene, stay with him,
But do not heed his words! His fancy wanders.
Eugene, look that thou do not wrong my father
With an unworthy thought! He is unhappy,
But nothing more! I will return again,
When I have spoke a word with yonder man.
Watch till I come. Oh, father! [Throws her arms round Elmore's neck—then tears herself away.]
Now [To Lafont.]
I'm ready!

Laf.
Can you forgive me?

Mar.
[Impatiently.]
All things but delay!

[Exit, L. followed by Lafont.
Elm.
[Feebly.]
Margaret! Where is she? Gone! Oh, not with him!
He must not speak with her. Margaret! my child!
Margaret! [Attempts to follow her, but reels into a chair.]
Oh, lost, lost!—betrayed! abandoned!

Eug.
[Kneeling by his side, and affectionately taking his hand.]
No, not abandoned, my best friend! [Elmore gazes steadfastly on him.]
My father!

[Elmore snatches his hand away, and buries his face.— Curtain falls.