University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An Inn, the Flower-de-Luce.
Mosby and Michael.
Mich.
Tho' I with oaths appeal'd to conscious heav'n,
That Arden rose and shut the doors himself,
Yet, but for Green, these bloody rogues had kill'd me.
We must desist—Franklin and sweet Maria
Have promis'd, at Alica's own request,
To interfere—

Mos.
Such ever be the employ
Of him I hate.

Mich.
—The mourning fair, all chang'd,
By me conjures you, (and with tears she spake it,)
Not to involve yourself and her in ruin,
By seeking to renew a correspondence,
She has renounced for ever.

Mos.
How! confusion!

Mich.
And hopes, as heaven, in answer to her prayers,
Hath reconcil'd her duty and affection;
You will approve her resolution—

Mos.
Doubtless!

Mich.
And learn by her example, to subdue
Your guilty passion—

Mos.
Ha, ha, ha, exquisite woman!
So! rather than not change, she'll love her husband!
But she will not persevere.

Mich.
Yes, shure, she will.

Mos.
Have I then slighted her whole sighing sex,
Bid opportunity and fortune wait;
And all to be forsaken for an husband!
By heaven, I am glad he has so oft escap'd.
That I may have him murder'd in her sight.

Enter Green.
Green.
How strange a providence attends this man!
'Tis vain to strive with heaven—Let's give it o'er.

Mos.
No: when I do, may I be curst for ever,
Hopeless to love, and hate without revenge:
May I ne'er know an end of disappointment,
But prest with hard necessity, like thee,
Live the contempt of my insulting foe.

Green.
I scorn the abject thought—Had he a life
Hung on each hair, he dies—If we succeed,
[To Michael.
This very night Maria shall be thine.

Mich.
I am a man again.

Mos.
I've thought a way—
That may be easy under friendship's mask,
Which to a foe suspected may be hard.

Green.
Friendship! impossible—

Mos.
You know him not.
You, with your ruffians, in the street shall seek him.
I follow at some distance. They begin
(No matter how) a quarrel, and at once
Assault him with their swords.—Straight I appear,
Forget all wrongs, and draw in his defence;
Mark me, be sure, with some slight wound; then fly,
And leave the rest to me.

Mich.
—I know his temper.
This seeming benefit will cancel all
His former doubts, and gain his easy heart.

Green.
Perhaps so—yet—

Mos.
Further debates are needless.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A room in Arden's house.
Franklin and Maria.
Frank.
Well in what temper did you find Alicia?

Mar.
Never was anguish, never grief like hers:
She eats, nor sleeps. Her lovely, downcast eyes,
That us'd to gladden each beholder's heart,
Now wash the flinty bosom of the earth.
Her troubled breast heaves with incessant sighs,
Which drink the purple streams of life, and blast
Her bloom, as storms the blossoms of the spring.
But sure her prayers must quickly reach high heaven,
Relenting Arden, kindly sooth her sorrows,
And her lost peace restore.

Frank.
Their mutual peace, Maria!
For his can ne'er be found but in Alicia.
Asham'd to view the face of man or day,
As Mosby's name was written on his brow,
He cheerless wanders; seeks the darkest gloom
To hide his drooping head, and grieve alone.
With a full heart, swoln eyes, and faltring tongue,
He sometimes, seeking to beguile his grief,
Begins a mournful tale: But straight a thought
Of his imagin'd wrongs crossing his memory,
Ends his sad story ere the half be told.
O may our pains with wish'd success be crown'd.

Enter Arden.
Ard.
No, Franklin, no; your friendly cares are vain:
Were I but certain she had wrong'd my bed,
I then might hate her, and shake off my woes;
But thus perplex'd, can never taste of comfort.

Frank.
O jealousy! thou bane of social joys!
Oh! she's a monster, made of contradictions!
Let truth in all her native charms appear,
And with the voice of harmony itself
Plead the just cause of innocence traduc'd;
Deaf as the adder, blind as upstart greatness,
She sees nor hears. And yet let slander whisper,
Or evil-ey'd suspicion look oblique,
Rumour has fewer tongues than she has ears;
And Argus's hundred eyes are dim and slow,
To piercing jealousy's.—

Ard.
No more, no more—
I know its plagues, but where's the remedy?

Mar.
In your Alicia.

Frank.
She shall heal these wounds.

Ard.
She's my disease, and can she be my cure?
My friends shou'd rather teach me to abhor her,
To tear her image from my bleeding heart.

Mar.
We leave that hateful office to the fiends.

Frank.
If you e'er lov'd, you'll not refuse to see her:
You promis'd that.

Ard.
Did I?

Frank.
Indeed you did.

Ard.
Well then, some other time.

Frank.
No, see her now.

Ard.
Franklin, I know my heart, and dare not see her.
I have an husband's honour to maintain,
I fear the lover's weakness may betray.
Let me not do what honour must condemn,
And friendship blush to hear.

Frank.
That Arden never will.

Mar.
Did you but know her grief—

Ard.
Am I the cause?
Have I, just heaven, have I e'er injur'd her!
Yet I'm the coward.—O prepost'rous fear!
See where she comes—Arm'd with my num'rous wrongs,
I'll meet with honourable confidence
Th'offending wife, and look the honest husband.

Frank.
Maria, we'll withdraw—even friendship here
Wou'd seem impertinence.—

[Exeunt Franklin and Maria.
Ard.
Be still my heart.

[Alicia enters, not seeing Arden.
Alic.
How shall I bear my Arden's just reproaches!
Or can a reconcilement long continue,
That's founded on deceit! Can I avow
My secret guilt!—No—At so mean a thought
Abandon'd infamy herself would blush.
Nay, cou'd I live with public loss of honour,
Arden would die to see Alicia scorn'd.
He's here, earth open—hide me from his sight.

Ard.
Guilt chains her tongue. Lo! silent self-condemn'd,
With tearful eyes and trembling limbs she stands.

Alic.
Fain would I kiss his footsteps—but that look,
Where Indignation seems to strive with grief,
Forbids me to approach him.

Ard.
Who wou'd think
That anguish were not real?

Alic.
I'm rooted here.

Ard.
Those tears, methinks, ev'n if her guilt were certain,
Might wash away her pains.

Alic.
Support me, heaven!

Ard.
Curse on the abject thought. I shall relapse
To simple dotage. She steals on my heart,
She conquers with her eyes. If I but hear her voice,
Nor earth nor heaven, can save me from her snares.
O! let me fly—if I have yet the pow'r.

Alic.
O Arden! do not, do not leave me thus.

[Kneels, and holds him.
Ard.
I pray thee loose thy hold.

Alic.
O never, never.

Ard.
Why should I stay to tell thee of my wrongs,
To aggravate thy guilt, and wound thy soul?
Thyself, if all these agonizing struggles
Of tears, of sighs, of groans, of speechless sorrow
Be but sincere—thyself will do it better.
One thing I'll tell thee (for perhaps 'twill please thee)
Thou'st broke my heart, Alicia.

Alic.
—Oh!

[She falls to the ground.
Ard.
And canst thou,
Can woman pity whom she hath undone?
Why dost thou grasp my knees? what woud'st thou say,
If thou cou'dst find thy speech?

Alic.
O! mercy, mercy!

Ard.
Thou hast had none on me, let go my hand:
Why dost thou press it to thy throbbing heart,
That beats—but not for me?

Alic.
Then may it ne'er beat more.

Ard.
At least, I'm sure it did not always so.

Alic.
For that my soul is pierc'd with deep remorse,
For that I bow me to the dust before thee,
And die to be forgiven. O Arden! Arden!

Ard.
Presumptuous fool! what business hast thou here?
Did I not know my weakness, and her pow'r!
Rise—rise—Alicia.

Alic.
No: here let me lie
On the bare bosom of this conscious earth,
'Till Arden speak the words of peace and comfort,
Or my heart break before him.

Ard.
O Alicia,
Thou inconsistent spring of grief and joy,
Whence bitter streams, and sweet alternate flow,
Come to my arms, and in this too fond bosom
Disburden all the fulness of thy soul.

Alic.
Let me approach with awe that sacred temple,
Resume my seat, and dwell for ever there.

Ard.
There ever reign, as on thy native throne,
Thou lovely wanderer.

Alic.
Am I at last,
In error's fatal mazes long bewilder'd,
Permitted here to find my peace and safety!

Ard.
Dry up thy tears; and tell me, truly tell me:
Has my long-suffering love at length prevail'd,
And art thou mine indeed?

Alic.
Heaven is my witness,
I love thee, Arden; and esteem thy love
Above all earthly good. Thy kind forgiveness
Speaks to my soul that peaceful calm confirm'd,
Which reason and reflexion had begun.

Ard.
Thou'rt cheaply purchas'd with unnumber'd sighs,
With many a bitter tear, and years of patience,
Thou treasure of more worth than mines of gold.
I will not doubt my happiness. Thou art,
Thou wilt be mine, ever, and only mine.

Alic.
I am, I will. I ne'er knew joy 'till now.

Ard.
This is our truest, happiest nuptial day.
To-night, thou knowest according to my custom,
Our yearly fair returning with St. Valentine,
I treat my friends. I go to countenance
Their honest mirth, and chear them with my bounty.
'Till happy night farewel. My best Alicia,
How will our friends rejoice, our foes repine,
To see us thus?

Alic.

SCENE IV.

The street. People at a distance as at a Fair.
Enter Arden on one side, and Black Will and Shakebag on the other, Green directing them.
B. Will.

Shakebag, you'll second me—S'blood,
give the way.

[Jostles Arden.
Shake.

May we not pass the streets?

Ard.

I saw you not.

B. Will.

Your sight perhaps is bad, your feeling
may be better.

[Strikes him.
Ard.
Insolent villains!

[Draws.
B. Will.
Come, we'll teach you manners.

Ard.
Both at once! barb'rous cowards!

Enter Mosby.
Mos.
O bloody dogs! attempt a life so precious!—

B. Will.
This is a fury, George.

[Black Will. and Shakebag beaten off.
Shake.
—I've pink'd him tho'—

Ard.
Villains come back, and finish your design.

Mos.
Shall I pursue them, sir?

Ard.
Not for the world—
Mosby! amazing generosity!

Mos.
I hope you are not hurt.

Ard.
Pierc'd to the heart—

Mos.
Forbid it, heaven! quick, let me fly for help.

Ard.
With sharp reflexion:—Mosby, I can't bear
To be so far oblig'd to one I've wrong'd.

Mos.
Who wou'd not venture life to save a friend?

Ard.
From you I've not deserv'd that tender name.

Mos.
No more of that—wou'd I were worthy of it!

Ard.
I own my heart, by boiling passions torn,
Forgets its gentleness—yet is ever open
To melting gratitude. O say what price
Can buy your friendship?

Mos.
—Only think me yours.

Ard.
Easy indeed. I am too much oblig'd.
Why reek'd not your good sword its justice on me,
When mad with jealous rage, in my own house,
I urg'd you to my ruin?

Mos.
—I lov'd you then
With the same warmth as now.

Ard.
—What's here! you bleed.
Let me bind up your wound.

Mos.
—A trifle, sir—

Ard.
Your friendship makes it so.—See, Franklin, see
[Enter Franklin.]
The man I treated as a coward, bleeding,
(Wretch that I am!) for his defence of me.
Look to your wound. And, Mosby, let us hope
You'll sup with me. There will be honest Bradshaw,
And Franklin here, and—

Mos.
Sir, I will not fail.

Frank.
I shall not come.

Ard.
—Nay, Franklin, that's unkind.
Prithee—

Frank.
Nay, urge me not.—I have my reasons.

Mos.
Avoids my company!—So much the better.
His may not be so proper. [Aside]
—An hour hence,
If you are not engag'd, we'll meet at Fowl's.

Ard.
I will be there.

Mos.
'Till then I take my leave.
[Exit. Mosby.

Ard.
How have I been mistaken in this man?

Frank.
How are you sure, you're not mistaken now?

Ard.
No doubt he loves me; and I blush to think
How I've suspected him, and wrong'd Alicia.

Frank.
May you be ever happy in you wife:
But—

Ard.
Speak—But what? Let's have no riddles here.
Can she be innocent, and Mosby guilty?

Frank.
To speak my thoughts, this new officious fondness
Makes me suspect:—I like him worse than ever.

Ard.
Because I like him better. What a churl!

Frank.
You're credulous, and treat my serious doubts
With too much levity. You vex me, Arden.

[Exit.
Ard.
Believe me, friend, you'll laugh at this hereafter.

[Exit the other way.
Mosby, having watch'd Franklin out, re-enters with Green.
Mos.
The surly friend has left him—As I wish'd—
You see how eagerly the foolish fowl
Flies headlong to our snare: now to inclose him.
At eight the guests are bidden to his banquet,
And only Michael, of his numerous train,
Keeps home with his Alicia. He'll secure
The keys of all the doors, and let you in
With my two trusty blood-hounds. Alicia seems
Averse at present—

Gr.
She'll not dare betray us.

Mos.
Not when the deed is done. We know too much.
She'll be our prisoner, and shall be observ'd.
Towards evening, then, upon a slight pretence
To pass an hour at draughts, (a game he loves)
I'll draw this husband home. You'll be prepar'd
In th'inner room, (Michael will shew it you)
'Till at a signal given, you all rush forth,
And strangle him.

Gr.
Good—'tis a death that leaves
No bloody character to mark the place.

Mos.
Howe'er, come all provided with your daggers.
Do you seek Michael, I'll instruct the rest.

Gr.
What shall the signal be?

Mos.
—These words in th'game,
I take you now.

Gr.
—Arden! thou'rt taken now indeed.

Mos.
His body, thrown behind the abbey-wall,
Shall be descried by th'early passenger
Returning from the Fair.—My friend, thy hand—
Shakes it?—Be firm, and our united strength
With ease shall cast dead Arden to the earth.

Gr.
Thanks to his foolish tenderness of soul.

Mos.
True, he who trusts an old invet'rate foe,
Bares his own breast, and courts the fatal blow.