University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A Room in Elmore's House.
Margaret discovered on a sofa, R. her face covered with her hands—Lafont standing beside her.
Laf.
Don't take it so to heart! Your tears distress me;
They grieve me very much—they do, indeed!
It's true your father murdered—that is, slew—
The gentleman; for, after all, in fairness,
Perhaps it should not be called murder—may be,
A duel, without witnesses—

Mar.
[Looking up.]
It might!
Lafont, at least I thank thee for that hope.
Hope! Oh, that I must seek my hope in that,
Which is but guilt a little less uncommon!

Laf.
And yet one would be glad to think it so.
It's always pleasant to believe the best,
When our friends err. It's true that the stern law—
(But then, we know, the law is stern, and cannot
Feel as we feel, who love the criminal)—
The law decreed it murder, and condemned him
To death!

Mar.
He was judged unheard! How knew they
What provocation drove him to the deed—
What wrong received purged it of half its guilt!
Oh, had they heard him, what now seems offence,
Necessitated by the strong occasion,
Might then have shown like virtue.

Laf.
So it might—
Yes, certainly, it might. It was a pity,
A thousand pities, that he fled. You know
That really looked so very much like guilt—
It did indeed—you must admit it did.
[Margaret ouries her face in despair.
He might have else even escaped suspicion,
For no one saw the deed itself. 'Twas known
That he and the slain man were enemies,
And that they met that night—but nothing more.
The morning found, its true, where they had been—
Signs of a struggle on the river's bank,
And marks of blood—yet thieves might have done that:
But then, you see, your father took to flight—
Was met, unluckily, with clothes all stained,
And eyes wild staring with remorse and horror.
They tracked him to the coast, where he took ship
For England:—really, now, this hardly looked
Like innocence!

Mar.
[Who has been writhing with agony, starts up.]
Who was the murdered man?
Lives there a wife and children, whose deep wrong
Cries for revenge—whose pardon may be bought
With such weak recompence as gold can offer
For such a loss? They shall have all we own.
From hence I'll live on crusts—I'll be their servant,
Their drudge, their slave—an humble, willing slave—
So they but spare my father! Tell me all!

Laf.
Poor lady!

Mar.
Hold, sir! No compassion! No—
Not your compassion! I can suffer much—
Can meet your sarcasms or your sneering smiles,
Endure your hate, your malice, your revenge,
But not your pity—oh, no, not your pity!

Laf.
Scorn me not, sweet! I meant to speak of hope—

Mar.
[Eagerly.]
Of what?—of innocence?

Laf.
In the world's eye.
Can you be calm and listen?

Mar.
[Bitterly.]
Oh, yes, calm.

Laf.
The Matthew Elmore, by another name,
Is the proscribed assassin sought so long,
Is yet a secret known but to myself
And one beside, whose tongue I can control.
Do you not see a path of safety now?
I love you, beauteous Margaret—

Mar.
[Starting.]
Ha! stay!
[Then, with trembling eagerness.
Yes, yes, I listen—

Laf.
Make his interest mine—
The father of my wife would have a claim
On all my care.

Mar.
[As before.]
Go on.

Laf.
His fortune, too,
Should swell, not suffer, by our compact—

Mar.
Aye—

Laf.
For he and I, instead of rivals, then
Should share our knowledge and our well-planned ventures,
With double 'vantage—profits without bound—
And all to be my Margaret's at last!

Mar.
I think I understand—yet I am dull—
Let me be quite assured. My father's guilt, then,
As yet is unsuspected, save by you
And one beside, whose tutored tongue, you say,
Speaks or keeps silence as you may direct?

Laf.
Exactly so; but don't say tutored tongue.

Mar.
And I am made your confident, in hope
I may be wrought, by terror and affection,
To give the hand you seek for as the price
At which your silence must be bought?
[Lafont bows respectfully.
Thou knave!
[With sudden energy.
Thou shallow, self-convicted knave! Caught, caught
In thine own trap! Thou hast confessed it all—
The means, the end, the motive—laid all bare!
Oh, thou poor knave!—and that convenient friend,
Who swears or unswears, speaks or holds his peace
At thy command—you have conspired together!—
Ransacked the annals of forgotten crime,
And, having found one fitted to your purpose,
Plotted to charge it on my father's head,
To gain his envied wealth! Oh, brave device,
So cunningly to play upon the fears
Of a weak girl! That weak girl sees thee through—
Sees through thy most transparent artifice,
And laughs at thy detected plot! Dare now
To breathe one word against my father's honour,
I'll hold thee up to public shame—the world,
The blinded world, shall see thee as thou art!

Laf.
Hm! You presume upon my love.

Mar.
Thy love!
Do not profane that holy word so far—
Find out some other name for the rank compound
That festers in thy hollow heart. Thy love!
Oh, matchless insolence! If I believed
I owned a quality so base and vile,
That thou couldst love it, I would pluck it out
From my corrupted heart, though it should tear
My life along with it!

Laf.
Hm! that's so bitter!

Mar.
Now, sir, you have your answer—get you gone,
While you may go in safety, ere I call
My father, and lay bare your villany.
His indignation might be ill to meet,
Unless, indeed, illimitable scorn
Of the gross charge—too great for common anger—
Should only find its vent in mirth.

Laf.
That's likely:
He was exceeding merry when we left him!
[Margaret starts and shrinks back.
You had forgotten that!

Mar.
[Almost inarticulately.]
I had—I had!

Laf.
He could not keep his feet for mirth! He knelt,
Grovelled and knelt!—this noble, virtuous Elmore,
Grovelled and knelt to the despised Lafont!

Mar.
[As before.]
He did, he did! [Impetuously.]
Tell me, what does this mean?
Hast thou spoke truth? Man—tell me, did my father,
By any devilish tempting, in some moment
Of frenzy—madness—did he do that thing
Which thou hast said?

Laf.
We'll go and ask him.

Mar.
[Shrieks.]
No!
[Then, faltering.
I dare not. Oh, if thou hast any pity,
Say thou hast played upon me—frightened me—
I'll not be angry—I'll forgive thee; nay,
I'll bless thee—pray for thee! I'll—

Laf.
[Softly.]
Marry me?

Mar.
[In despair.]
Oh, no, no, no!

Laf.
Not while Eugene de Lorme
Remains, to tempt you with a younger blood.
It's very natural—but still a pity,
Considering the bar between you. Hm!
You asked the name of him your father slew:
Your father at that time was called Du Barré,
And he he murdered was the Count de Lorme,
The father of Eugene—

[Margaret stands a moment stupified—then pressing her hand to her brow, appears falling—Lafont approaches to support her—but at his touch she starts and with a shudder waves him away—then sinks into a chair and sits motionless.
Mar.
[Bewildered.]
It is too much!
Yet, if it's true, then life is all a lie,
Of double-steeped hypocrisy!—All's dark—
All lost in tangled chaos. Out, out on it!
Hurry it to an end!

Laf.
[Gently.]
Margaret—

Mar.
[Rising.]
Sir—

Laf.
Do you listen?

Mar.
Sir? Oh, yes—

Laf.
Come, be persuaded—

Mar.
Yes—what you will; it does not matter now.

Laf.
Your father—

Mar.
Ay—my father—

Laf.
Let us seek him.

Mar.
True, I remember—yes, I'll go—I'll go—
But first alone; you must not come just yet;
Come in an hour—but, let me see him first.

Laf.
If you desire it.

Mar.
I am grateful, sir.

[Going, R.
Laf.
Permit me—

[Offering his hand.
Mar.
Thank you, I can walk.

[Totters out, R.
Laf.
[Looking after her.]
Poor thing!
She makes me pity her—she does, indeed!

[Seats himself, as if to watch—Scene closes.