University of Virginia Library

FRANCIS BEAUMONT:

A Tragedy.

Dramatis Personæ.

• FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
• MR. EGERTON.
• PHILIP EGERTON.
• WALTER.
• RALPH EDWARDS.
• THE TEMPTER (a Spirit).
• MRS. BEAUMONT.
• CLARA BEAUMONT.
• ISABELLA EGERTON.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—An open heath.
[Francis Beaumont alone.]
Francis
[The form of the Tempter rises.]

The Tempter.
One that reads thine inmost thoughts.

Francis.
If from the realm of spirits thou art sent
To commune with a denizen of earth,
I'm in a mood to hear thee. Speak thine errand.

The Tempter.
I speak at thy suggestion, not before.
What darkly thou conceivest I unfold,
Interpret all the wishes of thine heart,
And show thee where thy strength and weakness lie.

Francis.
Hast thou the power to execute my will?

The Tempter.
To execute is thine: but I can help
To turn thy thoughts to purpose and resolve.

Francis.
I would do many things, but lack the means.

The Tempter.
Means are not wanting where the will is strong.

Francis.
Books tell me so, but not the page of life.

The Tempter.
Thou call'st on death, as myriads of thy race
Have done before, yet shunn'st the ready way
To find him whom thou seek'st.

Francis.
I shun him not.

The Tempter.
Thou eatest still the food that life sustains.

Francis.
I would not die in lingering agony.

The Tempter.
The rope, the dagger, or the subtle poison,
Will bring thee to an end with speed enough.

Francis.
But suicide! There's horror in the thought!
And 'tis a last resource, when all things fail.

The Tempter.
Go, seek an honourable soldier's grave.

Francis.
Were honour to be gain'd, I'd quickly go,
Fly to the farthest corners of the earth,
And seek the victor's meed through fire and slaughter.
But to be rank'd among the nameless herd,
To sell my blood for paltry sustenance;
To fall uncared for, and to lie unburied
Amidst a heap of putrid carcases,
That other men may plant upon their brows
The laurels which I win and I deserve:
Methinks there is no honour in all this.

The Tempter.
The world would only say that Francis Beaumont
Enlisted for a common soldier.

Francis.
Mine enemies would triumph over it.

The Tempter.
A few that wish thee dead and gone would triumph:
The rest would sneer awhile, and soon forget thee.

Francis.
Before I perish, let me have revenge.

The Tempter.
Who is thy deadliest enemy?

Francis.
Orlando.

The Tempter.
Thy cousin.

Francis.
Curse on his relationship.

The Tempter.
He holds the goodly fief that should be thine.

Francis.
Yes: and he spurn'd me from my father's hearth,
And bade his menials chase me from the door.

The Tempter.
He woo's the daughter of old Egerton.

Francis.
She loves him not. Her vows are given to me.

The Tempter.
Her father urges her to wed thy cousin
And his broad lands.

Francis.
She never shall be his.

The Tempter.
Last night thou saw'st him in thy father's park.

Francis.
I did. A strange desire came over me
To wander o'er the well-known haunts once more,
And muse on bygone days. In saddest mood
I sallied forth, to trespass on the land
That once I deem'd my own inheritance.
'Twas midnight. Spectre-like I paced along
The dark broad avenues, o'er which the moon
Cast a pale light; when sudden I beheld,
Returning from the steward's house, Orlando,
Wrapt in a cloak: I knew him by his gait;
He saw not me, but pass'd with hurried step
Thro' the elm walk.

The Tempter.
The thought occurr'd to thee,
How easily thou might'st dispatch the man
Who stands between thee and thy dearest hopes.

Francis.
He was alone, and not a creature near
To help him, if he cried.

The Tempter.
He may, perhaps,
Be there again to-night.

Francis.
And should I kill him,
Demon or Spirit, whosoe'er thou be,
Tell me, shall I be safe?

The Tempter.
'Tis not revealed:
But wherefore askest thou? Methought, poor wretch,
Death had for thee no terrors. Go and do
What thine heart prompts, and what thy spirit dares.
I leave thee to fulfil thy destiny.

[The Tempter vanishes.]
Francis.
He stands alone between me and my rights!
I would—yet not for that; but for revenge.
To spurn me from the house where I was born,
The threshold of my ancestors! To rob me
Of my soul's treasure and my plighted love!
And Egerton, the mercenary banker,
Who courted me while I was fortune's heir,
Now, if he meets me, looking cold and sullen,
Avoiding me as if I were a beggar!
Oh! 'tis enough to make one hate mankind:
There's nothing in the world but treachery.

Scene II.

—A parlour in Mrs. Beaumont's cottage.
Mrs. Beaumont at her work, Clara sitting before an easel, painting.
Mrs. Beaumont.
Clara, you've work'd all day. You must be tired.

Clara.
No, mother, no: I'm never tired of painting.
You know how many hours I used to spend
In daubing canvas for my own amusement:
And now—

Mrs. Beaumont.
You'll overwork yourself, my child.

Clara.
I hope to get for this Madonna, mother,
A handsome sum, thro' Philip Egerton;
He promised me to find a purchaser.

Mrs. Beaumont.
I know not what would have become of us,
But for your talents and exertions.

Clara.
And Frank's.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Alas, poor boy, he does not earn
Much by his manuscripts.

Clara.
He ought to do.
There is more merit in one manuscript
Of Frank's, than fifty of my pictures, mother;
But 'tis far easier to catch the eye,
To please the vulgar taste by gaudy show,
Than to awaken kindred sparks of thought
By that which speaks to the intelligence.
My brother's merits are not understood;
He writes for men who pay him by the page,
As if he were a common labourer.
The other day he wrote some poetry:
He read it to me. Oh! 'twas beautiful!
He sent it up to London to a friend,
Who offered it, on his behalf, for sale
To some ephemeral publication.
Would you believe it? 'Twas return'd; his friend
Informing him, 'twas useless to apply
To any of the periodical press,
Unless he knew the editor.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Poor Francis!

Clara.
Oh, had you seen him when the letter came!
He gnash'd his teeth, and, had I not been there,
He would have cried for mere vexation.

Mrs. Beaumont.
God knows, I feel for him. And yet 'tis pity
He cannot check these fits of violence.
In the last fatal quarrel with his father,
He took my part, you know; he meant it well,
And 'tis not I should blame him,—I, the cause
Of all that he has suffer'd ever since.

Clara.
The innocent cause.

Mrs. Beaumont.
I little thought, however,
My husband, harsh and cruel though he was,
Would have been so unnatural as to leave
His children portionless.

Clara.
My dearest mother,
These trials are but sent to chasten us.
I'm happier, living in this humble cot,
In interchange of sweet domestic love,
Supported by the fruits of industry,
Than had I been an heiress, and surrounded
By crowds of flatterers.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Frank thinks not so.

Clara.
[A knocking at the outer door.]

A Voice from without.
I, Philip Egerton.

[She opens the door. Enter Philip.]
Philip
(to Mrs. Beaumont).
Excuse me, madam,
For coming at this hour. Is Frank at home?

Mrs. Beaumont.
He stroll'd into the garden, and from thence
Into the road, about an hour ago.
He'll soon be here.

Philip.
Clara, I know a lady
Who will be glad to purchase the Madonna,
And give a liberal price. You'll hear to-morrow.

Clara.
How shall I thank you?

Philip.
Thank me not at all:
But think of me.

Clara.
You are all kindness; all
Disinterested kindness.

Philip.
Nay, I fear
I am more selfish than I dare confess.
One gentle word, one look of Clara Beaumont,
Is a reward too rich for any service
That I can render.

Clara.
Philip, I entreat,
No more of this. You wish'd to see my brother.

Philip.
I wish'd to tell him of a thing that happen'd—
A trifle—not worth mentioning, perhaps,
Yet trifles sometimes have significance.
Your cousin came this morning to the bank;
As he was going out, the steward, Walter,
Met him. They spoke not, but with angry looks
Scowl'd at each other; Walter, half aloud,
Mutter'd some threat,—the words I scarcely heard,
But of their import could not be mistaken.

Clara.
Is that all, Philip?

Philip.
That is all. What think you?

Clara.
'Tis not worth serious thought; but I should guess
They've quarrell'd on some matters of account.
Orlando is a man who will not suffer
The least mistake or indirection
To rob him of his own; no man from him
Will wring a doit beyond his just demand.

Philip.
It may be so:—but I must hasten back;
I left some friends at home. Good night!

Mrs. Beaumont and Clara.
Good night!

[Exit Philip.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
Clara, there is more meaning in that quarrel
Than you suppose. You know, I always thought
The will was forged.

Clara.
The signature was witness'd
By Walter and two tenants of my father.

Mrs. Beaumont.
That Walter is a deep designing knave.
What could he mean by threatening Orlando?

Clara.
Nothing of any interest to us;
Or if it be, time will reveal it, mother.
We need not talk to Francis about this.
The least thing discomposes him: a shadow
Buoys him with hope; then disappointment comes
And plunges him in deep dejection.

Mrs. Beaumont.
I hear his step.

[Enter Francis, through the garden door.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
Where have you been, dear Frank?

Francis.
Upon the moor;
And wandering from the path, I miss'd my road.
'Tis late; and, mother, you have not been well:
Let me not keep you longer from your rest.

Mrs. Beaumont.
I'm going, Frank; and don't you hurt your eyes
With sitting up. Clara, you'll not be long?

Clara.
I'll follow instantly.

[Mrs. Beaumont retires to her chamber.]
Francis
(to Clara).
I thought, just now,
As I turned round the corner of the road,
I saw the figure of young Egerton.
Has he been here?

Clara.
He has.

Francis.
What came he for?

Clara.
He came to speak with you.

Francis.
I rather guess,
'Twas you, not me, he came to visit, Clara.

Clara.
He told me he had found a purchaser
For my Madonna.

Francis.
He comes here too often.

Clara.
He comes not but with purpose for our good:
I should be sorry to requite his kindness
With aught that savoured of ingratitude.

Francis.
His father disallows all intercourse
'Twixt me and Isabel. And why should you
Encourage hopes which may be never—

Clara.
Francis,
This is ungenerous. Must I cast off
A valued friend, your friend from infancy,
Check the warm impulse of a noble heart,
And cripple my own means of usefulness,
For foolish pride, or want of confidence
In mine own virtue and integrity?
Or does my brother fear that Clara Beaumont
Will e'er demean herself unworthily
Of him or of the name which he inherits?

Francis.
No, Clara, no. But times are altered much.
We've nought of value left us but our honour:
And 'tis not meet that either you or I
Should court or even seem to court a man
Whom circumstances place above our station.

Clara.
I fear but little for our honour, Francis:
I do not think that either you or I,
In all our rough encounters with the world,
Will forfeit the esteem of those who love us:
But let us also keep our hearts unsullied,
Our tempers unembitter'd by the venom
Of discontent. And now, good night, my brother;
And don't forget my mother's last request.

[Exit Clara.]
Francis.
[A pause.]
[He goes into the bed-room, and returns with a poniard in his hand.]

ACT II.

Mrs. Beaumont's parlour. A table, with breakfast. Mrs. Beaumont and Clara.
Mrs. Beaumont.
Frank's very late this morning. Shall we call him?

Clara.
I think he sat up late. I heard him moving
Past midnight in his bed-room; and I fancied
He got up more than once. I did not sleep
Soundly myself, and the least noise disturb'd me.

Mrs. Beaumont.
This writing at unseasonable hours
Hurts the boy's health, and puts us all to trouble.

Clara.
He has been busy for the last few days
Planning the subject of a tragedy.
'Tis often hard to sleep, when some new project
Has occupied the mind. Last night a scheme
Enter'd my silly head.

Mrs. Beaumont.
What might it be?

Clara.
To write a novel.

Mrs. Beaumont.
You, child?

Clara.
Frank and I
Might join in writing one.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Do you imagine
You have a turn that way?

Clara.
It could not hurt
To make the trial. I have heard it said,
We have all powers, that lie asleep within us
Only for want of being duly rous'd:
We dream and talk of doing many things,
Which, if we set about them, might be done.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Well, to be sure; we've many bright examples
Among our sex: there's Edgeworth and there's Inchbald,
And who was it that wrote the Scottish chiefs?
And Lee; I can't remember half the names.
We used to read them in those merry days,
Sitting around the blazing hearth together,
In the old hall at Christmas-tide. But, Clara,
So many tales have into books been cramm'd,
The stores of fiction must be quite exhausted.

Clara.
There is no lack of good material, mother.
Thought is a mine, that, work it as you may,
Hath still new veins for those that will explore them.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Is it not often said, there's nothing new
Under the sun?

Clara.
There's nothing new to those
Who only think as others have before them.
We see that in the arts and sciences
Invention follows quick upon invention:
So, in the moral world, the mind still weaves
From nature's thread new textures and designs:
Imagination to the self-same thing
Gives thousand colours, semblances, and forms:
Two artists paint not the same scene alike;
Nor can two genuine truthful hearts express
The simplest thought without variety.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Could you not write alone, without assistance?

Clara.
Perhaps I could: but in a work of portraying
The medley intercourse of social life,
Diversities of scene and character,—
I know not whether rightly, yet I fancied,
Two of a different sex, together, might
Make a more perfect whole. The soft and tender,
The light and graceful, suit a woman's pen:
A man has bolder, loftier conceptions;
His soul can feel and paint more vividly
Dark passions, terrors—

[Enter Francis, with papers in his hand. He salutes his mother and sister.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
Francis, how pale you look.

Francis.
Pale, mother?

Mrs. Beaumont.
[She takes his hand.]

Francis.
Indeed
I am quite well.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Your eye is bloodshot.

Francis.
(Snatching his hand away from her.)
(More calmly.)

[He sits down by the table.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
[Pouring out some tea.]
Francis, I wish you'd put the papers by
Till after breakfast. Working night and day
Will bring you to the grave before you think.
Your hand shakes now, as if you had the ague,
And all for want of sleep. 'Twas long past midnight
Before you came to bed; I know it was;
Your sister heard you.

Francis.
Heard? Impossible!
I slept. You heard me, Clara? Said you so?

Clara.
Perhaps I was mistaken; or perhaps
You pass'd a restless night. What matters it?
Why are you angry with us?

Francis.
I'm not angry:
It irks me to be teas'd with idle talk,
When I'm so busy, as you see I am.

[Clara comes and whispers to Mrs. Beaumont, after which they retire together from the table.]
Clara.
What think you, mother, of the novel scheme?

Mrs. Beaumont.
I scarcely know.

Clara.
Companionship would make
The toil less wearisome, and keep alive
Those light and pleasant fancies, which the mind
Doth often in a dull abstraction lose.

Mrs. Beaumont.
'Twere well, if it would cheer his spirits up.
But have you thought upon a plot?

Clara.
Not yet.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Then I will give you one. The tale shall be
About a forgery, and the villain's name
Orlando—just the thing—Orlando.

Francis
(starting).
What?
What's that you said of—

Mrs. Beaumont.
Nothing! only—

[A knocking at the door. Francis starts up. Clara goes and opens the door. Enter Philip Egerton.]
Clara.
Good morning!

Philip.
Have you heard?

Clara.
Heard what?

Philip.
Your cousin—
[They come towards him with looks of expectation.]
Is murder'd!

Mrs. Beaumont and Clara.
Murder'd?

Francis.
Horrible! horrible!
How? where? by whom?

Philip.
This morning he was found
In the park, dead, and stabb'd in several places,
Near to the steward's house. The steward, Walter,
Is taken up, on strong suspicion,
Charged with the murder.

Francis.
How? on strong suspicion?

Philip.
A bloody dagger has been found upon him.

Francis.
A dagger? Are you sure? A dagger was it?

Philip.
I heard—I know not the particulars:
But he is now before the magistrates,
Under examination.

[A knocking at the door. Clara opens it. Enter a constable, with a note in his hand.]
Constable.
A note for Mr. Francis Beaumont.

[Francis seizes the note, looks over it hastily, and puts it in the hand of Philip, who reads it, while Mrs. Beaumont and Clara look with expectation.]
Philip
(to Mrs. Beaumont).
The magistrates require your son's attendance.
(To Francis.)
You'll go at once.

Francis.
(To the constable.)

Constable.
The prisoner,
Charged with the murder of Orlando Beaumont,
Accuses you.

Francis.
Accuses me!

Mrs. Beaumont.
My son?
Of what?

Constable.
Of murder.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Villain!

Francis.
And who believes him?

Constable.
No one believes him, sir. The proof is clear.

Philip.
Your presence, Frank, will make it clearer still.
Come!

Mrs. Beaumont.
I shall go with him.

Francis.
No, mother, no.

Mrs. Beaumont.
I will, I will.

[Exeunt Mrs. Beaumont and Francis, to prepare themselves.]
Philip.
[Turning to Clara, who has listened to all that passed with the deepest anxiety.]
Clara, the tale I told you yesterday
Throws light on this black deed.

Clara.
Perhaps it may.
Philip, you'll go with them, and take my mother
Under your charge?

Philip.
Be sure I will. [Re-enter Francis, and then Mrs. Beaumont, dressed for walking. Philip offers his arm to the latter, and then exeunt all but Clara.]
[Clara muses thoughtfully for a moment, observes that her brother's bed-room door is open, and walks towards it. At the sight of something inside, she utters a sudden exclamation, and goes in, then re-enters the parlour with a towel in her hand.]

A towel bloody! What can it mean? O God!
I'll hide it! Often a slight circumstance
Begets suspicion, and a bleeding nose
Might cause an innocent man to be accused
Of murder.

[She goes upstairs. A knocking is heard at the outer door; she comes down and opens it. Enter two constables.]
Constable.
Lady, we come by warrant here to search
The room where Mr. Beaumont slept last night.

Clara.
'Tis there. You may go in.

Constable.
Excuse us, madam;
'Tis a mere form. But we must do our duty.

[They go in. Clara waits with intense anxiety till they return into the parlour.]
Clara
(Calmly).
Well; are you satisfied?

Constable.
We are, my lady:
There's nothing here but what we thought to find,
And so we shall report to them that sent us.
[They make their bow to Clara, and exeunt. She, after a moment's pause, rushes into the bed-room, and in a minute after returns.]
Thank heaven, all's well! But yet my heart misgives me!
Could he be out last night? Methought I heard
A tread of pacing feet upon the floor,—
A raising of the latch,—and the door once
Creak'd on its hinges. Could it be the wind?
Or does the dream-sick fancy conjure up
Not sights alone, but sounds, to cheat the sense?
But then his looks this morning—and the towel:
Perhaps he was unwell, he wanted air;
He walk'd into the road, and was observ'd:
'Tis possible. The steward's accusation—
A sudden and a desperate attempt
To throw his guilt upon another: yes!
And Philip's tale confirms me. All the truth
Will soon appear. Heaven shield the innocent!

[A knocking. She opens the door. Enter Mrs. Beaumont and Philip. Mrs. Beaumont rushes into Clara's arms.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
All's well, all's well, my daughter!

Clara.
What has happen'd?

Philip.
The prisoner stands upon the clearest proof
Committed for his trial.

Clara.
And my brother?

Philip.
He will be here almost immediately.
We left him circled by a host of friends,
Whose hearty greetings and encouragement
Revived his drooping spirits. The magistrates,
Who heard the monstrous charge preferr'd against him,
By looks and words express'd their indignation.
'Twas but the raving of a guilty man,
Who knew not what to say.

[Enter Francis, pale and weak. He staggers towards a chair, and falls to the ground.]

ACT III.

Scene I.

—A room in Mr. Egerton's house.
[Mr. Egerton, Philip, and Isabella.]
Philip.
Father, what is't o'clock?

Mr. Egerton.
'Tis after nine.

Isabella.
And when does it begin?

Philip.
At ten precisely.
I've not much time to lose. The court will be
Crowded to suffocation.

Isabella.
How I wish
I could be there.

Mr. Egerton.
That's dutiful, when I
Have positively said, you must not go.

Isabella.
Papa, 'tis very natural I should wish
To hear a trial of such interest.
How do you think—will Walter be found guilty?

Philip.
It is the general belief he will.
The case is very strong.

Mr. Egerton.
Not quite so strong:
The evidence is circumstantial only:
None saw him strike the blow; there's none can say
How it was done, or wherefore.

Philip.
'Tis indeed
Mysterious: yet can I discern a way
Thro' which the light breaks in. My testimony,
Back'd by the two domestics of the hall—

Mr. Egerton.
Come, you must not be dallying.

Philip.
I am off,
And you shall hear the news without delay.

[Exit Philip.]
Isabella.
Philip is right: the verdict will be guilty.

Mr. Egerton.
You hope it will, and therefore you believe it.

Isabella.
The magistrates who had the case before them
Believ'd the same as I.

Mr. Egerton.
The magistrates
A very little proof will satisfy:
But jurymen, my child, whose consciences
Are charged to be the final arbiters
Between the culprit and arraigning justice,
Weigh every question in a nicer scale,
Look that each doubt and scruple be removed,
Ere they pronounce the word that must deprive
Their fellow-man of life or liberty.

Isabella.
But here I see not any room for doubt.
Was not the body of Orlando found
Close to the prisoner's house? The men who find it
Go straight to Walter's, see him on the floor
Wounded and stain'd with blood, the dagger near him:
Of all which strange appearances he gave not
One word of explanation.

Mr. Egerton.
That is true.

Isabella.
Then it is shown, he quarrell'd with his master;
High words had pass'd between them at the hall;
Orlando rais'd his hand to strike him once:
He was at Walter's house the night before:
Walter is heard next day to threaten him:
These circumstances all adhere together:
And not another soul was near the spot.

Mr. Egerton.
How if he brings this Edwards whom he named,
To prove that Francis Beaument pass'd the road?

Isabella.
The man forthcomes not, and my brother says,
Tho' Francis had been seen upon the road,
The damning facts 'gainst Walter are the same.

Mr. Egerton.
'Tis pity you are not counsel for the crown,
You argue it so well.

Isabella.
My dear papa,
If you would ask the Beaumonts to your house,
'Twould be but friendly. For our sakes perhaps
They will break thro' the deep seclusion
Which keeps them from society so long.

Mr. Egerton.
For that I much commend them, Isabella;
And for the wise forbearance, which delays
To seize upon their newly-gotten wealth.
I (for they set me here a good example)
Wait for this day's decision, ere I mean
To importune them for their company.

Isabella.
After the trial, then, you will invite them?
Say yes, papa. Yes, yes, I know you will.

[Exit Isabella.]
Mr. Egerton.
'Tis an ill wind, they say, that blows no good.
Orlando Beaumont's death displeases not
My children; nor (I own) much vexes me.
He sought my daughter's hand; the match was one
That prudent fathers like not to refuse;
My daughter with her stubborn will opposed,
And would have thwarted me. Perhaps 'tis well.
Francis and Langley Park for Isabella,
And Clara, nobly portion'd, for my son,
Will meet the approbation of us all.
This Frank, with all his hot-brain'd indiscretion,
Will give his money with a generous hand.
But hold! I count my gains too hastily.
The day, that is to yield that golden harvest,
Hath not yet dawn'd. The trial—who can tell
What it may bring to light? The proofs are many
Against th' accus'd; but yet it will be ask'd,
What reason could he have to kill his master?
And when he charges Francis with the deed,
There will be those who echo him, and say,
Who profits by the deed but Francis Beaumont?
His tale indeed is strange, and unsupported
By either proof or probability.
Had Francis slain his cousin in a duel,
Or in a moment of ungovern'd anger,
I had not wonder'd: he is fierce by nature:
'Twas said, he struck his father, and for that
Was disinherited. But sudden strife
Is out of question here; for how could they
Have met at such an hour and such a place?
'Tis generally thought, and I agree,
The hand that did the bloody deed was Walter's;
Whether the murderous design were his,
Is far more doubtful. I must wait the issue.
He who is careful of the world's regard,
Must often see with eyes of other men,
Hear with their ears, and act upon their judgment,
Or seem to do so. For my children's sake
I must be worldly-wise and circumspect.

Scene II.

—Mrs. Beaumont's parlour. [Mrs. Beaumont and Clara Beaumont.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
Clara, there's retribution for the guilty,
E'en in this world. The steward, by whose practice
We were thrust out of our inheritance,
(For that he play'd the rogue I never doubted,)
Destroys the very man he help'd to raise,
And is himself o'ertaken by the law.
These are the judgments of a righteous Heaven.

Clara.
The ways of Heaven are far beyond our ken.
We see the good man fall, the wicked prosper;
Yet who will dare deny that God is just?

Mrs. Beaumont.
The wicked only prosper for a time:
Their end will come.

Clara.
But whether it shall come
In the brief issue of a human life,
Or in an age, or in a course of ages,
That is a question which we cannot solve.
Eternal justice stretches thro' all time;
And we, the creatures of an hour, can see
But a small portion of its ministry.

Mrs. Beaumont.
But when we do behold the guilty suffer,
We cannot err in calling it a judgment.

Clara.
Could we be sure, who are the guilty—

[Enter Francis.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
Frank!
How goes the trial?

Francis.
It is not yet over:
The jury have retired, but in a temper
Which makes conviction certain. The suspense
I could not bear, and hasted from the court.

Clara.
Did you give evidence?

Francis.
I did; I stated,
In contradiction to the prisoner,
That on the fatal night (as you well know)
I slept at home, and never left the house.
The deed was done past midnight; for the body
Was warm and reeking when the woodmen found it.

Clara.
And were you cross-examined?

Francis.
Ha! you deem
That I was faint of heart and panic-stricken,
As on that dreadful morning. No! I met
The artful hireling lawyer face to face,
And baffled him and all his questionings.

Clara.
A man who tells the honest simple truth
May baffle all the lawyers in the world.

Francis.
Not always, Clara. Strong emotion
Will sometimes overcome the firmest heart.
Do you remember how the sudden news
Of poor Orlando's murder shook my frame,
And made me tremble with a woman's weakness?
I knew not what I said or what I did:
You must remember it.

Clara.
I do remember.

Francis.
I would that I possest your self-command.

Mrs. Beaumont.
What did the steward say in his defence?

Francis.
His story—mark how different from the first—
Was this: he saw me strike the deadly blow,
And ran to save his master; closing with me,
Ere he could wrest the dagger from my hand,
He got a wound; I fled, and he pursued,
Till meeting Edwards, who had seen me pass,
He told what had befallen, and then went home.

Clara.
That's different indeed! Your wounding him
He did not mention: taken from the ground
Deep gash'd and bleeding, that he never told.

Francis.
The flaw was glaring; so he patch'd it up,
He or his lawyer; but it serv'd him little:
The judge, in summing up the evidence,
Remarked upon his inconsistency.
The dagger too was shown to be Orlando's;
Of this he never thought.

Clara.
Had he a witness?

Francis.
He call'd Ralph Edwards, and I own I trembled.

Clara.
You trembled? Why?

Francis.
For fear he had suborned
Some villain to outswear me.

Clara.
But he came not?

Francis.
The name was three times call'd, but no one answer'd
I saw the jury smile at one another.

[A knocking. The door is opened. Enter Philip.]
Francis.
The verdict, Philip?

Philip.
Guilty.

Mrs. Beaumont.
God be praised!

Clara.
(To Philip.)

Philip.
The jury
Withdrew for half-an-hour. When they return'd,
There was a death-like stillness in the court,
And they were called upon to give their verdict.
A moment's pause, and with a steady voice
The foreman said the words “we find him guilty:”
Then rose a murmur as of heaving waves
Thro' the dense crowd—

Mrs. Beaumont.
And Walter?—

Philip.
Clasp'd his hands
In speechless agony. But when the judge
Put on the fatal cap, and solemnly
Pronounced the condemnation of the law,
The prisoner cried aloud “I'm innocent,”
And called on God to witness, till by force
He was removed.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Oh, dreadful! And he still
Persists in saying he is innocent!

Philip.
That is the common way with criminals,
Till they are past all hope. I heard it said,
He ask'd to see you, Francis; and 'tis thought
That he will make a full confession.

Francis.
Is the day fixed for execution?

Philip.
A fortnight hence, unless the interval
Should bring him a reprieve.

Francis.
Reprieve! For what?
Is there a chance of that?

Philip.
I cannot think it.
The general voice speaks loudly for the sentence;
Yet there are some men wiser than the rest,
Who shake their heads, and are not satisfied.

Francis.
I'll go without delay, and get permission
To see the prisoner.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Do so, and implore him
To speak the truth, and make his peace with God.

Scene III.

—A prison.
[Walter solus.]
Walter.
Oh! I deserve to die, but not for this!
My own too black offence was undiscover'd,
And I must perish for another's crime.
Such are the tricks of justice! Dare they hang
A dog upon such proof? Because my witness
Is bought or kept away, the law must clutch me
In its remorseless fangs. There's one means left—
I will tell all, and may obtain a respite;
For any crime but murder there is hope.
And Francis Beaumont—could I see him once,
I could unfold a tale whose startling truth
Should rouse him from his blind security,
And force him to the sure and only way
To save himself and me.

[The gaoler shews in Francis Beaumont, and then retires.]
Francis.
Walter, you wish'd to see me.

Walter.
Yes, I wish it
For both our sakes. Come nearer, master Beaumont.

Francis.
If you have aught to say or to confess,
Proceed, unhappy man; mine ear is open.

Walter.
There's none outside the walls to listen, sir.
Play not the priest: 'tis not a time for shams.

Francis.
No, nor for idle parley. Time is precious.

Walter.
It is—to you not less so than to me.
Then hear: I must begin from the beginning.
Do you remember that eventful day,
When in a fit of wrath you struck your father?

Francis.
'Tis false: he rais'd his arm against my mother;
I interposed, he fell; I never struck him.

Walter.
Well, well; he said you did. That very day
He bade me write a will—

Francis.
The will that gave
His nephew all, and made his children beggars?
And you dissuaded not.

Walter.
I wrote it all
From his dictation: but a fortnight after
He became ill; he sent for me again,
And in my presence tore the will in pieces,
Telling me not to breathe a syllable—

Francis.
O heavens! and you—

Walter.
The fragments were destroyed,
Save only one, where it was sign'd and witness'd,
Which, unperceiv'd by him, I took away.

Francis.
Oh! villain!

Walter.
Spare reproaches; they are useless:
And bear in mind, you never were my friend.
Your cousin—

Francis.
He and you—I see it all.

Walter.
I forged the will, and he the signatures.
Your father's tenants, who subscribed the first,
Ne'er doubted but that ours was genuine.

Francis.
Had you but told me this some months before!

Walter.
It had been well for more than one of us.
But mark how rogues are caught in their own snares!
Half of the crime was mine; and half the prize
I bargain'd for. Your cousin put me off
With vain excuses—he was deep in debt—
The land was cumbered—pretexts for delay.
I prest him; for I meant, when I had clutch'd
The promis'd gold, to quit the neighbourhood:
Ill-gotten wealth is best enjoy'd from home.

Francis.
Well, well; he paid you not the felon's hire.

Walter.
He paid me not, except with promises;
I threatened him—you are impatient—
I'm coming to the time.

Francis.
Go on, go on.

Walter.
The night before the last, he sought my house,
Made me some offer of a paltry pension,
And, when I spurn'd it, in a wrathful mood
He left me. But the next night—ha! you tremble—
He came again, and long and angry talk
Ensued between us, till he drew a poniard
And plunged it with fell purpose in my side;
I grasp'd his arm, he dropt the steel and fled:
Scarce had he pass'd the garden twenty yards,
When from behind some trees a man rushed out
And with a weapon struck him to the earth,
From which he rose no more; the man stooped over,
And gave blow after blow; then up he sprang,
And vanished from my sight.

Francis.
You saw him not?

Walter.
I stood in horror, but on sudden thought
I gather'd up my strength, to follow him.
He dash'd into the copse that skirts the park,
And I toil'd after: when I clear'd the wood,
I spied him in a fallow, crossing slowly
To where it meets the road, for which direct
I made across the clover pasturage:
He stood beside the gate, and leant upon it,
And cast his eyes all round. Just then the moon
Shone full and bright; I saw him, and I knew him.

Francis.
'Tis false!

Walter.
I climbed the bank, and got a view.
You hurried on, and little guess'd that I
Was close upon your heels. Just as I turn'd
The milestone corner, I beheld a man,
Whom I remember'd as a haymaker
Some summers past, a noted poacher too,
That very Edwards—yes—'tis true! you pass'd him:
He knew your person, Master Francis.

Francis.
Liar!
None—But go on.

Walter.
I set him on your track,
While, to alarm the people at the hall,
I measur'd back my way; and just reach'd home,
But, overcome with pain and loss of blood,
I sank upon the ground, and there remained
Till my accusers found me. What ensued
I need not tell; and what became of Edwards,
Perhaps none better knows than you yourself.

Francis.
Walter, you now have told three different tales:
Which is the true one?

Walter.
This. You know it is.
Oh, trifle not, but harken to my words—
Fly! save yourself!

Francis.
What mean you?

Walter.
Fly from England—
Across the sea—no matter where—but fly!
I shall confess the whole: a dying man
Will be believed.

Francis.
A triple-tongued liar
Will gain no credence.

Walter.
Yes! they will believe me.
Put off that smile: you cheat yourself alone.
Mark well the difference: my former tale
Had the appearance of a mystery,
Revealing much, but leaving more behind:
But this disguises nothing, nothing hides;
And, in that I shall criminate myself,
I put the stamp of truth on all the rest.

Francis.
You could not so amend your story now,
But with the world 'twould pass for counterfeit

Walter.
Oh! I conjure you, ere it be too late!

Francis.
Yet harken, Walter. You are not past hope.
I shall exert my utmost influence
To get you a reprieve.

Walter.
Ha, master Beaumont!
I am too old to be deluded thus:
You shall have time for flight, but no delay.

Francis.
Vain man! Do nothing rash! The lawyers say,
You were condemn'd on insufficient proof;
And it is rumour'd, you will have a pardon.
Would you avow the crime of forgery?

Walter.
You play me false: I know it. But beware!

Francis.
I will do all I can in your behalf.

Walter.
Look to yourself! Three days, and all is told.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Mrs. Beaumont's garden.
[Francis alone.]
Francis.
I threw the dagger in a heap of fern:
I've not been near the place: my steps are watched:
But when I take possession of my land,
I'll find the deadly steel, and bury it
In some unfathomable depth of sea.
Walter, with all his craft, imagines not
Of this my greatest fear. His tale of Edwards,
If it were true!—but 'tis a mere invention,
A weak one too—I scorn it. For the rest,
Curse on his circumstantial memory!
Yet truth herself could not assist him now:
Heaven leaves him to his fate: the perjured traitor!
Assassin of our house! for is not he
The cause of all? Then be it on his head!
And shall a bugbear frighten me? Shall I
Have steep'd my hand in blood, my soul in crime,
And when the guerdon is within my grasp,
Resign it? Never. I have thrown the die,
And I'll await the hazard. Mother! Sister!
Th' advantage shall be yours, without the sin.
And Isabel! Oh! when I think of her,
My courage fails. How shall I meet her now?
My love hath lost its charm. Her smiles on me
Will fall like dew upon a barren rock:
The merry music of her silver tongue
Cau wake no echo in my tuneless heart.
Will she not read my soul? Can innocence
Abide with guilt, and not discover it?
Or can her spirit ever blend with mine?
It cannot be. Yet will I wed her still:
In pomp and state I'll lead her to the altar,
And plant a glorious garland on her brow:
And in my father's mansion I will hold
The nuptial feast with high solemnity;
And all our friends and kinsmen shall be there,
And pledge in flowing cups the bride and bridegroom;
And while the vine-juice circles thro' their veins,
There shall be such a peal of merriment,
Shall wake the spirits of my ancestors
Out of their graves; and they shall stand before me
And gratulate their true and rightful heir.
He shall not come: no, no: his ghost shall wander
Beneath the charnel-house. No thought of him
Shall break my rest. Away with doubt and dread!
Come what come will: fate for my guide I choose:
Nothing he ever won, who fear'd to lose.

[Exit Francis. Enter Mrs. Beaumont and Clara.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
'Tis long since I have known so bright a day:
It seems as if the very skies above us
Beam'd with good wishes for our happiness.
But is there not a tear in Clara's eye?

Clara.
Mother, it is for joy to see you happy,

Mrs. Beaumont.
[Enter Francis.]

Francis.
You have. I'm in a cheerful mood to-day.
(Turning to Clara.)
Ah! what a lovely rose! a maiden blush!
Where was it gathered? But I need not ask:
The hue that mounting in your marble cheek
Vies with that delicate flower, betrays the giver.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Here is one, Frank, pluck'd by a lady's hand;
'Twas given to me, but meant (I think) for you.
Now guess the lady's name.

Francis.
And shall I guess
As I would hope?

Mrs. Beaumont.
You may.

Francis.
Then she is one
Whom you shall call your daughter, ere 'tis long.
I take the rose, and wear it next my heart.
Clara—what! all the colour gone already!
And such a solemn look! Nay, prithee, sister;
Your face must be array'd in other trim
By noontide: Philip's constancy deserves
That you should meet him with your choicest smiles.

Clara.
Francis, forbear to jest; it is not kind.

Francis.
In sooth, I jested not; I'm quite in earnest.

Clara.
But you forget your own admonishing,
To check ambitious views.

Francis.
It suited well
Our then forlorn estate: but humble thoughts
We may cast off with our necessities.
No painting now or scribbling for our bread:
You shall receive a noble dowry, sister.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Don't tease her, Frank.

Francis.
She oft has chidden me
Upon my gloomy and despondent looks.
Now 'tis my turn: I'll rally her, and chase
The melancholy humour from her brow.

Clara.
You're ever in extremes. Are we secure
Against the frowns of fortune?

Francis.
Let her frown
Hereafter as she lists. But while she's kind,
I'll bear me as becomes her favourite,
And hold my head as high as any man.

Clara.
Hold your head high, but not too high, my brother;
Nor let th' indulgence of an empty pride
Excite the world's ill-will.

Francis.
I'll use mankind
As they deserve. A plague upon their meanness!
Wealth makes them all your slaves. The spaniel race
Will lick the dust beneath the foot that spurns them.

Clara.
That wealth is safest, which offends no man.

Francis.
Who shuns offence, should live not in the world.
I scorn men's praise and I defy their censure.

Clara.
I will not blame your resolution,
So you do nothing to deserve their censure.

Mrs. Beaumont.
He has done nothing to deserve it, Clara.
It does me good to see him gay and cheerful.
Heaven keep him so, and bless you both, my children!

Scene II.

—A high road.
[Ralph Edwards alone.]
Edwards.

Three burglaries in one year, besides highway robbery and petty larceny! This is pretty well. Am I not getting too bold? But I was always a lucky dog. When I was at school, I used to steal apples and gingerbread, and other boys got whipped for it. But I've had a hard run for it this time —thirty miles without stopping! And here I am, in the old country again. Ha! let me see.—The last time I was about here, I had a queer adventure. It must have been two or

three months ago. I was very near being nabbed that night. I remember I got a bag of money about ten miles off—from an old milkwoman. She didn't want exactly to give it me—but I persuaded her by a little mild argument. I reached this town very late. It must have been two or three in the morning. What a fright I was in, when I heard the steps behind me! I slunk into the hedge, and who should go by but squire Beaumont's son? I knew him again. And then up came that rascal, the steward—and a strange story he told me—I didn't believe him, but I was glad to get off—I wonder if he's been hanged yet—I heard he was to be.

[Enter two constables, unperceived by Edwards, who stand watching him, then look at a paper, and make signs to each other.]

I mustn't stop very long in this neighbourhood, for fear of being known: though, to be sure, I never did much business here but a little poaching. I wonder who those men were that I saw in the Green Dragon. They looked rather hard at me. I wasn't sorry to get out of their way. Now I'm safe.

I mean to get some refreshment at a place I know not far from this town, where they give good accommodation for travellers; then I shall start off early, and I calculate I shall be far enough away by to-morrow evening. I must say, I've managed matters pretty well. My father used to say, I should be hanged or transported. I only wish he was alive, that he might see the difference. When I've realised a fortune, I shall just put myself into a steamer, and take my place for America; and then I can set up for a gentleman.

[The constables come up, and place themselves on each side of him.]
Constable.

You're the man we're looking for.

Edwards.

I rather think not.

Constable.

Isn't your name Giles?

Edwards.

I rather think it's something different.

Constable.

What is it, then?

Edwards.

What's that to you?

Constable.

Come, come; we've got a warrant against you. We know you.

Edwards.

Let me see it.

Constable.

That's very fine, I dare say. Didn't we see you at the Green Dragon? And don't we know that you broke open squire Morley's house. You'd better confess, and throw yourself on the queen's mercy.

Edwards.

Come, gentlemen, mind what you're about. I'm a respectable man, well known in these parts. Take care, or you'll get yourselves into a scrape.

Constable.

Your name's Giles, and you must come with us. Take him along, Jack.

Edwards.

My name's Edwards—Ralph Edwards—and if you don't mind your own business—

Constable.

Well—Edwards or Giles—it's all the same. You'll go to gaol. Come along.

Edwards.

This is the way they treat a hard-working man in a free country. Damn such liberty, say I.

[They take him away.]

Scene III.

—A room in Mr. Egerton's house.
[Mr. Egerton, Philip, Isabella, Mrs. Beaumont, Francis, and Clara. Wine on the table.]
Mr. Egerton.
Philip, I'll give a toast: you'll drink it, boy,
With heart and soul; and Isabella too
Shall raise the wine-glass to her lips, and smile.
I drink the rightful heir of Langley Park;
And may he live for many many years
Among his friends, in health and happiness.

[They drink the toast.]
Francis.
I thank you, sir. Your hospitable cheer
And this expression of your kind regard
I shall remember long. The sad events,
Which hang still heavily upon our spirits,
Do somewhat overcloud the present hour:
Yet, sir, (I speak, believe me, as I feel,)
There are no better comforters of grief
Than the warm looks and voices of your friends.

Mr. Egerton.
So, Walter still refuses to confess:

Francis.
And such a mass of fiction heaps together,
'Tis hard to glean a particle of truth.

Philip.
His last account is most incredible:
He forged the will, and quarrell'd with his master
About the distribution of the spoil:
Owning so much, why owns he not the rest?

Francis.
'Tis plain enough: he thinks a part-confession
Will get belief for what he doth deny;
And by th' avowal of a lesser crime
He may escape the greater punishment.
But cunning often overshoots the mark.

Philip.
His fate on earth is seal'd. May Heaven forgive him!
But come; 'tis cool and pleasant in the garden:
How say you, madam? shall we ramble forth,
Before the damper shades of evening fall?

Isabella.
Yes, come! The rays invite us thro' the window.
Look, Clara, how the dark green laurels glow
With mellow tints, as if they caught the light
From yonder bush of laughing honeysuckles;
And all the lawn is burnish'd with bright gold.
At noon 'twas sultry, and th' unclouded sun
Scorch'd every leaf and herb: but now he seems
Like some good spirit resting from his task
Of glory. Let us forth: I love to watch
His parting beams upon the distant hills.

[They rise and exeunt.]

Scene IV.

—The garden.
[Philip and Clara in front of the scene. Francis and Isabella in the back, walking together and talking.]
Philip.
Is the rose faded, that you wear it not—
The rose I gave you?

Clara.
Had I worn the rose,
It would have faded ere to-morrow's dawn.

Philip.
But had I seen the rose upon your breast
For one short hour, it would have given me joy.

Clara.
But sure, its absence cannot give you pain.

Philip.
The estimation of the gift doth oft
Denote the giver's value.

Clara.
And can Philip
Doubt my regard for him?

Philip.
Perhaps I doubt
Its nature, Clara. Yet a word from you
Can set my heart at rest. Oh, speak it then!
Say, shall this hand— You turn yourself away:
I am indeed unworthy; for I ask
A priceless jewel, and can offer nothing
But the devotion of a simple heart.

Clara.
Philip, I will be frank, for you deserve it;
My fears are for my own unworthiness;
And I am loth to bind your honest truth
To pledges that you might repent hereafter.
I pray you, therefore, think no more of this:
There are too many obstacles.

Philip.
Oh, no!
All are removed. My father gives consent;
And Francis meets me with a brother's love.
A word of sweet assurance from your lips
Is all I need to bless me.

Clara.
Do not ask it:
I dare not link another's fate with mine.

Philip.
You dare not?

Clara.
Something tells me, 'twould be wrong.
Ours is a house in which affliction reigns:
My father living, (as you partly know,
Or never had the mention pass'd my lips,)
It was a wretched scene of jarring strife:
He died, and it hath been the will of Heaven
To send us nothing but a change of trouble.
Bethink you; 'tis a maxim old and wise,
Never to seek alliance with misfortune.

Philip.
The maxim likes not me; for I would rather
Share Clara's sorrow than another's joy.
But courage! Bright expectancies are yours,
And 'tis not meet that past calamity
Should darken present joy and future hope.

Clara.
They who have drunk too deep of sorrow's cup
Lose their belief in human happiness.

Philip.
You are too young to look so gloomily
Upon your coming years. You must not, Clara.

[They walk on. Francis and Isabella come forward.]
Isabella.
How often we have play'd together here,
When we were children. Those were happy times.

Francis.
They were; and they will never come again.

Isabella.
They never will. Yet when I think of them,
I can foresee still happier days to come.

Francis.
What can renew that freshness of the heart,
That withers by contagion of the world?
What can restore the bloom of infancy,
So charming to behold, so quick to perish?

Isabella.
But when the blossoms fall, the fruits appear,
And show their splendours to the golden sun.
The child that knows no stain, is not more pure,
Nor yet more lovely in the eye of Heaven,
Than is the manly soul, whose grosser parts
The practice of high virtue hath refined.
And all in childhood is not purity:
Vice oft betrays itself in early years:
Orlando from a child was mean and spiteful.

Francis.
Talk not of him.

Isabella.
I well remember once,
Upon this lawn we play'd at blindman's-buff,
He tore my frock, and pushed me, and was rude;
You, in an instant—

Francis.
Isabel, no more!

Isabella.
From that time forth he ever hated you,
And I have seen him scowl—

Francis.
No more of him!
I cannot bear it.

Isabella.
Well, be calm: I will not.
Past injuries are buried in the grave;
And I was foolish to remind you of them.
Come see the little jessamine you planted,
How it has thriven. I have water'd it
Day after day, and train'd it with my hand,
Twining it round the oaken trellis-work,
Which now it clasps with lover-like embrace,
And whitens with a galaxy of flowers.

[They walk on. Philip and Clara come forward.]
Philip.
He is the hero of her waking dreams:
She loves him with a faith devout and holy,
As maidens loved their knights in olden time.
Be not offended—but I sometimes wish
You had a spark of Isabel's romance.

Clara.
Alas! we live not in a golden age:
The stern necessities of life forbid us
To put our faith in dreams.

Philip.
I stand reproved:
The wisdom that is capable to bear
The ills of life, and to perform its duties,
Is better than romance. I should have wish'd
That Isabella more resembled you.

Clara.
Nay, wrong not Isabel. She hath a courage
Would not desert her in the trying hour.
I would not have you misinterpret me:
There is a morbid fancy, which creates
And fashions for its own idolatry
Things that in nature have no place or meaning:
Call it romance or what you please—the mind
Infected with such idle fantasy
Is fitted ill for uses of the world.
But that imaginative lofty power,
Which in the form of things material sees
Divine relations, meanings, influences,
And lifts itself above this mortal sphere
To commune with the pure and the eternal,
Is reason's kin and virtue's best ally,
Prompting the soul to noble thought and deed,
Giving a charm to that which else were dull
And irksome in the doing. Sure I am,
Your sister hath a spark of this in her.

Philip.
I never am with you, but what I learn
Lessons of truth and wisdom.

Clara.
Nay: 'tis you
That draw me out, suggesting by a hint
What I express in over-many words.

Philip.
What? Clara turn'd a flatterer!

[They walk on. Francis and Isabella come forward.]
Francis.
Would you not like to travel, Isabel,
In foreign climes? In France, and Switzerland?

Isabella.
Oh, yes; and see the places I have read of,
But yet can scarcely picture in my mind.

Francis.
Could we explore some unfrequented spot,
Far from the haunts of men, and be alone!

Isabella.
I should not think it solitude with you.

Francis.
'Twould give me strange delight, to visit scenes
Where nature is most wild and terrible;
Deserts and mountains, glaciers, precipices,
That scare the young chamois, and over which
The strong-winged eagle trembles as he flies:
To hear the prison'd thunder moaning
In hollow clefts, with nought to answer it
But its own echo; or perchance to stand
Upon the summit of some cloudy crag,
And view the tempest-driven avalanche
Plunge in the vale below. All this we'll see.

Isabella.
Or it may be, on blue Geneva's lake
Some light-oar'd skiff, with merry flashing blade,
Shall waft us o'er the wave at eventide;
And while the moon lies mirror'd in the deep,
And giant Alpine shadows kiss the shore,
I'll take my lute, and softly to the tune
Of some remember'd song I'll touch the strings,
And charm the night with music.

Francis.
Isabel!

Isabella.
And when we cross to Italy's fair land,
With what devotion we should stand together
Amid the ruins of majestic Rome!
How charming over shores and plains to wander,
Where every fountain, every spot of ground
Is hallow'd by some classic memory:
Sweet Como, and the falls of Tivoli,
And piny waving slopes of Apennine,
And sunny Naples, with her rock and bay.

Francis.
We'll mount the crater of Vesuvius,
And think upon a time, when all the rock
Heav'd with convulsive throes, till from its womb
Wrapt in black clouds upsprang the monster-birth,
Choking the air, and mingling earth with heaven;
As if the might of huge Enceladus
Had risen from the grave, to wage rebellion
Against eternal Jove; then, like a storm
Of sulphurous hail shot from the angry gods,
It fell in burning floods upon the earth,
And laid whole towns in ashes.

Isabella.
I would fain
Dwell on the soft and joyous parts of nature.

[Philip and Clara come forward.]
Philip.
We've come to ask a favour, Isabel—
[He puts a guitar in her hand.]
A song of other days.

Clara.
Do sing us one.

Isabella.
[She sings.]

[A noise is heard without. Enter in haste and alarm, Mr. Egerton, followed by two officers of justice.]
Philip.
Who are these men?

Officer.
(Producing a warrant, and going up to Francis.)
You are our prisoner, sir.

Francis.
For what? Upon what charge?

Officer.
We have a warrant
To apprehend you on a charge of murder.

Isabella.
Oh, no! impossible! He's innocent!

[She is about to rush forward towards Francis, but is withheld by her father. Clara has grasped the arm of Philip, and looks on in terror.]
Francis,
(with a forced effort.)
Be not alarm'd. This is some new device,
Contrived by Walter and my enemies:
But I shall disconcert their wicked schemes.
Take note; I yield me up without demur
Unto the lawful warrant of these men.
'Tis nothing, dearest friends; but I must hence
To clear the mist which their foul calumnies
Have gather'd round me. All will soon be well.

ACT V.

Scene I.

—A prison.
[Francis Beaumont alone.]
Francis.
[The door is opened, and enter Clara Beaumont.]
Clara! Thank heaven!
[She takes his hand.]

Clara.
I? Oh, how?

Francis.
But will you?

Clara.
Show me how 'tis possible,
And ask not if I will.

Francis.
Remember you
The night on which the horrid deed was done?

Clara.
I do.

Francis.
'Twas done past midnight, 'twixt the hours
Of one and two.

Clara.
The evidence went thus.

Francis.
And I was at that time, and long before,
Far from the spot, and could not have been there.

Clara.
Can this be proved?

Francis.
It can—it must be proved.

Clara.
By whom?

Francis.
By you! Nay—start not! Hear me—
And ponder well my words. You must remember
I went to bed that night about eleven;
You sat up very late, till one or two,
About some work; and 'twas impossible
I could have left my room unseen by you.

Clara.
Alas! it was not so.

Francis.
I say, it was:
And, if you have forgotten, I remind you.
Stop—let me think—there was a picture, Clara,
You sat up late to finish, a Madonna—
You shake your head—I fear, your memory
Is weak; but let your courage be the stronger.

Clara.
What would you have me do?

Francis.
Depose to that,
Which, in my recollection, is the truth.

Clara.
But 'tis my own I swear by, not another's.

Francis.
And if 'twere false—

Clara.
O God!

Francis.
A sister's love
Might speak a word to save me.

Clara.
Francis, Francis!
Say, you are innocent; and I'll believe you,
Pray for you, bless you, suffer, die with you!
But this!—To sully my immortal soul
With perjury! To call upon my God
To witness falsehood, and in mockery
To bid him hurl his vengeance on my head!
You would not ask me this?

Francis.
Then I must die.

Clara.
Is there no way but this?

Francis.
None, Clara; none.

Clara.
If you are innocent—

Francis.
What boots me not.
My enemies have cast a net around me.
Craft must be met by craft, and falsehood parried—

Clara.
By truth—

Francis.
It cannot be. Appearances
Are strong against me. Clara! could you bear
To live a convict's sister, and a thing
For scorn to point at?

Clara.
Better that, than live
To scorn myself.

Francis.
Oh! for our mother's sake!

Clara.
She would not have me do't.

Francis.
Upon my knees—

Clara.
Stoop not to me, but pray for strength to God:
And oh, if there be aught you should repent—

Francis.
You will not save me then! A brother's curse—

Clara.
Hold! You will curse yourself!

[She grasps his arm. He shakes her off.]
Francis.
Hence from my sight,
Unnatural girl: begone!

Clara.
No! I will kneel
And you shall hear me. I who never pray'd
To any but my God, will pray to you,
My brother! Francis, 'tis your sister speaks.
Oh! think not of this hour, or of the next,
Or those which follow; for they are but shadows,
That crowded in a brief and narrow space
Shall in an instant vanish and be gone,
And you will wake from them, as from a dream,
To an eternal dread reality.

[The clock strikes.]
Francis.
Hark! 'tis the hour! O Clara, Clara, can you
Remember nothing?—Nothing?—I am lost.
[Enter the Gaoler.]
Prisoner, the bell has rung, and all is ready.
Lady, you must retire.

Francis.
But you'll be there—
Clara, you will be there!

Clara.
I will.

Scene II.

—Mr. Egerton's parlour.
[Mrs. Beaumont and Isabella.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
They've ta'en away my child, my only son.

Isabella.
He will return; be comforted.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Where is he?
I have not seen him now for many days.
There came two ugly men and took him hence:
They told me they should bring him home again,
Or I should not have parted with him so;
He spoke not to me.

Isabella.
They will bring him back:
And he shall be restored to you and me
And all of us; for he is innocent,
I'll pledge my life for it, he's innocent.
Oh, it has been a foul conspiracy.

Mrs. Beaumont.
May I not fetch him back?

Isabella.
Indeed you cannot.

Mrs. Beaumont.
And who are you that hinder me?

Isabella.
Nay, nay:
It is not I. Dear madam, look on me:
Why stare you thus, as if you knew me not?
Look kindly as you used. 'Tis Isabella.

Mrs. Beaumont.
You're not my daughter.

Isabella.
Yes, I am a daughter.
I ever will be one.

Mrs. Beaumont.
I know you not.
I want my Frank, my darling boy! he's lost.
I used to hear his voice; 'twas deep and full:
His eyes were dark and used to look me through:
I never see his like about me now.

Isabella.
Alas, 'tis piteous.

Mrs. Beaumont.
There was murder done:
They kill'd my nephew, and they said poor Francis—
No, it was Walter said—but none believ'd him.

Isabella.
'Twas monstrous!

Mrs. Beaumont.

Walter was tried, you know, and he told so many lies, that the jury laughed, but it was no laughing matter neither, for the judge condemned him to be hanged, and he well deserves to be, but I never heard the end of it, for nobody ever tells me anything. Do you know if he has been hanged?

Isabella.

Dear madam, do not talk of him.

Mrs. Beaumont.

I wasn't sorry for anything that happened to that steward, for he was always a mischief-maker, and it was he that made that wicked will. But the Lord has remembered them, and given us the estate again, and when Frank comes back, we shall go to live at the hall. Oh, how merry it was one day; Frank talked of what we would do when we got to the old place again, and what a glorious wedding we should have.

Isabella.
To hear her is distraction.

Mrs. Beaumont.
If the hall is ready, why can't we go?

Isabella.
You shall, you shall.

Mrs. Beaumont.
But when? Will Francis fetch me?
They told me he would very soon be here,
And I have been expecting every day
To hear his step upon the garden walk,
And yet he never comes.

Isabella.
He will. Have patience.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Patience! I have been waiting very long,
And I can wait no more: you all deceive me.

Isabella.
Father of heaven, oh hear my prayer—restore
To this forlorn one her beloved child!

Mrs. Beaumont.
He was his mother's boy; he loved his mother;
But if I vex'd him, he would fret and storm:
I never dared to cross his angry humour.

Isabella.
[She goes to the window.]

Mrs. Beaumont.
Heard you his step? The place is very strange.

Isabella.
O dreadful moment! when will it be over?

Mrs. Beaumont.
Clara, I say, fetch me my bonnet; Clara:
I will go meet him at the garden gate.
Which is the way? I know not where I am.

Isabella
(advancing towards her.)
Hush!

Mrs. Beaumont.
You are not Clara; she is tall to look on:
Why has she left me in this lonely house?

Isabella.
I hear their coming steps: O God, support me!

[Enter Mr. Egerton and Philip, who stand for a moment in a kind of stupor, then cover their faces with their hands.]
Isabella.
Where is he? Philip! Father! Speak to me!
Hide not your faces! Look on me! What mean you?
Speak, break this horrid silence! Speak, and kill me!

Philip.
O Isabella, 'tis the saddest day
That ever—

Isabella.
What? you cannot mean, you cannot—

Philip.
My heart is broken! Isabel, my sister,
The dearest fondest hopes we ever cherish'd
Are dash'd to earth, and nothing's left but woe.
O father, tell her all; I cannot speak it.

Mr. Egerton.
Alas, my daughter—Francis Beaumont—

Mrs. Beaumont.
Francis?
My Francis? Do you bring me news of him?

Mr. Egerton.
Oh, lead that wretched mother to her chamber:
This is no scene for her.
[Philip whispers to Mrs. Beaumont, and leads her out of the room.]
I scarce can speak the words, but you must hear them—
Francis—the jury have pronounced him guilty.

Isabella.
They have not dared commit so foul a wrong?

Mr. Egerton.
It was upon the clearest evidence.

Isabella.
I'd not believe it, tho' a thousand tongues
Had sworn a thousand oaths, and every one
Were register'd in heaven!

Mr. Egerton.
'Tis all too true.

Isabella.
'Tis false! They've murder'd him. He ne'er did wrong,
Or, if he did, it was to punish wrong,
To quell unbridled insolence and outrage:
And 'tis for this the world conspires against him.

Mr. Egerton.
It boots not to arraign the country's justice.

Isabella.
Talk not of justice, when the lives of men,
Of innocent men, the glory of their race,
Are at the mercy of the vilest wretch
Who with his mouth has forged an artful tale
Made current by the stamp of perjury.

Mr. Egerton.
The court were all agreed—the judge and jury—

Isabella.
An empty pageant and a mockery,
Where in the name of law and sanctity
Such things are done as fiends rejoice to look on!

Mr. Egerton.
I cannot wonder at her burst of grief:
It were enough to craze a stouter heart.
But O my daughter—

Isabella.
They may kill, destroy,
But never can they blast his innocence!
That in my heart still fresh and green shall live,
And be my solace to the latest hour.

Mr. Egerton.
There's one, methinks, to whom his innocence
Had been more precious even than to you:
She could say nothing, not a word to help him.

Isabella.
Said Clara nothing?

Mr. Egerton.
Had you seen the pangs
That rent that truthful bosom! Oh! the tears
Start in my aged eyes to think upon't.
It was a sight to melt the world in sorrow.

Isabella.
Where is she, father?

Mr. Egerton.
Faint and overcome
The servants laid her on the couch below.
[Isabella makes a motion to leave the room.]
Nay, go not near her yet; her spirit worn
With toil and anguish needs a brief repose.

[Enter Clara. Isabella rushes with a cry into her arms, and bursts into a paroxysm of tears. Mr. Egerton leads them to the couch, and makes them sit down. Isabella casts her head on Clara's bosom, still sobbing convulsively.]
Mr. Egerton.
Hush, daughter, hush!

Clara.
Let it have vent, dear sir,
Or else her heart will burst.

[Clara bends fondly over her.]
Isabella.
O Clara, Clara,
Can you not save him? Father, cannot you?

Mr. Egerton.
Impossible! The crime of murder—

[Isabella utters a shriek. Enter Philip.]
Clara.
Dear Isabel, be calm, and trust in God:
'Tis He must save him, save him from himself,
Save him to something better and more precious
Than a poor remnant of his mortal days.
Think, Isabel, on this, and pray for us.

Philip.
O sister, hearken to her angel voice:
She is all truth and goodness, born to be
A blessing to her own and all of us.

Clara.
Philip, to you and to your honour'd father
I have ow'd much, and I have yet to ask
One kindness more, one only—'tis the last.

Philip.
O Clara, say not so. Command my service
Now and for evermore! Your will is mine.

Mr. Egerton.
You may command us, lady; for I know
You will ask nothing which I may not grant.

Clara.
It is but this—to see him once again—
For a short moment. If you have the power,
If it may be, I do beseech you, sir—

Mr. Egerton.
See to it, Philip, instantly—

Philip.
I will.

[Exit Philip.]
[Isabella whispers something inaudibly to Clara.]
Clara.
Nay, nay!
This is for me alone—a sister's duty.
You too have yours—to bear these dreadful trials,
To cheer your father's home, to comfort him,
To guard his high and honourable name,
Exalt a parent's by a daughter's virtue.
Let courage look thro' sorrow, and behold
The term and end of all. Forgive me, sir;
I trouble you too long. I cannot thank you
As you deserve, nor e'er repay your kindness.
My mother needs my presence. Will you come,
Dear Isabel?

[Exeunt Clara and Isabella.]
Mr. Egerton.
There must be an hereafter, or this girl
Will not have justice from the laws of heaven.

Scene III.

—The prison.
[Francis alone.]
Francis.
The garden plot, the little casement window,
The holly bush, the rose-tree and the vine;
And those two angel forms, that up and down
The gravel-walk so oft with gentle tread
Moved arm in arm, or bent them o'er the flowers
To watch their growth or prune the wither'd leaves,
Or by the wicker gate so often stood
With anxious looks awaiting my return!
Why could I not be happy? Oh, my mother!
My sister! Still your voices I can hear,
Exhorting, comforting, persuading me:
And I was harsh and peevish with you both,
And yet ye ne'er reproach'd me! Soft ye were
And gentle as the blossoms of the spring,
And I have kill'd ye both! Your tender love
To me forsaken by the rest o' th' world
Was like a bright spot in the wilderness,
And I shall never never see you more.
Clara, thou best, thou truest-hearted one,
Thou like the bee that carols at her toil
Didst labour for the weal of those about thee,
And over all thou didst there hung a blessing:
But I must change the blessing to a curse!
I came and scatter'd poison in the path,
Turn'd all the sweetness of thy life to bane,
Thy cheerfulness of heart to shame and sorrow!

[The Tempter appears.]
Francis.
Detested phantom, art thou here again?

The Tempter.
Yes: I am here to aid thee with my counsel.

Francis.
What have thy counsels brought me to already?

The Tempter.
Blame not another for thine own misdeeds.

Francis.
'Twas thou didst set me in the path to evil.

The Tempter.
I did but show the way at thy request;
But thou didst rashly miss the road of safety,
And, like all blunderers, desirest now
To cast the blame on any but thyself.

Francis.
And therefore art thou come to scoff at me.

The Tempter.
Nay: thou hast lost but little, as I see.

Francis.
Life, honour, and good name; these are not much.

The Tempter.
I found thee calling lustily on death,
And death has heard thy voice; doth it repent thee?

Francis.
'Twas not a felon's death that I invoked.

The Tempter.
And thou didst crave revenge, and hast enjoy'd it;
But now perchance thou deem'st the price too dear.

Francis.
I reck not of myself: it is the shame
That follows; that will break my sister's heart,
And bring my wretched mother to the grave;
This is more dreadful than a thousand deaths.

The Tempter.
Thou wilt be hooted by the brutal mob,
And at thy sister men will point and say,
“The girl whose brother died upon the scaffold.”

Francis.
O horror, horror! is there no escape?
The rack, the torture, anything but this!

The Tempter.
Thou must thyself deliver thee.

Francis.
But how?

The Tempter.
Anticipate the sentence of the law,
And bravely as an ancient Roman die.

Francis.
Where can the means and instruments be found?

The Tempter.
Thy term of respite furnishes the means,
If thou hast strength and constancy to use it.
Resist the cravings of thy mortal hunger;
And ere the dawning of a seventh sun
Makes visible the darkness of thy cell,
Thou shalt be stretched upon this dismal floor
A corpse, and cheat the hangman of his office.

[The Tempter vanishes.]
Francis
(after a pause).
It must be so: I owe it to their love,
To make the dreadful sacrifice.

[Enter Clara.]
Francis.
My sister, can you bear to look on me?
Can you forgive a wretch, whose crimes have brought
Destruction on the heads of all who loved him?

Clara.
Ask pardon from above; you need not mine.

Francis.
I know, you come not to reproach me, Clara,
But I have done you wrong unspeakable:
And this, oh, this inflicts a deeper pang
Upon my guilty soul than all besides.

Clara.
Good, so 'tis order'd, out of evil flows,
Where it is rightly used. Oh, think on this—
Think, brother, ere the precious moments pass,
While there is time on earth.

Francis.
One earthly task
Remains for me: and you shall say hereafter,
That the last act of your unhappy Francis
Was what became a brother and a son.

Clara.
So 'tis a holy deed, I'll ever bless you.

Francis.
Clara, the guilty from his righteous doom
You could not rescue, nor 'twas meet you should.
But he shall rescue two beloved beings
From the last brand of infamy.

Clara.
What mean you?

Francis.
Were it not dreadful that your mother's child
Should perish by the hand of public justice?

Clara.
Alas, 'tis far more dreadful to deserve it.

Francis.
Oh, but the shame! 'tis horrible to think of.

Clara.
There is no earthly future for the dead.

Francis.
The shame will fall upon—but no! it shall not!
Hark to my words! I wait not for the hour
That calls me hence, but find a speedier way.

Clara.
Is this for our sakes, Francis?

Francis.
'Tis for yours.

Clara.
For ours, to bid defiance to your Maker
And rush from hence a rebel to His presence!
And can it be you love us?

Francis.
Yes, a love
Surpassing speech and deep as my despair.

Clara.
Revoke that fearful word, and know there's hope
For all who die in penitence and peace.
Oh, if indeed you love me, if you love
Her who has cherish'd both of us so fondly,
You could not leave us and resign the hope
Of meeting us again, of meeting there
Where those who love shall never more be parted.
Remember you when we were little children,
And knelt together every night and morn
Lifting our hands in innocence to God,
And lisp'd the artless prayer our mother taught us,
That we might go to heaven and both be happy?
Let it be thus again, and let us join—

Francis.
Alas, it is too late.

Clara.
'Tis never so.
We are God's children still, and he will hear us.
O Francis, all the shame, scorn, ignominy,
Distress, affliction, penury and pain,
All I can meet, endure, forget, regard not.
But for the dear companion of my childhood,
The partner of so many griefs and joys,
To quit this earth soul-harden'd, unbelieving,
Outcast from hope and happiness eternal—
'Tis agony to think of! Spare me this.
Have mercy on your sister, and so doing
You shall find mercy.

Francis.
Clara, dearest Clara—

Clara.
You weep: now heaven be prais'd! for those are tears
Of a relenting heart. Oh, let them flow
Free and uncheck'd: mine own are coming fast.
The spirit of our childhood wakes within us:
The sweetest of our early sympathies
Unite our souls again: oh may it prove
An earnest of the love that never dies.

Francis.
Our parent—you have spoken not of her—
Tell me—I dare not ask—

Clara.
The Lord in mercy
Hath put a veil between her and her woe,
That she is spared the misery of knowing
What 'tis divides you.

Francis.
Gracious God! And I
Have quench'd the light of reason in her soul,
And cast her unprotected on the world.
My sin lies heavy on me.

Clara.
In this world
She will have all she needs, all things but one.
She asks, speaks, thinks of you, of none but you:
And still they promise you shall come again,
And nothing else will calm or comfort her.
O brother, may that promise be fulfill'd,
When you shall see her in a happier world!
Then will the cloud which dims her human sense
Have pass'd away: may you behold her then
With brightness and celestial glory crown'd,
Among the heirs of light, in that blest place,
Where the remembrance of sublunar ill
Disturbs no more, but spiritual beings
Purged from the dross of earth, from sin redeem'd,
Holy with holy mingling, pure with pure,
In fellowship of joy like angels dwell.