The Widow's Tale and other Poems. By the Author of Ellen Fitzarthur [i.e. by C. A. Bowles] |
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| PRIDE AND PASSION:
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| I. |
| II. |
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 | The Widow's Tale |  |
153
PRIDE AND PASSION:
A DRAMATIC SKETCH.
154
[_]
Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations for major characters are as follows:
- For Har. read Hargrave
- For Hel. read Helena
- For Soph. read Sophia
- Hargrave.
- Helena.
- Sophia.
CHARACTERS.
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SCENE I.
A breakfast parlour in a country house. Afternoon.Hargrave. Helena.
Har.
Oh, Helena! whoe'er hath torn the veil
From errors long renounced—atoned for long,
If ever deep contrition made atonement—
Hath acted in his zeal.
Hel.
A true friend's part—
And saved me from the misery—the guilt
(Howe'er unconsciously incurred) of plighting,
At God's high altar, a pure, spotless faith,
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Approach with me the holy sanctuary,
That consciousness of guilt upon thy soul?
Har.
Yes, Helena! I should have ventured there
In humble confidence—God sees the heart,
And long ago His searching eye hath read
The deep, unfeigned penitence of mine—
He knew my purpose, ever to have proved
To thee a very faithful, tender husband—
He knew—yet, Helena! I do confess,
That in one point I still, still greatly erred—
I should have told thee all.
Hel.
Aye—that indeed
Had been a noble act of high souled candour!
Of brave unblushing boldness!—You'd have said—
“Helen! I left thee my betrothed wife,
And pledged, at parting, many solemn vows
Of love, and love's true faith—and called on Heaven
To witness what I spoke, and prosper me
Here and hereafter, as I kept it sacred.
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Mocking thy foolish, fond credulity—
And so I left thee, and in little space
Gat me another love, and laughed with her
At those unmeaning vows, and the weak girl—”
Har.
Injurious Helena! hast thou the heart—
Have I deserved—Oh, yes!—I have deserved
Rebuke, reproach, but not those bitter taunts—
'Tis true, “I left thee my betrothed wife,
And pledged, at parting, many solemn vows,
And called on Heaven to witness what I spoke,”
And still I call on Heaven, offended Heaven,
(For Helen! I have sinned 'gainst it and thee,)
To witness for me, never truer heart
Poured out sincerer, purer vows than those—
I left thee, Helen!—and a soldier's fate
Led me to foreign lands, through many scenes
Of hardship, danger, death,—and thou wert still
The solitary star that on mine heart
Beamed consolation, when no ray beside
Broke thro' the darkened heavens.—At last I came
Where death in all his terrors reigned supreme,
Reaping the spotted harvest of the plague—
His garners overflowed—the people fell,
Rank after rank, till scarcely some were left
To gather in the sheaves. All Nature's ties,
All human sympathies, were broken down—
Friends forsook friends—fond husbands left their wives,
And wives their husbands—children fled away
From their expiring parents—mothers heard
Their dying infants wail, and started from them—
And I, a stranger—I, unknown—unloved—
Caught the infection—and I should have perished,
I must have perished—but that one kind wretch,
One faithful creature, risked her life for mine—
A poor Mulatto girl—a slave—oh, Helen!
Be not offended, if my voice, e'en now,
Ev'n before thee, with falt'ring gratitude,
Pronounces Abra's name.
Have I deserved—Oh, yes!—I have deserved
Rebuke, reproach, but not those bitter taunts—
'Tis true, “I left thee my betrothed wife,
And pledged, at parting, many solemn vows,
And called on Heaven to witness what I spoke,”
And still I call on Heaven, offended Heaven,
(For Helen! I have sinned 'gainst it and thee,)
To witness for me, never truer heart
Poured out sincerer, purer vows than those—
I left thee, Helen!—and a soldier's fate
Led me to foreign lands, through many scenes
Of hardship, danger, death,—and thou wert still
The solitary star that on mine heart
Beamed consolation, when no ray beside
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Where death in all his terrors reigned supreme,
Reaping the spotted harvest of the plague—
His garners overflowed—the people fell,
Rank after rank, till scarcely some were left
To gather in the sheaves. All Nature's ties,
All human sympathies, were broken down—
Friends forsook friends—fond husbands left their wives,
And wives their husbands—children fled away
From their expiring parents—mothers heard
Their dying infants wail, and started from them—
And I, a stranger—I, unknown—unloved—
Caught the infection—and I should have perished,
I must have perished—but that one kind wretch,
One faithful creature, risked her life for mine—
A poor Mulatto girl—a slave—oh, Helen!
Be not offended, if my voice, e'en now,
Ev'n before thee, with falt'ring gratitude,
Pronounces Abra's name.
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She tended me
(My nurse, physician,) when all others fled
The pestilential chamber where I lay.
She watched the crisis—fanned into a flame,
The pale, uncertain, glimm'ring sparks of life—
Nursed my long weakness—with exhaustless art
Devised a thousand comforts, and at last,
Led me, supported by her faithful arm,
To taste the blessed air; which but for her,
I never, never should have breathed again—
The joy that sparkled in her large dark eyes,
When she espied health's kindling rays in mine!
But when I spoke of gratitude, reward,
Dimmed with a sudden mist, they sought the ground,
And when I pressed her further, all she said,
Was “Think of Abra, when you're far away,
In your own country—in your English land—
Remember Abra.”
(My nurse, physician,) when all others fled
The pestilential chamber where I lay.
She watched the crisis—fanned into a flame,
The pale, uncertain, glimm'ring sparks of life—
Nursed my long weakness—with exhaustless art
Devised a thousand comforts, and at last,
Led me, supported by her faithful arm,
To taste the blessed air; which but for her,
I never, never should have breathed again—
The joy that sparkled in her large dark eyes,
When she espied health's kindling rays in mine!
But when I spoke of gratitude, reward,
Dimmed with a sudden mist, they sought the ground,
And when I pressed her further, all she said,
Was “Think of Abra, when you're far away,
In your own country—in your English land—
Remember Abra.”
Then, a sudden thought
Flashed o'er my mind—a sudden, painful thought,
And I looked earnestly into her eyes,
Fearing to read—Alas! I read too much—
There was a troubled pause—no word was spoken—
No sigh was breathed—no look was interchanged—
Only the arm fleant on, slightly trembled—
At last, I broke the silence—broke it, Helen!
To speak of thee, of thee! to the poor Abra—
I told her, that my future wife would pray
For blessings on my kind deliv'rer's head—
But at the name of wife, her dusky cheek
Grew to an earthier darkness, and her lip
Quivered a moment—her white ashy lip—
But not a word she uttered—till at last,
Raising her eyes, (oh, Helen! I were less
Than human had I met that look unmoved,)
“Perhaps,” she said, “if you would ask it of her,
The English lady—your—your wife, would take
Abra for slave.”
Flashed o'er my mind—a sudden, painful thought,
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Fearing to read—Alas! I read too much—
There was a troubled pause—no word was spoken—
No sigh was breathed—no look was interchanged—
Only the arm fleant on, slightly trembled—
At last, I broke the silence—broke it, Helen!
To speak of thee, of thee! to the poor Abra—
I told her, that my future wife would pray
For blessings on my kind deliv'rer's head—
But at the name of wife, her dusky cheek
Grew to an earthier darkness, and her lip
Quivered a moment—her white ashy lip—
But not a word she uttered—till at last,
Raising her eyes, (oh, Helen! I were less
Than human had I met that look unmoved,)
“Perhaps,” she said, “if you would ask it of her,
The English lady—your—your wife, would take
Abra for slave.”
But I have told enough;
Officious malice hath possessed thine ear
With the unhappy sequel; with—my guilt—
But, Helena! it hath not told thee all—
It hath not told thee how repentance struck,
(Bitter repentance of the wrong to thee,)
At last, I offered for atonement up
The broken heart of Abra. Yes, she died!
Died uncomplaining; blessing me she died,
Me, her destroyer—for the stroke was home,
Unerring when I told her we must part;
And e'er I sailed for England, in the grave
I saw her laid at rest—But, oh! her wrongs,
Helen! her wrongs have not been buried with her—
There is a secret chamber in mine heart
Where they are stampt in fiery characters—
And there are moments—
Officious malice hath possessed thine ear
With the unhappy sequel; with—my guilt—
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It hath not told thee how repentance struck,
(Bitter repentance of the wrong to thee,)
At last, I offered for atonement up
The broken heart of Abra. Yes, she died!
Died uncomplaining; blessing me she died,
Me, her destroyer—for the stroke was home,
Unerring when I told her we must part;
And e'er I sailed for England, in the grave
I saw her laid at rest—But, oh! her wrongs,
Helen! her wrongs have not been buried with her—
There is a secret chamber in mine heart
Where they are stampt in fiery characters—
And there are moments—
'Twas my first design
To have laid open my whole heart to thee:
Its guilt, its anguish, its remorse—Oh, Helen!
That I had yielded to the warning voice
Of my good angel! But an evil genius,
(Has not the same been busy with thine ear?)
Wearing the mask of friendship, came betwixt us,
And counselled me, that I should spare myself
The shame, and thee the insult of a story,
Already shrouded in the night of death—
I listened—wavered—and the wrong prevailed
Over the better reason; and I met thee
(For the first time) with conscience-clouded looks,
And with a heart that had its dark reserves—
How many a time have I repented since
That guilty weakness! Ev'ry word and look
That spoke the innocent confidence of thy heart
Pierced mine as with a dagger. Now at last,
Tho' late, (and thou wilt say compelled,) I've spread
Its inmost foldings open to thy view—
Oh, Helena! bruise not the broken reed—
Whom God hath stricken, be not thou extreme
To judge and punish. Helena! this hand
Should have been mine to-morrow—Oh! be noble,
Withdraw it not, and—What! you snatch it from me?
To have laid open my whole heart to thee:
Its guilt, its anguish, its remorse—Oh, Helen!
That I had yielded to the warning voice
Of my good angel! But an evil genius,
(Has not the same been busy with thine ear?)
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And counselled me, that I should spare myself
The shame, and thee the insult of a story,
Already shrouded in the night of death—
I listened—wavered—and the wrong prevailed
Over the better reason; and I met thee
(For the first time) with conscience-clouded looks,
And with a heart that had its dark reserves—
How many a time have I repented since
That guilty weakness! Ev'ry word and look
That spoke the innocent confidence of thy heart
Pierced mine as with a dagger. Now at last,
Tho' late, (and thou wilt say compelled,) I've spread
Its inmost foldings open to thy view—
Oh, Helena! bruise not the broken reed—
Whom God hath stricken, be not thou extreme
To judge and punish. Helena! this hand
Should have been mine to-morrow—Oh! be noble,
Withdraw it not, and—What! you snatch it from me?
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I take it from you, Hargrave—not believe me
Now in the heat of anger—that is past,
And I have listened with attentive patience,
(Strange calmness, some would call it,) to a story
That had I learnt from your own lips at first—
From your own honorable impulse—then—
Yet even then, it had been weak in me,
Degrading weakness, to have gathered up
The shreds and relics of a broken faith—
But I was spared the trial: you were still
Consistent in deception, and for me
No more remains, than now, for the last time—
Har.
Stop, Helen! take a moment's time to think,
Before you utter what—Oh, Helen! Helen!
Be not too hasty—we are all of us
(The very best) weak, frail, offending creatures,
Yet God forgives! and you His creature also,
And, therefore, Helen! liable to err,
Have you no mercy? no relenting softness?
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Absolving pity? Think, oh think a moment,
How blessed to forgive!
Hel.
I do forgive—
E'en as I hope to be myself forgiven—
I do forgive you—pity you—if possible,
Would part from you in peace and charity:
But, Hargrave—thence I swerve not—we must part—
Har.
And you can say it!—you can speak the word
With that composed voice, “and that calm eye;”
And you are she that for so many years!
Oh, Helen! Helen! is it come to this?—
With that composed voice, “and that calm eye;”
And you are she that for so many years!
Oh, Helen! Helen! is it come to this?—
But now I see it all—you never loved me,
Or, if you did, some other, newer choice—
Or, if you did, some other, newer choice—
Hel.
Dare not insult me with the thought—another!
And have I never loved thee? Hargrave! Hargrave!
I know my faults—I have a passionate spirit
A passionate, proud, spirit—proudly cold,
Reserved, indiff'rent to the common eye—
Not prone to sudden friendship—easy trust—
Affection, hov'ring, like an idle moth,
From flower to flower—but once attached, more firm
Than rock of adamant—once fixed in faith,
More unsuspicious than a little child's
Confiding fondness!—And I have loved thee!—
I would have followed thee thro' all the world,
I would have borne all evils for thy sake,
All degradations, not by guilt incurred:
Thy honor was my honor—I was proud
(Too proud) of what my fancy painted thee—
Had all the world accused thee, I alone
Had stood out singly against all the world.
In faith unshaken—even now—just now,
I silenced thine accuser, and to thee
Came in the pride of boundless confidence—
And have I never loved thee? Hargrave! Hargrave!
I know my faults—I have a passionate spirit
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Reserved, indiff'rent to the common eye—
Not prone to sudden friendship—easy trust—
Affection, hov'ring, like an idle moth,
From flower to flower—but once attached, more firm
Than rock of adamant—once fixed in faith,
More unsuspicious than a little child's
Confiding fondness!—And I have loved thee!—
I would have followed thee thro' all the world,
I would have borne all evils for thy sake,
All degradations, not by guilt incurred:
Thy honor was my honor—I was proud
(Too proud) of what my fancy painted thee—
Had all the world accused thee, I alone
Had stood out singly against all the world.
In faith unshaken—even now—just now,
I silenced thine accuser, and to thee
Came in the pride of boundless confidence—
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Oh, Hargrave! Hargrave! thine own lips alone
Should have convinced me—And ev'n now, methinks
I do but dream.—Oh! tell me 'tis a dream,
Tell me thou hast not wronged, abused my love—
Tell me thou'rt still what I have ever thought thee,
And I'll believe thee—still believe thee, Hargrave!
Should have convinced me—And ev'n now, methinks
I do but dream.—Oh! tell me 'tis a dream,
Tell me thou hast not wronged, abused my love—
Tell me thou'rt still what I have ever thought thee,
And I'll believe thee—still believe thee, Hargrave!
Har.
Oh! spare me, Helen—dearest, blessed Helen!
Spare me this torture—is there not—there is!
There is a melting softness in thine eyes!
Oh! do not hide it—do not dash away
That gracious tear—'tis Heav'n's own messenger,
Of peace and hope, to a repentant soul.
Hel.
'Tis the last coward sign of woman's weakness—
But we have talked too long—for both our sakes,
Best speak at once, the word that must be spoken
Hargrave!—farewell.
Har.
Obdurate, heartless woman!—
Helen! the time may come that you will wish—
Think what it is to drive me to despair—
From all hope here, and it may be—oh, Helen!
While there is time—there is yet time—reflect—
Nay, I will take your hand—E'en friends at parting—
You said that we should part in charity!
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Think what it is to drive me to despair—
From all hope here, and it may be—oh, Helen!
While there is time—there is yet time—reflect—
Nay, I will take your hand—E'en friends at parting—
You said that we should part in charity!
Part! part! from whom?—thee, my to-morrow's bride,
And you might yet recall with one poor word—
Might save me yet—and God would bless you for it—
Oh speak it Helena!—one word!—
And you might yet recall with one poor word—
Might save me yet—and God would bless you for it—
Oh speak it Helena!—one word!—
Hel.
Farewell!—
[Hargrave lets fall her hand, looks on her steadfastly for a moment, and rushes from the room. Helena makes a motion as if to recall him,—but quickly recovers herself, and turning to the mantle-piece leans on it
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Enter Sophia.
Sophia.
Misguided sister!—Oh! for all the world
I would not have to answer as you may,
For the unhappy fruits of this rash action.
Hel.
Well, well, your conscience is not burthened with it.
Leave mine to its own reck'ning—leave me, sister!
It had been more considerate, more kind,
Not to have broken in upon a moment
Of feeling—somewhat painful.—
Soph.
Somewhat painful!
Helen! I've been your comforter before
In many sorrows—nay, you've often wept,
And said it did you good, upon my bosom—
What have I done to forfeit now mine office?
Hel.
Nothing, dear sister! nothing, my kind sister!
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(Ev'n yours, Sophia,) jars my very soul—
In pity, leave me now to mine own thoughts.
Soph.
Not without one attempt—one last endeavour
To win thee from thy heart's, severe resolve—
Oh, sister! had you seen his agony!—
I met him rushing wildly from the house:
He would have passed me, but I spoke, and then
He started, stopt, and caught, and wrung my hand:
Began some rapid, incoherent sentence,
I scarce know what—then broke it off abruptly,
Grasped my hand hard, and in a smothered voice
Said, “Farewell, sister!” and was gone—Oh Helen!
How could you drive him forth in such a state?
Has he not grown up almost like a brother
With you and I!—Our mother loved him dearly!
She placed your hand in his upon her death-bed,
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Pledged vows of mutual faith, which—
Hel.
He has broken—
You plead well, sister—against Hargrave's cause.
Soph.
I ever thought you gen'rous, noble minded:
Yet you give credence to the vile aspersions
Of that insidious wretch! that base Trevylian!—
Hel.
He! the contemptible! I spurned him from me,
He and his lies with such indignant scorn!—
Soph.
Then it was false!—I knew it!
Hel.
Partly false,
But much remained, I never had received
As truth, from any lips save Hargrave's own—
He! he! confessed—telling the tale, indeed,
With such extenuating circumstance,
That had I learnt it first from his own act
Of honorable, self-accusing candor—
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I could forgive the crime—but its effect,
That mean deception! Can I swear to honor
The man whose disengenuous artifice
My soul despises?—And the insult, too—
The fond, deceived, confiding fool he thought me!
Soph.
Sister! there is a heinous sin called Pride—
It pulled the angels down from Heaven to Hell.—
Hel.
Art thou an angel, to rebuke me thus?
Soph.
No angel, Helen! but thine only sister,
The daughter of thy mother, from our birth,
The faithful sharer of thy pains and pleasures—
The humble sharer, for I always knew
Thou had'st a mind and fancy soaring far
Above the lowly, common track of mine—
But, sister! “'tis not always to the swift
The race is giv'n—the battle to the strong”—
I have no wisdom save the borrowed light
Reflected from my Bible—there I read
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From our long suff'ring Judge—'tis written, too,
That “blessed are the peace-makers,” and therefore,
My sister! I have ventured to assume
That holy office—Oh! for words of power—
To melt, persuade, subdue thy stubborn heart!
Hel.
I cannot quote as thou dost, sacred texts
To illustrate all subjects—yet I read
And reverence the Scriptures—and I think
'Tis somewhere written—“Have no fellowship
With the deceitful.”—
Soph.
Are you not afraid—
(If he has erred, so much the more afraid)
To bar him out from hope—perhaps from virtue?
Say, that, to drown reflection, he should plunge
Into a gulf of riotous excess,
Of desp'rate courses. Could you hear it, Helen!
Without a pang? a self-convicting pang
And he is warm and hasty.—Like yourself
Acutely sensitive, and over apt
To leave the rein of his high spirit loose
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He has been ill so lately, and so ill!
What if the agitation of his mind
Should re-excite the scarcely smothered sparks
Of that brain fever!
Hel.
Peace!—you'll drive me mad!
Go—leave me, I command you—vex me not
Beyond my patience—What! you will not go?—
Then I must fly from persecution.—
Soph.
Stay!—
[Sophia catches the gown of Helena to detain her. Helena strikes down her sister's hand with violence.]
Hel.
Obstinate fool! how dare you tempt me thus? [Sophia shrinks back, her eyes sorrowfully fixed upon the ground. Helena stands
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Oh, sister! sister!—but my heart was breaking—
Soph.
My poor, poor Helena! thy sister's heart
Bleeds for thy anguish.
Hel.
What! can you forgive me?—
And yet I struck you!—I believe I struck you—
Struck down the gentle hand of the best sister!
Soph.
I was in part to blame—I should have waited
Till thy vexed spirit had regained a tone
Of more composure.
Hel.
Ever thus, my sister!
Thou art thyself—thy mild forgiving self!
Arraigning always for another's fault
Thy dove-like nature—I, alas! have heired
The fiery rashness of my father's spirit—
Our gentle mother bequeathed hers to thee.
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Come, dearest! be composed—no more of this—
Not if you love me.—Let me tempt you forth
Into the garden, with the balmy air
To inhale (as 'twere) calm thoughts—There's not, methinks,
A more reviving cordial, for a sick
And harassed spirit, than the sight of Nature:
Her rural aspect of untroubled beauty,
The holy music of her eloquent voice,
Whispering in every breeze. Come, Helen, dear!
To our own seat beneath the twin Acacias—
Thou can'st refuse me nothing in their shade,
For they were planted by our infant hands,
And our dear mother christened them the sisters—
And bade us grow like those young trees together,
Pure as their snowy blossoms—in our hearts
United like their interwoven boughs.
[Exeunt.
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SCENE II.
Evening. A room opening to a garden by a glass door. Writing materials, and a folded letter lying on a table. Helena and Sophia sitting together on a sofa near the open glass door.Soph.
That's my best sister! then you've sent your answer?
Hel.
More than an hour ago—I almost wonder
It has not brought him yet—He thinks, perhaps,
'Twould compromise his dignity to appear
At the first summons.
Soph.
Probable conjecture!
He who went hence some three, four hours ago
In such a state of pitiable distress!
Who penned in agony of heart that note
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Before he left this place and you for ever!
Hel.
Aye, at some journey, some immediate journey
He hinted in his note—I wonder whither?
Soph.
His man, who brought the note, told ours his master
Had given him orders to have all prepared
For sudden, it might be, this night's, departure.
Hel.
Perhaps he went before my answer reached him?
Soph.
Nay, dear! he would not go without his servant—
It does my heart good, but to guess the feelings
With which he read your answer—that reprieve
From death to life.
Hel.
And yet, I hope, Sophia!
I did not write as if I cared too much—
As if—as if—
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Nay, Helena! fear nothing—
Put not the galling curb of pride, my sister!
Upon the gen'rous warmth of virtuous feeling.
There are occasions (this, I think, is one,
Noble forgiveness of repented error,)
When it is beautiful to see the heart
Burst those unmeaning, selfish, cold restraints,
Called in the jargon of a heartless world,
Prudent reserve—decorum—proper pride.
Hel.
But yet he comes not, and its getting late:
'Tis a dark evening—there's a storm abroad—
Hark!—that was thunder.
Soph.
Yes—the clouds all day
Have been assembling, and it seemed at sunset
As if the lightnings (ready to dart out)
Glared with red wrath behind their volumed darkness.
Hel.
And Hargrave has a mile to walk—I wish
He may escape the storm.
179
He will not heed it—
Who thinks of storms with sunshine in the heart?
Hel.
There!—what a flash!—that was forked lightning, sister—
Perhaps he'll come, as is his custom often,
Straight through the garden to this door—
Straight through the garden to this door—
Soph.
Perhaps—
But if he does, we scarcely shall discern him
('Tis grown so dark) till he is close at hand.
But if he does, we scarcely shall discern him
('Tis grown so dark) till he is close at hand.
What massy blackness shrouds the clust'ring shapes
Of those tall evergreens! That forward group—
What gloomy, tomb-like shadows it flings down!
Of those tall evergreens! That forward group—
What gloomy, tomb-like shadows it flings down!
Hel.
One moved, methought—there!—do you see it move?
Soph.
'Tis the long tremulous shade of yonder cypress
Waving across the path.
180
What stirred its top?
There's not a breath of air.
Soph.
Some sudden puff,
Gone in a moment:—often before thunder
There are such stifled gaspings, as if nature
Struggled for breath—and hark! the shiv'ring leaves
(With agitated consciousness, 'twould seem,)
Announce the coming tempest—there it rolls—
But very distant.
Hel.
But 'twill soon be here,
And Hargrave's road leads through that very hollow,
Where the young sycamore was struck by lightning
In the last storm.
Soph.
But Hargrave will not stop
On his road here, on such an errand too,
To take the dang'rous shelter of the trees—
Besides—he'll reach us long before the storm—
We'll shut it out—I'll ring for lights—
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No, no,
Not for the world—I always loved, you know,
To watch the awful working of the heavens
On such an evening—at what hour d' you think
Was his note dated? 'tis too dark to see—
[Helena goes towards the writing table, takes up the folded letter, and utters a cry of surprise.]
Hel.
What have I done! oh, God! I've sent the wrong—
Soph.
(Running to her.)
Dear sister?
Hel.
His own letter I've sent back—
Here's mine sealed up—send some one off—fly—fly,
But 'tis too late—he's gone! he's gone already!
And I ------
[The report of a pistol heard from the garden. Helena screams and runs out, followed by her sister.]
182
[A dim light—tall trees on every side. A walk skirted on one side by a sloping grass bank, topped with dark evergreens. Hargrave on the ground leaning against the bank, his head resting on Helena's shoulder, who is kneeling by him. A pistol lies on the walk. Female servants. Sophia giving hurried orders to a male domestic.]
Soph.
Fly—'tis for life and death!—and bring him with you—
Begone like lightning—
Har.
Too, too late, kind sister,
Before he comes—Oh, Helen! I've obeyed thee—
Helen! I go for ever—
Hel.
Hargrave! Hargrave!
Kill me—thy words will do it.
Soph.
Wretched man!
Rash, rash, mistaken man! what hast thou done?
She had recalled thee with forgiving love—
183
(Oh, fatal error!) sent back thine own letter
In lieu of hers.
Har.
Recalled me! Helen! love!
Bless thee for that—but, oh! my frantic haste!
The sight of mine own letter—my last hope
Contemptuously returned—it drove me mad!
It drove me—but—perhaps—I may not die—
The wound may not be mortal—Oh! I feel
That I would give for one poor year of life
More than—Oh, Helena!
Hel.
Thou shalt not die!
Is there no help? You all stand gazing there,
And none of you—what's this? oh, God! oh, God!
My bosom's wet with blood! his blood! his blood
Will no one stir for help? he'll bleed to death.
Har.
Aye, aye, 'tis death!—I called, and he is come—
And thou forgavest me—and all might yet
But for mine own rash folly have been well—
184
My Helen!—thou forgivest?
Hel.
Hear him! hear him!—
He mocks me with his dying breath—he sues
In bitter irony to me for pardon—
Oh, cruel!—my forgiveness—and I've killed him
Har.
Oh, no! oh, no!—thou'rt blameless—I alone
Was guilty from the first—my only love!
Mine, mine in death!—Oh! comfort her, Sophia!
Don't tell my mother how her son—Oh, God!
My poor fond mother!
Hel.
What's her grief to mine?
She's not thy murd'ress—never steeled her heart
As I did mine against thy prayers—break, heart!
Proud, sinful heart! break, break, and pay for—
Har.
She faints—or art thou gone before, my Helen!
To await me—where? There is no place in Heav'n
185
I see the flaming sword—it flashes—there!—
[Lightning.
Soph.
Oh, Hargrave—God is pleased to give thee time—
Time to repent—lift up thine heart in prayer—
His mercy's infinite.
[A crash of thunder over head.
Har.
Lo! there, His voice!—
Is that a call to judgment? Mercy, Jesu!—
[Dies.
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