University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Cranston's Office.
Lady Grace, Captain de Courcy, Cranston, seated at a table with writing materials.
CRANSTON.
And this is all?

LADY GRACE.
He tells me it is all;
I am sure his word is true.

DE COURCY.
O, have no fears!
If in your bounty you release me now,
I know the weight and weariness of debt,
And shall eschew it.

LADY GRACE.
Promise not too much;
Only be true with me. I cannot measure
The height of your temptations.

DE COURCY.
There it is.
You cannot know how life besets a fellow.
You women have no wants;—at least, I mean
You women do so happily without
The things you want. We, who are men, must have them;
And therefore, meaning well, we spend too much
Against our will, because we cannot help it.
But, I'll be careful now.

LADY GRACE.
I am sure you will.
(To Cranston.)
Give me the paper.

(Cranston places a paper before her and stands behind her chair, pointing over her shoulder.)
CRANSTON.
Here you write your name.

LADY GRACE,
signs it.
I am glad my little name can do so much.

CRANSTON.
It can do all. (She looks up.)
I mean no mystery;
'Tis the name ever, writ below the page,
That gives the page its force. The words that heal
Or wound, from one, are, if another sign them,
Merely a gust of vacant syllables.

LADY GRACE,
giving Captain de Courcy the paper.
There, nephew; not a sound,—I'll have no thanks;
Only be true to me.

DE COURCY,
kissing her hand.
I were too false
For pity, were I false to you.

LADY GRACE,
to Cranston.
My thanks
Are largely yours, for all your words were help
Which the kind utterance doubled. In your hands
I have left (you know it) twice the sum there told;
(She touches the paper.)
And, in your presence, let my nephew hear
He may draw it when he needs it,—he, the judge,
Not I, nor you; you counselled me to trust him,
And thus I follow counsel. I'll not know
When it is spent, nor how; I'll only pray you
(To Captain de Courcy.)
To spend it with a little nobleness.
There are such mighty wants in all the world
To wring our human pleasures from our grasp!
Give something for a cause, not all for self,
Which, being pampered, suffers. So, farewell.

(Exit Lady Grace.)
DE COURCY.
More thanks than language holds! A fair escape;
Only a text; it might have been a sermon.
Well, she's a generous woman. (To Cranston.)
Now the money.

CRANSTON.
You have it in your hand.

DE COURCY.
Ay, but the rest.
You heard the lady; neither when nor how
Will she inquire the fashion of the giving;
So let the when be now; the how, in notes,
Crisp, clean, and cheery Bank of England notes.
Well, Sir?

CRANSTON.
I heard you say your debts were paid.
This haste—

DE COURCY.
Pshaw, man, there is no harm in haste.
One cannot tell a woman all one's debts.
Go, you're a man of the world.

CRANSTON,
turning on him sharply.
No, I am not,—
Not of your world. Mine has another manner,
And keeps a thought of honour in its heart.
There, take your gold.

(Pushes a portfolio to him and sits down at the table, turning his back.)
DE COURCY,
takes the portfolio.
The manners of your world
Are truly not like mine. (Aside.)
I hit him there.
These working fellows can't be gentlemen.

(Exit.)
CRANSTON,
alone.
Deceived, poor heart! O, if I were thy fate,
Thy life should be a lovely melody,
Where, to the gentle question of a pause,
Some added charm still answers, till the end
When all the measured flowing rests at last.
It cannot be. Were it but to stretch my hand
I must not. I to drag her from her height!
Besides I have this letter on my soul,
Pressed by her dying lord into my hands.
(Takes out a letter and reads.)

“If my wife marries again, as I earnestly desire that she may not, she shall forfeit by the act half her fortune, which shall pass to my nephew, and the other half shall be secured to her second husband for his sole use and behoof. A sealed codicil to this effect is deposited in my lawyer's hands,

but I desire that this my determination be kept secret from my wife, and not revealed to her save in the event of her marriage.”

'Twere base to woo her in the dark, I knowing
What dawn will show. I am barred from her for ever.
Fie, what a jest! I am barred from that which lies
Utterly out of reach, and dream I touch it!
Yet—yet—when last she graced me with a look,
I found a tender shadow in her eyes.
Nay, if it be so, I must close mine own.
I have so much of manhood that I choose
Despair betore dishonour.

(Exit.)