University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Room.
Wentworth, Amelia.
Amel.
You have determined then on sending Charles
To India?

Went.
Yes.

Amel.
Poor boy! he looks so sad and pale,
He'll never live there. 'Tis a cruel lot
At best, to leave the land that gave us birth,
And sheltered us for many a pleasant year;
The friends that loved us and the spots we loved,
For such a distant country. He will die.
Remember,—'tis Amelia's prophecy.
Oh! do not be so harsh to the poor youth.
Do not desert your better nature. Nay—
You will not send him, Wentworth?

Went.
He will sail
In twenty days.

Amel.
How can you be so cruel.
He shall not go.

Went.
Madam, you interest
Yourself too much, methinks, for this young man.
His doom is settled; that be sure of.

Amel.
Sir!

Went.
I say your tenderness, your—folly for
This boy becomes you not.

Amel.
Away, away.

Went.
Madam, while you are Godfrey Wentworth's wife,
These tender—friendships must be laid aside.
Oh! you can smile. By—

Amel.
Mr. Wentworth, you
(I must believe it) jest: you jest with me.

Went.
Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool.
Woman, my eyes are open; wide awake,
To you, and all my infamy. By heaven,
I will not be a bye word and a mock
In all the mouths of men, for any—Pshaw!
I still respect your ears, you see; I—

Amel.
You
Insult me, Sir.

Went.
Forgive me: I indeed
Am somewhat of a prude; you'll scorn me for it.
I still think women modest—in the mass.

Amel.
Sir—Mr. Wentworth—you have used me ill.
Yourself you have used ill. You have forgot
All—what is due to me—What to your wife.
You have forgot—forgot—can I forget
All that I sacrificed for you?—my youth,
My home, my heart—(You know—you knew it then)
In sad obedience to my father's word?
You promised to that father (how you kept
That promise, now remember) you would save
His age from poverty: he had been bred
In splendour, and he could not bow him down,
Like men who never felt the warmth of fortune.
He gave me up, a victim; and I saw
Myself (ah! how I shuddered) borne away
By you, the Evil Angel of my life,
To a portentous splendour. I became
A pining bride, a wretch,—a slave to all
Your host of passions; but I swore (may God
Forgive me!) to love you—you, when I loved
Another, and you knew it: Yes, you knew
My heart was given away, and yet you wed me.
Leave me! Sir.

Went.
Have you done? Woman, do you think
This mummery is to work me from my purpose—
My settled will. Mistress, I leave you now:
But this remember, that your minion—Oh!
I do not heed your frowning—your boy-love
Will visit India shortly or, it may be
(You are his guide) a prison here, in England.
Farewell.

Amel.
Yet stay—a word more ere we quit.
I do beseech you (tho' my wrongs are great,
And my proud spirit ill can stoop to this,)
You take your malediction from this youth.
He is as innocent—I think he's innocent
Of the least ill toward you. For me, I am
Too innocent to sue; yet let me say,
Since the sad hour I wed you, I have been
As faithful to our cold communion,
As tho' my heart had from the first been yours,
Or you been generous after. Once more, Sir,
I would implore you—for your comfort—for
Your honour, and my name, to spare this boy.
In the calm tone of one who has not erred
I do require this of you.

Went.
You but steel
My heart against him. Woman, is your pleading
Always as warm as now? By earth and heaven,
Had I but wavered in his destiny,
This would have fixed me. Seek your chamber now,
And in your meditations think how well
Your name may sound (my name!) held up to scorn.
It may be worth your care. Thus long I've hid
My wrath, and let you wander at your will.
You have grown bold in guilt; be prudent now:
Save a fair name, or I must tell the world
How ill you keep your secrets.
[Exit Went.

Amel.
He is gone.
And I am here—oh! such a weary wretch.
Oh! Father, Father, what a heart had you
To cast me on the wide and bitter world,
With such a friend as this. I would have toiled
From the pale morning 'till the dusk of night,
And lived as poorly, and smiled cheerfully,
Keeping out sorrow from our cottage home.
And there was one who would have loved you too,
And aided with his all our wreck of fortune.
You would not hear him;—and,—and did I hear
His passionate petitioning, and see
His scalding tears, and fling myself away
Upon a wintry bosom, that held years
Doubling my own. What matters it?—'tis past.
I will be still myself: who's there?

[Charles enters.]
Ch.
'Tis I.
You are in tears?

Amel.
Away. Draw down the blinds;
The summer evenings now come warmly on us.
Go, pluck me yonder flower.

Ch.
This Rose—mean you?
It fills the room with perfume: 'tis as red,
And rich, and almost too, as beautiful,
As—

Amel.
As Aurora's blushes, or my own.
I see you want a simile.

Ch.
You are gay.
Too gay for earnest talk. Who has been here?

Amel.
No one; I will not tell; I've made a vow,
And will not break it, 'till—until I'm pressed.

Ch.
Then let me press you.

Amel.
Silly boy, away,
Go gather me more flowers, violets.

Ch.
Here let me place them in your hair.

Amel.
No, no.
The violet is for poets: they are yours.
O rare! I like to see you bosom them.
Had they been golden, such as poets earned,
You might have treasured them.

Ch.
They are far more
To me,—for they were yours, Amelia.

Amel.
Give me the rose.

Ch.
But where shall it be placed?

Amel.
Why in my hand—my hair. Look! how it blushes,
To see us both so idle. Give it me.
Where? where do ladies hide their favourite flowers,
But in their bosoms, foolish youth. Away—
'Tis I must do it. Pshaw! how sad you look,
And how you tremble.

Ch.
Dear Amelia.

Amel.
Call me your mother, Charles.

Ch.
My Guardian—

Amel.
Ah! name him not to me. Charles, I have been
Jesting awhile; but my dark husband's frown
Comes like a cloud upon me. You must go
Far, my dear Charles, from the one friend who loves you:
To Hindostan.

Ch.
I know it.

Amel.
For myself,
I shall think of you often, my dear Charles.
Think of me sometimes. When your trumpet sounds,
You'll recollect the coward you knew once,
Over the seas in England?

Ch.
Spare my heart.

Amel.
I do not think you have a heart: 'tis buried.

Ch.
Amelia, Oh! Amelia, will you never
Know the poor heart that breaks and bursts for you?
Oh! do not take it ill; but now believe
How fond, and true, and faithful—

Amel.
Is this jest?
You act well, Sir; or—but if it be true,
Then what am I?

Ch.
Oh! by these burning tears;
By all my haunted days and wakeful nights,
Oh! by yourself I swear, dearest of all,
I love—love you, my own Amelia!
Once I will call you so. Do—do not scorn me,
And blight my youth—I do not ask for love;
I dare not. Trample not upon my heart,
My untouched heart—I gave it all to you,
Without a spot of care or sorrow on it.
My spirit became yours—I worshipped you,
And for your sake in silence. Say but once
You hate me not, for this—Speak, speak!

Amel.
Alas!

Ch.
Weep not for me, my gentle love. You said
Your husband threatened you. Come, then, to me;
I have a shelter and a heart for you,
Where, ever and for ever you shall reign.
Amelia, dear Amelia! speak a word
Of kindness and consenting to me—Speak!
If but a word, or tho' it be not kindness:
Speak hope, doubt, fear,—but not despair; Or say
That some day you may love, or that if ever
Your cruel husband dies, you'll think of me;
Or that you wish me happy,—or that perhaps
Your heart—nay speak to me, Amelia.

Amel.
Is then your love so deep?

Ch.
So deep? It is
Twined with my life: it is my life—my food—
The natural element wherein I breathe—
My madness—my heart's madness—it is all
—Oh! what a picture have I raised upon
My sandy wishes. I have thought at times
That you and I in some far distant country
Might live together, blessing and beloved;
And I have shaped such plans of happiness,
For us and all around us, (you indeed
Ever the sweet superior spirit there,)
That were you always—Fair Amelia,
You listen with a melancholy smile?

Amel.
Let me hear all: 'tis fit I should hear all.
Alas, Alas!

Ch.
Weep not for me, my love.
I—I am nought: not worth a single tear:
I will depart—or may I kiss away
Those drops of rain? Well, well, I will not pain you.
And yet—Oh! what a paradise is love:
Secure, requited love. I will not go:
Or we will go together. There are haunts
For young and happy spirits: You and I
Will thither fly, and dwell beside some stream
That runs in music 'neath the Indian suns,
Aye, some sweet island still shall be our home,
Where fruits and flowers are born thro' all the year,
And Summer, Autumn, Spring, are ever young,
Where Winter comes not, and where nought abides
But Nature in her beauty revelling.
You shall be happy, sweet Amelia,
At last; and I—it is too much to think of.
Forgive me while I look upon thee now,
And swear to thee by Love, and Night, and all
The gliding hours of soft and starry Night,
How much—how absolutely I am thine.
My pale and gentle beauty—what a heart
Had he to wrong thee, or ubpraid thee! He
Was guilty—nay, nay: look not so.

Amel.
I have
Been guilty of a cruel act toward you.
Charles, I indeed am guilty. When to-day
My husband menaced me, and told me of
Public and broad disgrace, it met my scorn:
But have I, my poor youth, been so unkind
To you, as not to see this—love before?
Charles, I have driven you from your early home:
I see it now: I only—hate me for it.

Ch.
I'll love you, like bright heaven. The fixed stars
Shall never be so constant. I am all
Your own. Not sin, nor sorrow, nor the grave,
Not the cold, hollow grave shall chill my love:
It will survive beyond the bounds of death,
The spirit of the shadow which may there
Perhaps do penance for my deeds of ill.

Amel.
Stay this wild talk.

Ch.
Men have been known to love
Thro' years of absence, aye, in pain and peril,
And one did cast life and a world away,
For a loose woman's smile: nay, Love has dwelt,
A sweet inhabitant, in a dæmon's breast,
Lonely, amidst bad passions; burning there,
Like a most holy and sepulchral light,
And almost hallowing its dark tenement.
Why may not I—

Amel.
I thought I heard a step.
How strangely you speak now—again, again.
Leave me; quick, leave me.

Ch.
'Tis your tyrant coming:
Fly rather you.

Amel.
If you have pity, go.

Ch.
Farewell then: yet, should he repulse you—

Amel.
Then
I will—but go: you torture me.

Ch.
I am gone.

[Exit.
Amel.
Farewell, farewell, poor youth; so desolate
That even I can spare a tear for you.
—My husband comes not: I will meet him, then,
Armed in my innocence and wrongs. Alas!
'Tis hard to suffer where we ought to judge,
And pray to those who should petition us.
'Tis a brave world, I see. Power and wrong
Go hand in hand resistless and abhorred,
And patient virtue and pale modesty,
Like the sad flowers of the too early spring,
Are cropped before they blossom—or trod down,
Or by the fierce winds withered. Is it so?—
But I have flaunted in the Sun, and cast
My smiles in prodigality away:
And now, and now—no matter. I have done.
Whether I live scorned or beloved—Beloved!
Better be hated, could my pride abate,
And I consent to fly. It may be thus.