University of Virginia Library

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.
Yes, ashy pale; does he not, Clara? Look!
Big drops of sweat are on his brow. O God!
You must be ill!
[She takes his hand.]
Your hand is feverish:
What is the matter? Speak! You are ill!

Francis.
Indeed
I am quite well.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Your eye is bloodshot.

Francis.
(Snatching his hand away from her.)
Blood!—
What do you mean? To drive me mad?
(More calmly.)
No, no;
You mean it kindly: but you fancy things,
And they are not well timed. I pray you, mother,
No more of it: I've papers to look over:
Give me some tea.

[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.
I'll go; yet—
(To the constable.)
Tell me, man,—
What does it mean? Has aught—

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.]