University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Scene: Missouri. A room in the cottage of Norman Maurice.
Enter Maurice and Clarice.
Clarice.
Oh! Norman, this is happiness.

Maurice.
'Tis more,—
Security in happiness. Our blossoms
Fear not the spoiler. On your cheek the roses
Declare a joyous presence in the heart,
That makes our cottage bloom.

Clarice.
You triumph too,
In favor as in fortune. On all sides
I hear your name reëchoed with a plaudit,
That fills my bosom with exulting raptures
I never knew before.

Maurice.
Ah! this is nothing,
Dear heart, to the sweet peace that crowns our dwelling,
And tells us, though the tempest growls afar,
Its thunders strike not here. The fame I covet
Is still in tribute subject to your joys;
And, these secure—you, happy in my bosom—
My pride forgets its aim! Ambition slumbers
Nor makes me once forgetful of the rapture,
That follows your embrace.

[Knock without.
Clarice.
The widow Pressley.

Maurice.
Quick, welcome her.—Poor woman, we will save her.

Clarice.
I joy to hear you say so.—Come in, madam.

Enter Widow Pressley and Kate.
Maurice.
Welcome, dear madam; you must needs be anxious;
But still be hopeful. I have brought the action,
And doubt not, from my study of your case,
That we shall gain it—put the usurper out,
And win you back some portion of your wealth.
The truth is on our side,—the evidence
Sustains your claim most amply. We shall gain it!

Widow.
Alas! sir, but the power of this bad man—

Maurice.
Need not be powerful here.

Widow.
You know it not;—
His wealth, his violence—

Maurice.
Will scarce prevail.

Widow.
He buys or bullies justice at his pleasure;
No lawyer here would undertake my case
Lest he should lose a friend or make a foe;
And thus, for fifteen years—

Maurice.
He buys not me,
And scarce will profit by an insolence,
That hopes to bully here.

Widow.
Oh! sir, I tremble,
And cannot help but doubt. I know your talents;
All people speak of them,—and yet I fear!
With hopes so often lifted and defeated,
How should I dream of better fortune now?
The widow and the orphan find small favor,
In struggle with the strong and selfish man;
And this success you promise—

Maurice.
None may take
The sovereign accent from the lip of Fate
And say—this thing is written certainly—
But, if I err not, madam, better promise,
Of the clear dawn and the unclouded sunshine,
Ne'er waited on the night. I trust the Jury.
They have no fears to nurse, and seek no favors,
As do that class of men, the mean ambitious,
Who, for the lowly greed of appetite,
Or hungering for a state they never merit,
Cringe with a servile zeal to wealth and numbers,
And nothing show but baseness when they rise.
My faith is in the people.

Widow.
Mine in you, sir.

Maurice.
I will deserve your confidence. This person,
Who robb'd you of your fortune, would but vainly
Attempt to bully me. I am no bully,
But something have I in my soul which strengthens
Its courage, when the insolent would dare
Usurp the rights that I am set to guard.
Be hopeful, madam. Take no care for the morrow,
Though, with the morrow, our great trial comes!
God and his angels keep the innocent,
And, in his own good season, will redress
Their many wrongs with triumph.

Widow.
Sir, I thank you;—
And this poor child, the child of bitterness,
If not of wrath, shall bless you in her prayers,
That nightly seek her mother in the heavens!

Maurice.
[kissing the child.]
Your name is Kate, they tell me—a sweet name!
You'll pray for us to-night, Kate. With the morrow,
If my heart's hope do not deceive my heart,
Your prayers shall all be answer'd.—I'll think of her,
And of her sweet and innocent face to-morrow,
When striving with her enemy.

Kate.
I'll pray, sir,
As if you were my father.

Widow.
She has none, sir.

Maurice.
Losing or winning, daughter, still in me,
Look for a father who will cherish you.

Widow.
Farewell, good sir, I have not words to thank you.

Maurice.
You have a heart that overflows with speech,
And swells into your eyes! No more, dear madam:
Be hopeful and be happy.
[Exeunt widow and child.
We must gain it.
The proofs are clear—I cannot doubt the issue,—
And still a prescient something at my heart,
Awakes its triumph with assuring accents
That never spoke in vain. But, who are these?
[Enter Col. Mercer and Brooks.
Welcome, gentlemen.

Mercer.
We trust, sir, that you see in us your friends.

Maurice.
Such, since our brief acquaintance, you have seemed, sir,
And mine's a heart preferring to confide;
That still would rather suffer wrong of faith,
Than not believe in man.

Mercer.
You'll find us true;—
And thus it is, that, sure of our good purpose,
We come to counsel with you as a friend.

Maurice.
As friends, I welcome you. Be seated, sirs.

Brooks.
We do regard you, sir, as one to help us,—
In public matters. From our knowledge of you,
We've said among our friends, this is our man;
And, looking still to you to serve our people,
We hear with grief that you are in a peril
Whose straits, perchance, you know not.

Maurice.
Peril, sir?

Brooks.
You have brought action for the widow Pressley,
For the recovery of a large possession,
Withheld by Colonel Blasinghame—

Maurice.
'Tis true, sir,

Mercer.
You do not know this man.

Maurice.
I've heard of him.

Mercer.
But not that he is one whom men find prudent
To pass with civil aspect, nor confront
With wrath or opposition. He has power,
Such as few men possess, or dare contend with—
Has wealth in great abundance—is a person,
Most fearless and most desperate in battle,
Who better loves the conflict with his fellow
Than any gifts that peaceful life can bring;
Endow'd with giant strength and resolution,
And such a shot, from five to fifteen paces,
As still to shatter, wavering in the wind,
The slenderest wand of willow.

Maurice.
Famous shooting!

Brooks.
It were not wise to wake his enmity!
We look to you to serve our cause in Congress—
Make him your foe, and he opposes you;
His wealth—his popularity—the terrors,
His very name provokes,—all leagued against you—
You still a stranger.

Maurice.
Patiently, I hear;
And though I feel not like solicitude
With that you show for me, am grateful for it!
And now, sirs, let us understand each other.
I am a man who, in pursuit of duty,
Will hold no parley with that week day prudence
Which teaches still how much a virtue costs.
Of this man, Blasinghame, I've heard already,—
Even as you both describe him. It would seem,
Lest I should fail in utter ignorance,
He took a patient trouble on himself,
To school me in his virtues. Read this letter.

[gives letter.
Mercer., Brooks.
His hand!—his signature!

[they read.
Maurice.
Well, gentlemen, you see it written there,
What are my dangers if I dare to venture
This widow's cause against him. Favor me,
And read the answer which has just been written.

Mercer.
[reads aloud.]

Sir:—The suit of Pressley vs. Blasinghame will be prosecuted to conclusion, without regard to consequences, with the best strength and abilities of

Norman Maurice.

Maurice.
It is brief, sir.

Brooks.
'Tis a defiance, Maurice!

Maurice.
'Twas meant so, gentlemen. I am a man,
Or I am nothing! This poor widow's cause,
The very insolence of this Blasinghame,
Hath made my own! I'll die for it if need be.

Mercer.
Art principled 'gainst the duel?

Maurice.
Rather ask,
If, when my enemy takes me by the throat,
I do oppose him with an homily.
No man shall drive me from society!—
I take the laws I find of force, and use them,
For my protection and defence, as others
Employ them for assault.

Mercer.
You've practised then?

Maurice.
Never shot pistol.

Brooks.
Nor rifle?

Maurice.
Scarcely!

Mercer.
You are very rash, sir!

Maurice.
Ay! but rashness, sir,
Becomes a virtue in a case like this;
And the brave heart, untaught in human practice,
Finds good assurance from another source
That prompts its action right. This letter's written,
And goes within the hour. Let Blasinghame
Chafe as he may, and thunder to the terror,
Of those who have no manhood in themselves;—
He thunders at these portals still in vain!
To-morrow comes the trial—after that!—
But let the future wear what look it may,
I'll find the heart to meet it—as a man!

Mercer.
Then you are firm?

Maurice.
As are the rocks,
In conflict with the sea.

Mercer.
We joy to find you thus!
We'll stand by you through danger to the last.

Brooks.
Ay, Maurice, we are with you.

Maurice.
Friends, your hands!—
I am not used to friendship, but I love it,
As still a precious gift, vouchsafed by heaven,
Next best to love of woman! For this danger,—
Fear nothing! we shall 'scape it! Nay, 'twill give us,
Or truth is not of God, new plumes for triumph!

SCENE II.

The law office of Richard Osborne. Osborne discovered writing.
Enter Warren.
Warren.
We're on the track at last, Look at that letter;
It comes from our old comrade, Harry Matthews,
And tells us miracles of Norman Maurice!—
Our worthy cousin has the run of fortune;—
She seems to crown him with her richest favors,
As some old bawd, grown hackney'd in the market,
Adopts a virgin passion in her dotage,
And yields to her late folly, all the profits
That follow'd the old vice. He's growing finely;
But I shall dock his feathers.

Osborne.
[reading.]
In Missouri.

Warren.
Ay, in St. Louis, that great western city,
Our worthy cousin, Norman, has grown famous!
You read what Matthews writes. In one short twelvemonth
He springs above all shoulders.

Osborne.
I look'd for it!
He's not the man whom fortune can keep under.

Warren.
What! you forget our precious document?

Osborne.
You will not use it now?

Warren.
Ah, will I not then?
If ever useful, now's the right time for it!
See you not that he rises like an eagle,
Already is in practice with the ablest,
Wins popular favor without working for it,
And stands i' the way of better politicians?
They fit his name to music for bad singers,
To whom none listen save at suffrage time.—
We'll spoil the song for him.

Osborne.
What would you do?

Warren.
You are dull, Dick Osborne! Have I yet to tell you
That, over all, conspicuous in my hate,
This minion of Fortune stands. His better luck
Hath robb'd me of the prize which most I treasured—
His better genius trampled mine to dust,—
Humbled my pride when at its height, and crush'd me,
Until I learn'd to loathe myself, as being
So feeble in his grasp.

Osborne.
He crushes you no longer!

Warren.
Can I forget the past? This memory
Becomes a part of the nature o' the man,
And of his future makes a fearful aspect,
Unless he cures its hurts. My path is where
My enemy treads in triumph! I shall seek it,
And 'twill be hard if hate, well leagued with cunning,
Is baffled of his toil. I seek St. Louis!

Osborne.
Beware! You'll make him desperate!

Warren.
I hope so!

Osborne.
It brings its perils with it! Norman Maurice
Will rend his hunter!—

Warren.
If he be not wary!
But, fear you nothing. You shall go with me,
And see how deftly, with what happy art,
I shall prepare the meshes for my captive.

Osborne.
Me! go with you?—and wherefore?

Warren.
A small matter!—
While I shall drive the nail, you'll clinch the rivet.
I'd have you there to prove this document!

Osborne.
Spare me this, Warren!

Warren.
I can spare you nothing.

Osborne.
I do not hate this man! He hath not wrong'd me,
Cross'd not my path, nor, with a better fortune,
Won from me aught I cherish'd.

Warren.
Enough! Enough!—
Me hath he robb'd and wrong'd—me hath he cross'd—
His better fortune still a fate to mine!—
My injury is yours! You love me, Osborne,—
Will do the thing that I regard as needful,
The more especially as you have secrets,
No less than Norman Maurice. We shall go,
Together, as I fancy, to St. Louis!

Osborne.
This is mere tyranny, Warren.

Warren.
Very like it!
Guilt ever finds its tyrant in its secret,
And, twinn'd with every crime, the accuser stands,
Its own grim shadow, with the scourge and torture.

Osborne.
A dark and damnable truth! Would I had perish'd
Ere I had fallen, and follow'd, as you bade me!

Warren.
Spare the vain toil to cheat a troubled conscience,
And to your preparations. By the morrow,
We'll be upon the road.

Osborne.
But, for these papers?

Warren.
Confound the papers! They will wait for us,
But opportunity never! Get you ready,
And hush all vain excuses. If my sway
Be somewhat tyrannous, still it hath its profits:—
Be you but true, and from the Egyptian spoil,
There shall be still sufficient for your toil.
[Exit Warren.

Osborne.
I'm chain'd to the stake! He hath me in his power!—
How truly hath he pictured my estate!—
Thus he who doth a deed of ill in youth,
Raises a ghost no seventy years can lay!
I must submit; yet, following still his lead,
Pray Providence for rescue, ere too late:—
'Tis Providence, alone, may baffle Fate!
[Exit Osborne.

SCENE III.

The house of Mrs. Jervas in Walnut-street. Enter Mrs. J. and Robert Warren.
Mrs. J.
Art sure of what you tell me?

Warren.
Never doubt it!—
Matthews, who writes me, is an ancient friend
Who knows this Maurice well. He sees him often,
Though it would seem that Maurice knows not him.
His rising fortunes favor you! 'Twere well
You sought your niece. You are her kinswoman,—
The nearest,—and the loss of all your fortune,
By failure of the bank—

Mrs. J.
But Maurice likes me not!

Warren.
Natural enough! You still opposed his passion;
But things are alter'd now. You've but to show him
'Twas for your niece's good, in your best judgment,
That you denied his suit. But, go to her;—
He's doing well—is popular—grows wealthy;
And now that Fortune looks with smiles on him,
He well may smile on you! You'll live with them,
And we shall meet there.

Mrs. J.
We? Meet?

Warren.
Did I not love her?

Mrs. J.
Ah!—

Warren.
And should he die?—Should accident, or—

Mrs. J.
I see! I see!

Warren.
You are my friend, and you will show her—

Mrs. J.
Ah! trust me, Robert Warren—

Warren.
That's enough!
We understand each other. You will go,—
Her only kinswoman—to seek her out.
You have but her in the world! Say you have err'd;
It was because you loved her that you strove,
'Gainst one, who, whatsoe'er his worth and talent,
Was not o'erbless'd by Fortune! He may frown,
But cannot well deny you; and, for Clarice—
She will not, sure, repel her mother's sister.

Mrs. J.
I'll go! I need the succor of my kindred.

Warren.
We'll meet then; but you must not know me there!
'Tis not my policy to vex my rival,
Provoke suspicion, move his jealousy,
Or startle her by any bold renewal,
Of pleadings late denied. Should you discover
That he who, in their presence, stands before you,
Is other than he seems, you will know nothing;
Since that may spoil your game as well as mine.

Mrs. J.
You are a deep one!

Warren.
When I have your counsel!
This Maurice thought but humbly of your judgment.
He knew you not as I do. He was blinded
By his own proud conceit and arrogance,
And held himself an oracle. 'Twere wise
If still you suffer'd him to fancy thus—
Check'd him in nothing—never counsell'd him—
For still I know he holds your wisdom cheaply,
And scorns the experience which might rise against
His own assured opinion. Such a person
Needs but sufficient cord—

Mrs. J.
And he shall have it!

Warren.
I'll seek your counsel soon, and you shall teach me
What is our proper action. You will find me
More ready to confide in your experience,
Than him whose cunning seem'd to baffle it.
Farewell then, madam, till we meet again.
[Exit Warren.

Mrs. J.
Farewell, sir! A most excellent young man!
This Maurice shall not carry it at will,—
He scorns me,—does he? He shall feel me still!

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

The hall in the cottage of Norman Maurice. Time—midnight. Enter Maurice in night-gown, as just started from his couch. His hair dishevelled—his manner wild and agitated—his whole appearance that of a man painfully excited and distressed.
Maurice.
That I should be unmann'd! That a mere dream,
The blear and frightful aspects of a vision,
Should rouse me to such terror,—shake my soul
From the strong moorings of a steadfast will,
And drive it, a mere wreck, upon the seas,
No hand upon the helm! Ah! my Clarice.

[Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
My husband—

Maurice.
I would thou had'st not seen me thus, Clarice.

Clarice.
What means this terror—wherefore did you cry?

Maurice.
Surely I did not.

Clarice.
Yes, a terrible shriek,
As one who rushes desperate on his foe!

Maurice.
No mortal foe has ever from my lips,
Sleeping or waking, forced acknowledgment,
That humbles me like this—

Clarice.
What dost thou mean?
What fear?

Maurice.
What answer shall I make to thee?—
How tell thee, my Clarice, 'twas a mere dream,
That filled me with that agonizing fear,
Whose shriek thou heard'st. Yet, such a dream, my wife,
As still pursues me with its hideous forms,
And shakes me yet with terror. That a man,
Conscious of strength and will, with conscience free,
Should, in a mere disorder of his blood,
In midnight sleep, feel all his soul unsinew'd,
And sink into the coward!

Clarice.
Thou art none!

Maurice.
Yet such a vision—and methinks I see!—
Hist,—is there nothing crawling by the hearth,
Crouching and winding, and with serpent folds,
Preparing its dread venom?

Clarice.
There is nothing, husband—
The hearth holds only the small jar of flowers.

Maurice.
The reptile ever seeks such crouching place,
And garbs his spotty hide with heedless blossoms,
That know not what they harbor. Fling it hence!
'Twas on the hearth it crouch'd. But, hear me, wife;
That dream! 'Twas of a serpent on our hearth,
Thou heedless, with thy hand upon the flowers,
Disposing them for show. Unseen and soft—
It wound about thee its insidious coil,
And, at the moment when I first beheld,
Its brazen head was lifted, its sharp fang
Was darting at thy heart! 'Twas then I shriek'd
And rush'd upon the monster thus, and smote!—
[Dashing the vase to pieces.
Heedless of every sting, I trampled it;
But, even as it writhed beneath my heel,
Methought, it lifted up a human face
That look'd like Robert Warren!

Clarice.
What a dream!

Maurice.
I cannot shake it off. Did'st hear a sound
Most like a hiss?

Clarice.
Nay, nay! 'twas but a dream!
Come—come to bed.

Maurice.
Why should I dream of him?

Clarice.
You think of him, perchance.

Maurice.
And, as a reptile!
The terrible image still before me crawls—
Oh! that I might, with but a bound and struggle,
Though still at life's worst peril, trample him!

Clarice.
Yet wherefore?

Maurice.
There are instincts of the soul,
That have a deep and true significance,
And, though no more in danger from his malice,
I feel within me that he works unsleeping,
In venomous toils against me.

Clarice.
But, in vain.
Come, Norman, come to bed. You frighten me.

Maurice.
Forgive me! There! I have thee at my lips,
I strain thee to my bosom with a joy
That leaves no rapture wanting—yet, methinks,
I hear a sound of hissing, and still see
Glimpses of folding serpents that, behind,
Crawl after us—

Clarice.
My Norman!

Maurice.
I grieve thee!
I will forget this vision in the blessing
This grasp makes real to rapture. Let us in.

[He folds his arm about her, and they leave the apartment, he still looking behind him suspiciously—she looking up to him.

SCENE V.

The edge of a wood. A cottage in the distance. Enter Robert Warren, Osborne, and Harry Matthews. The former disguised with false hair, whiskers, &c.
Matthews.
[pointing to cottage.]
Look!—you may see it now!

Warren.
There, then, he harbors?
A goodly cottage—he's a man of taste,
Not yet too old for sentiment, it seems;
Loves flowers and shade trees, and around his porches
I fancy that we see some gadding tendrils,
That wanton, with full censers, in his homage!
He should be happy there!

Matthews.
Why, so he is.

Warren.
You think so?

Matthews.
There's every thing to make him so. He's young—
Is on the road to fortune and to fame,
And has a handsome wife.

Warren.
The landscape's fair,—
Looks bright beneath the sunshine and exhales
A thousand delicate odors rich in life;
But, sometimes, there's a tempest in the night,
And where's your landscape then?

Matthews.
Be this his case,
It shall not cost me one poor hour of sleep,
For all the coil it makes. This man's our foe,—
Goes with our enemies in politics,
And will, though now he knows it not himself,
Be run, against our crack man, for the Senate.

Warren.
Who's he?

Matthews.
Ben Ferguson.

Warren.
Plain Ben?

Matthews.
Colonel Ben!
'Tis only when the man's a favorite,
We take the formal handle from his name
And sing it short for sweetness.

Warren.
Is he able?

Matthews.
We thought him so till this your Maurice came;—
Since then our favorite loses in the race.
Ben is a lawyer in first practice here
And had the field to himself since I have known him,
Till now—

Osborne.
Maurice and he have grappled then?

Matthews.
To Ferguson's defeat.

Osborne.
Before the jury?

Matthews.
Ay, every way—before the judge and jury,—
In court and out of court. At public meetings
They were in opposite ranks, and, with each issue,
Maurice hath risen still in popular favor,
While Ferguson declines. It will rejoice us,
If, as you say, you have some history
To floor this powerful foe!

Warren.
You need not doubt it.
But who are friends to Maurice, here,—the people?

Matthews.
Were it the people only, it were nothing.
They have not yet arisen to self-esteem,
And, kept full fed on vanity, are heedless,
Hugging their shadows, how they lose the substance.
Here, all their sympathies are held by others;
Men of much wealth and some ability,
Who, gladly, in this Maurice find an ally,
And join with him to use him. There's a party
Who long have lacked a leader. Norman Maurice
Brings them the head they seek. He guides their councils,
And, with such prudent skill and policy,
That still they fancy he is but their mouth-piece,
Even while he gives the breath of life to them.
I know that they will run him for the Senate.

Warren.
Can they elect him?

Matthews.
It is somewhat doubtful.
They never yet succeeded with their man,
Not having had the man to make success.
What they can do for him is not the question,
So much as what he may achieve for them.
I tell you, though not fearful for the issue,
It makes us something anxious. Now,—this secret—
If it be true, indeed, that,—

Warren.
Be you ready;—
I'll see your friends to-morrow. We'll sleep on it.
To-night, I'll fathom Maurice if I can,
And see how he enjoys his Western life.
Enough! I have him in my power! To-morrow!—

Matthews.
But what's the secret?

Warren.
It will keep till then.
Be sure, that when your game is to be play'd—
When Norman Maurice, at the height of favor,
Waits but the will to rise up Senator—
A single word shall damn him down to ruin,
And stifle every voice that shouts his name.

Osborne.
Yet, once more, Warren, ere it be too late,
Let me entreat and counsel—

Warren.
You are doting!
Go you with Matthews, and, should I be missing,
You both can tell whither my steps were bent,
And what my power upon him.

Osborne.
[aside to W.]
Why incur
This danger,—for you too must see the danger,—
To feed this foolish malice?

Warren.
[aside to O.]
Is it foolish?—
Not when the profit's yours, the pleasure mine;—
And I, if fortune mocks me not with fancies,
Shall find a pleasure in the game I play at,
That you may never dream of! Be you easy—
There's little danger! I've securities
'Gainst him in you, and in his secret fears,
Not less than in the policy I use;
Besides, my habit, does it not disguise me?

Osborne.
He has the eye of an eagle!

Warren.
Pshaw!

Osborne.
Beware!—
His genius—you yourself confess it, Warren—
Hath always, when the final issue came,
Soar'd over you triumphant!

Warren.
Oh! Good night.
We'll meet again to-morrow!
[Exit Warren.

Osborne.
He'll pay for it!
He runs on ruin!

Matthews.
Not his own, methinks!

Osborne.
His own, though now it seems not. I've an instinct
That tells me Maurice cannot be o'erthrown.
Baffled he may be;—you may torture him—
Deny him his just place and high position,
One or more seasons; but he'll rise at last,
So firmly, that the very hands that struggle
To tear him from his throne, will help to build it.
There are some men to whom the fates decree
Performance,—and this man is one of them!
What was his prospect when I knew him first?
He had no friends,—he had no fellowships,
No heedful care of parents—no tuition;—
He stood alone i' the world—unknown, unhonor'd—
Nay, something hated, as I hap to know,
For that he had some innate qualities,
Of pride, of strength, of soul and character,
That would not let him stoop! In spite of all,
He hath struggled through the strife and the obstruction;
Won friends; won homage; high position won;
And still hath grown, the more erect and noble,
At each assault upon his pride and fortune!
I feel that he must triumph!

Matthews.
You speak well,
The promise of our enemy! You differ,
Somewhat, from Robert Warren; yet, you know
This secret.

Osborne.
Ay—as Warren's; and I know,
The rise of Maurice is his overthrow!

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

The interior of the cottage of Norman Maurice. A table spread as if supper were just concluded. Maurice and Clarice discovered seated. Maurice balances a spoon upon the cup. Clarice watches him.
Clarice.
You muse, my husband.

Maurice,
[pushing away the cup.]
'Tis with happiness!
Know you, Clarice, that fifteen months have pass'd
Since we were married?

Clarice.
Is it possible!
I had not thought it!

Maurice.
Time is wing'd with pleasure,
When that the heart, reposing where it loves,
Finds strength for fresher love in faith secure!
The world would seem to smile on me at last!
'Till we were wedded, such had been my fortune,
I question'd still the sunshine when it came;
And, in its sudden and capricious beauty,
Still dreaded something sinister and hostile.
But now I feel secure! With you beside me,
A fair, free world before me, and employment,
Grateful at once to intellect and feeling,
Affording thought due exercise for triumph,
Methinks, I have from fate a guaranty,
That she foregoes at last her ancient grudges;
And, it may be, despising our ambition,
Thus easily satisfied with love and quiet,
Turns her sharp arrows on some nobler victim,
Whose young audacity offends her pride!
Sure, Clarice, this is happiness.

Clarice.
It is more!
Such happiness as well might task the fancy,
To wing with words of sweetest poesy.

Maurice.
Then sing for me. I'm in the mood for music;
My heart is glad; my thoughts would wander freely;
Commercing with the indistinct, but sweet.

Clarice.
Nay, Norman, nay: I'm selfish in my gladness;
You sing not; but a something more than music
Swells in the verse that gathers on your lips;—
And this reminds me of the little ballad
You promised me,—once half recited me,
And fain would have me think your heart conceived it
When first it grew to mine!

Maurice.
And I said truly!
Thoughts passing fair had floated through my fancy—
Thoughts born of warmest tastes and pure affections,
Which yet had found no name! I had strange visions
Of grace and feminine beauty, such as never
The world had shown me living. Then I met thee,
And, on the instant, did they take thy image;—
And thus I first knew how, and whom, to love!
These fancies did I body forth in verses,
As one records a vision of the midnight,
That fills his soul with marvels; and the hour,
That brought me first acquainted with thy beauties,
Taught me what name to write above my record,
Which, until then, had none.

Clarice.
Norman—was it mine?

Maurice.
Thine, only, my beloved one!

Clarice.
Now, the verses,
In thy best manner, Norman.

Maurice.
What! repeat them?—
Wouldst ruin me, Clarice, in public favor;
Sap my distinction, lose me my profession,
Draw down the vulgar laughter on my head,
And make grave senators and learned statesmen
Shake reverend brows in sorrow at my folly?

Clarice.
Nay, you mock me now?

Maurice.
Wouldst have a lawyer,—
Subtle, and stern, and disputatious, still,—
Full of retorts and strange philosophies;
Whose dreams by night are of the close encounter
With rival wits and wary adversaries,—
Whose thoughts by day are still upon indictments,
Flaws, fees, exceptions, old authorities,
And worldly arguments, and stubborn juries,—
And all the thousand small details that gather,
Like strings about the giant Gulliver,
Dragging and fettering down to lowly earth
The upsoaring mind that else might scale the heavens!—
Wouldst have him in the vagrancy of fancy,
Possess his soul with spells of poesy;
Having no fear that, lurking at his threshold,
His neighbor Jones or Jenkins, Smith or Thompson,
Some round and fat, but most suspicious client,
Bringing great fees,—his heart upon his action,—
Seeking the sourest aspect in his lawyer,—
Stands, rooted, with strange horror, as he listens
To most ridiculous rhymes, and talk of flowers,
Moonbeams, and zephyrs—all that staple sweetness,
That makes the fancies of young thoughtless bosoms;—
When most he hoped to hear of Chose in action,
Trespass, assumpsit, action on the case,
And other phrases, silly as the rhymester's,—
But that they sound in money, not in music!
No! No!—no poesy! 'Twere loss of client!

Clarice.
Nay, Norman, but you jest now! Speak the verses,
If need be, in low accents.

Maurice.
Lest Jones or Jenkins
Should turn about, possess'd with holy horror,
And seek some other lawyer! You shall have them!
They are yours, Clarice, for, truly, they embody
What still meseem'd the virtues of your nature;—
Tastes, sweet and delicate as evening glories
That tend upon the passage of the day,
And, twinn'd with gleam and shadows, through the twilight,
Betoken, as it were, the unknown beauties,
That make a happier future in the far.

Clarice.
You describe the verses!

Maurice.
It needs I should!
They take a mystic tone and character,
And ask the key-note. You will hardly like them:
Thoughtful, not lyrical, nor passionate,
They need that you should pause upon each accent,
Or they will lose their due significance!
But, next to the grave folly of such doing,
Is the grave preface that still pleads for it.
You lead me erring, Clarice, to these trifles—
You, and the exulting feeling at my heart,
That deems this happiness sure!—Ha! That knock!
[Knock at the door—he starts.
Methinks it hath a meaning! A sharp instinct
Tells me that evil at our threshold lurks.

[Whispers.
Clarice.
Evil, my husband! Let me open it!

[Goes toward the door.
Maurice,
[interposing.]
You, Clarice! You mistake me.—There's an instinct,
That, though it speaks of evil, hath no fear!—
Who's there? [Aloud.]


Voice without.
A friend!

Maurice,
[throwing open the door.]
Enter, friend!

Enter Robert Warren as before, with valise in his hand.
Warren.
Pardon me this intrusion, but I'm wearied,—
I've travell'd far,—the last seven miles afoot,
Having lost my horse by the way.

Maurice.
You're welcome, sir,
To our poor fare, and shelter of our dwelling
'Till you recover. Clarice, see to it.

[Maurice points her to the supper table. She turns and leaves the room,—Warren follows her with his eye, while that of Maurice observes him.
Warren.
I thank you, sir.

Maurice.
Meanwhile, sit down and rest.
Give me your burden. 'Twill require some minutes
To get your supper, make your chamber ready;
'Till then, forget your travel.

Warren.
You are kind!
How far, sir, are we from St. Louis, here?

Maurice.
Four miles only.

Warren.
You, perhaps, can tell me
Something of persons living in St. Louis;
I'm a collector from an Eastern city,
And have a claim upon one Harry Matthews.

Maurice.
[His brow slightly contracts.]
Harry Matthews!

Warren.
Or Henry Matthews: is he good, sir?

Maurice,
[coldly.]
It may be, sir; I know not!

Warren.
You know the man?

Maurice.
I have seen him often, sir, but know him [illeg.]

Warren.
The house I represent has had suspicions;—
A Philadelphia house.

Maurice.
Of Philadelphia!

Warren.
A famous city, sir; but you have seen it?

Maurice.
I know it well, sir.

[Catches the eye of Warren, which suddenly drops at the encounter.
Warren.
Ah! you've travell'd thither?

Maurice.
Have lived there, sir; and, now I think of it,
It may be you can answer me of persons,
Whom once I knew there;—there was Mrs. Jervas—

Warren.
A widow, sir, who lived in Walnut-street?

Maurice.
The same!—

Warren.
I've heard of her. She lost her fortune lately
By failure of the bank.

Maurice.
Indeed!

Warren.
And has left the city,
'Twas said, to seek her kindred in the West.

Maurice.
[To Clarice, who reënters.]
Hear you that, Clarice?

Clarice.
Is it possible?
It cannot be she means—

Maurice.
Perhaps. 'Tis like.

Warren.
She has a niece and nephew in the West—
'Twas so reported—who have sent for her,
They being very wealthy, she in want.

Maurice,
[with a smile.]
Indeed!

Clarice.
She has no nephew living, sir.

Warren.
[smiles.]
Ah! you know her, then?

Maurice.
She is this lady's aunt, sir;
And, it may be, this excellent Mrs. Jervas
Comes hither to her niece, who is my wife, sir.
I suppose, that, as the husband of the one,
I may be held a nephew to the other;
And loving, too, makes kindred. Well, Clarice,
You'll make the good lady welcome if she comes,
Which, now, I scarcely question.—Tell me, sir,
Of other persons in that goodly city;—
There was a mute, I knew, one Nicholas Foster,
Whom much I fancied—

Warren.
A rare machinist,
Though few conceived his talent.

Maurice,
[aside.]
Yet, you knew it!

Warren.
He's well as ever.

Maurice.
Sully, the master-painter,
A pure, good man, whose exquisite art endows
The beauty with a charm beyond her own,
Caught from his delicate fancy.

Warren.
He's still famous.

Maurice.
I would you could say fortunate as famous,
As still his art deserves.—I know not why,
But these inquiries sadden me, and yet—
There was one Richard Osborne—

Warren.
An attorney—

Maurice.
A most obscure one, though of certain merits,
Who might have been distinguish'd, having powers
To raise him into something high and worthy,
But for his evil genius—

Warren,
[quickly.]
Ah! sir! He?—

Maurice.
Were you a student—an anatomist
Of character—instead of a collector;—
But—

Warren.
Yet would I hear, sir.

Maurice.
He, sir, I mean,
Were one whom it were well to analyze,
Did one design a new philosophy,
And sought in strange anomalies to embrace
The opposite things in nature. Fancy a creature,
Having the external attributes of man,—
The capacious brow—the clear, transparent eye—
The form erect—the voice most musical—
Quick talent, ready art, and specious language,
And something winning in his natural manner,
Beguiling still the unwary to belief—
Yet, as if made in mock of heaven's own purpose,
Having, in place of heart, a nest of vipers;
Whose secret venom, mastering all his powers,
Taints ever his performance—makes his doings,
When most they favor virtue, tend to vice—
Corrupts the word he utters, makes him false,
When most the truth should be his policy,—
And keeps him ever lothely in pursuit
Of purposes most loathsome. Know you, sir,
One Robert Warren?

[Laying his hand on Warren's shoulder, and eyeing him closely.
Warren,
[shrinking and stammering.]
Me, sir—Warren? No!

Maurice,
[flinging him away and rising.]
Liar and reptile, as thou still hast been,
'Twere thousand times more hopeful to endow
The serpent with the nature of the dove,
To graft the fruit of Eden on the tree,
That, with its bitter, blights the Dead Sea shore—
Appease the tiger's thirst—the leopard's spots
Pluck from his side, and bind him with a straw—
Than change the designing devil at thy heart!

Warren.
What mean you, sir?

Clarice,
[seizing his arm.]
Oh! Norman, wherefore this?

Maurice.
What! See you not? Hath sense of happiness
So totally obscured the sense of wrong,
That memory lacks each faculty, and nature,
Losing the subtle instinct which still counsels
The innocent of his peril, stoops to wanton
With the fang'd viper in his villainous coil.
The dream! the dream! my Clarice. Get thee hence!
Leave me to deal with him. Away!

Clarice.
What's he?

Maurice.
What! do his looks not answer as the reptile's,
That speak his subtle snare and silent venom!
Doth not his coward crouching show his nature,
As now I stretch the arm of vengeance o'er him?
Must I confer a name upon the victim,
Even in the moment when I strike the blow,
Lest, in their ignorant blindness, men should fancy
This were a kinsman whom in wrath I slew!

Warren.
Beware!—this violence!

[Snatches a knife from the table.
Maurice.
Is justice only—

Clarice,
[interposing.]
Norman! Husband!

Maurice.
What! See'st not still!

Clarice.
I see! I know!—and yet—

Maurice.
And yet, and yet, and yet! is the child's wisdom!
Shall we not be secure—never find refuge!
Shall hate pursue, and vengeance turn not on him!
Must we be driven from each world of peace,
To burrow with the hill fox and the wolf,
When but a stroke is needful—

Clarice.
Oh! thou must not:
He shares our hospitality—our shelter!

Maurice,
[hurling the table over.]
He hath not touch'd the bread and sacred salt,
He shall not claim the Arab's privilege,—
He dies!—

Clarice.
For my sake, Norman, spare him!
Let him go hence; the past is over now.

Warren.
She counsels wisely, Norman. Lift no hand
Against me, for I come to you in peace.

Maurice.
In peace! In peace! And wherefore this disguise?
Thy fraudulent tale of travel—this false semblance,
False hair, false speech—unless with heart and purpose
False as of old! Didst think, that I, who knew thee,
By such damn'd treachery as thou still hast shown me,
Could be deceived by wretched arts like these?—
My blindness and my confidence so perfect,
That I should sleep and dream, while at my pillow
Thou crep'st at midnight, from the hearth that warm'd thee,
To fasten on my heart! Thou com'st, an outlaw!—
What hinders that I slay thee?—that I take thee,
Thus, by the throat, and, stifling fear and feeling,
Slaughter thee, as a bullock at the altar,
Thy blood would still profane!

Clarice,
[interposing.]
Norman! Norman!
Oh! must thy Clarice plead to thee in vain?
Spare him, if but in gratitude to heaven,
For that we prosper in his hate's despite.

Maurice.
'Tis for that very reason I should slay him!
He comes to blight our brief prosperity,
To compass all our sunshine with his cloud,
And taint our flowers with poison.

Warren.
Yet, beware!
She counsels thee with wisdom, Norman Maurice;
I am not friendless here. Did aught befall me,
Here, in thy dwelling, to my mortal hurt,
'Tis known that I came hither—'tis known farther,
That I have that to speak against thy fame,
Shall blacken it forever.

Maurice.
Ha, say'st thou that!
Well thou wouldst something more!

Warren.
Only a word—
And lest thy prudence should not check thy passion,
My providence— [showing pistol.]


Maurice.
What! thou hast weapons then!
Now, by my hopes—if it were possible,
To find thee but one moment flush with manhood!—
Look on me, villain, as I now confront thee,
But, lift thine eye to mine, and let thy aim
Be deadly as thy malice! Wretched coward—
Thus do I mock thy impotence.

[Rushes upon him and wrests the weapon from his hand.
Warren.
Spare me, Norman!

Clarice.
Husband, let him live!

Maurice.
Outlaw! that masks him with deliberate purpose—

[Takes Warren by the throat.
Warren.
Mercy, Norman!

Maurice.
That seeks by night my dwelling with a lie!—

Clarice.
Husband—dear husband!

Maurice.
That lifts his deadly weapon 'gainst my bosom—

Warren.
Thou stranglest me!

Clarice.
Have pity, Norman!

Maurice.
For thy sake, I spare him!—

Warren.
Thanks—oh, thanks!

Maurice.
Yet feel how better 'twere to crush him now,
Than suffer him—

Warren.
I swear!

Maurice.
Oh!—if thou durst
Take name of God in vain to do hell service,—
I'll slay thee with a certainty of vengeance
That leaves no limb unhurt. For well I know
Thy heart is never then less free from malice,
Than when thy lips declare thy innocence.
Hence, ere I change my purpose. I will spare thee,
And fling thee from my threshold, but to show thee
How much I still forbear.

[Hurls him out headlong.
Clarice.
Oh, how I thank thee!

Maurice.
If evil follows on this mercy, Clarice,
Thine is the fault.

Clarice.
Oh, Norman, this man's hate—

Maurice.
While we can tear the falsehood from his brow
Is nothing, but—

Clarice.
Why should he follow us?

Maurice.
Oh! for some hellish purpose. But go in;
Leave me awhile.

Clarice.
Wilt thou not close the door?

Maurice.
Let it stay wide all night.

Clarice.
You go not forth?

Maurice.
One sleeps not when the wolf is in his close,
Lest that his howl should scare his infant's sleep—
And when I doubt if ill is at my threshold,
'Twere base to sleep upon the pillow of doubt.
But, go you in, dear wife!—you must not hear
The voice in anger you have heard in love.
Leave me awhile. This thing still troubles me,
But should not trouble you. Go to your prayers,
And leave the watches of the night to me.
God still presides o'er all. I see not yet,
The evil that this evil spirit brings,
But trust that we shall lack no help of angel,
Whene'er the struggle comes.

Clarice.
Norman.

Maurice.
Dear wife!

Clarice.
Forget not that my life is in thy hands.
Oh, do not rashly purpose.

Maurice.
Never fear!

[Embrace. Ex. Clarice within.
Maurice.
What can he mean! That paper is destroy'd;—
Why should I fear his malice? Yet, so truly,
I know his equal baseness and design,
I feel that he hath purposes of mischief,
Which, if he lack'd the agencies of evil,
He ne'er had underta'en. No sleep for me,
When that the dark suspicions in my soul,
Engender still the foe. I must go forth!—
[Looks out.
Oh! God, how beautiful the calm o'er earth,—
How soft the night, that, with a veil of brightness
Wraps all the subject creatures—peace and sleep,
Sharing the dreamy blessing, as if evil,
Sped not malignant spirits through the air,
And never flower of earth had cover'd reptile!

[Goes forth.