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SCENE VII.
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SCENE VII.

A chamber in the house of Norman Maurice. Clarice reclines upon a couch. The widow Pressley stands at a little distance watching her.
Widow.
Dear lady, you will die.

Clarice.
Do not come near me!

Widow.
You bleed! You suffocate!

Clarice.
And still he comes not.
You promised me to send for him. Oh, God—
Should they behold these papers. Ha! I hear him.
Do you hear nothing?

Widow.
Nothing!

Clarice.
I hear! 'Tis he!

Maurice,
[without.]
Clarice! my wife!

Enter Norman Maurice.
Maurice.
Speak! Tell me! Where!—Clarice.

[Seeing her.
Clarice.
Oh! now you come! Heaven bless! I'm dying, Norman!

[Raises herself feebly to his arms.

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Maurice.
Dying!

Clarice.
I feel it; but—

Maurice.
The surgeon! God of heaven!—

Clarice.
He cannot help me now. Too late! no succor,—
I've but the words for blessing and farewell!—
I'm sinking;—but you're safe! Safe! Oh! the rapture,
To know it, and to whisper in your ears,
With the last loving words. He would have crush'd you—
Made infamous your name, my noble husband;
But stoop,—your ear—he'll trouble us no more.
He's silent—and I have the fatal papers;—
No copies—all the originals.—Ha! Ha!—
They're here—now take me,—closer—to your heart;
I leave you—lose you—Norman. Ah! your lips,—
How cold, but sweet, my Norman—cold—sweet—Norman!

[Dies.
Maurice.
Now sink my soul!—since the bright star is gone,
That made thy life and glory from the heavens—
That stored thee with all blessings. I am crush'd!
Ha! what are these!
(lays her down gently—the papers fall from her bosom.
Oh, God! I see it all.
Oh, bloody wretch, whose nature was a lie,
This was thy work,—not hers. 'Tis plain before me.
My poor Clarice! how faithful unto death,
Shielding me at the peril of thyself,
And, in the seeming dread necessity,
Doing the deed that from its delicate props,
Shook the fair fabric of thy innocent life!
My wife! My wife!

[Sinks down.
[Noise and voices without.]
People.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!

Enter Mercer, Brooks, and others.
Mercer.
Maurice, my friend, we triumph. You are Senator

120

For the next term, in Congress, from Missouri.

Maurice.
Couldst wake her with thy tidings!

Mercer.
God! This is death!

Maurice.
It lies upon her silent lips like snow.
Oh! do not speak—she hears not! why should I?
Nor sorrow, nor joy shall fill these frozen eyes,
That see not me. She would have listen'd once,
How gladly,—and found music in the triumph,
That now can bring me none. My wife! My wife!