University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A parlor in the house of Mrs. Jervas, in Walnut-street, Philadelphia. Mrs. Jervas and Robert Warren discovered—the latter entering hastily and with discomposure.
Mrs. Jervas,
[eagerly.]
Well?

Warren.
It is not well! 'Tis ill! She has refused me!

Mrs. J.
Has she then dared?

Warren.
Ay, has she! Something farther—
She does not scruple to avow her passion
For my most worthy cousin, Norman Maurice.

Mrs. J.
She shall repent it—she shall disavow it,
Or she shall know!—I'll teach her!—

Warren.
She's a pupil
With will enough of her own to vex a master!

Mrs. J.
I have a will too, which shall master her!
Is she not mine?—my sister's child?—a beggar,
That breathes but by my charity! I'll teach her,
And she shall learn the lesson set for her,
Or I will turn her naked into the streets,
As pennyless as she came. But, wait and see,—
You shall behold—

Warren.
Nay, wait till I am gone,
Then use your best severity. She needs it—
Has no sufficient notion of her duty,
And—

Mrs. J.
No, indeed!

Warren.
But you must make her wiser.

Mrs. J.
I will!
I've treated her too tenderly!

Warren.
But show her
Some little glimpse of the danger in her path,—
Shame and starvation—

Mrs. J.
She deserves them both.

Warren.
And keep my worthy cousin from her presence.

Mrs. J.
He darks these doors no more! The girl, already,
Has orders to deny him.

Warren.
You've done wisely.
A little time,—but keep them separate,—
And we shall conquer her;—ay, conquer him too,
For I've a little snare within whose meshes
His feet are sure to fall.

Mrs. J.
What snare?

Warren.
No matter!
Be ignorant of the mischief till it's over,
And we enjoy its fruits! Meanwhile, be busy,—
Pursue the plan you purpose, and to-morrow,
We shall know farther. I shall use the moments,
'Twixt this and then, in labors which must profit,
Or fortune grows perverse. See you to her,
While I take care of him.

Mrs. J.
Oh, never fear me—
I'll summon her the moment you are gone,
And she shall know—

Warren.
That you may summon her—
For we must lose no time—I take my leave.

[Ex. Warren.
Mrs. J.
The pert and insolent baggage! But I'll teach her!
I'll let her know from whose benevolent hand
She eats the bread of charity—whose mercy
It is, that clothes her nakedness with warmth.
[Rings. Enter Biddy.
Go, Biddy!—send my niece to me. [Ex. Biddy.]
A beggar,
That fain would be a chooser!—So, Miss!

Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
Dear Aunt!

Mrs. J.
Ay, you would dare me in another fashion,
But you have met your match; and now I tell you,
Clarice Delancy, 'tis in vain you struggle—

Clarice.
What have I done?

Mrs. J.
Oh! you are ignorant,
And innocent seeming as the babe unborn,
If tongue and face could speak for secret conscience,
That harbors what it should not. So, you dare
Avow a passion for that beggarly Maurice,
Whom I've forbid the house!

Clarice.
Forbidden Maurice!

Mrs. J.
Ay, indeed! forbid!

Clarice.
In what has he offended?

Mrs. J.
His poverty offends me—his presumption.

Clarice.
Presumption!

Mrs. J.
He has the audacity to think of you
In marriage—he would heir my property;—
The miserable beggar! who, but lately—

Clarice.
And, if the humble Clarice might presume,
There were no fitter husband! From the Fates
I do entreat no happier destiny
Than but to share, o'er all that wealth may proffer,
The beggary that he brings!

Mrs. J.
But you shall never!
I am your guardian, in the place of mother,
And I will turn you naked from these doors
If you but dare—

Clarice.
Ah! that were guardianship,
Becoming the dear sister of a mother,
Who, when she left her hapless child to earth,
Ne'er dream'd of such remembrance, in the future,
Of what beseem'd the past. I've anger'd you,
But cannot chide myself, because my nature
Does not revolt at homage of a being
In whom no virtue starves. Suppose him poor!
Wealth makes no certain happiness to hope,
Nor poverty its loss. In Norman Maurice
I see a nobleness that still atones for
The lowly fortunes that offend your pride.
None richer lives in rarest qualities,—
More precious to the soul that feeds on worth,
Than all your city glitter. Do you think
To win me from a feast of such delights,
To the poor fare on common things that make
The wealth of Robert Warren? Madam—my aunt,—
I thank you for the bounty you have shown me!
It had been precious o'er most earthly things,
But that it hath its price, at perilous cost
To things more precious still. Your charity,
That found a shelter for this humble person,
Were all too costly, if it claims in turn
This poor heart's sacrifice. I cannot make it!
I will not wed this Warren,—for I know him—
And, if it be that I shall ever wed,
Will wed with Norman Maurice—as a man,
Whom most it glads me that I also know.

Mrs. J.
Never shall you wed with him while I have power
To keep you from such folly. You're an infant,
That knows not what is needful for your safety,
Or precious for your heart. Be ruled by me,
Or forth you pack. I cut you off forever,
From fortune as from favor.

Clarice.
Welcome death,
Sooner than bonds like these!

Mrs. J.
Ungrateful girl!
And this is the return for all my bounty?
But you shall not achieve your own destruction,
If I can help it. This Maurice never darkens
My dwelling with his shadow. He hath made you
Perverse and disobedient—but he shall not
Thrive by your ruin. See that you prepare
To marry Robert Warren.

Clarice.
With the grave first!—
Its cold and silence, and its crawling things,
Loathsome, that make us shudder but to think on,
Sooner than he!—a base, unworthy creature,
Who steals between his kinsman and the friend,
That gave him highest trust and held him faithful,
To rob him of the treasure he most values.
The reptile that keeps empire in the grave
Sooner than he, shall glide into this bosom,
And make it all his own.

Mrs. J.
Silence, I say!—
Before I madden with your insolence,
And lose the memory of that sainted sister
That left you in my trust.

Clarice.
My poor, dear mother!
She never dream'd of this, in that dark hour
That lost me to her own!

Mrs. J.
I'm in her place,
To sway your foolish fancies with a prudence
You will not know yourself. Once more I tell you,
You wed with Warren—Robert Warren, only!
This Maurice— [noise without]
Ha! That noise?—

Maurice.
[in the hall without.]
I must, my girl!

Clarice.
'Tis Maurice now.

Mrs. J.
The insolent! will he dare!

Biddy.
[in the hall without.]
Mrs. Jervas says, sir—

Maurice.
[without.]
Ay! ay! she says!—
But when a lady means civilities,
'Tis still my custom to do justice to her,
By seeking them in person. There, my girl,
You've done your duty as you should. Now, please you,
I will do mine. [Entering the room.]
Madam—

Mrs. J.
Was ever insolence—

Biddy.
[entering.]
Mr. Maurice would, ma'am.

Mrs. J.
This conduct, sir—

Maurice.
Would be without its plea at common seasons,—
And he whose purpose was a morning visit,
The simply social object of the idler,
Who finds in his own time and company
The very worst offence, could offer nothing,
To plead for his intrusion on that presence,
Which, so politely, shuts the door against him.

Mrs. J.
Well, sir?

Maurice.
But I am none of these.

Mrs. J.
What plea, sir?—

Maurice.
Some natures have their privilege—some passions
Demand a hearing. There are rights of feeling,
That art can never stifle—griefs, affections,
That never hear the civil “Not at home!”
When home itself is perill'd by submission.
He's but a haggard that obeys the check,
When all that's precious to his stake of life
Is fasten'd on the string. Necessity
Makes bold to ope the door which fashion's portress
Would bolt and bar against him. 'Tis my fate,
That prompts me to a rudeness, which my nurture
Would else have shrunk from. But that I have rights
Which move me to defiance of all custom,
I had not vex'd your presence.

Mrs. J.
Rights, sir—rights?

Maurice.
Ay, madam, the most precious to the mortal!
Rights of the heart, which make the heart immortal
In those affections which still show to earth,
The only glimpses we have left of Eden.
Behold in her, [pointing to Clarice,]
my best apology—
One, whom to gaze on silences complaint,
And justifies the audacity that proves
Its manhood in its error. Clarice, my love,
Is there from any corner of your heart
An echo to the will that says to Maurice,
Your presence here is hateful?

[Takes her hand.]
Clarice.
Can you ask?

Maurice.
Enough!—

Mrs. J.
Too much, I say. Let go her hand,
And leave this dwelling, sir! I'm mistress here;
And shall take measures for security
Against this lawless insolence.

Maurice.
Awhile! awhile!
You are the mistress here;—I will obey you;—
Will leave your presence, madam, never more
To trouble you with mine. You now deny me
The privilege, that never act of mine
Hath properly made forfeit. You behold me
The suitor to your niece. You hear her language,—
How different from your own—that, with its bounty
Makes rich my heart with all the gifts in hers!
Sternly, you wrest authority from judgment,
To exercise a will that puts to scorn
Her hopes no less than mine! I would have pleaded
Your calm return to judgment;—would entreat you
To thoughts of better favor, that might sanction,
With the sweet blessing of maternal love,
The mutual passion living in our hearts;
But that I know how profitless the pleading,
Which, in the ear of prejudice, would soften
The incorrigible wax that deafens pride.
I plead not for indulgence—will not argue
The cruelty that finds in charity
Commission for that matchless tyranny
That claims the right to break the orphan's heart
Because it finds her bread.

Clarice,
[aside to Norman.]
Spare her, Norman.

Maurice,
[aside to Clarice.]
Oh! will I not! Yet wherefore need I spare,
When, if the Holy Law be not a mock,
The justice which must break this heart of stone,
Will send her howling through eternity.
'Twere mercy, which in season speaks the truth,
That, in the foretaste of sure penalties,
May terrify the offender from his path,
And send him to his knees.

Clarice,
[aside to Maurice.]
For my sake, Norman.

Maurice,
[to Mrs. J.]
Yet, madam, in this freest use of power,
Which drives me hence, be merciful awhile,
And, if this heart, so dearly link'd with mine,
Through love and faith unperishing, must turn
Its fountains from that precious overflow
That kept my flowers in bloom—yet, ere the word,
That leaves me sterile ever thence, be said,
Suffer us, apart awhile, to speak of parting!
Words of such import still ask fewest ears,
And words of grief and hopelessness like ours,
Must needs have utterance in such lowly tones,
As best declare the condition of the heart,
That's muffled for despair. But a few moments
We'll walk apart together.

Mrs. J.
It is useless!
What needs—

Maurice.
What need of sorrow ever! Could earth speak,
Prescribing laws to that Divinity,
That still smites rock to water, we should hear,
The universal voice of that one plea,
That claims for man immunity from troubles
Which make proud eyes o'erflow. Who should persuade
His fellow to opinion of the uses
That follow from his tears? What school, or teacher,
Would seek to show that chemistry had art,
To fix and harden the dilating drops
To brilliants as they fall,—such as no crown
In Europe might affect? One finds no succor,
Sovereign to break the chain about his wrist,
From all the fountains that o'ersluice the heart;
Yet will he weep, though useless. He who stands,
Waiting upon the scaffold for the signal,
That flings him down the abyss, still hoards each minute
That niggard fate allows. That single minute
Still shrines a hope;—if not a hope, a feeling,
That finds a something precious even in pain,
And will not lose the anxiety that racks him,
Lest he make forfeit of a something better
Which yet he cannot name. And, at the last,
I, whom you doom to loss of more than life,
May well implore the respite of a moment,
If but to suffer me to count once more,
The treasure that I lose. A moment, madam?

Mrs. J.
[walks up the stage.]
A single moment, then.

Maurice.
Oh! you are gracious!
A single moment is a boundless blessing
To him you rob of time! Clarice, my love.

Clarice.
My Norman!

Maurice.
Oh! is it thus, my Clarice—is it thus?

Clarice.
We have been children, Norman, in our dreams
We are the sport of fate!

Maurice.
And shall be ever,
If that there be no courage in our hearts
To shape the fates to favor by our will.

Clarice.
What mean you, Norman

Maurice.
What should Norman mean,
But, if he can, to grapple with his fortune,
And, like a sturdy wrestler in the ring,
Throw heart and hope into the perilous struggle?
What should I mean but happiness for thee,—
Thou willing, as myself? Who strives with fate,
Must still, like him, the mighty Macedonian,
Seize the coy priestess by the wrist, and lead her
Where yet she would not go! Suppose me faithful
To the sweet passion I have tender'd you,
And what remains in this necessity,
But that, made resolute by grim denial,
I challenge from your love sufficient courage,
To take the risks of mine!

Clarice.
Within your eye
A meaning more significant than your words,
Would teach me still to tremble. That I love you,
You doubt not, Norman! That my heart hath courage
To match the love it feels for you—

Maurice.
It hath—it hath!
If that the love be there, as I believe it,
That love will bring, to nourish needful strength,
A virtue that makes love a thing of soul,
And arms its will with wings. Oh! read you not,
My meaning—

Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Your moment is a long one, sir.

Maurice.
Ah, madam!
Who chides the executioner when he suffers
The victim his last words—though still he lingers
Ere he would reach the last? But a few moments,
And I have spoken all that my full heart
Might not contain with safety.

Mrs. J.
[retiring up the stage.]
Be it so, sir.

Maurice.
You hear, my Clarice. We've another moment:
But one, it seems, unless your resolution
Takes its complexion from the fate that threatens
And shows an equal will. If then, in truth,
You love me—

Clarice.
Oh! look not thus!

Maurice.
I doubt not;—
And yet, dear Clarice, if indeed you love me,
The single moment that this woman gives us,
Becomes a life;—to me, of happiness,—
To thee, as full of happiness as thou
Might hope to gain from me. She would deny us,—
Would wed thee to that subtle Robert Warren—

Clarice.
I'll perish first!

Maurice.
No need of perishing
When I can bring thee to security.
I knew thy straits—the tyranny which thou suffer'st
Because of thy dependence; and my struggle,
Since this conviction reached me—day and night—
Was, that I might from this condition snatch thee,
And, in thy happier fortunes, find mine own!
I have prepared for this.

Clarice.
What would'st thou, Norman!

Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Your moments fly.

Maurice.
I soon shall follow them.

Mrs. J.
[retiring again.]
The sooner, sir, the better.

Maurice.
She would spare me,
The argument which shows thee what is needful.

Clarice.
Speak! I have courage equal to my love!

Maurice.
I try thee though I doubt not! If thou lov'st me
Thou'lt yield, without a question, to my purpose,
And give me all thy trust.

Clarice.
Will I not, Norman?

Maurice.
Then, with the night, I make thee mine, Clarice!
Steal forth at evening. There shall be a carriage,
And my good hostess, whom thou know'st, in waiting.
Our future home is ready.

Clarice.
Let me think, Norman.

Maurice.
That's as your excellent aunt, who now approaches
May please:—but, surely, when to my fond pleading
You sweetly vow'd yourself as mine alone,
The proper thought that sanctions my entreaty
Was all complete and perfect.

Clarice.
But Norman, how—
How should I, in your poverty, encumber
Your cares with a new burden?

Maurice.
There is no poverty,
Which the true courage, and the bold endeavor,
The honest purpose, the enduring heart,
Crowned with a love that blesses while it burdens,
May not defy in such a land as ours!
We'll have but few wants having one another!—
And for these wants, some dawning smiles of fortune
Already have prepared me. Trust me, Clarice,
I will not take thee to a worse condition,
In one whose charities shall never peril
The affections they should foster.

Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Sir,—again!

Maurice.
Yes, yes—most excellent madam—yes—again!
There's but a single syllable between us,
Your niece hath left unspoken.—My Clarice!

Clarice.
I'm thine!

Maurice.
'Tis spoken!
And now I live again!

Mrs. J.
Well, sir—art done at last?

Maurice.
Done! Ay, madam—done!
You've held me narrowly to a strict account—
And yet, I thank you. You've been merciful
After a fashion which invokes no justice,
And yet may find it, madam. Yet—I thank you!
The word is said that's needful to our parting;
And that I do not in despair depart,
Is due to these last moments. Fare you well!
Be you as safe, henceforth, from all intrusion,
As you shall be from mine. Clarice—farewell!

Clarice.
Norman.

Maurice.
[embracing her.]
But one embrace!

Mrs. J.
Away, sir.

Maurice.
In earnest of those pleasant bonds hereafter,
That none shall dare gainsay. Clarice—Remember!
[Exit Maurice.

Clarice.
Go, Norman, and believe me.

Mrs. J.
Get you in!

[Exeunt.