University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

The parlor of a dwelling in the residence of Maurice, handsomely and newly furnished. Enter Warren and Osborne.
Warren.
I am amazed.

Osborne.
'Tis certainly a change
From his old lodging-house in Cedar-street.

Warren.
His run of luck hath crazed him, and he fancies
The world is in his string.

Osborne.
He's not far wrong!
His arguments have made a great impression;
Their subtlety and closeness, and the power
Of clear and forcible development,
Which seems most native to his faculty!
He was born an orator! With such a person—
A voice to glide from thunder into music,
A form and face so full of majesty,
Yet, with such frankness and simplicity,—
So much to please, and so commanding—

Warren.
Pshaw!—
You prate as do the newspapers, with a jargon
Of wretched common-place, bestuffed with phrases,
That, weighed against the ballad of an idiot,
Would show less burden and significance.
We'll spoil his fortune—

Osborne.
Hark! He comes.

Warren.
Be firm now!
See that you do it manfully—no halting.—

Osborne.
You still persist, then?

Warren.
Ay! when I have him here. [touching his breast.]


Enter Norman Maurice.
Maurice.
Be seated, sirs.
You bring with you the paper?

[To Osborne.
Osborne.
It is here, sir.
[Giving copy of document.
And here the separate claim—the costs and charges.

Maurice.
'Tis well! This first!—I pay this money, sir,
In liquidation of this wretched paper,
To which my hand appears, and, for which writing,
The world, unconscious of the facts, might hold me
A most unhappy criminal. Your knowledge
Includes this person's agency—my cousin—
As still, in moments of insidious fondness,
It is his wont to call me.

Warren.
Norman, nay!

Maurice,
[impatiently to Warren.]
Awhile, awhile, sir! we shall deal directly!—
I said [to Osborne,]
your knowledge of this boyish error,
Betrayed the agency of Robert Warren,
Which does not here appear. He made that guilty
Which in itself was innocent. These moneys,
Procured by him upon this document,
Were all by him consumed. You were his agent,
Perhaps as ignorant of his vicious deed,
As I, who am its victim. Was it so, sir?

Osborne.
I sold for him the bill, sir, knowing nothing,
And still believed it genuine.

Maurice.
He will tell you,
That, what I utter of his agency,
In this insane and inconsiderate act,
Is true as Holy Writ! Speak, Robert Warren!

Warren.
I have admitted it already, Norman.

Maurice.
[To Osborne.]
Be you the witness of his words hereafter.
Here is your money,—and I take this paper,
The proof of boyish error and misfortune,
But not of crime, in me. Thus, let it perish,
With that confiding and believing nature,
Which gave me to the power of one so base!

[putting it in the fire, and placing his foot on it while it burns.
Warren.
Norman! Cousin!

Maurice.
You cozen me no more!
And if your agent has the wit to gather
A lesson from your faithlessness to me,
You will not cozen him. Take counsel, sir,
And never trust this man!

[To Osborne.
Warren.
Norman Maurice!

Maurice.
[To Osborne.]
Our business ends! Will it please you, leave us now!

[Exit Osborne: Warren is about to follow when Maurice lays his hand on his shoulder.
Maurice.
Stay you! There must be other words before we part,
Not many, but most needful.

Warren.
Let me pray you,
To fashion them in less offensive spirit.

Maurice.
Why, so I should, could I suppose one virtue,
A life to leaven a dense mass of vices,
Remain'd within your bosom. You shall listen
Though every syllable should be a sting!
'Twould not offend me greatly, Robert Warren,
If, as I brand thy baseness on thy forehead,
Thy heart, with courage born of just resentment,
Should move thee to defiance! It would glad me,
In sudden strife, to put a proper finish
To thy deep, secret, foul, hostility.

Warren.
You have no reason for this cruel language.

Maurice.
Look on me as thou say'st the monstrous falsehood;
But lift thine eye to mine—and, if thy glance
Can brazen out the loathing in mine own,
I will forgive thee all! Thou dar'st not do it!
No reason, say'st thou?—Thou, whose arrant cunning,
Hath taken the profits of three toilsome years
To pay thy wage of sin,—and smutch'd my garments,
That else had known no stain!

Warren.
Have I not
Confess'd that wrong and folly?—

Maurice.
Wert repentant,
When making thy confession—

Warren.
So I am!

Maurice.
Traitor! I know thee better! Thy confession
But followed on detection! While thou mad'st it,
The busy devil, dwelling in thy heart,
Was framing other schemes of crime and hatred,
Outbraving all the past. Ev'n while my pity
Was taking thee to mercy, thou wast planning
New evil to my fortunes!

Warren.
Never, Norman!
By heaven! you do me wrong.

Maurice.
Pure Innocent,
The very angels look on thee with sorrow,
To see such virtue suffer such injustice!—
But hearken, while I paint another picture:
The fiends exulting in thy ready service,
A voluntary minister of evil,
As, with a spirit born of hell and hatred,
Thou pluck'st the flower of hope from happiness,
To plant the thorn instead.

Warren.
What crime is this?

Maurice.
I heard thy plea for mercy! I believed thee,
And, as thou wert the child of that dear woman
Who called my mother, sister, I forgave thee,
Most glad to listen to thy deep assurance
Of shame for each sad error. So, I took thee,
Once more, to confidence—my bosom open'd,
And show'd thee, shrined within its holiest chamber,
The image of the being that I loved!—
I led thee to her—taught her to behold thee,
My friend and kinsman; and, misdoubting never,
Still saw thee bend thy footsteps to her dwelling,
Nor dream'd that to the flowers that made my Eden,
Myself had brought the serpent!

Warren.
What means this?

Maurice.
What! Thou know'st nothing? Thou hast no conjecture
Of what the serpent sought within the garden!
Why, man, he whispered in Eve's innocent ears,
The oiliest nothings,—mingled with such slander
Of him who sought to make himself her Adam,
That—

Warren.
'Tis false!—I swear! I never did this mischief!

Maurice.
Liar! The oath thou tak'st is thy perdition!
Behold the evidence that proves thy blackness,
In contrast with its purity and truth!
Clarice! Come forth! My wife, sir!

Enter Clarice from within.
Warren.
Damnation!

[Warren rushes out.
Maurice.
Thus fled the fiend, touch'd by Ithuriel's spear,
Even from the reptile rising to the fiend,
And speeding from the Eden that his presence
Shall never trouble more. Henceforth, dear wife,
Our paradise shall still be free from taint;
A realm of sweetness unobscured by shadow,
And freshening still with flow'rs that take their beauty,
As favor'd still by thine. From this blest moment,
Our peace shall be secure!

Clarice.
And yet I fear,
This bold, bad man.

Maurice.
Bad, but not bold! Fear nothing!
I've pluck'd his sting! Thou know'st the cruel story;
I told thee all,—suppressed no syllable—
Of his perversion of a simple paper,
Wherein, in vain display of penmanship,
I gave him power for practice which he seized on,
Exposing me to ruin. In those embers,
The fatal proof lies buried. I am free;—
And in the freedom I have won from him,
And in the bondage I have sworn to thee,
I write the record of my happiness!
This day I feel triumphant as the hunter,
Who, on the wild steed that his skill hath captured,
Rifle in grasp, and bridle rein flung loose,
Darts forth upon the prairie's waste of empire,
And feels it all his own!

Clarice.
I share thy triumph—
Would share that waste with thee and feel no sorrow,
For all that love foregoes.

Maurice.
I take thy promise—
Will try thy strength, thy courage and thy heart,
As little thou hast fancied! Clarice, dear wife,
With dawn we leave this city.

Clarice.
How! to-morrow?
And leave this city, Norman?

Maurice.
Dost thou fail me?

Clarice.
No! I am thine! My world is in thy love;
I wish no dearer dwelling-place—would ask
No sweeter realm of home! Go, where thou wilt,
I cling to thee as did the Hebrew woman
To him who had his empire in her heart.

Maurice.
I bless thee for this proof of thy affection!
This is the city of thy birth and mine,
But that's our native land alone which suffers
That we take root and flourish;—those alone,
Our kindred, who will gladden in our growth,
And succor till we triumph. Here, it may be,
That, after weary toil, and matchless struggle,
When strength subsides in age, they will acknowledge,
That I am worthy of my bread,—may bid me,
Look up and be an alderman or mayor!—
And this were of their favor. The near neighbors,
Who grew with us, and saw our gradual progress,
Who knew the boy, and all his sports and follies,
Have seldom faith that he will grow the man
To cast them into shadow. We'll go hence!—

Clarice.
Whither, dear Norman?

Maurice.
Whither! Dost thou ask?
Both in God's keeping, Clarice—thou in mine!
I'll tender thee as the most precious treasure,
That city ever yielded wilderness.

Clarice.
I know thou wilt;—but what thy means, my husband
Thou told'st me thou wast poor.

Maurice.
Means! I have manhood!
Youth, strength, and men say, intellect—

Clarice.
You have! You have!

Maurice.
A heart at ease, secure in its affections
And still the soul to seek each manly struggle!
Wide is the world before me—a great people,
Spread o'er a realm, along whose verdant meadows
The sun can never set. I know this people—
Love them—would make them mine! I have ambition
To serve them in high places, and do battle
With the arch-tyrannies, in various guises,
That still from freedom pluck its panoply,
Degrade its precious rites, and, with vain shadows,
Mock the fond hopes that fasten on their words.

Clarice.
Could you not serve them here?

Maurice.
No! No!

Clarice.
Wherefore not?—
And oh! they need some saviour here, methinks!

Maurice.
Ay! They do need! But I am one of them,—
Sprung from themselves—have neither friends nor fortune,
And will not stoop, entreating as for favor,
When I would serve to save! They lack all faith
In him who scorns to flatter their delusions,
And lie them to self-worship. In the West,
There is a simpler and a hardier nature,
That proves men's values, not by wealth and title,
But mind and manhood. There, no ancient stocks,
Claim power from precedence. Patrician people,
That boast of virtues in their grandmothers,
Are challenged for their own. With them it answers,
If each man founds his family, and stands
The father of a race of future men!
Mere parchment, and the vain parade of title,
Lift no man into stature. Such a region
Yields all that I demand—an open field,
And freedom to all comers. So, the virtues
Flourish according to their proper nature;
And each man, as he works with will and courage,
Reaps the good fruitage proper to his claim;—
Thither, dear wife!

Clarice.
I'm thine!

Maurice.
Thy ready answer,
Completes my triumph! Wings are at my shoulders,
And more than eagle empires woo my flight!
Yet, do I something fear,—Clarice—

Clarice.
What fear?

Maurice.
Thou'rt not ambitious.

Clarice.
But for thee, Norman;
If that, in service at thy shrine of glory,
Thou dost not lose the love—

Maurice.
Be satisfied
That, when my state is proudest, thou shalt be
The one, whom, most of all, these eyes shall look for,
This heart still follow with devoted service.
But, to thy preparations: I will follow;—
Before the dawn we shall have left this city.
[Clarice going.
That reptile— [musingly.]


Clarice.
[returning.]
Norman!

Maurice.
My Clarice!
[embracing her.
[Exit Clarice.
His fangs are drawn!—
Yet, somehow, he is present to my thoughts,
As if he still had power. But, let him dare,
Once more to cross my path, and he shall feel
His serpent head grow flat beneath my heel.

[Exit within.