University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Evening. A room opening to a garden by a glass door. Writing materials, and a folded letter lying on a table. Helena and Sophia sitting together on a sofa near the open glass door.
Soph.
That's my best sister! then you've sent your answer?

Hel.
More than an hour ago—I almost wonder
It has not brought him yet—He thinks, perhaps,
'Twould compromise his dignity to appear
At the first summons.

Soph.
Probable conjecture!
He who went hence some three, four hours ago
In such a state of pitiable distress!
Who penned in agony of heart that note
Imploring you to see him once again,
Before he left this place and you for ever!

Hel.
Aye, at some journey, some immediate journey
He hinted in his note—I wonder whither?

Soph.
His man, who brought the note, told ours his master
Had given him orders to have all prepared
For sudden, it might be, this night's, departure.

Hel.
Perhaps he went before my answer reached him?

Soph.
Nay, dear! he would not go without his servant—
It does my heart good, but to guess the feelings
With which he read your answer—that reprieve
From death to life.

Hel.
And yet, I hope, Sophia!
I did not write as if I cared too much—
As if—as if—

Soph.
Nay, Helena! fear nothing—
Put not the galling curb of pride, my sister!
Upon the gen'rous warmth of virtuous feeling.
There are occasions (this, I think, is one,
Noble forgiveness of repented error,)
When it is beautiful to see the heart
Burst those unmeaning, selfish, cold restraints,
Called in the jargon of a heartless world,
Prudent reserve—decorum—proper pride.

Hel.
But yet he comes not, and its getting late:
'Tis a dark evening—there's a storm abroad—
Hark!—that was thunder.

Soph.
Yes—the clouds all day
Have been assembling, and it seemed at sunset
As if the lightnings (ready to dart out)
Glared with red wrath behind their volumed darkness.

Hel.
And Hargrave has a mile to walk—I wish
He may escape the storm.

Soph.
He will not heed it—
Who thinks of storms with sunshine in the heart?

Hel.

Soph.

Hel.
One moved, methought—there!—do you see it move?

Soph.
'Tis the long tremulous shade of yonder cypress
Waving across the path.

Hel.
What stirred its top?
There's not a breath of air.

Soph.
Some sudden puff,
Gone in a moment:—often before thunder
There are such stifled gaspings, as if nature
Struggled for breath—and hark! the shiv'ring leaves
(With agitated consciousness, 'twould seem,)
Announce the coming tempest—there it rolls—
But very distant.

Hel.
But 'twill soon be here,
And Hargrave's road leads through that very hollow,
Where the young sycamore was struck by lightning
In the last storm.

Soph.
But Hargrave will not stop
On his road here, on such an errand too,
To take the dang'rous shelter of the trees—
Besides—he'll reach us long before the storm—
We'll shut it out—I'll ring for lights—

Hel.
No, no,
Not for the world—I always loved, you know,
To watch the awful working of the heavens
On such an evening—at what hour d' you think
Was his note dated? 'tis too dark to see—

[Helena goes towards the writing table, takes up the folded letter, and utters a cry of surprise.]
Hel.
What have I done! oh, God! I've sent the wrong—

Soph.
(Running to her.)
Dear sister?

Hel.
His own letter I've sent back—
Here's mine sealed up—send some one off—fly—fly,
But 'tis too late—he's gone! he's gone already!
And I ------

[The report of a pistol heard from the garden. Helena screams and runs out, followed by her sister.]
Scene changes to the garden.
[A dim light—tall trees on every side. A walk skirted on one side by a sloping grass bank, topped with dark evergreens. Hargrave on the ground leaning against the bank, his head resting on Helena's shoulder, who is kneeling by him. A pistol lies on the walk. Female servants. Sophia giving hurried orders to a male domestic.]
Soph.
Fly—'tis for life and death!—and bring him with you—
Begone like lightning—

Har.
Too, too late, kind sister,
Before he comes—Oh, Helen! I've obeyed thee—
Helen! I go for ever—

Hel.
Hargrave! Hargrave!
Kill me—thy words will do it.

Soph.
Wretched man!
Rash, rash, mistaken man! what hast thou done?
She had recalled thee with forgiving love—
Had writ the kindest answer!—but in error,
(Oh, fatal error!) sent back thine own letter
In lieu of hers.

Har.
Recalled me! Helen! love!
Bless thee for that—but, oh! my frantic haste!
The sight of mine own letter—my last hope
Contemptuously returned—it drove me mad!
It drove me—but—perhaps—I may not die—
The wound may not be mortal—Oh! I feel
That I would give for one poor year of life
More than—Oh, Helena!

Hel.
Thou shalt not die!
Is there no help? You all stand gazing there,
And none of you—what's this? oh, God! oh, God!
My bosom's wet with blood! his blood! his blood
Will no one stir for help? he'll bleed to death.

Har.
Aye, aye, 'tis death!—I called, and he is come—
And thou forgavest me—and all might yet
But for mine own rash folly have been well—
Yet—let me hear it once from thine own lips—
My Helen!—thou forgivest?

Hel.
Hear him! hear him!—
He mocks me with his dying breath—he sues
In bitter irony to me for pardon—
Oh, cruel!—my forgiveness—and I've killed him

Har.
Oh, no! oh, no!—thou'rt blameless—I alone
Was guilty from the first—my only love!
Mine, mine in death!—Oh! comfort her, Sophia!
Don't tell my mother how her son—Oh, God!
My poor fond mother!

Hel.
What's her grief to mine?
She's not thy murd'ress—never steeled her heart
As I did mine against thy prayers—break, heart!
Proud, sinful heart! break, break, and pay for—

Har.
She faints—or art thou gone before, my Helen!
To await me—where? There is no place in Heav'n
For the lost wretch—Heav'n shuts her gates against me,
I see the flaming sword—it flashes—there!—

[Lightning.
Soph.
Oh, Hargrave—God is pleased to give thee time—
Time to repent—lift up thine heart in prayer—
His mercy's infinite.

[A crash of thunder over head.
Har.
Lo! there, His voice!—
Is that a call to judgment? Mercy, Jesu!—

[Dies.