University of Virginia Library

A CHARACTER.

IN TWO SCENES.

• Lina Merton .............. A Creole.
• Helen Merton ................... Her English Half-Sister.
• Sir Vivian Mordaunt ............ A Poet, engaged to Lina.
• Ninette ........................ Companion to Lina.

Scene I.—

England.
Night.—A Bed-Room.
Lina and Ninette.
Lina.
You hear me, Ninette; not a word of this!

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
If they ask you why I left
So suddenly, and wish'd not one good-night,
Say—say—say anything: I'm reading—tired—
I'd try this dress on—I am nervous—vexed—
But not a word of this—this foolish fit.

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
And—I dare say he'll not ask—
But tell me if Sir Vivian ask, or not,
The reason of my leaving. Mind, I'm well.
Good night. (A pause.)
Ninette! yes, put my pearls away
Into their case. That's right. (A pause.)
And, stay! before
I sleep (I'll read a little), let me know
How long Sir Vivian stays. And—'tis a whim—
See if he talks much, Ninette—if he talks
To any one for long. 'Tis a mere whim,
A foolish fancy; but you'll let me know.
He has not gone?

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
No?—why no?
You speak as if he stood here; I have left
An hour; what makes him stay? There's in your eyes
A something that I'd hear straight out in words.
Speak out! I'd know why you are sure he's here.

Ninette.
Madam, I saw him, as you left the room

Lina.
Speak to my sister—well?

Ninette.
The casement's open;
A moment since I'm certain that I caught
Their whispers on the terrace.

Lina.
Whispers! fool?
They talk—they talk aloud; why should they whisper?
Then it is so; at last, I am not blind.

Ninette.
Madam, I only said, I thought

Lina.
Speak out;
I will know all.

Ninette.
All? That is all—what

Lina.
All?
Well—you may go; good night! Put by that book;
I will not read. The night is strangely hot;
Throw wide the casement. All? You do not go!

Ninette.
O Madam! Madam! will you let me speak?

Lina.
None of your pity—I've not fallen to that.
Not to have seen it! Slighted! spurn'd! cast off!
And she—this sister—smiling in my face!
I know your meaning: well, what would you say?

Ninette.
O Madam, have some pity on your sister!
I've known her from a girl, for we were girls
Together; and her nature is as kind
As

Lina.
Mine is hard?

Ninette.
Madam, I said not that.

Lina.
You only look'd it. Well?

Ninette.
She would not tread
Upon a

Lina.
Sister? Ends the sentence so?
Girl, I'm no worm; and let them have a care
On what they tread! The fiery South has fangs—
I'm of the South—that, trodden on, you die.

Ninette.
O talk not so, my lady! I have watch'd,
Shuddering to think that it must come to this,
This evil love from its first growth. Believe me,
Though you may blame, you well may pity her.
He is a thing of change; as unstable
As the shifting wind; one, weak—infirm of will—
Who veers with every fancy. You must know well
He cannot bind his purpose down to the act
His reason urges; so his love for you,
Firm for some months, and therefore hot for change,
The rather that she was your opposite,
Flutter'd to her when she again was nigh,
Through struggling scruples, that I could but see.
And she, poor girl! with tears and self-reproach,
Urged on by passion—caught by the very looks—
The very utterance that was dear to you

Lina.
Enough of that: you'll spare to speak of me;
Speak of this sister, and of her alone.

Ninette.
She

Lina.
Stay; I'll tell you what this meek one did,
All heart—all anything that I am not—
She, that will daintily set free a fly,
Balking the hungry spider, spite of God—
This petter of canaries and of pups—
She, knowing this Sir Vivian sworn to me,
With virtuous reluctance—sweetest ruth,
A thousand things are plain—I see them now—
Took pains to snare him; will she hold him too?
And did her best to break her sister's heart;
Though perhaps she guessed my heart was not quite such
As novels deal with.

Ninette.
O Madam!

Lina.
Off! why should I talk and talk,
As if I were a school-girl, novel-bit?
Go, now; but as the play will be played out,
And all our sex since Eve have been the same,
Curious to learn whatever's from them hid,
I'd know, Ninette, whate'er your sharp eyes see.
You think I'll wince to hear of what their love
Must grow with—sugar'd words, and mingling sighs,
And secret meetings—secret—mark you that!
I scare them, trust me! always in their thoughts!
But tell me all—tones—whispers—looks and smiles.
I know her Vivian's well. Fear not for me!
The spasm pass'd for good that shook me first;
And for the future you'll but see myself,
No whimperer, but just one with curious eye
(Perhaps a bitter one—by nature that),
Who'll see each act through; just Faust's ancient friend,
Much in his spirit—eyeing all their plans
To fashion to my taste this strange surprise
They quake to show me. We'll enjoy it, girl,
And study gentle spirits' gentle ways
(Meek Walton's gentle hooking through his frog
As though he loved him), reading for our jest
Another leaf from nature's puzzling book,
And marvelling, in their case, what ending time
Will give their story; tragic-wise, you know,
Some plots do end with sorrows and with death,
Not closing pleasantly as others do,
All tangles straighten'd, and all wrongs forgot,
With marriage, comfort, and a world of sweets.
“What will be, will be,” so the proverb runs;
Time hides and shows much; Ninette, we shall see.

Ninette.
I knew—I know 'twill have an evil end.
What good could come of it? what end but ill?
It must—it will

Lina.
Nay, if you prophesy,
A croaking raven, of revenge

Ninette.
Revenge!
I never named it.

Lina.
Well, of ill, then—ill
To this sweet pair, their sister must not hear.
Not one word more: Ninette, I said good-night.

Ninette.
O Madam!

Lina.
Close the door. [Exit Ninette.
O God! she's gone,
And, for to-night, this mad self-mockery ends.
I must be calm; I must be calm; there's fire
Within my brain, but I must not go mad.
What's “mad?” To act no purpose out—a reed,
To bend to every gust that passion blows,
And yet not act—act all that reason wills;
That were a hell to shrink from. Let me think:
He loves—he loves her—loves her! Let me say
The words again. I speak them, and my ears
Hear them. Loves her! They scarce have meaning yet;
Loves her, not me. O Vivian, yesterday
Through flowers and sunshine—now one bleak sharp turn
To utter barrenness that cannot end,
For ever—ever! O that burning tears
Would rain this weight of sorrow from my brain,
And let me think unfrenzied of this blow!
Weep? weep and groan? I will not shed a tear,
Not one—not one. May the fierce fire I feel
Blast them. O—O that I were God, to turn
Their every day to sorrow! God, to scorch
Their hopes to blackness! God, to make their love
A hatred and a loathing! Am I mad,
To rave and babble? What are storms of words,
Unless, like the red hail that Egypt smote,
They burnt and blister'd! O sweet sleep! sweet sleep!
When shall I know the sleep of yesternight?

Scene II.

Morning.—A Library opening on to a Garden.
Lina alone.
Lina.
O how I thirst and hunger, face to face,
To curse them! not to have seen it! not to have seen
What all were loud of! I to be made the jest
Of all in the house, down to the very scullion,
The kitchen's merriment—a moving joke—
The jeer of the stables! would that I could stab him!
And be the rabble's wonder, days and weeks?
The news of papers, and the talk of taps—
Closed with the rope and hangman? Stab her? why,
That, if one weighs it, is but poor revenge,
Perhaps a loss of that for which one seeks.
No; be not rash; yet rein your passion in,
Though it should choke you, till occasion shriek
“Loose it!”—then—then? Why, here her Vivian comes
I'll scare my Damon. [Enter Vivian Mordaunt].
What you, Vivian, here?

Vivian.
Why, is it strange to see me?

Lina.
But so soon
What miracles cannot that boy effect,
The pigmy Cupid! to have made you rise
By this! by nine! nay, trust your eyes! an hour,
A whole full hour, before you saw the sun,
Unsmitten; then too, sir, your stay was late,
Or I'm mistaken, so the marvel's more;
What brings you? Why, the bees are hardly out,
And larks alone and labourers yet abroad;
Come, tell me why you're here?

Vivian.
Are you not here?

Lina.
How sweet a compliment! most neatly turned.
Ah! there you poets distance others so!
Still, there's this trifling drawback from the worth
Of all your flatteries, you so deal in lies.

Vivian.
I—lies?—Miss Merton?

Lina.
O I crave your grace,
Sir Vivian Mordaunt, Baronet, M.P.—
(Title for title)—if bare words affright,
We'll mask them; this one shall have dainty trim;
Your nerves being weak, we'll fit it for your sight,
And call it—fiction; that's poetic phrase.
Now, own you're false.

Vivian.
As false as all my tribe.

Lina.
No falser? Well, you're of a lying crew;
I'd best have shunn'd you.

Vivian.
[Aside].
Does she know the truth?
Or only banter in her bitter vein?
[Aloud].
You'd best have shunned me? Why, your talk is strange.

Lina.
The world is strange, Sir Vivian. Men are strange.
Life and its ways are stranger than I dream'd.
We live to learn strange wisdom.

Vivian.
Come—you deal
In riddles; I

Lina.
Can guess them? can you? Do!
Do!—Nay, where's Helen? Helen shall be here
To praise your quickness; she might guess them, too.
Ah, here she comes; she has a pleasant face;
I know you love that it should bless your dreams. [Enter Helen].

Ah Helen, did you feel your ears a-fire?
I see your cheeks are burning; Vivian and I
Were talking of you. Why, how quick you're pale,
But now a poppy! I but told you, sister,
We talked of you. What could we say but good?
I love you—don't I? Vivian, do not you?
You love my sister?

Vivian.
Love?—your sister?—yes.

Lina.
Why there you two stand, tongue-tied—red and white,
As if, poor children, you were girl and boy,
And feared a scolding. What have you to fear?
Come, have you written anything of late?
What, poet, not a sonnet, good or bad?
Hand me that purple volume from the shelf!
Not Tennyson—the next—a poet too—
The gentler Browning; how I hoard them both!
You've read her masterpiece—her Geraldine?
Her Duchess May—that has the antique ring?
She's great, because she's earnest.

Vivian.
True—her heart
Throbs through her sentences, and so they live.

Lina.
Ah, here's a poem that is talked of much;
You know it surely—Bertha in the Lane?
What think you of it? Sure you know it, sister?
The tale's a wild one—not a jot from life—
It must be fancied. On her dying bed,
The elder of two sisters,—as 'twere I,
You listening, sobs into the younger's ears
The untold sorrow that had made her die,
Heart-broken—how, hedge-hidden, in the lane
That names the tale, her own betroth'd she heard
Wooing her sister—both so false to her;
How she had locked this sorrow in her heart
From all but heaven, and in her tender love
For this false sister, she had made them one,
And died to bless them,—blessing them, content.
What think you of the story? Vivian, you?
Surely a touching one, with tenderest love,
And woman's noblest teachings over-brimm'd;
One to fill eyes with purifying tears,
And leave all hearts but better'd? Come,—I'd hear
A poet's judgment of a poet's tale;
Mind, of the tale—the story; for its form,
Spare our poor ears a talk of rhymes and rules
Obey'd or broken.

Vivian.
Why, what can I say
But echo your opinion? Who can praise
Enough the pen that such a wonder drew
Of angel meekness? Who can

Lina.
And you think
This patient sufferer was no puling fool
To take her wrongs so lightly? Do you so?
What thinks our Helen? Does she think so too?
What not a word? Why, it is but a tale
We talk of, sister—it is but a tale;
There never was a sister was so false.
Nor ever yet a man, forsworn, so base
As to make a sister turn a sister's days
To bitterness. Have you a word for them?

Vivian.
O Lina, Lina, 'tis an erring world,
A world where all must suffer and forgive
Much—evil, call it—who would win to heaven.
And for this story that this poet tells,
Might there not, Lina, might there not be said
Something—a something even for those who erred?
Say that a man who thinks he truly loves,
And in that thought has pledged his faith to one,
While yet he can change

Lina.
While yet he can change?
I thought you said his faith was pledged?

Vivian.
Yes—yes—
But not at the altar.

Lina.
And what matters that?
The whole earth is truth's altar. Palter not;
There's not an instant but we front a God,
Here—everywhere. Think you—think you that heaven,
Heaven asks of where and when a lie is lied,
And holds speech nothing, spoken in the sight of God,
And for eternity, false—true or false—
As eternity shall teach each soul to learn?
O palter not; faith plighted 'neath a roof,
On some square feet, made holy by a priest,
Is not a whit more damning, being broke,
Than troth sworn freely elsewhere on God's earth,
That God has blessed and sanctified himself.
Go on.

Vivian.
I did not say I did not blame

Lina.
Blame?

Vivian.
Ay, condemn.

Lina.
Condemn?

Vivian.
What should I say?

Lina.
Loathe—hate—curse—curse such falseness—foul in him,
But fouler in the sister, base of heart—
(Give me that water!) she that did not spurn him
At the first breath of his baseness, but could plot,
And plot, and plot, against a sister's heart,
Stealing the very thing that made life sweet,
Without which life were but a thirst for the grave,
And days but lived for vengeance. Curse them! Curse them!

Helen.
O Vivian—Vivian!

Vivian.
Look! your sister faints!
Helen—sweet Helen—drink, sweet Helen—Helen!
Sprinkle her forehead—Lina—Lina—mercy!

Lina.
Mercy? I? Why it's but a poet's tale—
Is't not—we talked of? You excusing breach
Of oaths, and those who broke them—I but speaking
Even as my nature prompts me;—I'm not one,
You know, for boudoir nicety of phrase—
And spoke, in natural words, what such a baseness
Would move me to—not being perfection quite,
And weakness, like this wonder in the song,
But a mere woman—flesh, and blood, and fire—
That, stung, will sting, and trodden on, will turn.
It moved her strangely, though. What could so move her?
Well, here's Ninette, and, as I like not scenes,
I'll to the sunshine, and henceforth take care
To criticize my favourites and their songs,
Seeing we treat them so as if they were truths,
By myself. Au revoir! see—she's coming to.