University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.—A Garden—Evening.

Enter Raymond and Vernon—afterwards Avice.
VERNON
You seem not like a man whom fortune crowns,
For whom suspense is satisfied, whose heart
Stays in that pleasant time before the dawn
When we long patiently, because we know
The sun must rise. These starts of gloom befit
A soul in fear.

RAYMOND
If you interpret me
You shall make blunders. Let me pass; we touch
At angles, and you cross me.

VERNON
Shall I say
I find you changed in friendship?

RAYMOND
Pshaw, you harp
Like women, with a burr of sentiment
Through all the strings. Staccato, friend! Life needs
A grasp—and then, a rest!

VERNON
Will the rest come?

RAYMOND
I am not weary yet.

VERNON
To weariness
Comes never rest; it comes but to content,
Which lies and contemplates the thing that is,
Needing no dreams.

RAYMOND
Even so you moralise,
But twenty other true moralities
May turn the self-same fact in twenty ways
And still be true. I'll tell you why. No fact
Has less than twenty faces. Unity
Belongs but to the clumsy counterfeits
Which must be stationed to a turn, and seen
By their due stroke of light, and never touched,
Lest from their semblance of reality
They crumble into chaos.

VERNON
Will you judge
Deeds by this measure? Hath the crystal Right
So many faces?

RAYMOND
Nay, I never judge.
I do not keep a conscience for my friends.
Enough—here comes a gentle disputant
For whom we talk too keenly.

[Enter Avice.
VERNON
Ah, sweet lady,
The moonlight is not paler than your cheeks.
Methinks you walk too late.

AVICE
O, no, too soon,
Because my quest is solitude and night.

VERNON
Will you dismiss us so?

AVICE
The garden's free,
And I can walk elsewhere.

VERNON
How languidly,
Unlike your vivid self, you make response;
Like the faint flutter of some wounded wing
That once did push and sweep the resonant air
From its undoubting way.

RAYMOND
This chemist, lady,
Hath hearts in his laboratory. Mine
Was analysed but now; your turn is come:
You shall learn how you ought to feel, and where
His science marks your failure. Well we know
The wheels of these triumphant theorists
Crush all the desperate facts that clog their path;
Will you fall down before him?

AVICE
(disregarding him—to Vernon)
Is it true
That you can do such things?

VERNON
What things, I pray you?

AVICE
Why, even as he says, divine the heart
In your sure microscope, and make us see
That all we trusted, lived for, leant upon,
Was the chance stir or stillness of a pulse?

RAYMOND
Chance should not rule such pulses.

AVICE
(turning upon him)
But it does!
Aye, chance so slight, that if a door but close,
Or a cloud darken, or a voice speak softly,
There comes an end and a forgetfulness
To what seemed everlasting.

RAYMOND
Were it so
This were a piteous world.

AVICE
Why so it is.
Could we read back the story of our lives,
Knowing the vain end and the helpless course
Before the bright beginning, I am sure
We might all die of pity.

RAYMOND
I can teach you
Fairer conclusions.

(She turns away angrily.)
VERNON
(aside)
I perceive myself
Superfluous—and depart.

[Exit Vernon.

Scene II.

Raymond—Avice.
AVICE
Am I the dust
That you so tread me? You have done your work,
A man's work, take the wages of a man
Success, and let no thought, save of yourself,
Trouble your peace, else were you less than man.
Why do you look at me? What is't to you
That I am angry? Do you note my words
To spice with some new laughter for her lips
The next full cup you tender? I'll not bear
To be remembered—let me pass from you,
A blank page in the volume, which, being turned,
Is never sought again. You are still dumb—
Have you no answer?

RAYMOND
Not a syllable
Till you have done.

AVICE
O, this is courtesy
Of such fine sifting, that all qualities
Come from its hands alike; you shall not find
The difference of a grain 'twixt love and hate
Or truth and falsehood. I would sooner face
The brutal honesty of savages
Than such insensate smoothness.

RAYMOND
Chide your fill;
You only tell me what I knew before.

AVICE
That you are false?

RAYMOND
Nay, but that you are fond.

[Avice makes a passionate gesture of contradiction.
RAYMOND
O child, be mute; you say you know not what,
And point unreal weapons at your heart;
But I must utter words which should be wounds,
Words which must wither all my nobler self,
And though they be but air, have force to drive me
For ever to the dark side of that line
Which parts the course of good and evil men.
O I am traitor to the truest soul
That ever touched this earth!

AVICE
You speak not so
Of me.

RAYMOND
You, Avice, you? No, no,—our love
Stands upon falsehood; but of her whose name
Henceforth I handle not; who parts from us
As martyrs do, when their unconscious silence
Summons the judgment.

AVICE
I have never seen you
So moved before—what have you done?

RAYMOND
That only
Which I must do; I could not choose but strike her,
But, being a coward, I struck her in the dark,
And so, the pity of the consequence
Confronts me not. Let us be gone from it!
What is it to us if night is at our backs
When all the torrent of triumphant noon
Flows to our lips? Drink deep, we need drink deep;
The palace of our Future must be built
On a forgotten Past.

AVICE
Do you say so?
Love, based on falsehood and forgetfulness,
Come you to me with such reproachful eyes,
With such uncertain heart? O I had dreamed
A woman's dream—shall I not tell it you?
Of a man's love that was a real thing,
That burned i' the soul, that knew what it desired,
And like a shaft of conquest cleft its goal
Right through a waste of unregarded air—
Such love were worth the dying for—for less
'Tis not worth while to live. I have said all
But my last word, and that is—Give me up!

RAYMOND
Is this mine Angel tempts me? She may eak
With such a voice, but should not wear that face!

AVICE
You have answered me. Farewell.

RAYMOND
(taking her hands)
We must not part
So carelessly. You that did love me once
And now forsake me, should not drop away
As a leaf drops when long days loosen it,
Noiseless and noteless. There is something due,
If but a pause that's measured by a sigh
(No longer), to sweet promises unkept
And unforgotten. Let me count your debt;
First there's my heart—but that's not much—a tear
May balance that (methinks you have it ready),
My hope, my life, my faith, my happiness;
For trifles such as these should I give back
This jewel for which a man might change his soul?
Nay, but I'll hold it!

AVICE
Do you love me then?

RAYMOND
I'll tell you so a thousand times a day
When we are free.

AVICE
O, if the time were come!
Yet if you care for me with the tenth part
Of my too strenuous love (which is my life);
Nay, if you do but care with such a force
That were I dead you would be sorrowful,
And were I false you could not compass scorn
For sadness, and whene'er you see my face,
There's something at your heart says ‘this is mine
I'm not complete without it,’ I would kneel
At your feet for so much. Ah! beware of me,
Let no mad threat of parting cozen you,
For when that future comes, and I am yours,
I will not live an hour away from you.

RAYMOND
So change you! Queen and slave in half an hour!
But, when that future comes, each mood shall seem
As precious as those baffling sunset hues
Which make a painter's rapture and despair—
Time fails to mark them now. Hush! in your ear—
I have devised that we shall fly to-night.

AVICE
To-night! Together!

RAYMOND
Aye, no other way.
A thing that should be done without a word,
Will you be waking?

AVICE
When?

RAYMOND
Why, half an hour
Past midnight, with no signal, lest we rouse
Unwished-for eyes. You tremble—

AVICE
Not with fear.
What must I do?

RAYMOND
There's a thin moon—enough
To light a crime; where yonder chestnut droops
I'll hide and wait; a trusty hand below
Holds our boat ready—make your eyes more false!
They write your thoughts in fire.

AVICE
Whom have you trusted?
I fear! I fear!

RAYMOND
Be satisfied—a man
Truer than we are; though he's but a groom
He'll not betray his master!

AVICE
Does he know?
O! have you told?

RAYMOND
We have not time for shame.

AVICE
Are you so hard with me?

RAYMOND
I am so hard,
That if you shrink I will not let you go.
Why do you say so much? I'd have you blind,
Fast in my arms, your eyes upon my heart,
Not knowing that my foot is on the brink
Till we have plunged. You should seem whiter so—
I would be charier of your soul than mine.
You'll thank me for 't hereafter, when I need
To look at something pure.

AVICE
Why, if you loved me
You would behold me stainless as a star.
It is the property of Love to make
The thing it worships—to go forth like light
On Alpine summits, turning snow to fire,
And melancholy rocks to thrones of glory.

RAYMOND
Till the night comes.

AVICE
We know not of the night,
O haunt me not with checks—let me once hear
The singleness of passion!

RAYMOND
'Tis my curse
To bear a double nature—preachers say
'Tis so with all men; if you serve the one
You shall forget the other. But I serve,
And so remember that mine ears are filled
With low prophetic thunders. Do not weep;
Look at me—so—why, what a churl was I
To scare you on the threshold of your bliss
When I should lift you past it! Come, be gay!
Show me the courage of your love! I'll say,
If you but glance aside and catch your breath,
That you repent. Come, if we stay too long
Some tongue shall wonder.

[Exit, leading Avice out.

Scene III.

Enter a Servant reading from a paper.
SERVANT

‘Three steps ascending to a summer-house.’ Yes, there are the three steps. ‘A space of turf in front’— there's no doubt about the space of turf—‘And if you stand on the lowest step you will see the edge of the river and the top of the boat-house,’ (he stands as directed and looks off the scene). Do I see them? There's the river, sure enough—and what is that under the alders?

Pshaw, the light is too dim, but I'm sure it's a wooden roof. This must be the spot. And now if I wait here patiently (so Thornley says) I can give him the message and the letter. It's a pity I don't know him by sight, but I can ask his name. And if he be, as Thornley says, a gentleman who is just about to get his own will in spite of everybody, why he'll be in a generous temper and I may make my profit of him. There's a step on the gravel! And—here he comes!

Enter Damer Grey.
SERVANT
(approaching him)

I beg your pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Grey?

GREY

Yes, that is my name.

SERVANT

Then I have a letter for you, and if you will be so kind as to read it, I can give you a full explanation.

GREY
(taking the letter)

The light's too dim, my friend. I think we must have the full explanation before the reading. Is anything amiss?

SERVANT

Nothing of consequence, sir. Thornley—

GREY

Who is Thornley?

SERVANT

Oh sir! I see you are not sure of me, but I know all about it. I'm to be trusted. (Dropping his voice)
I know all about the young lady, sir—and the boat— and half-past twelve o'clock to-night—and where Thornley was to wait for you. You needn't be afraid of me, sir.

GREY

Humph! (Aside.)
My mind misgives me, and yet the treachery would be too black, too foul—'tis not human. (Aloud.)
How can I make sure of you? Do you know my name?

SERVANT

Yes, sir; did I not call you by it? You are Mr. Raymond Grey.

GREY
(aside)

Even by this light I should scarce have thought I could be mistaken for my own son—yet I know I have kept my figure! (Aloud.)
Good; and you came from Thornley. Pray, did he tell you the lady's name? And what made him so communicative? If you are to be trusted it seems that he is not.

SERVANT

I beg your pardon, sir, but that's the whole reason of it. Thornley has had a bad accident, sir, and could not keep his appointment with you—and I'm his cousin, and every whit as good an oarsman as he is—you'll find it all set down in this letter. And I'm willing to do his work for him and carry you and the young lady down to Overton, where the horses are waiting. I think I can undertake to do it in twenty minutes under the time, for a consideration. And as for the young lady's name, sir—why, I don't suppose you would be likely to name it to Thornley, but a man may guess it. We all know that you're the gentleman who wants to run away from his wedding-day;

and Miss Avice, sir, she's the beauty of the whole country, and we don't wonder at you.

GREY

So, so, so! (Aside.)
If there be shame on earth they shall suffer it. I'll not spare—I'll not wait—I'll not hesitate. Come in, friend, I shall want you. There! (gives money.)
Come and wait where I tell you.

SERVANT

Thank you, sir! I am altogether at your command.

[Exeunt Grey and Servant.

Scene IV.—A Boudoir in Grey's House.

Enter Two Maids with a white bridal veil and wreath.
FIRST MAID

Set it just here where she cannot fail to see it as she comes in. So—that fold falls sweetly—and the blossom is as soft and delicate as a babe's cheek. (She draws back and contemplates them after arranging

them upon a chair.)
One would think a girl must like to look at that.

SECOND MAID

But she did not give so much as a glance at the gown. She stood still and let us fit it upon her as though she were but trying it for another; and she looked straightforward and seemed to see nothing— there was no heart in her eyes—they were as far off and as empty as stars. If this is the proper way to be married I pray Heaven keep me single!

FIRST MAID

You need not waste a prayer on that. But it is strange, for she has no home to leave, and she has loved him from her childhood. I think it is but a girl's fear of unknown happiness: she was ever a timid soul; she would curdle at sour words—nay, a sharp look would pierce her.

SECOND MAID

Ah, she's too gentle for this world!

FIRST MAID

Do not say so; it sounds like bad prophesying. Stay, here she comes.

SECOND MAID

I'll not face her. She wants a woman to give her courage for this leap, and you, who have been about her from her childhood, should stay by her now. Perhaps she may open herself to you with no listener near.

[Exit Second Maid.
Enter Hope with downcast eyes and clasped hands. She comes slowly to the front, and does not perceive the veil or the maid.
HOPE
[Weeps,
[She perceives the dress and wreath.

MAID
(advancing)
Dear lady, I;
Thinking to please you. Something makes you sad
With more than maiden's fear; I know not what,
But surer hands than mine must sweep it from you;
Take heart, take heart—will you not see your friends?
There's one who thinks all hours are blank without you.

HOPE
Was it your hand? O friend, I dreamt you loved me!
I think there's no one loves me in the world;
There's some quick poison in my blood, that breathes
On all beginning tenderness, and slays it
Before it come to growth, or grow to love.
Why was I made so terrible? But you—
I asked nought from you—wherefore should you mock me?

MAID
Mock you, sweet heart? Alas, your words are wild!

HOPE
I have begun to hate myself, because
I have so failed. I would I knew my fault
That let the life so slip out of my hands;
Weak hands, false futile hands, letting that slip
Which most they clung to—they hold nothing now;
Now and henceforward through all empty days.
'Twas not slight care, nor loose forgetfulness,
Nor any lack of love—would 'twere the last
So were I healed! But I'll not scorn myself,
I that have nothing left except myself,
To face my sorrow with that cold sad strength
Which says ‘I've not deserved it,’ when Despair
Answers again, ‘What matter, since you have it?’ [Clock strikes.

It is the hour I named! They will be here.
Look at me; am I calm? is my hair smooth?
I would have no disorder in my looks
For this farewell. Death is the sum of life;
My poor brief story, as I shut the book,
Should show no blotted, no unworthy page;
The last words should be seemly as the first,
No difference, except 'twixt joy and grief,
As the tale darkens from its opening hopes
Unto this simple sorrowful conclusion.
See, they are come!

Enter Avice and Raymond from opposite sides. They start on perceiving each other.
AVICE
Cousin, you sent for me;
I thought, for some slight colloquy of dress
Or colour, for to-morrow—but I see
You are better companied. I'll not disturb you.

[Drawing back.
HOPE
(taking her hand)
Stay.

RAYMOND
'Tis for me to go. I'm all adrift
In these divine discussions.

HOPE
(holding out her hand to him)
Nay, I want you.
Here—both—together. Do you fear my hand?
Are we so far as that? Take it—you'll find
It holds you lightly.

RAYMOND
(taking her hand)
Must I not call it mine
Before to-morrow? Would you chaffer with me
For such a sum of minutes?

HOPE
I beseech you
Not in that tone! I am about to go
Into a solitude, where I shall have
Only a picture for my company,
No living face such as I used to read,
Perhaps not truly—yet undoubtingly—
Keep me my picture fair!

RAYMOND
I cannot guess
Your meaning.

HOPE
[She joins their hands.

AVICE
(trying to extricate herself)
Fie, fie!
This is unseemly jesting. Must I count
For nothing in these changes?

HOPE
Nothing, Avice?
Why, you are all! Be happy! I was blind
When I was happy—now, alas! I see.
Pitiless Light, that hast revealed my path,
Do not grow dim till I have finished it!

RAYMOND
But, Hope—

HOPE
(shuddering)
Ah, Raymond!

RAYMOND
Avice, help—she faints!

HOPE
(recovering herself)
You should have named me in another voice;
Not the old voice, not that—let me not hear it
Again before I die. I'll tell you quietly
If you will listen. 'Tis not reasonable
That words should be more difficult than deeds,
Yet so they are. I know you love me not;
Hush! I unclosed the casket where I kept
My jewels, and found it empty. How they went
I care not—they are gone. And I would thank you,
Only my voice is weak, yet I do thank you,
For that you pitied me, and would have spared me
At such a price as paying down yourself
Without the heart—so, worthless. I must tell you
I would refuse my life at such a price,
Aye, would go brightly to my grave to-morrow
Sooner than mock my soul with such a bridal.
Have I said all? There's yet farewell to say—
Farewell to both—in charity with both,
With no petition but to be forgotten;
As you forget a face, which for one hour
Came like a cloud between your light and you,
But, finding out the shadow that it made,
As a cloud passes, passed, and came no more.

RAYMOND
Shall we part so? Though you reproach me not,
The intolerable sweetness of your scorn
Destroys me. True, I'm guilty—hold me vile
As feverous breath from which you turn your face
Lest it infect you—

HOPE
(interrupting)
Nay, I said not so.

RAYMOND
Away with words, I answer to your thoughts.
Am I not judged? Yet what could I have done?
It was defect of nature, having known
Your excellence, to take another love;
But Passion is not born nor ruled by Will;
It rises like the unconquerable tide,
And sweeps a life before it as the sand.
Was I a god to stay it? What could I do?

HOPE
I have no skill to say what men should do,
But Constancy's the test of noble thoughts;
You should have been what I believed you.

AVICE
(to Raymond)
Cease;
We can but wound her more.

HOPE
O, more you wound me
By ‘we’ and ‘her’ than by a mile of proofs
Which might be wider of their arguments
Than that unanswerable carelessness
Which drops the sudden Truth before my feet.

AVICE
Pardon me.

HOPE
You are pardoned. Nay, I'm hard.
Cousin, I think you did not mean me wrong
(to Avice
As you stand now, I see there is no help;
More, having passed that barrier, you have done
Whatever was not made impossible;
You have encountered me with gentleness
And would have drugged me into lifelong sleep
With not a grain more falsehood than you must.
I thank mine Angel that I waked in time,
Else would you be as I am—worse i' the Past
But better in the Future. Not my will
Is bitter, but my words against my will
Put on unconscious bitterness. I hear them
As if another spoke, and think them cruel,
But cannot make them false. I'll think of you
More kindly, cousin, when I see you not.
I meant to smooth this parting. I would fain
Be one of those meek souls, who, when new Death
Wrenches a life into two bleeding halves
Cover their eyes and think they are content
To grope among the ruins. I'm not yet
As I would be; I am not yet acquainted
With my strange darkness—in a year, perhaps,
A month, a day, I shall know all. To-morrow—
I shall be calm and rational to-morrow;
To-morrow is the first tremendous day
When we shall wake to what is henceforth true,
And shall be soon familiar as the dawn
Which never wakens us again without it.
I want to-morrow for my remedy,
It's all new now.

RAYMOND
This is my punishment:
The vengeance is not slow.

AVICE
(clinging to him)
O, leave her! leave her!

HOPE
Is he not gone? I see no face I know;
The world is full of strangers—my sweet world
That was so full of love.

Enter Grey hastily.
GREY
What! Are you here?
What, in her presence? O you innocent child!
Here is the vilest, blackest, bitterest, treason
That ever broke a heart!

HOPE
Father!

GREY
Your father,
But never his again. Out of our sight!
See here, my dove, my flower—I'll keep you safe
From such as he who would have cheated you
To the altar steps. They had made all things sure: [pointing to Raymond and Avice.

They were to fly to-night—to-night, do you hear?
Aye, on the very threshold of his vow,
Leaving his lily here, he would have gone
With that foul poison-plant upon his breast—
O, you are matched! My curse upon you both!

HOPE
(to Raymond)
Was this your mercy? Say it is not true!

GREY
Blister your lips with any decent lie,
And she'll believe you!

[Raymond shrinks and covers his face with his hands, Avice still clinging to him.
HOPE
You have killed me now;
You have taken all from me, even my thoughts.
I had still remembrances; still even my love;
I had no cause to be ashamed of love
Who gave it after wooing. All is lost:
All lovely days and faiths innumerable,
Which made up all my life, lie in this tomb,
This tomb whereon I dare not write a word,
Because there is no word to write upon it
But false, false, false!

GREY
Aye false a thousand times.

HOPE
Do not say that again. Take me away.
Father, he could not mean it! Father, hide me!

[She looks once at Raymond, then turns away and falls on his father's neck.