University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Room in Sifroy's House.
Glanville, Isabella.
Glanville.
Sure the dark hand of death ere this hath clos'd
The prying eyes of Paulet, and secur'd
Our bold attempt from danger. But hast thou,
Free from suspicion, to Cleone's hand
Convey'd the letter, forg'd against my self,
Pressing her instant flight, and branding me
With black designs against her life?

Isabella.
I have;
Pretending 'twas receiv'd from hands unknown.
But lurks no danger here? Will not this letter,
Discover'd after death, betray thy scheme?

Glanville.
'Gainst that too I'm secure. The deed once done,
A deep enormous cavern in the wood
Receives her body, and for ever hides.
But she perus'd, thou say'st, the letter—well—
How wrought it?—say—this moment will she fly?
Success in this, and all shall be our own.

Isabella.
Silent she paus'd—and read it o'er and o'er.
Then lifting up her eyes—forgive him, Heaven!
Was all she said. But soon her rising fear
Resolv'd on quick escape. Suspicion too,
That all her servants are by thee corrupted,
Urges to fly alone, save with her child,
The young Sifroy, whom clasping to her breast,
And bathing with a flood of tears, she means,
Safe from thy snares, to shelter with her father.

Glanville.
Just as I hop'd—Beneath the friendly gloom
Of Baden wood, whose unfrequented paths
They needs must pass to reach her father's house,
I have contriv'd, and now ordain their fall.
Kindly she plans her scheme, as tho' her self
Were my accomplice.

Isabella.
As we parted, tears
Gush'd from her eyes—she closely press'd my hand,
And hesitating cry'd—O Isabella!
If 'tis not now too late, beware of Glanville.
I scarce could hold from weeping.

Glanville.
Fool! root out
That weakness, which unfits th' aspiring soul
For great designs. But hush! who's here?

[Enter Ragozin.

SCENE II.

Glanville, Isabella, Ragozin.
Glanville.
Say, quickly—
Is our first work atchiev'd?

Ragozin.
Successfully.
With two bold ruffians, whose assisting hands
Were hir'd to make the business sure, I trac'd
His steps with care; and in the darksome path
Which leads beside the ruin'd abby's wall,
With furious onset suddenly attack'd him.
Instant he drew, and in my arm oblique
Fix'd a slight wound; but my associates soon
Perform'd their office; and betwixt them borne,
I left him to an hasty burial, where
You first directed.

Glanville.
We are then secure
From his detection; and may now advance
With greater safety. O my Ragozin,
But one step more remains, to plant our feet
On this Sifroy's possessions; and methinks,
Kind Opportunity now points the path
Which leads us to our wish.

Ragozin.
Propose the means.

Glanville.
This hour Cleone with her infant boy,
Borrowing faint courage from the moon's pale beam,
Prepares to seek the mansion of her father.
Thou know'st the neighbouring wood thro' which they pass.

Ragozin.
I know each path, and every brake.

Glanville.
There hid
In secret ambush, thou must intercept
Her journey.

Ragozin.
And direct her to the world
Unknown.

Glanville.
Thou read'st my meaning right. Go thou
To hasten her departure, and to keep
[To Isabella.
Her fears awake.

Isabella.
Already she believes
Her life depends upon her instant flight.

[Exit Isabella.

SCENE III.

Glanville, Ragozin.
Glanville.
And haply ours. Each moment that she lives
Grows dangerous now: and should she reach her father,
All may be lost. Let therefore no delay
Hang on thy steps: Terror must wing her flight,
And danger calls on us for equal speed.

Ragozin.
They 'scape me not. I know the private path
Which they must tread thro' Baden's lonesome wood,
And Death shall meet them in the dreary gloom.

Glanville.
Mean time, soon as she leaves her house, I raise,
From whispering tongues, a probable report,
That she with Paulet seeks some foreign shore.
This will confirm her guilt, and shelter us
From all suspicion.

Ragozin.
True; both gone at once,
Will give an air of truth so plausible—

Glanville.
Hark! hush!

Ragozin.
Who is it?

Glanville.
'Tis Cleone's voice!
This way she comes—we must not now be seen.
Fly to thy post, and think on thy reward.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Cleone
with her Child.
No Paulet to be found! Misfortune sure
Prevents his friendship: and I dare not wait
For his assistance. Friendless and alone
I wander forth, Heaven my sole guide, and truth
My sole support. But come, my little love,
Thou wilt not leave me.

Child.
No, indeed I won't!
I'll love you, and go with you every where,
If you will let me.

Cleone.
My sweet innocent!
Thou shalt go with me. I've no comfort left
But thee. I had—I had a husband once,
And thou a father—but we're now cast out
From his protection, banish'd from his love.

Child.
Why won't he love us? Sure I've heard you say
You lov'd him dearly.

Cleone.
O my bursting heart!
His innocence will kill me. So I do,
My angel, and I hope you'll love him too.

Child.
Yes, so I will, if he'll love you: and can't
I make him love you?

Cleone.
Yes, my dear; for how
Could he withstand that sweet pursuasive look
Of infant innocence!

Child.
O then he shall,
If ever I do see him, he shall love you.

Cleone.
My best, my only friend! and wilt thou plead
Thy poor wrong'd mother's cause?

[Enter Isabella.

SCENE V.

Cleone, her Child, and Isabella.
Isabella.
Dear madam, haste! Why thus delay your flight,
When dangers rise around?

Cleone.
Indeed, my steps
Will linger, Isabella.—O 'tis hard—
Alas, thou can'st not feel how hard it is—
To leave a husband's house so dearly lov'd!
Yet go I must—my life is here unsafe.
Pardon, good Heaven, the guilt of those who seek it!
I fear not death: yet fain methinks would live
To clear my truth to my unkind Sifroy.

Isabella.
O doubt not, madam, he will find the truth,
And banish from his breast this strange suspicion.
But haste, dear lady, wing your steps with haste,
Lest Death should intercept—

Cleone.
And must I go?
Adieu, dear mansion of my happiest years!
Adieu, sweet shades! each well-known bower, adieu!
Where I have hung whole days upon his words,
And never thought the tender moments long—
All, all my hopes of future peace, farewel!
[Throws herself on her knees.
But, O great Power! who bending from thy throne,
Look'st down with pitying eyes on erring man,
Whom weakness blinds, and passions lead astray,
Impute not to Sifroy this cruel wrong!
O heal his bosom, wounded by the darts
Of lying Slander, and restore to him
That peace, which I must never more regain.
[Rises.
Come, my dear love, Heaven will, I trust, protect
And guide our wandering steps! Yet stay—who knows,
Perhaps my father too, if Slander's voice
Hath reach'd his ear, may chide me from his door,
Or spurn me from his feet!—My sickening heart
Dies in me at that thought! Yet surely he
Will hear me speak! A parent sure, will not
Give up his child unheard!

Isabella.
He surely will not. Whence these groundless fears?

Cleone.
Indeed I am to blame, to doubt his goodness.
Farewel, my friend!—And oh, when thou shalt see
My still-belov'd Sifroy; say, I forgive him—
Say I but live to clear my truth to him;
Then hope to lay my sorrows in the grave,
And that my wrongs, lest they should wound his peace,
May be forgotten.

[Exit Cleone, with her child.

SCENE VI.

Isabella,
alone.
Gracious Heaven! her grief
Strikes thro' my heart! Her truth, her innocence
Are surely wrong'd.—O wherefore did I yield
My virtue to this man! Unhappy hour!
But 'tis too late!—Nor dare I now relent.

[Enter Glanville.

SCENE VII.

Isabella, Glanville.
Glanville.
The gate is clos'd against her, never more
(If right I read her doom) to give her entrance.
Thus far, my Isabella, our designs
Glide smoothly on. The hand of Prudence is
To me the hand of Providence.

Isabella.
Alas!
How weak, how blind is human prudence found!
I wish, and hope indeed, that screen'd beneath
The shades of night, which hide these darker deeds,
We too may lie conceal'd: but ah, my hopes
Are dash'd with fear, lest day's broad eye at length
Flash on our secret guilt, and bring detection.

Glanville,
sternly.
If thy vain fears betray us not, we're safe.
Observe me well.—Had I the least surmise,
That struck by conscience, or by phantoms awed,
Thou now would'st shrink—and leave me, or betray—
By all the terrors that would shake my soul
To perpetrate the deed, thou too should'st fall!

Isabella.
And can'st thou then suspect, that after all
I've done to prove my love, I should betray thee?
O Glanville! thou art yet it seems to learn,
That in her fears tho' weak, a woman's love
Inspires her breast with strength above her sex.

Glanville.
Forgive me, Isabella, I suspect
Thee not; but this hot fever burning in
My brain, distracts my reason. Yes, I know
Thee faithful, and will hence be calm.

Isabella.
Indeed my heart so wholly has been thine,
That thou hast form'd its temper to thy wish.

Glanville.
Think on my warmth no more. I was to blame.
But come, my love, our chief, our earliest care
Must be to give loud Rumour instant voice,
That both detected in their loose amour
Are fled together. Whisper thou the tale
First to the servants, in whose listening ears
Suspicions are already sown; while I
Th' unwelcome tydings to her sire convey.

[Exit Isabella one way, and as Glanville is going out the other, he meets a servant.
Servant.
My lady's brother, sir, young Beaufort, just
Arriv'd, enquires for you, or for his sister.

Glanville.
Attend him in.—The letters of Sifroy
Have reach'd their hands. My story of her flight
Will, like a closing witness well prepar'd,
Confirm her guilt.

[Enter Beaufort Junior.

SCENE VIII.

Glanville, Beaufort Junior.
Beaufort Junior.
What strange suspicion, Glanville, has possess'd
The bosom of Sifroy? Whence had it birth?
Or on what ground could Malice fix her stand,
To throw the darts of Slander on a name
So guarded as Cleone's?

Glanville.
I could wish—
It gives me pain to speak—but I could wish
The conduct of Cleone had not given
So fair a mark.

Beaufort Junior.
So fair a mark!—What! who?
Cleone, say'st thou!—Hath my sister given
So fair a mark to Slander? have a care!
The breath that blasts her fame may raise a storm
Not easily appeas'd.

Glanville.
It grieves me, sir,
That you compel me to disclose, what you
In bitterness of soul must hear. But she
And Prudence have of late been much estrang'd.

Beaufort Junior.
Defame her not—Discretion crowns her brow,
And in her modest eye, sweet Innocence
Smiles on Detraction. Where, where is my sister?
She shall confront thy words—her look alone
Shall prove thy tale a groundless calumny.

Glanville.
You surely know not, sir, that she is fled—

Beaufort Junior.
What say'st thou?—Fled!—Surprize choaks up my words!
It cannot be!—Fled! whither?—Gone! with whom?

Glanville.
With Paulet, sir, Sifroy's young friend.

Beaufort Junior.
Impossible!
I'm on the rack! Tell, I conjure thee, tell
The truth—Where are they gone?

Glanville.
That they conceal.
I only know, that finding their intrigue
Detected, they abscond: and 'tis suppos'd
Will seek for shelter on some foreign shore.

Beaufort Junior.
Where then is Truth, and where is Virtue fled,
Ere while her dear companions?—O my sister!
How art thou fallen?—Thy father too—O parricide!
Had'st thou no pity on his bending age?
On his fond heart—too feeble now to bear
So rude a shock?

Glanville.
Can it not be conceal'd?

Beaufort Junior.
O no!—He comes, impatient to enquire
From his lov'd daughter, whence Sifroy had cause
For his opprobrious charge.—And see, he's here.

[Enter Beaufort Senior.

SCENE IX.

Beaufort Senior, Beaufort Junior, Glanville.
Beaufort Senior.
Where is my daughter? where my injur'd child?
O bring me to her! she hath yet a father,
(Thanks to the gracious Powers who spar'd my life
For her protection) ready to receive
With tender arms his child, tho' rudely cast
From her rash husband's door. What mean these tears
That trickle down thy cheek? she is not dead!

Beaufort Junior.
Good Heaven! what shall I say?—no, sir—not dead—
She is not dead—but Oh!—

Beaufort Senior.
But what?—Wound not
My heart! where is she? lead me to my child—
'Tis from her self alone that I will hear
The story of her wrongs.

Beaufort Junior.
Alas! dear sir,
She is not here.

Beaufort Senior.
Not here!

Beaufort Junior.
O fortify
Your heart, my dearest father, to support,
If possible, this unexpected stroke!
My sister, sir—why must I speak her shame!
My wretched sister, yielding to the lure
Of Paulet's arts, hath left her husband's house.

Beaufort Senior.
Great Power! then have I liv'd, alas! too long.
O patience! this, this is indeed too much!—
But 'tis impossible!—does not thy heart,
My son, bear testimony for thy sister
Against this calumny?—What circumstance,
[To Glanville.
What proof have we of my Cleone's guilt?

Glanville.
Is not their disappearing both at once,
A strong presumption of their mutual guilt?

Beaufort Senior.
Presumption, say'st thou! shall one doubtful fact
Arraign a life of innocence unblam'd?
Shall I give up the virtue of my child,
My heart's sweet peace, the comfort of my age,
On weak surmises?—Sir, I must have proof,
Clear proof, not dark presumption of her guilt.

Glanville.
Thus rudely urg'd, my honour bids me speak,
What else I meant in tenderness to spare.
Know then, I found the wanton youth conceal'd
In her apartment.

Beaufort Senior.
Thou dost then confess
Thy self my child's accuser?—but thy word
Will not suffice. Far other evidence
Must force me to believe, that truth long known,
And native modesty, could thus at once
Desert their station in Cleone's breast.

Glanville.
Wait then for other evidence—
With such as doubt my honour, I disdain
All farther conference.

[Exit Glanville.

SCENE X.

Beaufort Senior, Beaufort Junior.
Beaufort Junior.
What can we think?
His firm undaunted boldness fills my breast
With fearful doubts, that dread to be resolv'd.
Yet this suspence is Torture's keenest pain.

Beaufort Senior.
We must not bear it. No, my son, lead on;
We must be satisfy'd. Let us direct
Our steps to Paulet's habitation. There,
It seems we must enquire. And yet my soul
Strongly impels me to suspect this Glanville.
For can Cleone, can the darling child
Of Virtue be so chang'd?—If thou art fallen—
If thy weak steps, by this bad world seduc'd,
Have devious turn'd into the paths of shame,
O let me never, never live to hear
Thy foul dishonour mention'd.—If thou art
Traduc'd—and my fond heart still flatters me
With hope—then, gracious Heaven! spare yet my life,
O spare a father to redress his child!