University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Area before Sifroy's House.
Sifroy
alone.
O dreadful change! my house, my sacred home,
At sight of which my heart was wont to bound
With rapture, I now tremble to approach.
Fair mansion, where bright Honour long hath dwelt
With my renown'd progenitors, how, how
At last hath vile Pollution stain'd thy walls!
Yet look not down with scorn, ye shades rever'd,
On your dishonour'd son—He will not die
Till just revenge hath by the wanton's blood
Atton'd for this disgrace.—Yet can it be?
Can my Cleone, she whose tender smile
Fed my fond heart with hourly rapture, she
On whose fair faith alone I built all hope
Of happiness—can she have kill'd my peace,
My honour? Could that angel form, which seem'd
The shrine of Purity and Truth, become
The seat of Wantonness and Perfidy?
Ye Powers!—should she be wrong'd—in my own heart
How sharp a dagger hath my frenzy plung'd!
O passion-govern'd slave! what hast thou done?
Hath not thy madness from her house, unheard,
Driven out thy bosom friend?—Guiltless perhaps—
Hell, hell is in that thought!—O wretch accurst!
Such thy rash fury, thy unbridled rage,
Her guilt or innocence alike to thee
Must bring distraction. But I'll know the worst.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Changes to a Room in the House.
Glanville, Isabella.
Glanville.
What dost thou say? Already is Sifroy
Arriv'd? Who saw him? When?

Isabella.
This moment, from
My window, by the glimmering of the moon,
I saw him pass.

Glanville.
He comes as I could wish.
His hot-brain'd fury well did I foresee
Would, on the wings of vengeance, swiftly urge
His homeward flight. But I am ready arm'd,
Rash fool! for thy destruction. And tho' long
Thou hast usurp'd my rights, thy death at last
Shall give me ample justice.

Isabella.
Ah, beware;
Nor seek his life with peril of thine own.

Glanville.
Trust me, my love, (tho' time too precious now
Will not permit t'unfold to thee my scheme)
I walk in safety, yet have in my grasp
Secure, his hated life.—But see, he comes—
Retire.

[Exit Isabella. Enter Sifroy.

SCENE III.

Glanville, Sifroy.
Glanville,
advancing to embrace him.
My honoured friend!—

Sifroy.
Glanville, forbear—
And e'er I join my arms with thee in friendship,
Say, I conjure thee by that sacred tye,
By all thou hold'st most dear on earth, by all
Thy hopes of heaven, and dread of deepest hell—
Hast thou not wrong'd my wife?

Glanville.
Unjust Sifroy!
Hath my true friendship so regardful been,
So jealous of thy honour, and dost thou
Suspect my own? Surely the double bonds
Of friendship and of blood, are ties too strong
To leave a doubt of my sincerity.
And soon too clearly, sir, you will discern
Who has been false, and who your faithful friend.

Sifroy.
O rack me not!—let dread conviction come—
Her strongest horrors cannot rend my heart
With half the anguish of this torturing doubt.
Speak then—for tho' the tale should fire my brain
To madness, I must hear it. Yet, Glanville, stay—
Let me proceed with caution—my soul's peace
Depends upon this moment.—Where's my wife?
Severe I may be, but I will be just.
I cannot, will not hear her faith arraign'd,
Before I see her.

Glanville.
See her, sir! alas,
Where will you see her?

Sifroy.
Where! thou hast not yet
Convey'd her to her father?—On the wings
Of speed I flew, still hoping to prevent
The rash decree of unreflecting rage.

Glanville.
Heaven give thee patience!—O Sifroy! my heart,
Tho' thou hast wrong'd it with unkind suspicion,
Bleeds for thy injuries, for thy distress.
The wife, whom thou so tenderly hast lov'd,
Is fled with Paulet.

Sifroy.
Fled!—how? whither? when?

Glanville.
This day they disappear'd, and 'tis believ'd
Intend to fly from shame, and leave the land.

Sifroy.
Impossible!—she cannot be so chang'd—
Was she not all perfection?—O take heed—
Once more I charge thee, Glanville, and my soul's
Eternal welfare rests upon thy truth—
Traduce her not! nor drive me to perdition!
For by the flames of vengeance, if I find
Thy accusation true, they shall not 'scape!
O I will trace th' adulterer's private haunts,
Rush like his evil genius on their shame,
And stab the traytor in her faithless arms—
Almighty Power! from whose broad eye lies hid
No secret crime! O take not from my arm
This due revenge—nor tempt mankind to doubt
The justice of thy ways. Why this intrusion?

[Enter a Servant.
Servant.
My lady's father, Sir.

Sifroy.
Her father here!

Glanville.
Yes, he was here before—thy letters brought him—
And hence went forth in rage to find out Paulet.

Sifroy.
Conduct him in.
[Exit Servant.
Unhappy man! his grief,
His venerable tears will wring my heart.
Retire, good Glanville; interviews like these,
Of deep-felt mutual woe, all witness shun.

[Exit Glanville.

SCENE IV.

Sifroy, Beaufort Senior.
Beaufort Senior.
Rash man! what hast thou done? upon what ground
Dost thou impeach the honour of my name,
In treating thus my child? O thou hast from
Thy bosom cast away the sweetest flower
That ever Nature form'd.

Sifroy.
Reproach me not—
Commiserate a wretch, on whom severe
Affliction lays her iron hand!—O sir,
That flower which look'd so beauteous to the sense,
Turn'd wild, grew ranker than a common weed.

Beaufort Senior.
It is not—cannot be! Have I not known,
Even from her earliest childhood known her heart?
Known it the seat of tenderness and truth?
Her thoughts were ever pure as virgin snows
From heaven descending: and that modest blush
Display'd on her fair cheek, was Virtue's guard.
She could not fall thus low—my child is wrong'd!
Let me to thine own heart, my son, appeal:
Was she not all a parent's fondest wish—

Sifroy.
Call not to my distracted mind how fair,
How good she once appear'd.—Time was indeed,
When blest in her chaste love, I fondly thought
My heart possess'd of all that earth held fair
And amiable: but memory of past bliss
Augments the bitter pang of present woe!
Is she not chang'd—fallen—lost?

Beaufort Senior.
Patience, my son!
And calm the tempest of thy grief. Just Heaven
Will doubtless soon reveal the hidden deeds
Of guilt and shame. If thy unhappy wife
Thus wanton in the paths of Vice hath stray'd—
I would not rashly curse my darling child—
Yet hear me, righteous Heaven! May infamy,
Disease, and beggary imbitter all
Her wretched life! But my undoubting heart,
In full conviction of her spotless truth,
Acquits her of all crime.

Sifroy.
Is it no crime,
That listening to a vile seducer's voice,
She leaves her husband's house—her dearest friends?
Flies with her paramour to foreign climes,
A willing exile?

Beaufort Senior.
Art thou well inform'd
They went together? How doth it appear?
Who saw them? Where? Alas! thy headlong rage
Was too impatient to permit enquiry.

Sifroy.
Were they not missing both? both at one hour?
Say, for thou hast enquir'd; is Paulet sound?

Beaufort Senior.
He is not: but my son perhaps, whom zeal
To clear a much-lov'd sister's injur'd fame
Spurs on to make the strictest inquisition,
May bring some tydings.

Sifroy.
May kind Heaven direct
His steps where dark concealment hides their shame
From day, and from my just revenge.

Beaufort Senior.
Still, still
Thy rage with groundless inference concludes
Their un-prov'd guilt. Be calm, and answer me.
Think'st thou thy wife, if bent on loose designs,
Would madly join an infant in her flight,
T' impede her steps, and aggravate her shame?

Sifroy.
O my confusion! where, where is my child?
Alas, I had forgot the harmless innocent!
Bring to my arms the poor deserted babe!
He knows no crime, and guiltless of offence,
Shall put his little hands into my breast,
And ease a father's bosom of its sorrows.

Beaufort Senior.
Unhappy man! that comfort is deny'd thee.

Sifroy.
What mean'st thou?—Speak—Yet ah, take heed!
My heart already is too deeply pierc'd,
To bear another wound—What of my child?

Beaufort Sen.
That he's the partner of his mother's flight,
Should calm, not raise the tempest of thy grief—
As hence one would infer, that injury,
Not guilt, hath driven my daughter from thy house.
Who's her accuser?

Sifroy.
One
Whose honour, justice, and religious truth
Have oft been try'd, and ever faithful found.
He, sir, whose friendship, with reluctant grief.
At length disclosed my shame, was honest Glanville:
Report from vulgar breath I had despis'd.

Beaufort Sen.
So may high Heaven deal mercy to my child,
As I believe him treacherous and base.

[Enter Beaufort Jun.

SCENE V.

Sifroy, Beaufort Sen. Beaufort Jun.
Beaufort Sen.
Here comes my son—What means this look of terror?

Beaufort Jun.
I fear, my father, some dread mischief—Ha!—
Is he return'd?—Now may the Powers avert
This dire suspicion that strikes thro' my heart!
Tell, I conjure thee tell me—where's my sister?
Thou hast not murder'd her!

Sifroy.
Good Heaven! what means
My brother's dreadful words? Murder my wife!
O quickly speak!—My heart shrinks up with horror!
Whence are thy apprehensions?

Beaufort Sen.
My dear son,
Keep not thy father on the rack of doubt,
But speak thy fears.

Beaufort Jun.
What fate may have befallen
My injur'd sister, Heaven and thou best know—
But Paulet, whom thy fierce revenge pursu'd,
This night is murder'd.

Sifroy.
Ha! what say'st thou?—Paulet!
Is Paulet dead? How know'st thou he is murder'd?

Beaufort Jun.
In the dark path which to the cloyster leads,
His sword is found, and bloody marks appear,
That speak the deed too plain.

Sifroy.
But where's my wife?
Was not she with him? Went they not together?

Beaufort Jun.
Together! no. The villain Glanville's false!
My sister is traduc'd!

Sifroy.
Tremendous Power!
What tempest wrapt in darkness now prepares
To burst on my devoted head? What crime
Unknown, or unrepented, points me out,
The mark distinguish'd of peculiar vengeance?
Why turns the gracious all-protecting eye
Averse from me? O guide my steps, to find
Where lurks this hidden mischief—

Beaufort Jun.
Lurks it not
In thine own breast?

Beaufort Sen.
My son, forbear.

Sifroy.
Art thou
My brother?—O unkind! Would I have stabb'd
Thy heart when breaking with convulsive pangs
Of doubt and terror?—But I'm paid in kind—
Was not I cruel? Where, where is my wife?
Convey me to her arms—she's wrong'd, she's wrong'd!
Yet like offended Heaven she will forgive.
My friend too, my best friend is murder'd! Oh,
What handaccurs'd hath wrought this dreadful deed?
Support me, mercy! 'tis too much, too much!
But let Distraction come, and from my brain
Tear out the seat of Memory, that I
No more may think, no more may be a wretch!

Beaufort Sen.
Patience, my son. When Heaven's high hand afflicts,
Submission best becomes us—nor let man,
The child of weakness, murmur.

Sifroy.
O my father!
Thee too my rashness hath undone! Thou, thou
Wilt join with Heaven to curse me! But I kiss
The rod of chastisement, and in the dust
Resign'd, a prostrate suppliant, beg for mercy.

Beaufort Sen.
Moderate the grief,
Which thus unmans thee—Rouse thee to the search
Of these dark deeds—and Heaven direct our footsteps!
Hath not Suspicion whisper'd to thy heart,
That he, this Glanville, whom thy friendship trusts,
With confidence intire, may yet be false?

Sifroy.
Till this dread hour, suspicion of his truth
Ne'er touch'd my breast—Now, doubt and horror raise
Distraction in my soul.

Beaufort Sen.
O gracious Power!
Look on our sorrows with a pitying eye!
My feeble heart sinks in me—But do thou
Bear up against this tide of woe: I trust,
If goodness dwells in heaven, my child is safe.
Perhaps she seeks the shelter of these arms,
And we have miss'd her in th' entangled wood.
With speed dispatch immediate messengers
Thro' different paths, with strictest search to trace
Cleone's steps, or find thy murder'd friend.
My son I charge thee see this well perform'd.

Beaufort Jun.
I will not fail.

[Exit Beaufort Jun.
Beaufort Sen.
Mean while let us observe
Each motion, word, and look of this fell fiend,
Whose horrid schemes, tho' gloss'd with saintlike shew,
(If much I err not) soon shall be disclos'd.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

Changes to the Wood.
Enter Cleone, and the Child.
Cleone.
Whence do these terrors seize my sinking heart?
Since guilt I know not, why submit to fear?
And yet these silent shadowy scenes awake
Strange apprehensions. Gracious Heaven, protect
My weakness!—Hark! what noise is that?—all still.
It was but fancy.—Yet methought the howl
Of distant wolves broke on the ear of Night,
Doubling the desart's horror.

Child.
O I'm frighted!
Why do you speak, and look so strangely at me?

Cleone.
I will not fright my love. Come, let's go on—
We've but a little way.—Save us ye Powers!

[Sees Ragozin enter with a dagger and a mask on. She flies with her child, he follows.
Ragozin.
Stop—for thou fly'st in vain.

Cleone
(within the scenes)
Help! mercy! Save,
O save my child! O murder! O my child!

[She retreats back to the scene, and falls in a swoon.
[Re-enter Ragozin.
Ragozin.
She too is dead!—I fear'd that blow was short—
But hark! what noise!—I must not be detected—

[Exit.
Cleone,
waking from her trance.
Where have I been? What horrid hand hath stamp'd
This dreadful vision on my brain? O Death!
Have I not past thy terrors? Am I still
In this bad world? What ails my heart? my head?
Was not my child here with me? Sure he was—
And some foul fiend suggests to my sad heart
That he is murder'd! Gracious Heaven, forbid!
Conduct my steps, kind Providence, to where
My little wanderer strays, that I may know
This horror in my mind is but a dream.

[Goes out.

SCENE VIII.

Changes to an adjoining part of the wood, and discovers the child murder'd.
[Cleone re-enters.
Cleone.
Tremendous Silence! Not a sound returns,
Save the wild echoes of my own sad cries,
To my affrighted ear!—My child! my child!
Where art thou stray'd? O where, beyond the reach
Of thy poor mother's voice?—Yet while in Heaven
The God of justice dwells, I will not deem
The bloody vision true. Heaven hath not left me—
There my truth is known, well known—And, see my love!
See, where upon the bank, its weary'd limbs
Lie stretch'd in sleep. In sleep!—O agony!
Blast not my senses with a sight like this!
'Tis blood! 'tis death! my child, my child is murder'd!
[Falls down by her child, kissing it and weeping. Then raising herself on her arm, after a dead silence, and looking by degrees more and more wild, she proceeds in a distracted manner.
Hark! hark! lie still, my love!—O for the world
Don't stir!—'Tis Glanville, and he'll murder us!
Stay, stay—I'll cover thee with boughs—don't fear—
I'll call the little lambs, and they shall bring
Their softest fleece to shelter thee from cold.
There, there—lie close—he shall not see—no, no;
I'll tell him 'tis an angel I have hid.
[She rises up.
Where is he? soft!—he's gone, he's gone, my love,
And shall not murder thee.—Poor innocent!
'Tis fast asleep.—O well thought! I'll go,
Now while he slumbers—pick wild berries for him—
And bring a little water in my hand—
Then, when he wakes, we'll seat us on the bank,
And sing all night.