 | The Insolvent : or Filial Piety |  |
35
ACT III.
SCENE I.
A GARDEN, belonging to Valdore's House.On one side, Florella and Aumele discover'd, talking earnestly: On the other, enter Belgard.
Belgard.
So! he has lodg'd me here, for his old purpose.
How base are these employments!—I'll forsake him.
Thinks he, because I owe his father's purse
My poor subsistence, I but eat to sin!
From this close conference, and that low voice,
The new bride's faithless maid, or I guess wrong,
Betrays some trusted secret.—Hark! he's louder.
Aumele.
Well—grant that I advis'd the useful scheme,
Which authoris'd thy crafty tongue to paint me
In odious lights; that, seeming not my friend,
Her caution shou'd not catch the least faint glimpse,
That I had bought thy service; was you by that,
Commission'd to betray me for another,
And pay Chalons the joys bespoke by me?
Florella.
If you cou'd hear—I meant to do you service;
Enrich you, by your loss—Never, 'till now,
Was your hope likely—never near, 'till now.
Aumele.
Thy fancy is all woman—Wind and feather!
Florella.
Will you hear me?
You say my lady's married—Thank heav'n for it,
And feel the clue that guides you.—Track two footsteps;
One o'er the trodden path of some hedg'd field,
That tempts approach to beat it more, yet tells not:
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'Till then by mortal wanderer unimprinted,
Which of these two proclaims discovery soonest?
Shame on such shallow plotters!—When in love,
Int'rest, or treason, your he blunderer moves,
Without a woman's help, his wit destroys him.
Aumele.
What am I to infer from this fine story?
Florella.
Her marriage but invites her lover's hopes;
Unbars the door of doubt, fast lock'd by danger.
France, you well know, trusts wives with ample freedom;
And when these wives have maids—those maids good friends—
And those friends liberal hearts—What think you now?
Aumele.
Provided she consented, this were easy.
Florella.
Oh! there are arts—Consent or not consent:
In short, I know she loves you—Did you know
But half as well who serves your int'rest there,
You'd scorn to weigh how dear the hope may cost you.
Aumele.
Nay, that's unjust reproach. Here's a new witness;
[Gives her a purse.
I want no grateful will to note thy friendship:
If it succeeds, in this sweet view thou shew'st me,
Be richer than thy mistress.
Florella.
See! I told you,
She shou'd walk there alone—pretend you sought her.
[Exit Florella.
Belgard comes forward.
Belgard.
So, sir! I see for what you dragg'd me hither.
Preferr'd to be your pander. Help to ruin
A fine young lady, form'd for love and piety.
That she cou'd ever fancy one so wicked!
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No, no; I brought thee but to take the air,
Thy dull'd wit wanted fresh'ning: and besides,
Thou hast a sword edg'd sharp, how blunt soe'er
Thy surly virtue makes thee—Threat'nings, Belgard,
Threat'nings grow frequent, and these groves are solitary.
What! you want money now? That makes you peevish.
There—
[Offers money.
Belgard.
I scorn your money, sir; nor will be bought
To a base act. I shall acquaint your father.
Aumele.
Aye, do; he'll not believe thee—His own gambols
Lay not my way, his loves have hard round faces;
And what men wish not theirs, they grudge not others.
Belgard.
But will not law defend a lady's honour?
Aumele.
No, 'tis the lady's property: while so,
What legal right has power to enter on it?
Grant it were stolen, (as yet, woes me, it is not)
Then in comes law indeed, and makes good pen'worths
In the rogues rents that robb'd it.—Ah, Belgard!
Had'st thou a kinsman judge—I'd say sin cheap;
But mum for that—So, cousin, go thy way:
I'll think on thy advice, muse here awhile,
And meet thee at the Vine, to hear more counsel.
Belgard.
Adieu, then, if you're still thus obstinate;
The loss is but your own: henceforth, your father
Shall hold my care excus'd for such a son;
And I'll renounce his help, or wake his caution.
[Exit Belgard.
Aumele.
He went in pinch of time; for yonder walks
A saint, this blust'ring devil had scar'd from sin.
He's born to spoil my markets.—I'll stand shaded.
[Aumele stands on one side.
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Florella.
You know I never lik'd him; if I had,
Good faith, I might have laugh'd myself to pity:
For, cou'd you see how like a love-sick mope,
The poor, touch'd penitent, weeps, prays and curses,
Forsaken tho' he is, you'd ne'er forget him.
Amelia.
He has too much deserv'd the pain he suffers.
Florella.
Wou'd you shun him?
Perhaps, for much he ever lov'd our grove,
He may not yet have left it.—Look!—He's here.
Amelia.
I charge you, stir not—Stay, and be a witness,
If he dares speak—But sure he will not dare.
Light chance lends slander oft to idle tongues,
And innocence might suffer.
Florella.
I will be near.
[Exit.
Aumele approaches respectfully.
Aumele.
Madam—forgive a trembling criminal;
Guilty—but greatly punish'd—that—thus—led,
By chance—his conscious reverence of your power,
Permits an awful anguish to approach you.
Amelia.
Chance was unkind to both; since neither's wish
Cou'd have forecast a meeting, neither's reason
Cou'd find pretence to justify.
Aumele.
Oh! my Amelia!
Amelia.
No, false Aumele!—forget presumptious freedom.
While I was yet my own, I was not yours;
Less can I, when another's.
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I was to blame—
But you have punish'd adoration's warmth,
As coldness shou'd be punish'd!
Amelia.
Guilty warmth,
And adoration's transports never met.
Aumele.
Oh! had you seen my agony of soul,
When, led by swift repentance, I return'd
To throw me at your feet—But met your father,
Alter'd like you—averse to ev'ry prayer,
And all forgetful of his once kind wish,
You wou'd have wept the misery you caus'd.
Distracted with my love, rage, shame, despair,
I loath'd my name, race, life; but, most, my crime,
And hid me in your groves—to die absolv'd.
Amelia.
Your being here is adding to your crime:
If truly penitent, offend no more.
Aumele.
I wou'd have slept away some sense of pain,
Made the cold earth my bed; and try'd all night,
Moisten'd by midnight dews, to shut out shame:
But busy fancy rais'd thy beauteous form
(Distracting image!)—giving joy to him,
Who reaps the harvest my curs'd folly sow'd.
Amelia.
Be dumb—Begone—and never see me more:
Honour demands it now, if justice did not.
I can no more—I shou'd forget thee quite,
But thy fault will not let me. Once I dreamt,
And slumb'ring fancy shew'd thee gay, kind, honest;
But, waking, 'twas no more.
Aumele.
You wou'd forget me then?
Amelia.
I must, and will forget thee.
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If it must be—'tis best I take my leave:
He cannot die too soon, who lives for scorn.
Amelia.
I do not wish your death; but go—for ever.
Aumele.
For ever is a dismal sound, Amelia!
Wou'd it be more than pity might allow,
Since all my crime, bold as it was, was love,
To grant one last—soft—trembling—distant touch,
[Takes her hand to kiss it. She draws it back again.
Of this dear hand—that shuns me? 'Twas too much;
'Twas extasy too great for one condemn'd.
Amelia.
Begone, Aumele!
Aumele.
Grant one nearer rapture—
[Takes her hand again.
And it shall dwell so sweetly on my thought,
That memory shall admit no sad idea.
This last permitted transport, and I go.
[Kisses her hand.
Enter La Foy, at a distance, and starts.
Yet, since I never am to see you more,
You will not, must not, think despair grows bold,
If I thus force one warmer, dearer draught,
From these press'd lips, to cool my feverish soul.
[Struggling, he kisses her.
Amelia.
Leave me, presumptuous, grief-struck madman,
Leave me.
Aumele.
I wou'd—but 'tis impossible.
La Foy.
Sure 'tis a vision.—
[Draws his sword.
Draw, ruffian, or thou dy'st.
[Aumele retreats fighting in confusion, follow'd out by La Foy.
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Florella—where?—Oh! wretched, lost Amelia!
This only wanted to compleat thy woe.
My fame's fair promise, my white name, is lost:
Blood too must follow.—Innocence, in vain,
Will now appeal to truth's distrusted aid,
And I am black as guilt—indulging none.
[Exit, in disorder.
Enter La Foy, putting up his sword.
La Foy.
Light as the robber's purpose was his foot,
And he has 'scap'd my vengeance. Now I'm cool,
Let me reflect.—I'm glad of his escape,
His death had broad proclaim'd her now hid shame.
What shall I do? Shall I conceal or tell it?
Something I must resolve, nor injure friendship.
Had she been well inclin'd—To keep her cautious,
Her secret shou'd be kept—But—She's a woman;
And who can stem their passions? To surmount
Her sex's rage of heart beneath restraint,
Is harder than to prop a falling tower.
Enter Valdore.
Valdore.
Good morning, my La Foy.
La Foy.
My lord, good morrow.
[Aside.]
How if I break it to him? He is wise,
And his authority will give due weight
And warrant to his counsels.—
It shall be so.
Valdore.
'Tis an inspiring sun—and the day shines;
Good omen to your friend's beginning joys.
La Foy.
Yes, the air's hot—I wish it had been purer:
Valdore.
I never heard it merited that censure.
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Some climes change fast, my lord.
Valdore.
I pray, be plain.
La Foy.
I stand engag'd for such unbounded favour,
That 'twere to be ungrateful to be dumb,
On what concerns your honour.
Valdore.
Honour!—How?
La Foy.
Serious and pensive in my morning's walk,
Led through these covering groves and hid between 'em,
I saw your daughter and Aumele—
Valdore.
How, saw 'em?
La Foy.
Close as the grove they kiss'd in.
Valdore.
Kiss'd in, soldier!
La Foy.
Faith, I'm no orator;
Knew I a word more kind than kiss, you'd had it.
Valdore.
I hope you saw no guilt, beyond that promise.
La Foy.
She struggl'd, and he press'd her; she struggl'd on,
And he press'd closer. 'Twas no more than woman
Can all, by nature, do as well as she did.
Valdore.
I must inform you, sir, my daughter's modesty
Discredits this bold tale, that stains her virtue.
I know not from what quarter to suspect,
Unless some hatred of Aumele's light race,
Propell'd you to accuse him. If 'twas so,
'Tis an ungenerous anger; that, for vengeance
'Gainst an offending foe, forgets the friend.
I will, however, hold a watchful eye
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Trust, and demand your silence.
[Exit Valdore, angrily.
La Foy.
Curse on my wayward fate that sent me here,
To interrupt their loves—It was ill-breeding.
Some soft, cool wit, whom love more warm'd than friendship,
Had past it o'er, or forwarded the business;
So wisely gain'd good will—and pleas'd 'em all.
Enter Chalons.
Chalons.
Muttering alone, La Foy? what fretful scheme,
What melancholy rage of honest heart,
Disturbs thy spleen thus early? Prythee brighten;
Since fortune smiles at last—for shame, smile with her.
If thou'rt untouch'd within, and know'st no joys
Thy own—let mine inspire thy sullen temper.
La Foy.
Yes—that's a wise man's plot—Thy joys distrub me.
Chalons.
Thou art too good for envy? What then moves thee?
How can a happiness, like mine, distress thee?
Married to beauty—reconcil'd to hope;
Splendid in riches—in thy friendship happy;
And blest by fame and love—what want I more?
La Foy.
One thing I'm sure you want.
Chalons.
What's that?
La Foy.
Distrust
Of woman's wavering love.
Chalons.
Nay, now thou'rt cynical:
Merits my wife no trust?
La Foy.
Aye—trust her on.
As to myself, I feel no pain from woman:
'Twas for your sake, I found one not quite angel.
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For my sake!—Be explicit in thy charge,
And ease my heart's new anguish.
La Foy.
No—rest it here:
You are too young a lover—Ill prepar'd
For proofs your faith will start from; 'twill unman you.
Chalons.
What can'st thou mean?
La Foy.
Why shou'd I pull down plagues?
Why should I strike diseases through thy bones,
Beyond the cure of medicine—Scorch thy blood;
Rob thy torn hours of peace—and send in pain?
Better continue blind, than see but misery.
Chalons.
Thou strik'st a deadly coldness to my heart.
Point out this foe to life; that, like a man,
I may subdue, or bear it. Am I not,
(Cruel La Foy!) was I not bred—a soldier?
If it be fate, I'll meet it—If but a fault
That cankers on my mind, I'll cut it off,
Or cure it by my reason. Thus adjur'd,
If you continue dumb, you doubt my courage.
La Foy.
I've heard that married men find friends in heav'n:
You shou'd have many there—Pray their kind guard
To keep your fair wife chaste.
[Is going.
Chalons.
Stay—what said'st thou?
Take this devouring wolf out of my breast.
Stay—or for ever lose me.
La Foy.
Nay—I but go,
Lest I should lose thee.
Chalons.
Have a care thou dost not;
Thou hast inflam'd me now—and I will have it.
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Nay—be content—thou hast it.
Chalons.
Death and hell!
Hast it!—what have I?
La Foy.
Why a fine young wife.
How can I help it, if she too has claims,
Beyond all rights allow'd her.
Chalons.
Rights! claims!—Furies!
Speak plainly, or thou dy'st.
La Foy.
Why there 'tis, now!
Was it my fault, that I don't like her kissing
The son of your wrong'd father's mortal enemy?
Chalons.
Nay, then—the world has no fix'd honour in't;
And he whom most I lov'd, is most a villain.
La Foy.
Hark—my hot child! villain's a wrong, bad word;
Use it no more—or, if agen thou speak'st,
Think twice, who hears—and let no name denote him.
Chalons.
Nature and name thy own—Hear it to heav'n,
Ye saints, that waste no prayer for falshood damn'd;
Hear it, ye winds, and blow it through his ear,
'Till his heart shrinks to feel it—that La Foy,
His friend's belyar, his stain'd sword's disgracer,
Envies superior bliss—and is a villain.
La Foy.
Madman, be dumb for ever. Thou hast shrunk
Indeed my feeling heart, and pour'd in horror.
[Drawing.]
Look here—behold this sword—bright as the truth
'Tis drawn for—Never was it stain'd, 'till now;
But, when it wears thy blood, 'twill blush for pity.
Chalons.
Hold—ere thy courage dares this desp'rate stake,
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Own but thy falshood—it shall stand forgiven.
La Foy.
Wittal! thy wife's a wanton—That's truth; keep falshood,
She'll want it for her dowry.
Chalons.
Oh! my father!
[Drawing.
This was your heart's try'd friend. You lov'd him long;
And, with your dying breath, you bad me love him:
Now, from the grave that hides you from his guilt,
If possibly those awful eyes pale beams
Can pierce the marble vault—Oh! see me wrong'd,
And groan reluctant licence to revenge it.
La Foy.
Amen—to that; where the wrong lies, fall vengeance.
[Offering the medal.]
Here—ere I kill thee—take back what thou gav'st me.
Take all that bears thy virtuous father's image;
Take back this kiss-worn paper—Shou'd thy sword
Force a success thy crime's bad cause disclaims,
'Twou'd, if I then retain'd that good man's gift,
Seem drawn against thy father. Take it from me;
Tear it, and scatter it in air—for ever;
So has thy rashness torn the love that bound us.
Chalons.
What wou'd this paper teach me?
La Foy.
Teach thee—nothing;
Distraction will not learn—it shuns to hear.
'Tis the dear, grateful oath he sign'd and gave me,
On the victorious evening of a day,
Thou dar'st not hear me name without a blush.
When cover'd o'er with blood, from wounds ill earn'd,
In thy unthank'd defence—Then fall'n and hopeless,
Half trampled into earth beneath the hoofs
Of fiery Vileroy's barb'd iron squadron;
He snatch'd me to his breast—hail'd my sword's labour.
He wept, kind man! wept tears of grateful joy—
Gave that seal'd, written oath, to pay me greatly;
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(I scorn to name him) bound himself to pay me.
Well has he paid his father's vow!—Quick—tear it,
Let not the bond upbraid thee. Cancel that,
Since thou hast blotted me; then, if I fall,
The payment I declin'd in life—dies too.
Chalons.
[Drops his sword.]
Oh! all ye blissful angels, who have seen me,
What horror am I 'scap'd from!
La Foy.
Raise thy fall'n point.
Chalons.
Not for a thousand wrongs wou'd I resist thee.
Perish th'unlist'ning rage of human pride,
That burns up kind remembrance!—Wound me—kill me;
'Tis but to take your own—the life you sav'd me.
Generous La Foy!—brave hearts make room for pity:
Say but I'm pardon'd, and I'll dare look up,
Meet thy offended eyes—and hear thee chide me.
Why was love touch'd too roughly?
La Foy.
[Putting up his sword.]
Did I?—Faith,
I half begin to doubt I was to blame—
But 'twill be always thus in womens matters;
Clap one of those white make-bates 'twixt two pigeons,
You turn 'em into vultures!
Chalons.
You say strangely,
My wife gave wanton freedoms, to the son
Of my worst enemy?—Sure 'twas impossible!
La Foy.
Likely enough—We'll walk, and waste an hour
On some fresh subject; air our glowing bloods,
'Till they grow cool as reason; then resume
That feathery theme, and find its weight anon.
Think—have you mark'd no favour from her eye,
When it survey'd Aumele?
Chalons.
Aumele has long
Made boast of her attachment to his folly;
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I charg'd it to his lightness.—Yet—'twas odd,
When the priest join'd our hands, she dragg'd her's back,
Trembling and cold; then rais'd it to her eyes,
Cover'd an ill-tim'd tear, and sigh'd profound.
Let me consider—
[Pauses.
La Foy.
Do; and this do further.
If she has guilt, and you dare search it boldly,
Trust my advice—Make light of my grave jealousy:
Laugh when you tell it her—Call it the blunder
Of an uncourtly taste, not broke to gallantry.
I will contrive Belgard, the honest hater
Of Aumele's shameless riots, shall be sent,
As from his father, to require your presence
For two whole days, to wait th'assembled states.
Obey the summons with assum'd regret,
Mourning such tedious absence. Then take leave,
And go no farther than to Belgard's brother's.
But have a care—women have subtle piercings;
Kiss warm at parting—closer—longer—kinder:
Squeeze a more hard, blind lover's hug, than ever.
Chalons.
I will.
La Foy.
Then leave the rest to me.
Chalons.
Oh! what a bliss might marriage hopes create,
Were but its joys as permanent as great!
[Exeunt omnes.
End of the third Act.
| The Insolvent : or Filial Piety | |