 | The Insolvent : or Filial Piety |  |
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ACT V.
SCENE I.
The ANTI-CHAMBER.Chalons on the floor, half rais'd, and weeping.
Chalons.
Why shou'd it be a sin, when life grows painful,
To end it, and to trust futurity?
Whom can the wretched here offend above,
By hast'ning to hereafter?—Guilt, indeed,
Might pale the expiring murd'rer's conscious cheek,
Ghastly with fear to meet the dead man's eye,
New glaz'd, to glare at vengeance—But the wrong'd,
The soul-sick sufferer—the despis'd—th'insulted—
The poor, pin'd boneling, that, grown old in want,
Begs his cold draught, and drinks it mix'd with scorn;
What have these groundling windfalls of the world,
To fear from future tempests?—Out, false meteor!
Faithless in every form—This life deludes us,
Valour's but pride's big bubble. Honesty,
The plain man's devious path to shun prosperity.
Learning and wit (not prostitutes to power)
Are marks for shafted envy. Beauty (curse her!)
Lures us to every chase of every joy,
That every plague may blast us—Love's blind fool-mark,
Stamp'd on the Almighty's weaken'd image, man,
Tempts but a woman's mischief.—Down, proud worms!
Fill your stretch'd mouths with dust—and farewel all.
[Throws himself prostrate.
Enter Valdore and La Foy.
La Foy.
See! my good lord, where on the floor extended,
Torn by too fierce a sense of strong distress,
The mournful misery of his fate has cast him!
Valdore.
Leave this dejected bed of humble sorrow—
For her, who—from thine softer—sadly fell;
Fell, e'en too stain'd and low for this last refuge.
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Find the forgotton firmness of thy brow,
And with a manly meekness meet compassion.
Who, that e'er lov'd a woman, liv'd exempt
From weakness that o'er-rates her?—Fye, Chalons!
Is this that fam'd enliv'ner of the field,
Whose heart grew sprightly at the trumpet's call?
Oh! I have seen thee war against distress;
Charge home, on softness and fatigue at once,
And conquer in both onsets. Come, come, rise;
Shift this sad scene of shame: Change it for views
Of opening glory—that shall dazzle pain.
Look up—the reverend witness of thy weakness
Hides his own heart's distress, to comfort thine.
Chalons.
[Half rais'd.]
Oh! my afflicted father!—That I thus
Dare face the sorrows on that awful brow,
(Which but for generous pity of my woes,
Had felt no home-born pang)—requires more courage,
Than ever warm'd the veins of warring youth.
Valdore.
Reach me thy hand—Lean on my feeble aid;
And, every way confiding, task my help.
Chalons.
Too much already have I task'd your goodness;
Too ill have I repay'd its wasted care.
How can I look on miseries I have made!
When I was sunk beneath lost mercy's hope;
Found by no far-strain'd eye—This hand's kind reach,
Took pity on my wants; stretch'd out relief,
And drew me from a prison's joyless gloom.
Valdore.
No more of that sad tale—forget it, now;
One far more sad repels it.
Chalons.
Never, never,
Will I forget the hand's kind help that sav'd me:
From all this deep distress you call'd me up;
Chac'd insult, grinding poverty, and shame;
Heal'd ev'ry infelt sting contempt can wound with;
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How shall I, trembling, add—gave me your daughter!
Valdore.
Worse than I fear'd—La Foy thou hast deceiv'd me.
Cruel Chalons!—Since she deserv'd to die,
Had but her shame dy'd with her, I had strove
To hold back nature's tax—these father's tears,
And labour'd to forgive thee.
Chalons.
Sir! but hear me.
Valdore.
'Tis needless—What have artful words to do
With a pain'd parent's anguish? Sooth not me
With unavailing flattery. Let vain youth
Taste false mens frothy praises—Age is wiser:
Age has experience in such fruitless wiles—
Will not be flatter'd—Knows, that rash revenge
Is blinder than transgression.—How am I sure
My daughter was not innocent?—The jealous
Dream that they see best—when darkest.
La Foy.
My lord, my lord,
Lend your ear calmly.
Valdore.
Had he but let her live to own her guilt;
Had I but read it in her silent eye,
I had forgiven him both—yet one too much.
He snatch'd the sword from the wrong'd hand of law,
And plung'd it in the strong's unsentenc'd breast:
The weak shou'd have escap'd—and touch'd his mercy.
La Foy.
Give him his way, mistaken grief impels him;
Anon, he will be juster.
Valdore.
Juster!—Juster!—
What justice has he right to?—Justice, say'st thou?
What justice can the ungrateful squand'rer plead,
That ruins his redeemer?—Has he not
Pour'd misery on my dotage? All my joys,
The poor faint remnants of an old man's gleanings,
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Cut from their tender root, destroy'd for ever!
Oh! 'twas a black return—to me, who lov'd him!
What, tho' he knew not half her claims to pity,
He shou'd have felt for me. I lov'd—I watch'd her;
Rais'd her from prattling infancy, to wonder!
She touch'd my charm'd (perhaps too partial) heart.
I priz'd her own sweet bloom—Still more endear'd,
By her dead mother's likeness. He shou'd have stopp'd,
When his fell point was rais'd, and thought whose pangs
Were to partake her suff'rings.
Chalons.
Had she been dead—
Had she—(but, oh! she is not)—been partaker
Of her lost paramour's disastrous fate;
Think then—oh! then—how had my horror torn me;
Who scarce support, with life, th'undue reproach.
Valdore.
What says he, my La Foy? Does he not mean
That my Amelia lives?
La Foy.
She does, my lord:
I told you that before; but your sad heart
Repell'd the offer'd comfort.
Valdore.
Generous Chalons!
Scarce has the daughter's crime more wrong'd thy goodness,
Than did the father's anguish.
Chalons.
Oh! my dear lord—
Cou'd some descending angel but restore
Her innocence (for ever lost!)—Lend peace
Of mind once more—and make life tasteful to her;
To such excess of fondness am I her's,
That I wou'd burn discernment's eyes to blindness,
Rather than see a fault, in one so lov'd—
So much has this day's torture cost my soul!
La Foy.
Chalons, thou hast a sure friend's voice in heav'n.
My general oft wou'd say—“Pray, soldiers, pray;
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Alas! I have too seldom try'd this power;
Who knows, but some such angel as you wish'd for,
(I am no teazing, troublesome invoker)
May in yon closet, on my prayer descend,
And whiten the stain'd name that paints your love.
[Goes, and unlocks the closet.
Valdore.
Poor man!—Thy griefs have touch'd thy pitying friend,
'Till his hurt brain grows frantic.
La Foy.
Appear, thou wing-clipt dæmon!—If thou hop'st
To shun the doom that waits perdition's tribe,
Wash thy sav'd soul from all its native black,
And take an angel's form—Truth's convert friend.
La Foy leads out Florella.
Valdore.
What means this?—Florella!
Florella.
I once was Florella;
But heav'n has touch'd my heart with will so new,
That my old name offends me.
La Foy.
Answer, first,
Truly and briefly, as when late I caught thee,
Skulking through night's lone gloom, that wanted shade
To suit thy darker purpose—Answer, plainly,
Is thy unhappy lady innocent,
In Aumele's dire admission to her chamber;
Or, is she guilty of it?
Florella.
Innocent.
Valdore.
How!—Innocent?
Chalons.
A wife—her husband absent,
Admits a lover in his room, at midnight—
Found in her chamber, in a loose dis-robe:
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Thy venal evidence (false maid!) calls innocence!
La Foy.
Pray, let her speak. My lord, you are a judge;
Shou'd an accuser brow-beat witnesses,
Or interrupt their answers?
[To Valdore.
Chalons.
Nay, La Foy;
Pity, thus forc'd, grows insult. I have told thee,
I heard her loud reproach confess the guilt,
To am'rous Aumele, when kneeling by her bed.
She call'd him, cruel Aumele—Bid him begone;
For, if he there was found, her name was blasted.
La Foy.
Away with such strain'd proofs. Had I myself
Been there, but on some far more honest purpose,
Poor soul! she might have said the same to me;
When blund'ring accident alone had brought me.
Valdore.
I think, Chalons, you said that Aumele knelt
But near Amelia's bed—Was it not more?
Florella.
Had it been more—She still were innocent;
Unconscious of his coming. I alone
Was guilty. I (betray'd by bribe's profusion)
Admitted the deaf, head-strong, thoughtless lover,
Both to the house and chamber. I advis'd
The night-gown's needful cover. I gave notice
Of your wrong'd lordship's absence; taught him how
To personate your chanc'd return; soft whispering,
That if she wak'd not ere he reach'd her bed,
Whate'er succeeded, might be meant for you.
La Foy.
Now, now Chalons! what now becomes of all
Those mad mis-proofs of guilt she shines untouch'd by?
By heav'n! 'tis plain, to me, she wak'd too full
Of your remember'd image, to mistake
For that th'intruder's loath'd one. She reproach'd
Not her accomplish'd, but intended, ruin:
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His crime was nobly, by her guarded virtue,
Prevented, and ideal.
Florella.
Never breath'd
A virtue more untainted. May my soul,
In time's last dreadful judgment meet no mercy,
If ever wife more faithful bless'd a husband;
Or, with more cautious conduct, fear'd a lover.
Valdore.
Oh! what hast thou deserv'd—if this her due?
Chalons.
Pity, forgiveness—A safe bought retreat,
To some sweet convent's silent space for prayer:
For penitence to heav'n—and 'scape from shame.
More shall be her's; for, oh! my gracious lord,
'Tis by her just amends for cast-off sin,
Your own paternal tenderness—my love—
And my brave, honest, generous friend's compassion,
Are all redeem'd, at once, from deep despair.
Go, fly Florella—Take this guilty key—
Tell the poor captive innocent this tale;
And court her to be bless'd, by blessing all.
[Gives her the key, and exit Florella.
Valdore.
[Kneeling.]
Thou! ever-gracious, ever present power!
That, first, inspires our virtue—loves it, next;
And guards it, in conclusion!—Take, Oh! take
An old man's awful thanks, for days prolong'd;
Days doom'd, by grief, to pain—now sav'd for joy!
Chalons.
[Kneeling.]
From me (most worthless of the mercy shewn)
Accept, all-worship'd author of all bliss!
The pour'd-out heart's whole tide of grateful pray'r.
La Foy.
Let not me seem least sensible of zeal,
Because less taught to speak it. [Kneels too.]
—Had I words,
I wou'd adore heav'n eloquently—(Now)—
Receive a plain blunt heart's sincerest thanks,
For more than I deserve—or know to tell.
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Florella.
Oh! horror! horror!—Comfort comes too late;
Death intercepts relief—and help is vain.
All start up in confusion; and La Foy, running out, meets and assists Florella, leading in Amelia bleeding.
Chalons.
Defend me from this vision's ghastly menace,
Or I am lost again!
Valdore.
Hapless Amelia!
What has thy rashness done? Just heav'n, but now,
Hear'd our given thanks—Thy innocence stood clear'd.
Florella, guilty, prov'd thy virtue wrong'd:
And, in this ill-chosen crisis of our joy,
Thou murder'st thy own blessing!
Amelia.
[Kneeling to Valdore.]
Heaven was too kind!
That eas'd my honour'd father's aching sense,
Of a lost daughter's shame! Death, in this thought,
Robb'd of its sharpest sting, grows half a friend.
[To Chalons; who raises her, weeping.]
Oh! too unkind Chalons!—What shall I say—
What shall distrusted honour—think—of thee?
I cannot—must not—blame—thy dreadful rage:
Appearance was against me.—Ah! ebb slow,
My offer'd blood—Give my sick, trembling heart
One moment's short reprieve—to clear my name.
Chalons.
Pause, my faint, injur'd charmer—thy clear'd name,
Is spotless as thy beauty.
Valdore.
Save thy shook spirits.
Chalons.
Florella! fly—Go, call immediate aid.
La Foy.
No—let her stay—I'll haste myself, my lord.
[Exit La Foy.
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How hast thou given thy breast that fatal wound?
Amelia.
Shut up with horror, and bound in with death,
'Twas natural to despise familiar fear.
Shunning the breathless corps, that clogg'd my way,
I stumbled o'er a sword—Thus, learnt its use—
And thank'd it, for escape from dreaded shame.
Living, and hopeless to attract belief,
To the unhappy story of my woe;
The eye of ev'ry gazer's dumb reproach,
Had given a sharper wound, than this I chose.
Valdore.
Did'st thou discover the vile youth's disguise?
Or—wert thou sleeping, and unconscious found,
When his bold craft surpriz'd thee?
Amelia.
Troubled thoughts,
For my departed lord's so sudden absence,
Chas'd from my eye lids wish all power of sleep.
Anxiously doubtful for his safe return,
Alarm'd by apprehension's busy fears,
And wond'ring what strange hasty cause had call'd him—
I started—when the door's soft opening sound
Gave glanc'd admission to th'intrusive tread.—
Poring, I shook with terror—for I saw
(By the pale, gleamy, ghost-like glaze of light)
That nor the force nor freedom shew'd that ease
Of manly grace, that marks my mienful lord.
Chalons.
Oh! I was born to curses—thus to wrong
Such tenderness of virtue!
Amelia.
Twice I rais'd
My frighted voice—and twice he try'd, in vain,
To sooth it into silence. Failing that,
Grew fearful of discovery—paus'd amaz'd,
Stepp'd back—return'd—stood doubtful—'till, at last,
He threw himself on his presumptuous knees,
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Nearer than that (by the blest hopes I haste to!
When, from this world of grief, I rise to peace!)
He never had approach'd me.—Ah!—farewel—
My swimming eyes, dim'd o'er, have lost your forms,
And I am cover'd round with dark—sick—shadow.
Valdore.
[Kissing her.]
Dear; dying child!—Her lips are cold and pale.
Farewel, too ill-star'd girl!—farewel—for ever.
Chalons.
She cannot die. Heav'n is too kind, too just,
To excellence like her's—to let that be.
Valdore.
Lead, to her chamber—Gently guide her feet,
They lose—(Oh killing sight!) their own sweet motion.
[Exit Amelia, led off by Chalons and Florella.
Enter La Foy, with Belgard.
Valdore.
Alas! you're come too late, See, where they lead her—
Lifeless, and past all sense of art's lost care.
La Foy.
Follow, Belgard; haste, urge thy utmost skill:
Snatch her from death—and thou command'st my fortune.
[Exit Belgard.
Valdore.
I knew Belgard—unknowing of his skill.
La Foy.
He practis'd many a year, sav'd many a life,
In war's deep wounding rage—but peace came on,
And his shunn'd virtue starv'd him.—'Twas not him,
I purpos'd to have call'd; but met him, coming
To warn us, lord Aumele (who now supports him)—
Fir'd at his son's presumptuous levity,
His watch'd admission here, and whole night's absence,
Comes, with intent to note and tell his practice;
Then take such measures as you best approve.
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What shall we do?—He seeks a living son;
He finds a dead one. Unprepar'd event!
But, he must bear his part—and share distress.
La Foy.
'Twas due to his hard heart.—My curse (provok'd
By his unfeeling wrong to my dead general)
Falls heavy on his head—to teach him pity.
Enter Chalons and Belgard.
Chalons.
Bless'd, my La Foy, be thy successful call
Of this good angel's aid!—She wakes!—She breathes!—
He tells me she shall live!—Her opening eye
Adds to the morning's light, and shines once more.
Valdore.
Then is indulgent heav'n grown kind indeed.
Belgard.
The wound, itself not mortal, gather'd danger
From weak'ning waste of blood: her spirits, thence,
Lost vigour to sustain the toilsome length
Of agoniz'd complaint, I'm told, she made.
So, fainting, she seem'd dead; but rest, with aid
Of skill'd attention, will restore her soon.
La Foy.
Let us forethink of old Aumele's approach.
Valdore.
I'll justify the fate that reach'd his son.
La Foy.
Warn'd by that fate, the brutal mind shall feel
Pangs, due to cruel breasts, with hearts of steel.
On their own heads shall fall woe's driving rain,
And drown too bold contempt of other's pain.
Pity shall smile, to see th'unpitier fall;
And he who aids no want, shall suffer all.
FINIS.
| The Insolvent : or Filial Piety | |