University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—The parlour of Scroope's house.
Enter Scroope.
SCROOPE.
Yes, this is my revenge upon the world,
Before whose tyranny my fervent youth
Fainted: they shall be happy. It shall not,
As it hath done from mine, wrench out, deep torture!
The fondest charities from the best years
Of their hearts' life. No, they shall spurn the world
That loves to spurn the lowly—that base world
That cheers its valiant hunters on the hare
And throws a shield before the lordly lion;
That vile, that parasite world, that knows not merit
Save in prosperity, high birth, or wealth
Its very charters of monopoly
In all its paltry ventures. They, at least,
Shall not become its victims. He is here.
Enter Richard.
Welcome! I've much to say to you. You come
From the Lord Beaufort; he hath bid you seek me?

RICHARD.
I come, by his command, to know your will, sir,
And, if I may, to plead for him.

SCROOPE.
I'll hear you.
You know I have mortgage on his lands
Not far short of their value, and this hour
I may seize on them as forfeit: wherefore should I
Refrain from my just rights?

RICHARD.
For charity
Lest he should lack the very means of life.

SCROOPE.
For many years I've sought to gain this power:
Be you the judge whether I should forego it.

RICHARD.
I am his ward—almost his son.

SCROOPE.
You'll judge him
More kindly? Well! Even kindly be it then!
If 'twere a common cause of man and man,
With nought but natural human rights between us,
You should go hence at once, and with your suit;
But I've some claim for vengeance.

RICHARD.
He is fallen!
A brave arm sinks before a prostrate foe.

SCROOPE.
You're right to urge it. Yet, with you, methinks,
There is a chord of the heart that I might touch,
And that should sound “Revenge:” for you can love—

RICHARD.
Sir—I—

SCROOPE.
Ne'er falter! You do love?

RICHARD.
I do.
It is my hope, my pride, my glory.

SCROOPE.
Ay;
If one should wrong you past the power of pardon,
Might it not be that he should sting you there?

RICHARD.
He tore your's from you?

SCROOPE.
More. Doom'd her to die.
In the freshness of young hope, and fervent joy,
And vital love, consign'd her to the tomb.

RICHARD.
Lord Beaufort did this!

SCROOPE.
Ay. You do not plead for him.

RICHARD.
'Tis well there is a mercy in the heavens
Beyond what man can show, or frame, or fathom!

SCROOPE.
Calmly! You are to judge. Listen, and patiently!
I am the son of one who tenanted
An humble dwelling on Lord Beaufort's land.
I was a thoughtful, musing, pensive child,
Apter to read than labour, and my parents
Strove hard to gain the means of study for me.
The old Lord Beaufort aided them, though slightly;
You have seen such patronage. My mind expanded.
I looked on nature and the beings round me
A reasoning, feeling man: but how I reason'd
And how I felt are bitter memories to me.

RICHARD.
Bitter! The young fresh blossoms of the soul
Expanding into charity and wisdom!

SCROOPE.
No, no; the blight that cankered them. Lord Beaufort
Had mark'd my studious temper. Village fame
Lauded me high. He sent for me, he prais'd me,
Made me companion of his son and daughter—
Their tutor.

RICHARD.
This Lord Beaufort and his sister?

SCROOPE.
The same. He little read or thought, but she
Lov'd poesy's ideal world—the lore
Of high enthusiasts. She was beautiful,
As youth is ever ere it looks on care;
Generous, frank, high-minded above pride,
As youth is ever ere it knows of wrong;
Full of imagination's noblest dreams,
As youth is ever ere it reads sad truth.

RICHARD.
You lov'd her?

SCROOPE.
What? The daughter of a lord!
And I a peasant! think you I dar'd love her?

RICHARD.
What home had each for nature's holiest thoughts
Save the other's heart? The mighty sympathies
Which dare appeal to heaven for their birth
Are of too proud a lineage to bow
Before earth's idols.

SCROOPE.
So we argued not,
But so we felt. Young Beaufort left us for
The court, and, save her father, we were alone.
That solitude! that happy solitude!
When all else is intrusion, bound the chain
Closer and closer round us. To be brief,
We dar'd to wed in secret.

RICHARD.
Perilous joy!

SCROOPE.
Had you not done so? Say a heart were yours,
Fondly, entirely yours, no other hope—?

RICHARD.
I would strive to think for her.

SCROOPE.
You would do well.
But if she, all abandoned to her love,
Pleaded—and both so young—?

RICHARD.
So fond! to wed
Or say “farewell” for ever!

SCROOPE.
We both thought so.

RICHARD.
Love, then, is fate and fortune and eternity.

SCROOPE.
The old Lord Beaufort died; his son return'd.
Still were we silent, for stolen love is timorous,
And Beaufort was an alter'd man: the court
Had taught the value of his rank and station.
He was now a proud peer, I, his poor dependant.
At length a disappointed traitor told him
The tale of my presumption, and his anger
Paus'd but to seize a weapon of destruction
To crush the wretch who brav'd it.

RICHARD.
This Lord Beaufort!

SCROOPE.
He! he! 'twas then the reign of bigotry
And iron persecution; Mary rul'd.
Beaufort was Catholic, he knew my faith,
Denounc'd me as a heretic and traitor,
'Twas subtle cruelty, a taint o' th' plague
That might infect all that I lov'd and cherish'd,

RICHARD.
And she?

SCROOPE.
I fled from her lest she should fall
Beneath the accursed bane of heresy.

RICHARD.
It was a subtle cruelty. But she—

SCROOPE.
To keep that life, which, while I liv'd, she priz'd
To 'scape the persecution of a brother,
Who else had sated his proud indignation
With axe or flame, a convent's walls received her,
And there, from me her love and life were seal'd;
I know but that she died.

RICHARD.
Poor sacrifice!

SCROOPE.
Indeed a sacrifice of innocence
To the Moloch of human pride! Oh, that warm heart,
Those fond affections, barr'd from all communion
With hope and joy, the very elements
Of her sweet life perishing, what could she do but die?
And to this lingering death did Beaufort doom her;
'Tis for this man you now ask my compassion.

RICHARD.
I yet must ask though I may scarcely hope.

SCROOPE.
I bid him send you to me; there is hope.
There are vile agents for the viler purposes
Of base oppression and of legal ruin:
I would not so employ you. I forgive him.
I pray to heaven this may be the last shock
To that meek charity which best befits
Men's helpless frailty. His estates are free;
The mortgage you shall have ere you depart
With my free will to cancel it, and she,
Even in blessedness, will smile to see
That act,—I feel it.

RICHARD.
'Tis a blessed act
On which the heav'nliest spirit might look down,
Nor dim its joy celestial.

SCROOPE.
We've dispatch'd
Our sadder task; yet, though Lord Beaufort wait,
His messenger must stay while I achieve
The story of my life. For some time, void
Of present and of future, the sad past
Made up existence: but my sister died,
And left to my sole care an orphan niece.
Grief hath a consolation in its fancies:
In Mariana's eyes I lov'd to trace
The expression of my Catherine's; in her voice,
With all its lisping, childish tenderness,
I still sought for some tone of Catherine's;
But most in the child's gentleness and kindness,
I treasur'd up my thoughts of Catherine's soul.
Thus was I warm'd to sad but gentle wishes
That her fate might be happier. Again I dreamt
The vision of young life in cherishing her.
I toiled and prospered—toiled again and throve,
Till I was rich, for her sake, and I now
Would crown a heart heav'n fram'd for happiness
With its own best wishes. You love Mariana?
Speak! I would hear you say so.

RICHARD.
It were cowardice
Now to be tongue-tied; tell me but the means
By which I e'er may win her, not deserve her,
That I hope not, but point me out the peril,
On which I burn to rush, would gain her hand,
Or even the vile servitude, the drudgery,
Cheer'd by the hope that she may yet be mine,
And let me prove I am not a mere boaster:
I will do that should prove me, though unworthy,
Yet sensible, at least, of such a blessing.

SCROOPE.
Words! words! I'll put you to the proof. May a life
Of peace and love bear witness for your heart.
You shall see how I believe you.

[Exit.
RICHARD.
What new pain's this?
I have met peril, laughed at poverty,
But kindness so unmerited!—By your leave
Good manhood! If a tear will gush it must.
Joy struggles with my very life. My heart
Choaks in my throat.
Re-enter Scroope.
Where is she?

SCROOPE.
Know you not?
She is not there and on the table lay
This paper. 'Tis your hand.

RICHARD.
It is indeed.

SCROOPE.
Why, what is't ails you? Seek her on the terrace
Come, I can pardon this.

RICHARD.
Oh, never! never!
If this be as I fear, I ask no pardon,
I'm too accursed a villain to dare hope it.
Mariana! (rushes out.)


SCROOPE.
What means this? What thunder-cloud
Hath burst upon him and yet hangs o'er me
Ready to blast me?

RICHARD
(without.)
Mariana!

SCROOPE.
Hark!
He calls her, but no voice responds!

RICHARD
(without.)
Mariana!

SCROOPE.
All's silent! Sure my very heart is withering!
I cannot breathe.

Richard (re-enters.)
RICHARD.
She's gone!

SCROOPE.
By heaven's judgment!
I do adjure thee! Speak!

RICHARD.
May every curse,
More terrible than vengeance can devise,
Light on young Beaufort's head!

SCROOPE.
Wherefore?

RICHARD.
This paper!
He gain'd it from me:—oh! that my hand had rotted
Ere I had written it!—for an idle purpose.
He said—oh! lie, forged in the blackest hell!—
He hath robbed me of her with it!

SCROOPE.
Dared'st thou traffic
With him for Mariana? If thou hast—

RICHARD.
Hold! On my soul not so. Do not you curse me!
I know you've cause, yet, on my knees, I pray you
Spare me, if but for vengeance on that villain.

SCROOPE.
Ay, vengeance, instant vengeance upon all!
My Mariana! oh, what wretched purpose
Had'st thou in writing this?

RICHARD.
A mean, base jest,
But not on her. Oh, had I thought on her
Then—

SCROOPE.
Idle fool! to trifle with thy fortune,
Now on its topmost round, thou'rt crushed indeed
If I but find one evil thought towards her,
One little, idle slight within thy soul.
Oh! let me think!
My brain throbs so; Yes! vengeance upon all!
They're in my power! Ho! there.
Enter William and Thomas.
Call me officers!
Bring forth those bonds and papers! I'm their master!
Bid them make seizure on Lord Beaufort's house!
[Exit Thomas.
Send thou to Flint, the lawyer: if to-night
They lie not in the prison—which, I pray,
May hold them ever—I'm no more his client.
Call men and send to every street—each house—
To enquire my Mariana forth! I'll make
A fortune for a duke to him that finds her!
Away! How dar'st thou tarry? (Exit William.)
Wretch that I am!
What can I do?

RICHARD.
Hear me!

SCROOPE.
Thy voice is hateful!
Oh! how I lov'd and trusted thee, and built
My hopes upon thy happiness and hers!

RICHARD.
For her sake, hear me! I have but one thought—
To rescue her; grant me an hour to try this,
And, if I fail, I'll gladly yield myself
To prison—fetters—death! If she be lost,
I'll bless you for revenging her on me!

SCROOPE.
Go.—I'll try to believe thee.

RICHARD.
Thanks! let not your curse be heaped upon me:
Pray for my good success.

[Exit Richard.
SCROOPE.
I'll seek her at Lord Beaufort's; if she's lost
What have I left to bind me to my kind?
I'll hold a revel of revenge and misery
And that proud house shall be my court. My gold,
I bless thee for my power. I have them all!
The light of goodness shuns me: darkness and evil
Have, too, their festivals; and mine shall be
As terrible as his, th' arch-fiend's, where groans
Re-echoe round his burning throne, and torture
Teaches him torture. In my heart's a fire
To scorch up all around. Oh, my poor child.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

—A room in Alsatia. One window high above the floor, and grated. The whole miserable and squalid.
Edward and an Old Woman.
EDWARD.
'Tis well—'tis well—go leave me.

OLD WOMAN.
Therefore, sir,
If you would have ought more—

EDWARD.
I prythee go.
There is a noise—'tis they—away, old crone.
[Exit Old Woman.
Sin must be sweet to make me bear with such
As I've encounter'd here.—Yet, in my state,
This is a golden fortune. Say I wed her—
And that, methinks, is my best policy—
My wealth shall laugh at the poor envious fools
Who sneer at such alliance. Wife or mistress,
She shall be mine—and let her wisdom choose.
They're here!

Enter Bloodmore, Mouseheart, and Rivers, with Mariana. Edward for a moment retires.
MARIANA.
Oh! are ye men? and have ye never known
One tender tie of love to woman? Sons,
Brothers, or lovers? Sure there is some touch
Of pity in your hearts.

BLOODMORE.
We have forgotten
Such matters where they interfere with business.

MARIANA.
Can man look on a woman's tears with scorn?
A helpless, unoffending, innocent woman?
Would you have wealth? There's one shall buy your souls
Yet from this deep perdition—give you gold
Enough to make your lives joyfully honest
Even to long old age. What would you of me?

BLOODMORE.
We're paid, and we must do our duty, lady.
Honest, forsooth! We should be precious rogues
To take the money and then sell the service.
Who do you think would trust us?

MARIANA.
Woe is me!
What can I say—what offer—or how plead?
What would you with me?
(Edward comes forward.)
Oh! sir, are you here?
I read your black designs. I do conjure you,
If you have but one human feeling left,
If ye'd not have your mothers' spirits curse you,
At the least kill me in mine honesty.
There is a fate is worse than death to woman,
And I implore you, by your parents' graves,
Release me but from that.

EDWARD.
Stay, Mariana—
And fear me not: the means are rough indeed
I've used to woo you; yet, if you are wise,
You have no cause for fear.

MARIANA.
What wisdom, sir,
Is it that you would teach me?

EDWARD.
Friends, your leave.
I love you, Mariana, and would wed you.

MARIANA.
Love me!

EDWARD.
You know not your own charms to doubt it.

MARIANA.
A courtly flattery for such a place!
Love me!—alas, sir, know you what love is?
Love perils life—and glories in the martyrdom—
To spare one blush on the beloved's cheek,
To calm one throb of anguish in her heart.
And say you that you love me?—fie, sir, fie!

EDWARD.
We will not cavil now on words. I'd wed you:
If you consent 'tis well; if not, fine mistress,
You may live to wish you had not sold yourself
Upon worse terms: the bargain's in my hands,
And, one way or the other, you yourself
Shall be the ransom—

MARIANA.
Is't my uncle's wealth
That tempts you?—he will gladly lay it down,
All—to the uttermost farthing, but to save me;
We'll both be poor and bless you. Do not mock me,
To say you love me—it is needless. Speak!
And by my soul, all you can ask of him
Shall be most freely granted, and yourself
Pardon'd and free from blame.

EDWARD.
I were most wise
To trust your word in that; but once my wife,
And I am safe—

MARIANA.
Your wife!

EDWARD.
Ay, or my minion;
You see I am no trifler. Is't a match?

MARIANA.
I am in your power; yet heaven looks not idly
Upon the world; in that name I defy you.
I am a woman, strengthless and unarmed,
Encircled by remorseless fiends, as savage
As the untutor'd cannibal, who owns
No language that speaks pity!—but I kneel,
And firmly place my trust there, in my agony.

EDWARD.
Fool! you have chosen— (noise without.)


MARIANA.
Hark! a breath can scare you.
Look! on each face sit guilt and pallid fear!
Open yon door, and let me pass: I'll save you!

Flaw enters drunk, in the habit of a physician.
EDWARD.
What foolery is this?

FLAW.

Foolery! I'm a fool-catcher now—a physician; a knave
—no fool; i'faith, you may stare indeed, for I'm somewhat
metamorphosed in person and understanding—as it were,
doubly disguised—in dress and in liquor! But what! we
be lads of spirit!

BLOODMORE.
How now, Master Flaw! Shame on such doings!

MARIANA.
Flaw—ha!—good Master Flaw—oh save me, help me!
Have you no company?

FLAW.
What, Mariana!
Have I been helping them to carry off
My own intended wife! I'm not quite sober,
Or else a precious ass—or perhaps both—
But—

BLOODMORE.
Come, begone; I blush this worthy gentleman
Should see such manners. What must he think of us?

FLAW.
I'll not begone—

BLOODMORE.
Not.

FLAW.
Pish—that for your sword;
I've got one somewhere—here it is at last,
She is my love, and by true cutter's law,
And civil law—and martial law, if need be,
I will defend her.

MARIANA.
Have you no friends, sir?

FLAW.
Friends—never fear—get you behind yon basket,
And then have at you fellows.

MARIANA.
Oh, for pity,
Harm him not.

(They overpower Flaw.)
FLAW.
I'm not hurt.

BLOODMORE.
Give me yon cord
And bind him tight.

FLAW.
You'll cut my arms in two.

BLOODMORE.
I'll cut your throat directly.—Now, sirs, speak,
I think 'twere best for our security
We should despatch this drunken fool at once.

EDWARD.
Hold! hold! no murder.

FLAW.
Let 'em murder me,
I shall see the day they'll pay for it.

EDWARD.
Silence, fool—
Bind him and keep him fast—no more—I charge you,
Harm him no further.

BLOODMORE.
Oh! I bear no malice;
But a keen blade just drawn across the throat
Is such a stop to awkward evidence,
It cheats the law so neatly—and he merits it
For making this unseemly brawl.

EDWARD.
No matter.

BLOODMORE.
Then tie his legs and throw him in the basket;
When the lad's sober he's a civil spoken
And proper youth—and like some day to prove
An honour to the gallows—'tis a pity
A hopeful boy should run out of the course thus.

FLAW
(As they tie him and put him in the basket.)
You rascals—give me my sweet love—I die
A hero and a lover. Cut my throat!
When? scoundrels—when? it was'nt made for cutting.
I fall in virtue's cause—and perish nobly.

BLOODMORE.
There you may sleep—

FLAW.
Good night to all the world:
Mariana—oh, my stomach!—oh, my love!

EDWARD.
So much for your chivalrous rescuer—
Bethink you better of your fortunes, lady.
For a short time I'll leave you under guard:
When I return I hope to find you wiser.
You, good sir—come with me—I have some business
In which you yet may aid me. Dare we leave
Her in this custody.

BLOODMORE.
Ay: fear not that, sir,
We'll lock the outer door,

EDWARD.
Lady! be wise.

[Exit Edward and Bloodmore.
MARIANA.
All hope of rescue lost. Hath heaven no pity?
Will you not help me—speak?

MOUSEHEART.
I dare not, lady.

MARIANA.
And you, you will not look upon me?

RIVERS.
Silence!
I know my duty, and I must perform it.