University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—A Room in Elmore's House.
Margaret discovered on a sofa, R. her face covered with her hands—Lafont standing beside her.
Laf.
Don't take it so to heart! Your tears distress me;
They grieve me very much—they do, indeed!
It's true your father murdered—that is, slew—
The gentleman; for, after all, in fairness,
Perhaps it should not be called murder—may be,
A duel, without witnesses—

Mar.
[Looking up.]
It might!
Lafont, at least I thank thee for that hope.
Hope! Oh, that I must seek my hope in that,
Which is but guilt a little less uncommon!

Laf.
And yet one would be glad to think it so.
It's always pleasant to believe the best,
When our friends err. It's true that the stern law—
(But then, we know, the law is stern, and cannot
Feel as we feel, who love the criminal)—
The law decreed it murder, and condemned him
To death!

Mar.
He was judged unheard! How knew they
What provocation drove him to the deed—
What wrong received purged it of half its guilt!
Oh, had they heard him, what now seems offence,
Necessitated by the strong occasion,
Might then have shown like virtue.

Laf.
So it might—
Yes, certainly, it might. It was a pity,
A thousand pities, that he fled. You know
That really looked so very much like guilt—
It did indeed—you must admit it did.
[Margaret ouries her face in despair.
He might have else even escaped suspicion,
For no one saw the deed itself. 'Twas known
That he and the slain man were enemies,
And that they met that night—but nothing more.
The morning found, its true, where they had been—
Signs of a struggle on the river's bank,
And marks of blood—yet thieves might have done that:
But then, you see, your father took to flight—
Was met, unluckily, with clothes all stained,
And eyes wild staring with remorse and horror.
They tracked him to the coast, where he took ship
For England:—really, now, this hardly looked
Like innocence!

Mar.
[Who has been writhing with agony, starts up.]
Who was the murdered man?
Lives there a wife and children, whose deep wrong
Cries for revenge—whose pardon may be bought
With such weak recompence as gold can offer
For such a loss? They shall have all we own.
From hence I'll live on crusts—I'll be their servant,
Their drudge, their slave—an humble, willing slave—
So they but spare my father! Tell me all!

Laf.
Poor lady!

Mar.
Hold, sir! No compassion! No—
Not your compassion! I can suffer much—
Can meet your sarcasms or your sneering smiles,
Endure your hate, your malice, your revenge,
But not your pity—oh, no, not your pity!

Laf.
Scorn me not, sweet! I meant to speak of hope—

Mar.
[Eagerly.]
Of what?—of innocence?

Laf.
In the world's eye.
Can you be calm and listen?

Mar.
[Bitterly.]
Oh, yes, calm.

Laf.
The Matthew Elmore, by another name,
Is the proscribed assassin sought so long,
Is yet a secret known but to myself
And one beside, whose tongue I can control.
Do you not see a path of safety now?
I love you, beauteous Margaret—

Mar.
[Starting.]
Ha! stay!
[Then, with trembling eagerness.
Yes, yes, I listen—

Laf.
Make his interest mine—
The father of my wife would have a claim
On all my care.

Mar.
[As before.]
Go on.

Laf.
His fortune, too,
Should swell, not suffer, by our compact—

Mar.
Aye—

Laf.
For he and I, instead of rivals, then
Should share our knowledge and our well-planned ventures,
With double 'vantage—profits without bound—
And all to be my Margaret's at last!

Mar.
I think I understand—yet I am dull—
Let me be quite assured. My father's guilt, then,
As yet is unsuspected, save by you
And one beside, whose tutored tongue, you say,
Speaks or keeps silence as you may direct?

Laf.
Exactly so; but don't say tutored tongue.

Mar.
And I am made your confident, in hope
I may be wrought, by terror and affection,
To give the hand you seek for as the price
At which your silence must be bought?
[Lafont bows respectfully.
Thou knave!
[With sudden energy.
Thou shallow, self-convicted knave! Caught, caught
In thine own trap! Thou hast confessed it all—
The means, the end, the motive—laid all bare!
Oh, thou poor knave!—and that convenient friend,
Who swears or unswears, speaks or holds his peace
At thy command—you have conspired together!—
Ransacked the annals of forgotten crime,
And, having found one fitted to your purpose,
Plotted to charge it on my father's head,
To gain his envied wealth! Oh, brave device,
So cunningly to play upon the fears
Of a weak girl! That weak girl sees thee through—
Sees through thy most transparent artifice,
And laughs at thy detected plot! Dare now
To breathe one word against my father's honour,
I'll hold thee up to public shame—the world,
The blinded world, shall see thee as thou art!

Laf.
Hm! You presume upon my love.

Mar.
Thy love!
Do not profane that holy word so far—
Find out some other name for the rank compound
That festers in thy hollow heart. Thy love!
Oh, matchless insolence! If I believed
I owned a quality so base and vile,
That thou couldst love it, I would pluck it out
From my corrupted heart, though it should tear
My life along with it!

Laf.
Hm! that's so bitter!

Mar.
Now, sir, you have your answer—get you gone,
While you may go in safety, ere I call
My father, and lay bare your villany.
His indignation might be ill to meet,
Unless, indeed, illimitable scorn
Of the gross charge—too great for common anger—
Should only find its vent in mirth.

Laf.
That's likely:
He was exceeding merry when we left him!
[Margaret starts and shrinks back.
You had forgotten that!

Mar.
[Almost inarticulately.]
I had—I had!

Laf.
He could not keep his feet for mirth! He knelt,
Grovelled and knelt!—this noble, virtuous Elmore,
Grovelled and knelt to the despised Lafont!

Mar.
[As before.]
He did, he did! [Impetuously.]
Tell me, what does this mean?
Hast thou spoke truth? Man—tell me, did my father,
By any devilish tempting, in some moment
Of frenzy—madness—did he do that thing
Which thou hast said?

Laf.
We'll go and ask him.

Mar.
[Shrieks.]
No!
[Then, faltering.
I dare not. Oh, if thou hast any pity,
Say thou hast played upon me—frightened me—
I'll not be angry—I'll forgive thee; nay,
I'll bless thee—pray for thee! I'll—

Laf.
[Softly.]
Marry me?

Mar.
[In despair.]
Oh, no, no, no!

Laf.
Not while Eugene de Lorme
Remains, to tempt you with a younger blood.
It's very natural—but still a pity,
Considering the bar between you. Hm!
You asked the name of him your father slew:
Your father at that time was called Du Barré,
And he he murdered was the Count de Lorme,
The father of Eugene—

[Margaret stands a moment stupified—then pressing her hand to her brow, appears falling—Lafont approaches to support her—but at his touch she starts and with a shudder waves him away—then sinks into a chair and sits motionless.
Mar.
[Bewildered.]
It is too much!
Yet, if it's true, then life is all a lie,
Of double-steeped hypocrisy!—All's dark—
All lost in tangled chaos. Out, out on it!
Hurry it to an end!

Laf.
[Gently.]
Margaret—

Mar.
[Rising.]
Sir—

Laf.
Do you listen?

Mar.
Sir? Oh, yes—

Laf.
Come, be persuaded—

Mar.
Yes—what you will; it does not matter now.

Laf.
Your father—

Mar.
Ay—my father—

Laf.
Let us seek him.

Mar.
True, I remember—yes, I'll go—I'll go—
But first alone; you must not come just yet;
Come in an hour—but, let me see him first.

Laf.
If you desire it.

Mar.
I am grateful, sir.

[Going, R.
Laf.
Permit me—

[Offering his hand.
Mar.
Thank you, I can walk.

[Totters out, R.
Laf.
[Looking after her.]
Poor thing!
She makes me pity her—she does, indeed!

[Seats himself, as if to watch—Scene closes.

SCENE II.

—Gardens of the Tuilleries.
Enter Jenny, R. and Manou, L. meeting.
Jenny.

Oh, Madame Manou! I'm ravished, as you say,
in France, to meet you! I am in such dreadful want of a
confidant!

Man.

Why, what's the matter, child?

Jenny.

That's exactly what I want to know! There's
your master has been with my master, and they were shut
up together; when presently there was such a disturbance
and screaming and crying, and Miss Margaret in tears, and
such a to-do altogether, as you never heard in all your life!

Man.

But what about?

Jenny.

Don't I tell you, that's what I can't discover—
which makes it so particularly dreadful! I'm sure, as
soon as ever I learned that there was something the matter,
I ran to the key-hole—

Man.

Stop! that was beneath you, Jenny—undignified—

Jenny.

Oh, I suppose you never do such a thing!

Man.
[With dignity.]

Never! When I want information,

I cross-question and pump for it: that's intellectual
and lady-like. However, since you have done it, go on
and tell me.

Jenny.

La! have not I told you I've got nothing to tell?
What I want is, to find it out! Why, as soon as ever I
got to the door, out Miss Margaret came, and your master
with her, and they went into another room where the nasty
door fastens with a bolt, and has no key-hole at all! I
could have cried. I hate that door, and have tried to get
it altered a hundred times!

Man.

Poor child! I pity you, from my soul! But hush!
[Looking round.]
There's old Jean Rusé close at our heels,
and St. Lo is with him. Now, if all this has any thing to
do with master, Jean is sure to know it, and St. Lo can
worm any thing out of him that he pleases.

Jenny.

Do you think so? Then I'll make a confidant
of him directly!

Man.

Capital, my dear! Always make a confidant of
any body you want to get a secret out of!

Enter St. Lo and Jean Ruse, C.
Jean.
Go to, go to! you're a sad dog. I've never
Been sober for an hour since I knew you—

St. Lo.
Never been sad, you mean!

Jean.
It's all the same.

St. Lo.
You've been a prince!

Jean.
I have!

St. Lo.
A hero!

Jean.
Ay!

St. Lo.
A demi-god!

Jean.
I have!

St. Lo.
You have looked down
With scorn upon the pens and ink of earth—

Jean.
I have! I have! I don't mean to complain—
I like it!—Ha! Manou, the beautiful!
Manou, the glorious! Manou, the rich!

[Jenny touches St. Lo's arm, and leads him up, R., where she remains whispering with him.
Man.
Jean the gallant!

Jean.
That boy's a funny boy!
We've done no business since he's been here—
Nothing but fun!

Man.
What brings you to this place?

Jean.
Hm! I forgot. That's business, to be sure.
I'm sent to look for an exempt or two.

Man.
The officers of justice! Mercy on us!
For what?

Jean.
I can't imagine. To my mind,
It's very foolish waking Justice up—
We'd better let her sleep. For my own part,
I tremble at the sight of an exempt!

Man.
[Whispers him.]
No wonder, Jean—no wonder—

St. Lo.
[To Jenny.]
Home, good girl,
And I'll work wonders for you—if I can.

Jenny.

Thank you, I'm sure, sir! And really my place
depends upon it—for I never did, and never will, stay in a
house where there is a secret I can't find out!

[Exit, L.
St. Lo.
[Advancing thoughtfully.]
Trouble at Elmore's—bustle at Lafont's—
And officers of justice sent for! Strange!
And quite a pity I can't understand it!
Well! I was never good at reading riddles—
But if a plot is playing, I'll cut in
And take a hand! I must obtain that key;
And the old scoundrel is so shrewd, Manou
Makes nothing of him. This might help me.—So!
I have it all! [Whispers.]
Manou, get the rogue home,
And keep him there an hour or two. It's bold—
But what of that? I like it all the better!

Man.
Jean, I am going home; lend me your arm.

[Takes it.
Jean.
[Hesitating.]
But master's business—

St. Lo.
I'll do it for you.

Jean.
Now will you, though? What, go for the exempts?
I'd take it as a favour, certainly.

St. Lo.
Shall brother Jean ask me for any favour,
And I deny it?

Jean.
What a funny boy!

Man.
But, Jean, you must look smart. Hold up your head!

St. Lo.
[Aside, while Manou busies Jean with arranging his dress.]
I'll find him officers, or make him some!
Du Viray and Morluc are masqueraders
That few can match. I'll dress them as exempts—
I think 'twill do!—and even should it fail,
There'll be some sport at least!

Jean.
[Dragging back from Manou.]
They are to come
Quite privately, and wait till master calls them.

St. Lo.
I recollect it. Farewell, brother Jean!
Speed to your wooing—joy to your young love!

[Exit, C. F.
Jean.
[Looking after him.]
It is a funny boy, then!

Man.

Ah, but, Jean, if you did really love me, you'd not
leny me one little half-hour's rummage in that closet.

Jean.
[Chuckling.]

Pretty Manou, ask nothing before
marriage that ought not to be granted till after it.—I don't!
[Laughing.]
Hi! hi! hi! No, no. We must be virtuous,
Manou, and prudent! [Laughing.]
Hi! hi! hi! [Aside.]

Oh, I'm her match!

Man.
[Aside.]

Ugh! you old oaf!

Jean.

Yes—prudent!— [Laughing.]
Hi! hi! hi!

[Exeunt, L. S. E.

SCENE III.

—A Room in Elmore's House.
Elmore discovered, seated.
Elm.
Discovered—ruined—lost! Am I the same
Who stood an hour ago this house's master?—
The proud, the wealthy, courted, honoured Elmore?
Oh, lie—oh, gilded lie—now stripped so bare!
[Starts up.
What madness tempted my return to France?
It was that burning fever of the heart,
That elsewhere found no rest:—it was the cries,
Haunting my ear, of those whom I had orphaned,
Calling me here to fill their father's place!
And now, in stretching forth my hand to them,
I have outstretched and lost myself. Oh, thus
That over-ruling Justice, which directs
The issues of our lives, stands by the culprit,
And, when his blinding guilt has sealed his eyes,
Guides him, unknowing, to the very spot
Fixed for his execution. [Starts.]
Hark! a footstep—
My child's! How shall I meet her?
Enter Margaret, slowly, R.
Margaret!

Mar.
[Faintly, and keeping at a distance.]
Sir—

Elm.
[Hesitating, and then advancing a step towards her.]
Margaret—

Mar.
[Shrinking back, mutters.]
A murderer—a sentenced murderer!
Those hands, which have so often fondled mine—
Those fingers, which have played among my hair,
And smoothed it on my brow so many a time—
Blood has been on them—human blood!

Elm.
[Faltering.]
My child—
It is not thus we have been used to meet—

Mar.
[As before.]
That's still his voice—the same, whose gentle tone
So often lulled my pettish infancy—
Which, till an hour ago, could never sound,
But it seemed music—now how harsh it jars!

Elm.
[Extending his hand.]
Margaret!—Do you shrink from me, my child?
[She slowly and fearfully advances towards him, and with an evident struggle places her hand in his.
She shudders at my touch! That's past belief—
I could bear all but that. Girl, they have told thee—

Mar.
All.

Elm.
No—not all! They may have told, perhaps,
How one I hated wedded one I loved,
But none could ever tell thee how I loved her—
The wild, the maddening passion—let it pass!
Perhaps she answered to it:—he, at least,
Who won her, thought so—till his jealous doubts
Reproached her innocence. She bore him children—
But, swayed by the gross frenzy of his thought,
He loathed the sight of them and called them bastards!
Oh, then, her outraged honour, no less proud
Than it was pure, broke her young heart.—She died!

Mar.
Oh, happy!—Yet go on.

Elm.
It was the night
Fixed for her burial—and I sat alone:
I was not mad, for I had consciousness,
And knew my desolation. The deep toll
Of the loud convent bell, with measured stroke,
Fell on my ear, till its repeated sound
Gnawed, like a living thing, upon my brain.
And then there came the flat and heavy tread
Of those who bore her—they must pass my house;
Convulsed, I started up and fled!—Close by,
Sullen and black—tempting to thoughts as dark—
The plashing river lay. I neared its bank—
Perhaps with sinful purpose—ay, thou tremblest—
But sinful thoughts, indulged, bring sinful acts
Before unthought of. In my very path,
In that wild hour, he crossed me—he himself
Who had consigned her to her early tomb.
We spoke—but what, I know not; yet I know
I taunted—spurned him—charged him with her blood.
He challenged me and drew. I was unarmed,
But with one hand I struck aside his sword,
And with the other felled him to the ground,
And so passed on.—Burning with rage, he followed—
I heard his voice and his quick nearing tread—
I turned, and saw the gleaming of his sword
Close at my throat.—Desperate, I sprang upon him,
Grappled, and wrenched the weapon from his grasp,
And drove it in his heart! Why, girl, dost stand
Looking upon me with that stony gaze?
Dost thou condemn me still?—Speak!—Tell me, child,
Could it have happened otherwise?

Mar.
[Faintly.]
Go on.

Elm.
[Sinking.]
Oh, that it had!—for when the blow was struck,
When his loud death-shriek rang upon my brain,
And his pierced corpse fell heavy at my feet,
Oh, then indeed all changed!—The murky air
Grew thick and choking—lightnings flashed before me—
A thousand thunders bellowed in my ear,
And every one cried, “Murderer!”—I fled,
And knew not whither, till I found myself
In a strange land, with strangers gathered round me:
And there was one who watched and pitied me,
Pouring the balm of woman's tenderness
Upon my bruised spirit, till I grew
To love her—not as I had loved before,
But with the quiet of a calm affection
That leaned upon her soothing gentleness,
As on a place of rest from my 'scaped shipwreck:
She was thy mother, child—

Mar.
[Sighing.]
Go on, go on.

Elm.
But blood was spilt, and the avenger's wing
Hovered above my house. It was on her
That the blow fell: she drooped, and she, too, died;
But still her memory remained in thee.
Oh, how I prayed to have thee spared to me!
How watched, how toiled for thee! My prayer was heard!
Granted!—for what—for what? My child was spared,
That I might see her, now, shrink from my sight,
And shudder at my touch!

Mar.
[Flinging her arms round his neck, and bursting into tears.]
Father!—My father!
[Then breaking away from him, she continues hurriedly.
We'll speak no more of this—we will forget it—
All shall be well—fear not—all shall be well—
And yet one question first—Is there no hope
The sentence may be yet reversed?

Elm.
None—none—
I have no witnesses.

Mar.
And one word more—
It was, indeed, the father of Eugene—
He—he—you—

Elm.
He I slew. Alas, poor child!
It was.

Mar.
Enough!—We'll talk of it no more—
'Tis past: we'll never name Eugene again—
All shall be well!—

Elm.
[Suddenly.]
Margaret, I know thy thought!
But sooner shall they tear me limb from limb—

Mar.
Hush—hush! You shall be safe.

Elm.
Never, child—never,
By such a sacrifice!

Mar.
A sacrifice!
Sir, you have yet to learn a woman's heart!
She looks, perhaps, a weak, vain, fluttering thing;
But call on her affections, she is strong,
Constant, invincible, immovable;
And sacrifice—a word without a meaning!
See—I can smile already!

Enter Lafont, L.
Laf.
My sweet friends,
I fear I interrupt you.

Mar.
[Trembling.]
No, sir, no—
We waited for you. This agreement, sir,
Of which we spoke—I am prepared.

Elm.
[Passionately.]
Forbear!
Child, I forbid it!

Laf.
Dearest Elmore—think!
Your goods are confiscated by the law—
Your life is forfeit.—Where shall Margaret shelter
When these are taken?

[Elmore covers his face.
Mar.
[In a low, hurried voice.]
I have said I am ready.

Laf.
Then, sweetest, give me now your hand, in pledge
Of a more formal contract soon to follow.
But, mark! this act shall bear in it a vow
As strong as any that the altar hears,
And as irrevocable. Thus I take it.

[Margaret slowly and tremblingly extends her hand; but, as she is on the point of placing it in Lafont's, overcome by emotion, faints.
Elm.
[Catching her.]
Villain! what hast thou done?—Thou hast killed my child!
Away! or I shall have another murder
Upon my soul! There's something desperate in me.
My blighted blossom! 'tis thy father's arms
That circle thee.—Look up!—She cannot live
While thou art near her.—Get thee gone, I say,
Thou tempting, torturing fiend!

Laf.
Elmore, bethink you!

Elm.
[Bending over her.]
Margaret—my pure one!

Laf.
I wait my answer—

Elm.
Devil—my defiance!
Go—do thy worst!

Laf.
Since you desire it—well!
Without there! Guard the doors!—If any pass,
Your lives shall answer for it to the law!

[Exit, L.—Elmore presses his lips to Margaret's cheek.—The curtain falls.