University of Virginia Library

Amelia, at work, singing; Maurice enters during her song.
SONG.

Amelia.
Ah! art thou there? I thought I was alone.
Hast thou been long returned?

Maurice.
Even now.

Amelia.
I'm glad;
For I would feel thy presence,—as I used
When I, a conscious girl, if thou didst come
Behind my chair, knew thee without the aid
Of eye or ear. A wife's love is as strong,
Her sense should be as quick.

Maurice.
But maiden love
Is mixed with shame, and doubt, and consciousness,
Which have a thousand eyes, a thousand ears.
Amelia, thou art pale. Nay, if thou smilest
Thou wilt be pale no longer: thy rich smile
Is fitly wedded to a varying blush,
That flutters tremulously in thy fair cheek,
Like shivering wings of new-caught butterflies.
Ah, there it is!

Amelia.
Flatterer!

Maurice.
But thou wast pale
Stooping so long o'er that embroidery,
That irksome toil. Go forth into the air.

Amelia.
Not yet; there still is light enough to work;
I have one flower to finish. Then I'll fly
To the sweet joys of busy idleness,
To our sweet garden. I am wanted there—
So William says; the freshening showers to-day
Have scattered my carnations; I must raise
Their clear and odorous beauties from the dark
Defiling earth.

Maurice.
That task is done.

Amelia.
By thee?
After thy hard day's toil? Oh what a fond
And foolish lover-husband I have got!
Art thou not weary?

Maurice.
Only just enough
To feel the comfort, sweetest, of repose;
Of such repose as this, here at thy feet
Extended, and my head against thy knee.

Amelia.
Even as that sweet and melancholy prince,
Hamlet the Dane, lay at Ophelia's feet
His lady-love. Wast thou not thinking so?

Maurice.
I was.

Amelia.
And I was likening thee to one—
Dost thou remember—'tis the prettiest moment
Of that most marvellous and truest book—
When her so dear Sir Charles at Harriet's feet
Lay turning up his bright face smilingly .
Dost thou remember?

Maurice.
Banterer! Where is William?

Amelia.
(Sings.)

Maurice.
How much thou lov'st that song!

Amelia.
He loves it so,
Our William: if far off within the wood
He do but catch one clear and ringing note
Of that wild cheerful strain, he scuds along
With his small pretty feet, like the young brood
Of the hen-partridge to her evening call.

Maurice.
Well but where is he?

Amelia.
Guess.

Maurice.
Nay, tell me, love.

Amelia.
To-day at noon, returning from the farm,
Where on some trifling errand I had sent him,
He left the path in chase of that bright insect
The burnished dragon-fly, with net-work wings
So beautiful. His shining guide flew on,
Tracing the channel of the rippling spring
Up to its very source. There William lost him:
But looking round upon that fairy scene
Of tangled wood and babbling waters clear,
He found a fairy carpet; strawberries
Spread all about, in a rich tapestry
Of leaves and blushing fruit: and he is gone,
With his own basket that his father made him,
His own dear father, to bring home his prize
To that dear father.

Maurice.
Prythee, love, say on;
This is a tale which I could listen to
The livelong day.

Amelia.
And will it not be sweet
To see that lovely boy, blushing all over,
His fair brow reddening, and his smiling eyes
Filling with tears, his scarlet lips far ruddier
Than the red berries, stammering and forgetting
The little pretty speech that he hath conned,
But speaking in warm kisses? Will it not
Be sweet to see my precious William give
The very first thing he can call his own
To him who gives him all? My dearest husband,
Betray me not. Pretend an ignorance;
And wonder why that cream and bread stand there,
And why that china bowl. Thy precious boy!

Maurice.
Thy precious boy! Amelia that child's heart
Is like thee as his face.

Amelia.
Liker to thee
Are both—our blessing! What a world of love
Dwells in that little heart!

Maurice.
Too much! too much!
He is too sensitive. I would he had
An airy playmate full of mirth and jests.

Amelia.
Nature's his playmate; leaves and flowers and birds
And the young innocent lambs are his companions;
He needs no other. In his solitude
He is as happy as the glittering beetle
That lives in the white rose. My precious boy!

Maurice.
What are these? Tears! My own Amelia,
Weep'st thou for happiness? What means this rain
That falls without a cloud? Fy! I must chide thee.

Amelia.
Yes; thou art right. Useless, not cause-less, tears!
They will have way. Forgive me, dearest husband!
This is our wedding-eve. Seven years ago
I stole, a guilty wanderer, from my home,—
My old paternal home!—and with the gush
Of motherly love, another thought rushed in—
My father!

Maurice.
My Amelia!

Amelia.
Seven years
Have past since last I saw him;—and that last!
The pangs of death were in my heart, when I
Approached to say, Goodnight! He had been harsh
All day; had pressed Sir Robert's odious love,
Had taunted at thy poverty—my Maurice!
But suddenly, when I all vainly tried
To falter out, Goodnight, in his old tone
Of fond familiar love, and with the name
Which from his lips seemed a caress, he said,
God bless you, Emily! That blessing pierced
My very soul. Oft in the dead of night
I seem to hear it. Would he bless me now?
Oh no! no! no!

Maurice.
My own beloved wife
Think not too deeply. There will come a time—

Amelia.
Oh Maurice! all the grandeur that she left,
The splendid vanities, ne'er cost thy wife
A sigh, contented in her poverty,
Happy in virtuous love. But that kind voice,
That tender blessing, that accustomed name
Of fondness!—Oh! they haunt my very dreams;
They crowd upon my waking thoughts; then most
When some sweet kindness of my lovely boy,
Some sign of glorious promise, tells my heart
How little I deserve—

Maurice.
My Emily!

Amelia.
No, not from thee, not even from thee that name.
'Tis sacred to those dear and honoured lips
That ne'er will breathe it more. I am ungrateful
Thus to repine, whilst thou and our dear boy—
Where can he now be loitering? These dark clouds
Portend a storm.

Maurice.
Already the large drops
Come pattering on the vine leaves. I will seek—

Enter William.
Amelia.
He's here. My William, wherefore didst thou stay
So long? and where's the basket?

William.
Kiss me first.

Amelia.
Now, where's the basket?

William.
I had filled it half,
When a strange gentleman came through the wood
And sat down by me.

Amelia.
Did he eat the strawberries?

William.
Dear mother, no. He talked to me, and then
I could not gather them.

Amelia.
What said he, dearest?

William.
He asked my name and your's, and where I dwelt,
And kissed me.

Amelia.
And what else?

William.
Called me dear boy,
Said that a storm was coming on, and asked
If I would go with him.

Maurice.
Ha! what said'st thou
To that, my William?

William.
No. But then I prayed him
To come with me to my dear home. Look there!
Do you not see that tall man in the porch,
His head against the woodbine? That is he.

Amelia.
Dear Maurice, bring him in.

[Exit Maurice.
William.
I am so sorry
That it is grown so dark, you will not see
What a sweet face he has. Only he's older,
I think he's like you, mother; and he kissed me
As you do now, and cried.

Amelia.
Oh can it be—

Re-enter Maurice with Lord Glentham.
Lord Glen.
If I intrude—

Amelia.
That voice! Oh father! father!
Pardon! Oh pardon!

Lord Glen.
Madam!—

Amelia.
I'm your daughter—
Call me so, father! for these seven long years
I have not seen your face. Disown me not!
Call me your daughter! Once from your dear lips
Let me hear that dear sound! Call me your Emily,
And bless my dear, dear child! For such a blessing
I'd be content to die. William, kneel here;
Hold up your innocent hands.

Lord Glen.
Rise, Madam; rise.

Amelia.
Oh call me once your daughter, only once,
To still my longing heart! My William, pray
For your poor mother.

William.
Oh forgive us, Sir,
Pray, pray forgive us!

Lord Glen.
Madam, I have sought
A half hour's shelter here from this wild storm;
And, as your guest, I pray you to forbear
These harrowing words. I am but lately risen
From a sick bed.

Maurice.
My wife, compose thyself,
Retire awhile.
[Exit Amelia.
Please you to sit my lord.

Lord Glen.
I thank you, Sir.—You have a pleasant cottage,
Prettily garlanded with rose and woodbine
And the more useful vine. Has it been long
Your home?

Maurice.
Five years.

Lord Glen.
You have left the army?

Maurice.
Yes.
There was no chance of war; nor could I drag
My sweet Amelia through the homeless wanderings
Of a poor soldier's life. This is a nest,
However lowly, warm and full of love
As her own heart. Here we have been most happy.

Re-enter Amelia, with a light and a basket.
Maurice
(meeting her).
Thou tremblest still.

Amelia.
I could not stay away.
It is such joyful pain to look upon him;
To hear his voice;—I could not stay away.
William, there is thy basket. Offer it.

Lord Glen.
No, my dear boy.

Amelia.
Now blessings on his head
For that kind word!

Lord Glen.
Surely she was not always
So thin and pale!—Your husband says, Amelia,
That you are happy.

Amelia.
I have only known
One sorrow.

Lord Glen.
Ye are poor.

Amelia.
Not that! not that!

Lord Glen.
You have implored my blessing on your son;—
I bless him.

Amelia.
On my knees I offer up
My thanks to Heaven, and thee. A double blessing
Was that, my father! on my heart it fell
Like balm.

Lord Glen.
I will do more. Give me that boy,
And he shall be my heir. Give me that boy.

Amelia.
My boy! Give up my boy!

Lord Glen.
Why he must be
A burthen. Ye are poor.

Amelia.
A burthen! William!
My own dear William!

Lord Glen.
Miserably poor
Ye are. Deny it not.

Maurice.
We earn our bread
By honest labour.

Amelia.
And to work for him
Is such a joy! My William, tremble not!
Weep not, my William! Thou shalt stay with me
Here on my lap, here on my bosom, William!

Lord Glen.
Why thou may'st have another child, and then—

Amelia.
Oh never one like this—this dearest child
Of love and sorrow! Till this boy was born
Wretchedly poor we were; sick, heartsick, desolate,
Desponding; but he came, a living sunbeam!
And light and warmth seemed darting through my breast,
With his first smile. Then hope and comfort came,
And poverty, with her inventive arts,
A friend, and love, pure, firm enduring love;
And ever since we have been poor and happy:
Poor! no, we have been rich! my precious child!

Lord Glen.
Bethink thee for that child, Amelia,
What fortunes thou dost spurn. His father's love
Perhaps is wiser.

Amelia.
Maurice, say.

Maurice.
My lord,
'Tis every whit as fond. You have my thanks.
But in a lowly station he may be
Virtuous and happy.

William.
Mother, let me stay
And I will be so good.

Amelia.
My darling, yes;
Thou shalt not leave me, not for the wide world.

Lord Glen.
Thou need'st not clasp him so against thy bosom;
I am no ruffian, from a mother's breast
To pluck her child.—Amelia, as his arms
Wind round thy neck, so thou a thousand times
Hast clung to mine; as on his snowy brow
Thy lips are sealed, so mine a thousand times
Have prest thy face; with such a love, Amelia,
As thou dost feel for him.

Amelia.
Oh father! father!

Lord Glen.
Thou wert a motherless babe, and I to thee
Supplied both parents. Many a night have I
Hung over thy sick bed, and prayed for thee
As thou dost pray for him. And thou, Amelia,
Didst love me then.

Amelia.
Did love! Oh never, never
Can such love pass away! 'Tis twined with life.

Lord Glen.
Then after eighteen years of tender care,
Fond hopes, and fonder fears, didst thou not fly
From me, thy father, with a light gay youth,
A love of yesterday? Didst thou not leave me
To die of a broken heart? Amelia, speak!
Didst thou not?

Amelia.
Father! this is worse than death.

Lord Glen.
Didst thou not? Speak.

Amelia.
I did. Alas! I did.

Lord Glen.
Oh miserably have my days crept on
Since thou didst leave me! Very desolate
Is that proud splendid home! No cheerful meals;
No evening music; and no morning rides
Of charity or pleasure. Thy trim walks
Are overgrown; and the gay pretty room,
Which thou didst love so well, is vacant now;
Vacant and desolate as my sick heart.
Amelia, when thou saw'st me last, my hair
Was brown as thine. Look on it now, Amelia.

Maurice.
My lord, this grief will kill her. See, she writhes
Upon the floor.

Lord Glen.
And must I go still desolate?
I might have found a comfort, had I had
Something to live for still, something to love;—
If she who robbed me of my child had given
Her child instead;—but all is over now!
She would not trust her father. All! Farewell!

Amelia
(starting up).
Take him, whilst I have life to bid thee! Take him!
Nay, cling not to me, boy! Take, take him.—Maurice?

William.
I will not leave you, mother.

Amelia.
Hush! hush! hush!
My heart is breaking, William.—Maurice, speak!

Maurice.
Dearest and best, be it as thou hast willed.
I owed thee a great sacrifice, Amelia;—
And I shall still have thee!

Lord Glen.
Thou giv'st him then?

Maurice.
I do. But for his own sake, good my lord,
Let not my son be taught to scorn the father
He never will forget; and let his mother
See him sometimes, or she will surely die.

Amelia.
I shall die now. My William!

Lord Glen.
Emily!

Amelia.
Ha!

Lord Glen.
My sweet Emily!

Amelia.
We are forgiven!
Maurice, we are forgiven!

Lord Glen.
My own dear child,
My children, bless ye all! Forgive this trial;—
We'll never part again.