 | Florien |  |
ACT IV.
Scene.—Master Fuller's House. Evening. Tim and Dolly discovered.Tim.
So you think, Dolly, that in right good earnest
at last you love me?
Dol.
Yes, Tim.
Tim.
Wilt let me take a kiss of thy lips in pledge
for it?
Dol.
Yes, Tim.
Tim.
Why did you fall in love with me?
Dol.
That I cannot say, Tim.
Tim.
Was it for my presence?
Dol.
No, Tim.
Tim.
Nor yet for my valour?
Dol.
No, Tim.
Tim.
Yet I should like to know.
Dol.
I am not like to know myself, dear. It was
something of the old memories, perhaps, when I saw
how you followed me. And a little for that straight-forward
honesty of thine, which the world were better
for more of.
Tim.
Ay, indeed. 'Tis a sad house this, for the
lack of it outside. What a curse seems to have fallen
upon it since Roy Mallet first played runagate. Miss
Mary very ill—and those two robberies!
Yes, Tim. I feel like a guilty creature sometimes,
when I remember it was I brought the letter
that did all the mischief.
Tim.
It was very wrong of you.
Dol.
Can you forgive me?
Tim.
Yes, Dolly. For you brought yourself with
it.
Dol.
Dear! This is very nice. And I do the
best I can to atone, by coming here very often, from
my father's.
Tim.
Dutiful child, you do.
Dol.
It is to help Mary Fuller, you know.
Tim.
Yes: I know it is.
Dol.
And I grow afraid of my service. My
mistress is so mad for Roy, that she is seen with him
everywhere. What will become of my character if I
stay? Yet am I fond of her with all her whims.
Tim.
And your good heart becomes you. But you
have promised me that you will leave your service tonight.
Dol.
Yes. The concert at the Bear Garden where
we shall see her, shall see the end of my handmaiden's
office. There will I bid Mistress Florien farewell.
Tim.
And there, too, will I make my adieux to
that terrible Magnus.
Dol.
Yes. You have sworn to that.
Tim.
He is an impostor—that is what he is, an
Nobody has seen or heard of him for weeks.
Dol.
His Hardy is a dangerous fellow, that strikes
in the dark. His very name frightens me. Tim!
can this mysterious Hardy have had anything to do
with the robberies here?
Tim.
Don't! I have sworn to be on guard, and to
kill him if I catch him. That would be very dreadful.
Dol.
Horrid! Tim, dear, remember you belong
to me now. Don't let your courage run away with
you.
Tim.
No, love! Heaven send that, if the pinch
come, I don't run away with my courage!
Dol.
You would never do that. For you are a
very brave man at the bottom.
Tim.
At the bottom, I am.
Dol.
And a handsome.
Tim.
I am. And you are—oh what a darling you
are. Dolly—
Dol.
Tim—
Tim.
What a pretty little home we shall have!
Dol.
Oh!
Tim.
And what a pretty little housewife you will
make!
Dol.
Oh!
Tim.
And what pretty little chil—I mean—
Dol.
Oh!
And with your little savings and mine,
Dolly—
Dol.
Yes, Tim.
Tim.
And with the help that kind Master Fuller—
good Master Fuller, has promised to give us, if indeed
these robbers leave him any to give, we will set up
our little business in our modest way together—and
—oh won't it be nice?
Dol.
Ah! But, Tim, how selfish we are. How
can we talk or think of our own happiness in this
stricken house? It half breaks the heart in me at
times. Look! here they come, the father and the
daughter. She is not long for this world, I fear me.
Tim.
Don't speak like that. Yes—here they come.
Enter Fuller and Mary, from without.
Dol.
How is it with you to-night, Miss Mary?
Mar.
Well, Dolly, dear. How good and kind you
are to me. But the air of the city stifles me, I think,
softly as it breathes to-night from the stout old river.
Oh, father, I should like to taste the pure breath of
the country, and to smell the hawthorns and the
roses before I go.
Ful.
My darling—before you go—where?
Mar.
Away from you.
Ful.
Away from me? Do you want to leave the
poor old father, who has neither thought nor care but
you?
No, father; I do not want to leave you. Yet
I must, soon.
Ful.
For what place, Mary?
Mar.
Do we know? Can we tell? For the place
where the roses and the hawthorns go, perhaps, when
they have lived their little lives out truly and honestly
and fade—as I am fading.
Ful.
Mary!
Mar.
Am I not? Let me see myself in the
mirror.
(trying to rise)
No, I am weary and must
rest. Even that drive abroad has been too much for
me.
Tim.
(aside)
Poor girl! poor girl!
Dol.
Oh, Tim, it is very sad.
(they retire to the back)
Ful.
Listen, darling. This is but your fancy. We
all feel weak and faint at times, as we trudge on upon
the journey which has its rough places for the best of
us. But we round the corners, Mary; we round the
corners with God's good help, and bowl along again
smoothly over the green and level turf. I have only
you, dear; don't talk like that.
Mar.
Poor father! poor, good father! Tell me,
was my mother very sweet?
Ful.
Yes, child, she was—very.
Mar.
Was she like me once?
Ful.
Yes.
(looking at her)
God, how like!
Mar.
Not as I am now—not as she was just before
Ful.
You know her picture?
Mar.
Yes: by heart.
Ful.
It may tell you how like she was. When
first you grew up to be my companion, I thought that
when she went away, she must have left something of
her very self behind her, to prove to our doubting
spirits how that very self lived still—up there!
Mar.
She does live up there. I am told so now
often, though I cannot tell how, and I can see the
sweet face I never knew, smiling to welcome me.
Ful.
Oh no, you will not go!
Mar.
You will come before long, too.
Ful.
If you go! oh very, very soon!—Perhaps
even first—I know not, but I feel strangely. I am
ready. Oh Mary, Mary, my heart is half broken.
Mar.
Do I not know it, father? It is not for that
that I still would stay, when for myself I only want to
break the shell, and live with my mother?
Ful.
Ah! but there is still the world. Oh, who
shall tell me, if I lose you as I lost her, if I shall ever
be with her or you again?
Mar.
He tells you, whom we believe. Death and
Pain and Sorrow alone are mortal: the rest lives on
for ever, where they and Sin are not.
Ful.
Amen! amen!
Mar.
When it is all over, father, you will strew the
my mother?
Ful.
Oh, my only child!
Mar.
And—there is one thing. Tim and Dolly
here will be very happy, and will take great care of
you.
Dol.
(coming forward)
Indeed we will, dear.
But don't speak like this.
Mar.
Something tells me it is time. And—father
—Roy Mallet?
Ful.
Curse him!
Mar.
Oh no, no: never that word, for pity's sake,
of him. He will come back to you, I know.
Ful.
Never.
Mar.
He is only led away by that dangerous
beauty, with whom they tell me he is always seen
now. Such sudden fancies are only for an hour. He
will come back, father; and if he does—
Ful.
If he does, he shall learn what he is, from me.
Mar.
Hush! Promise me—oh, I am so faint!
Ful.
Mary! Take her to her room, Dolly, will you.
Dol.
At once. I will watch by her till she sleeps,
and then make my way home. I shall be here again
to-morrow.
Mar.
Kind Dolly! your face is one of the best
comforters I have; and you can tell me more—of
her.
Hush!
Mar.
Yes, I will. Father! do not be too hard on
Roy.
Ful.
(kissing her)
No, dear, no.
(Exeunt Mary and Dolly)
I cannot be too hard. Oh Heaven!
leave me my girl but for a time; or if she be indeed
ripe for you, find some place for me first, that I may
meet and welcome her! You cannot leave me here
alone.
Tim.
Master, take heart. We shall see her well
and strong again yet.
Ful.
You are a good boy and an honest, Tim.
Take care, take care, how you ever leave the path of
right and honesty! There is no helm but a good
conscience, no course for steering but the straight
line. It is hard work to turn the bark's head the
right way of the wind again.
Tim.
Are you thinking of Roy?
Ful.
Perhaps.
Tim.
Oh, Master! I have something to say of him.
Ful.
Yes?
Tim.
Those robberies—
Ful.
Hush—not so loud! remember how carefully
all news of them has been kept from her. For me, I
am too troubled for them to touch me now. Whom
shall I have left to be rich for?
Tim.
Do you think—I have thought sometimes—
hand in them?
Ful.
Silence, Tim! for shame! What can have
put so ill a thought in your head?
Tim.
His manner when I have seen him of late:
his reckless living—his strangeness—many things.
The thought has haunted me for days.
Ful.
Crush it out, boy: and never listen to its
whisper for a moment. Our Roy! no, not that—not
that. Promise me that you will never breathe a
syllable of such fancies to anyone but me. You will
promise me, will you not, for my sake, and my poor
child's?
Tim.
Yes, Master, I promise. And indeed I cannot
bear to believe it of him.
Ful.
Never believe it, and good night. Put up the
shutters, Tim, and make the doors and windows fast.
We have jewels in our keeping to-night which should
have more than common guard. When you have
made all sure, go your ways to your maiden and your
merry-making.
Tim.
Oh, Master, I should be shamed to think of
such matters when I leave such sorrow here.
Ful.
Tut, tut! the young must be young, and the
old old: and a store of merry memories is well laid
up for the day of trouble. Go and enjoy yourself tonight,
you and Dolly. You will friend us with a
Dolly is gone and has left my girl sleeping.
Sleep softly, my poor girl! I am near you. I must
go see that the King's jewels are safe once more
before I can retire for the night. There is a heaviness
upon me which outweighs sleep. God bless you, my
boy, you have been a good boy to me. Never believe
that thing again!
(Exit into the inner room)
Tim.
I will try, Master. Yet the thought will come
back for all that, now and again. How fine a night
it is, with the stars winking down on us as if there
were no such things as thieves, and nothing less sweet
in the world than Dollies for the asking. And my
lady-moon coming up in the background, to cross
Dolly's little palm with silver. By your leave, good
bolts and bars!
(fastening the great door at the back)
I must be off to my tryst by the river. Faith, I think
you are stouter guardians than I am, for all my
valour! There, and again there! and a double turn
of the best lock to make all tidy. It would tax Rufus
Hardy himself to unfasten that. I can go out the
other way, and lock the other door fast behind me.
Then all good angels watch over a good man's house!
Poor Miss Mary!
(Exit Tim. A pause. Then the sound of a file is heard, and Roy Mallet, pale and wild, makes his way in through the great door)
The moon is rising clear and pitiless,
With a set look of wonder on her face
Upon the world's misdoings. As I came,
I heard the night-winds moan, the river's voice
Rise to an angry murmur. Yet above
The steel-blue sky was hard as my intent,
And as unclouded. Why—it should be dark,
To hide me from myself, and all from me,
Instead of lighting every passer-by
Into an officer. Even there, but now,
I saw my playmate pass—my good old friend—
And shrank into an angle of the wall
As guiltily as Judas: he the while,
Whistling his careless tune, went head erect,
Unconscious on his way. Oh! ne'er again
Shall such a sleep as his kiss eyes of mine
Into the arms of God's beloved—Rest!
What am I here to do? Think, Mallet, think,
To play the traitor to thy creed and King,
To rob the very jewels from the head
Anointed of the Lord to sovereign thee,
And on thy stout old master throw disgrace,
That nursed thee from a child. How still—how still!
The very silence deafens me with sound
Of self-condemnëd guilt. All here's asleep
In the well-ordered house, where I alone
To blight Home's wholesome bloom. Still as of old!
There Mary sleeps—my sister—I forgot:
Did they not say that she was dying? She!
Was ever such a bitter thought as that
In the strange master-passion lost and buried,
Which claims me for a very bondman-serf,
A thing without volition, form, or soul?
Mary— (looking into her room)
My God! it was the truth they told!
The face is other than the face I knew,
And bears upon the wasted lip and cheek
The royal seal of dim Eternity.
I dare not look on it. What do I here?
What I have sworn to do, nor less, nor more!
Thief, to thy pillage! robber, to thy work!
And rob the very night-time of its own,
The great prerogative of Rest. For here
Nor rest nor night can ever lodge again!
That way the jewels lie. One effort more,
And I am free for passion and for her:
Remorse is gilded in the lap of Love,
And nothing stays me now!
(He goes rapidly to the door where Fuller went out, and on the threshold Fuller meets him, with a small lamp in his hand)
What brings you here?
Roy.
The Master!
Ful.
Even he. What brings you here?
Are you come back to us?
Roy.
(aside)
What can I say?
I—
Ful.
Spare yourself: have you not rather come
To look upon your work? See by this lamp
The face that you have lined, and count the number
Of hairs that you, not age, has sown with white.
Was it for this you came?
Roy.
No, Master, no.
Ful.
Then tell me, is it meet, thus i' the night
To come unsummoned, when your days are wasted
In idleness abroad?
Roy.
I cannot tell you
Why I am come.
Ful.
I can.
Roy.
You, Master?
Ful.
Yes.
You came to rob me.
Roy.
Rob you!
Ful.
Does the word
Offend your ear? It should. I do remember
The day when such an insult would have fired
Blanches to-night, and shews the flag of shame
Rather than anger.
Roy.
(aside)
Have I been betrayed?
What have I now to do? Florien, thy face
Plays havoc with my brain!
Ful.
Say, have you heard
Of what has happened here? the robberies
That have been done?
Roy.
I?—No.
Ful.
You lie. You did them.
You did them, for I saw you.
Roy.
(sinking down with his head hidden)
Shame! oh, shame!
Ful.
I heard your whisper: Shame? ah, shame indeed
Upon your father's honourable breeding,
Your mother's stainless name! But the confession
Shews yet the way to penitence. Look up,
And listen to me.
Roy.
I will listen, sir,
I cannot look.
Ful.
I knew you from the first
Guilty of this ingratitude of wrong.
Roy.
How did you know?
Ful.
I do not go to rest
As early as I did. I cannot sleep
Blighting my Mary's life.
Roy.
Upon my honour—
Ful.
Still you appeal to that? Well, be it so.
I would not blame you more than your desert;
But Mary loved you.
Roy.
No!
Ful.
She is dying for it,
To seal her love.
Roy.
I never knew of this.
Ful.
It may be so: I hope so: Listen on.
It would have killed her, if a single breath
Of such suspicion had but entered in
The porches of her sense. She loves you, Roy,
And she is dying. For her sake alone
I kept the bitter secret of your sin,
And I will keep it still, so you atone.
Roy.
And what atonement do you ask of me?
Ful.
I have but waited till you came again;
Knowing you would, when you had once begun.
Evil as you have been, you still are young,
Nor are you yet all evil. There is time.
Will you come back to us, and marry her?
Roy.
Can I do this? and can you think of it?
Ful.
It is to save her life. Not anything
In the wide range of all the things to do,
Should be undone to save it. Will you—Roy?
As Heaven itself can pardon and forget,
If you will hear me.
Roy.
(aside)
Is redemption here?
And must I pass it by?—Master—
Ful.
You will!
For you look up again. You are not evil:
Your face defends you—
Roy.
(aside)
Hardy! I am lost—
The mocking face stands between hope and me—
This very night the jewels in his hands,
Or I denounced—and Florien!—Florien! never!
Her face is with me too, more deeply loved
Even for the very madness of the wrong
Which links us like a fate! I love her so
That guilt for her is better than the best
Of good for others!— (to Ful.)
No! let the dead past
Bury its dead!
Ful.
Though that dead be my child?
Roy.
Oh, God! I cannot think! I cannot care!
What awful future treads upon the heel
Of this delirious past? There is for me
One woman in the world, and I would give
My heart's blood as a spring of wholesome water,
To do her lightest hest. I never loved
Your child, and never feigned it. I am free
I will not feign it now. Do what you will:
I cannot baulk you.
Ful.
Then my hope is gone
For you and her. I know for what you came;
And in that room the jewels that you seek
Are in my charge. They are my King's and mine.
As long as Mary lives, you are still safe
From my denouncing. If it pleases God
To spare her, you are spared. But if she dies,
And dies by you,—for by you it will be,—
When the earth closes over hope and her,
I yield you to the law.
Roy.
(aside)
Before that time
I shall be safe,—and far, if—Whither leads
This unimagined weird?
Ful.
Mark me: I am here,
An old man, and alone. For Mary's sake
I may not make a scandal here to-night.
My house is at your mercy. Mary's room
You dare not enter. For the night I watch
There, (pointing to the inner room)
where I work.
Take you the space to think,
Where none will meddle. Say but yes to me,
And to my prayer for Mary,—I am still
Free to forgive you all. Think, Roy! good-night!
(Exit Fuller into the inner room)
Think! think! good-night! my head is in a whirl.
My hand is like an aspen in the wind,
Only my heart is steady! Written there
Is Florien—Florien—Florien! that alone,
And not another word! This way denounced,
That way betrayed, and all alike conspired
To work her death and mine. Death has for me
Scarcely a meaning now, for Life was lost
When Honesty was slain: but on her path
Life dances like the sun upon the sward,
In fitful beauty painting it with gold,
Amber, and amethyst, and building up
A temple that blots out unseemly Death,
In its own lustre! Free with her to-night
For all our time together! who can pause,
With the young blood imperious in his veins,
On such an issue? What are gems but dross,
What matter whose, with all the world at stake,
In hearts like ours? Come Fortune, Fate, and Force,
And champion me for yours! Those gems are mine!
And not the thunderbolt shall bar my way!
(He rushes into the inner room. There is silence—the sound of voices—a struggle—and a sharp cry. Silence again: and after a short pause, Roy Mallet staggers out of the inner room, backward, with a casket
What have I done? a murderer! Oh—my God!
Curtain.
| Florien | |