University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.

—A prison.
[Francis Beaumont alone.]
Francis.
[She takes his hand.]

Clara.
I? Oh, how?

Francis.
But will you?

Clara.
Show me how 'tis possible,
And ask not if I will.

Francis.
Remember you
The night on which the horrid deed was done?

Clara.
I do.

Francis.
'Twas done past midnight, 'twixt the hours
Of one and two.

Clara.
The evidence went thus.

Francis.
And I was at that time, and long before,
Far from the spot, and could not have been there.

Clara.
Can this be proved?

Francis.
It can—it must be proved.

Clara.
By whom?

Francis.
By you! Nay—start not! Hear me—
And ponder well my words. You must remember
I went to bed that night about eleven;
You sat up very late, till one or two,
About some work; and 'twas impossible
I could have left my room unseen by you.

Clara.
Alas! it was not so.

Francis.
I say, it was:
And, if you have forgotten, I remind you.
Stop—let me think—there was a picture, Clara,
You sat up late to finish, a Madonna—
You shake your head—I fear, your memory
Is weak; but let your courage be the stronger.

Clara.
What would you have me do?

Francis.
Depose to that,
Which, in my recollection, is the truth.

Clara.
But 'tis my own I swear by, not another's.

Francis.
And if 'twere false—

Clara.
O God!

Francis.
A sister's love
Might speak a word to save me.

Clara.
Francis, Francis!
Say, you are innocent; and I'll believe you,
Pray for you, bless you, suffer, die with you!
But this!—To sully my immortal soul
With perjury! To call upon my God
To witness falsehood, and in mockery
To bid him hurl his vengeance on my head!
You would not ask me this?

Francis.
Then I must die.

Clara.
Is there no way but this?

Francis.
None, Clara; none.

Clara.
If you are innocent—

Francis.
What boots me not.
My enemies have cast a net around me.
Craft must be met by craft, and falsehood parried—

Clara.
By truth—

Francis.
It cannot be. Appearances
Are strong against me. Clara! could you bear
To live a convict's sister, and a thing
For scorn to point at?

Clara.
Better that, than live
To scorn myself.

Francis.
Oh! for our mother's sake!

Clara.
She would not have me do't.

Francis.
Upon my knees—

Clara.
Stoop not to me, but pray for strength to God:
And oh, if there be aught you should repent—

Francis.
You will not save me then! A brother's curse—

Clara.
Hold! You will curse yourself!

[She grasps his arm. He shakes her off.]
Francis.
Hence from my sight,
Unnatural girl: begone!

Clara.
No! I will kneel
And you shall hear me. I who never pray'd
To any but my God, will pray to you,
My brother! Francis, 'tis your sister speaks.
Oh! think not of this hour, or of the next,
Or those which follow; for they are but shadows,
That crowded in a brief and narrow space
Shall in an instant vanish and be gone,
And you will wake from them, as from a dream,
To an eternal dread reality.

[The clock strikes.]
Francis.
Hark! 'tis the hour! O Clara, Clara, can you
Remember nothing?—Nothing?—I am lost.
[Enter the Gaoler.]
Prisoner, the bell has rung, and all is ready.
Lady, you must retire.

Francis.
But you'll be there—
Clara, you will be there!

Clara.
I will.

Scene II.

—Mr. Egerton's parlour.
[Mrs. Beaumont and Isabella.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
They've ta'en away my child, my only son.

Isabella.
He will return; be comforted.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Where is he?
I have not seen him now for many days.
There came two ugly men and took him hence:
They told me they should bring him home again,
Or I should not have parted with him so;
He spoke not to me.

Isabella.
They will bring him back:
And he shall be restored to you and me
And all of us; for he is innocent,
I'll pledge my life for it, he's innocent.
Oh, it has been a foul conspiracy.

Mrs. Beaumont.
May I not fetch him back?

Isabella.
Indeed you cannot.

Mrs. Beaumont.
And who are you that hinder me?

Isabella.
Nay, nay:
It is not I. Dear madam, look on me:
Why stare you thus, as if you knew me not?
Look kindly as you used. 'Tis Isabella.

Mrs. Beaumont.
You're not my daughter.

Isabella.
Yes, I am a daughter.
I ever will be one.

Mrs. Beaumont.
I know you not.
I want my Frank, my darling boy! he's lost.
I used to hear his voice; 'twas deep and full:
His eyes were dark and used to look me through:
I never see his like about me now.

Isabella.
Alas, 'tis piteous.

Mrs. Beaumont.
There was murder done:
They kill'd my nephew, and they said poor Francis—
No, it was Walter said—but none believ'd him.

Isabella.
'Twas monstrous!

Mrs. Beaumont.

Walter was tried, you know, and he told so many lies,
that the jury laughed, but it was no laughing matter neither,
for the judge condemned him to be hanged, and he well
deserves to be, but I never heard the end of it, for nobody ever
tells me anything. Do you know if he has been hanged?

Isabella.

Dear madam, do not talk of him.

Mrs. Beaumont.

I wasn't sorry for anything that happened to that
steward, for he was always a mischief-maker, and it was he
that made that wicked will. But the Lord has remembered
them, and given us the estate again, and when Frank comes
back, we shall go to live at the hall. Oh, how merry it was
one day; Frank talked of what we would do when we got to
the old place again, and what a glorious wedding we should
have.

Isabella.
To hear her is distraction.

Mrs. Beaumont.
If the hall is ready, why can't we go?

Isabella.
You shall, you shall.

Mrs. Beaumont.
But when? Will Francis fetch me?
They told me he would very soon be here,
And I have been expecting every day
To hear his step upon the garden walk,
And yet he never comes.

Isabella.
He will. Have patience.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Patience! I have been waiting very long,
And I can wait no more: you all deceive me.

Isabella.
Father of heaven, oh hear my prayer—restore
To this forlorn one her beloved child!

Mrs. Beaumont.
He was his mother's boy; he loved his mother;
But if I vex'd him, he would fret and storm:
I never dared to cross his angry humour.

Isabella.
Hark, heard I not a noise?
[She goes to the window.]
No; 'twas the wind.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Heard you his step? The place is very strange.

Isabella.
O dreadful moment! when will it be over?

Mrs. Beaumont.
Clara, I say, fetch me my bonnet; Clara:
I will go meet him at the garden gate.
Which is the way? I know not where I am.

Isabella
(advancing towards her.)
Hush!

Mrs. Beaumont.
You are not Clara; she is tall to look on:
Why has she left me in this lonely house?

Isabella.
I hear their coming steps: O God, support me!

[Enter Mr. Egerton and Philip, who stand for a moment in a kind of stupor, then cover their faces with their hands.]
Isabella.
Where is he? Philip! Father! Speak to me!
Hide not your faces! Look on me! What mean you?
Speak, break this horrid silence! Speak, and kill me!

Philip.
O Isabella, 'tis the saddest day
That ever—

Isabella.
What? you cannot mean, you cannot—

Philip.
My heart is broken! Isabel, my sister,
The dearest fondest hopes we ever cherish'd
Are dash'd to earth, and nothing's left but woe.
O father, tell her all; I cannot speak it.

Mr. Egerton.
Alas, my daughter—Francis Beaumont—

Mrs. Beaumont.
Francis?
My Francis? Do you bring me news of him?

Mr. Egerton.
Oh, lead that wretched mother to her chamber:
This is no scene for her.
[Philip whispers to Mrs. Beaumont, and leads her out of the room.]
I scarce can speak the words, but you must hear them—
Francis—the jury have pronounced him guilty.

Isabella.
They have not dared commit so foul a wrong?

Mr. Egerton.
It was upon the clearest evidence.

Isabella.
I'd not believe it, tho' a thousand tongues
Had sworn a thousand oaths, and every one
Were register'd in heaven!

Mr. Egerton.
'Tis all too true.

Isabella.
'Tis false! They've murder'd him. He ne'er did wrong,
Or, if he did, it was to punish wrong,
To quell unbridled insolence and outrage:
And 'tis for this the world conspires against him.

Mr. Egerton.
It boots not to arraign the country's justice.

Isabella.
Talk not of justice, when the lives of men,
Of innocent men, the glory of their race,
Are at the mercy of the vilest wretch
Who with his mouth has forged an artful tale
Made current by the stamp of perjury.

Mr. Egerton.
The court were all agreed—the judge and jury—

Isabella.
An empty pageant and a mockery,
Where in the name of law and sanctity
Such things are done as fiends rejoice to look on!

Mr. Egerton.
I cannot wonder at her burst of grief:
It were enough to craze a stouter heart.
But O my daughter—

Isabella.
They may kill, destroy,
But never can they blast his innocence!
That in my heart still fresh and green shall live,
And be my solace to the latest hour.

Mr. Egerton.
There's one, methinks, to whom his innocence
Had been more precious even than to you:
She could say nothing, not a word to help him.

Isabella.
Said Clara nothing?

Mr. Egerton.
Had you seen the pangs
That rent that truthful bosom! Oh! the tears
Start in my aged eyes to think upon't.
It was a sight to melt the world in sorrow.

Isabella.
Where is she, father?

Mr. Egerton.
Faint and overcome
The servants laid her on the couch below.
[Isabella makes a motion to leave the room.]
Nay, go not near her yet; her spirit worn
With toil and anguish needs a brief repose.

[Enter Clara. Isabella rushes with a cry into her arms, and bursts into a paroxysm of tears. Mr. Egerton leads them to the couch, and makes them sit down. Isabella casts her head on Clara's bosom, still sobbing convulsively.]
Mr. Egerton.
Hush, daughter, hush!

Clara.
Let it have vent, dear sir,
Or else her heart will burst.

[Clara bends fondly over her.]
Isabella.
O Clara, Clara,
Can you not save him? Father, cannot you?

Mr. Egerton.
Impossible! The crime of murder—

[Isabella utters a shriek. Enter Philip.]
Clara.
Dear Isabel, be calm, and trust in God:
'Tis He must save him, save him from himself,
Save him to something better and more precious
Than a poor remnant of his mortal days.
Think, Isabel, on this, and pray for us.

Philip.
O sister, hearken to her angel voice:
She is all truth and goodness, born to be
A blessing to her own and all of us.

Clara.
Philip, to you and to your honour'd father
I have ow'd much, and I have yet to ask
One kindness more, one only—'tis the last.

Philip.
O Clara, say not so. Command my service
Now and for evermore! Your will is mine.

Mr. Egerton.
You may command us, lady; for I know
You will ask nothing which I may not grant.

Clara.
It is but this—to see him once again—
For a short moment. If you have the power,
If it may be, I do beseech you, sir—

Mr. Egerton.
See to it, Philip, instantly—

Philip.
I will.

[Exit Philip.]
[Isabella whispers something inaudibly to Clara.]
Clara.
Nay, nay!
This is for me alone—a sister's duty.
You too have yours—to bear these dreadful trials,
To cheer your father's home, to comfort him,
To guard his high and honourable name,
Exalt a parent's by a daughter's virtue.
Let courage look thro' sorrow, and behold
The term and end of all. Forgive me, sir;
I trouble you too long. I cannot thank you
As you deserve, nor e'er repay your kindness.
My mother needs my presence. Will you come,
Dear Isabel?

[Exeunt Clara and Isabella.]
Mr. Egerton.
There must be an hereafter, or this girl
Will not have justice from the laws of heaven.

Scene III.

—The prison.
[Francis alone.]
Francis.
The garden plot, the little casement window,
The holly bush, the rose-tree and the vine;
And those two angel forms, that up and down
The gravel-walk so oft with gentle tread
Moved arm in arm, or bent them o'er the flowers
To watch their growth or prune the wither'd leaves,
Or by the wicker gate so often stood
With anxious looks awaiting my return!
Why could I not be happy? Oh, my mother!
My sister! Still your voices I can hear,
Exhorting, comforting, persuading me:
And I was harsh and peevish with you both,
And yet ye ne'er reproach'd me! Soft ye were
And gentle as the blossoms of the spring,
And I have kill'd ye both! Your tender love
To me forsaken by the rest o' th' world
Was like a bright spot in the wilderness,
And I shall never never see you more.
Clara, thou best, thou truest-hearted one,
Thou like the bee that carols at her toil
Didst labour for the weal of those about thee,
And over all thou didst there hung a blessing:
But I must change the blessing to a curse!
I came and scatter'd poison in the path,
Turn'd all the sweetness of thy life to bane,
Thy cheerfulness of heart to shame and sorrow!

[The Tempter appears.]
Francis.
Detested phantom, art thou here again?

The Tempter.
Yes: I am here to aid thee with my counsel.

Francis.
What have thy counsels brought me to already?

The Tempter.
Blame not another for thine own misdeeds.

Francis.
'Twas thou didst set me in the path to evil.

The Tempter.
I did but show the way at thy request;
But thou didst rashly miss the road of safety,
And, like all blunderers, desirest now
To cast the blame on any but thyself.

Francis.
And therefore art thou come to scoff at me.

The Tempter.
Nay: thou hast lost but little, as I see.

Francis.
Life, honour, and good name; these are not much.

The Tempter.
I found thee calling lustily on death,
And death has heard thy voice; doth it repent thee?

Francis.
'Twas not a felon's death that I invoked.

The Tempter.
And thou didst crave revenge, and hast enjoy'd it;
But now perchance thou deem'st the price too dear.

Francis.
I reck not of myself: it is the shame
That follows; that will break my sister's heart,
And bring my wretched mother to the grave;
This is more dreadful than a thousand deaths.

The Tempter.
Thou wilt be hooted by the brutal mob,
And at thy sister men will point and say,
“The girl whose brother died upon the scaffold.”

Francis.
O horror, horror! is there no escape?
The rack, the torture, anything but this!

The Tempter.
Thou must thyself deliver thee.

Francis.
But how?

The Tempter.
Anticipate the sentence of the law,
And bravely as an ancient Roman die.

Francis.
Where can the means and instruments be found?

The Tempter.
Thy term of respite furnishes the means,
If thou hast strength and constancy to use it.
Resist the cravings of thy mortal hunger;
And ere the dawning of a seventh sun
Makes visible the darkness of thy cell,
Thou shalt be stretched upon this dismal floor
A corpse, and cheat the hangman of his office.

[The Tempter vanishes.]
Francis
(after a pause).
It must be so: I owe it to their love,
To make the dreadful sacrifice.

[Enter Clara.]
Francis.
My sister, can you bear to look on me?
Can you forgive a wretch, whose crimes have brought
Destruction on the heads of all who loved him?

Clara.
Ask pardon from above; you need not mine.

Francis.
I know, you come not to reproach me, Clara,
But I have done you wrong unspeakable:
And this, oh, this inflicts a deeper pang
Upon my guilty soul than all besides.

Clara.
Good, so 'tis order'd, out of evil flows,
Where it is rightly used. Oh, think on this—
Think, brother, ere the precious moments pass,
While there is time on earth.

Francis.
One earthly task
Remains for me: and you shall say hereafter,
That the last act of your unhappy Francis
Was what became a brother and a son.

Clara.
So 'tis a holy deed, I'll ever bless you.

Francis.
Clara, the guilty from his righteous doom
You could not rescue, nor 'twas meet you should.
But he shall rescue two beloved beings
From the last brand of infamy.

Clara.
What mean you?

Francis.
Were it not dreadful that your mother's child
Should perish by the hand of public justice?

Clara.
Alas, 'tis far more dreadful to deserve it.

Francis.
Oh, but the shame! 'tis horrible to think of.

Clara.
There is no earthly future for the dead.

Francis.
The shame will fall upon—but no! it shall not!
Hark to my words! I wait not for the hour
That calls me hence, but find a speedier way.

Clara.
Is this for our sakes, Francis?

Francis.
'Tis for yours.

Clara.
For ours, to bid defiance to your Maker
And rush from hence a rebel to His presence!
And can it be you love us?

Francis.
Yes, a love
Surpassing speech and deep as my despair.

Clara.
Revoke that fearful word, and know there's hope
For all who die in penitence and peace.
Oh, if indeed you love me, if you love
Her who has cherish'd both of us so fondly,
You could not leave us and resign the hope
Of meeting us again, of meeting there
Where those who love shall never more be parted.
Remember you when we were little children,
And knelt together every night and morn
Lifting our hands in innocence to God,
And lisp'd the artless prayer our mother taught us,
That we might go to heaven and both be happy?
Let it be thus again, and let us join—

Francis.
Alas, it is too late.

Clara.
'Tis never so.
We are God's children still, and he will hear us.
O Francis, all the shame, scorn, ignominy,
Distress, affliction, penury and pain,
All I can meet, endure, forget, regard not.
But for the dear companion of my childhood,
The partner of so many griefs and joys,
To quit this earth soul-harden'd, unbelieving,
Outcast from hope and happiness eternal—
'Tis agony to think of! Spare me this.
Have mercy on your sister, and so doing
You shall find mercy.

Francis.
Clara, dearest Clara—

Clara.
You weep: now heaven be prais'd! for those are tears
Of a relenting heart. Oh, let them flow
Free and uncheck'd: mine own are coming fast.
The spirit of our childhood wakes within us:
The sweetest of our early sympathies
Unite our souls again: oh may it prove
An earnest of the love that never dies.

Francis.
Our parent—you have spoken not of her—
Tell me—I dare not ask—

Clara.
The Lord in mercy
Hath put a veil between her and her woe,
That she is spared the misery of knowing
What 'tis divides you.

Francis.
Gracious God! And I
Have quench'd the light of reason in her soul,
And cast her unprotected on the world.
My sin lies heavy on me.

Clara.
In this world
She will have all she needs, all things but one.
She asks, speaks, thinks of you, of none but you:
And still they promise you shall come again,
And nothing else will calm or comfort her.
O brother, may that promise be fulfill'd,
When you shall see her in a happier world!
Then will the cloud which dims her human sense
Have pass'd away: may you behold her then
With brightness and celestial glory crown'd,
Among the heirs of light, in that blest place,
Where the remembrance of sublunar ill
Disturbs no more, but spiritual beings
Purged from the dross of earth, from sin redeem'd,
Holy with holy mingling, pure with pure,
In fellowship of joy like angels dwell.