University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Mrs. Beaumont's garden.
[Francis alone.]
Francis.
I threw the dagger in a heap of fern:
I've not been near the place: my steps are watched:
But when I take possession of my land,
I'll find the deadly steel, and bury it
In some unfathomable depth of sea.
Walter, with all his craft, imagines not
Of this my greatest fear. His tale of Edwards,
If it were true!—but 'tis a mere invention,
A weak one too—I scorn it. For the rest,
Curse on his circumstantial memory!
Yet truth herself could not assist him now:
Heaven leaves him to his fate: the perjured traitor!
Assassin of our house! for is not he
The cause of all? Then be it on his head!
And shall a bugbear frighten me? Shall I
Have steep'd my hand in blood, my soul in crime,
And when the guerdon is within my grasp,
Resign it? Never. I have thrown the die,
And I'll await the hazard. Mother! Sister!
Th' advantage shall be yours, without the sin.
And Isabel! Oh! when I think of her,
My courage fails. How shall I meet her now?
My love hath lost its charm. Her smiles on me
Will fall like dew upon a barren rock:
The merry music of her silver tongue
Cau wake no echo in my tuneless heart.
Will she not read my soul? Can innocence
Abide with guilt, and not discover it?
Or can her spirit ever blend with mine?
It cannot be. Yet will I wed her still:
In pomp and state I'll lead her to the altar,
And plant a glorious garland on her brow:
And in my father's mansion I will hold
The nuptial feast with high solemnity;
And all our friends and kinsmen shall be there,
And pledge in flowing cups the bride and bridegroom;
And while the vine-juice circles thro' their veins,
There shall be such a peal of merriment,
Shall wake the spirits of my ancestors
Out of their graves; and they shall stand before me
And gratulate their true and rightful heir.
He shall not come: no, no: his ghost shall wander
Beneath the charnel-house. No thought of him
Shall break my rest. Away with doubt and dread!
Come what come will: fate for my guide I choose:
Nothing he ever won, who fear'd to lose.

[Exit Francis. Enter Mrs. Beaumont and Clara.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
'Tis long since I have known so bright a day:
It seems as if the very skies above us
Beam'd with good wishes for our happiness.
But is there not a tear in Clara's eye?

Clara.
Mother, it is for joy to see you happy,

Mrs. Beaumont.
In all these changes what has pleas'd me most
Is the renewal of an ancient friendship.
Here comes your brother.
[Enter Francis.]
Francis, we are ask'd
To take our dinner at the Egertons';
And they expect us at an early hour.
Have I done well in saying you'll be there?

Francis.
You have. I'm in a cheerful mood to-day.
(Turning to Clara.)
Ah! what a lovely rose! a maiden blush!
Where was it gathered? But I need not ask:
The hue that mounting in your marble cheek
Vies with that delicate flower, betrays the giver.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Here is one, Frank, pluck'd by a lady's hand;
'Twas given to me, but meant (I think) for you.
Now guess the lady's name.

Francis.
And shall I guess
As I would hope?

Mrs. Beaumont.
You may.

Francis.
Then she is one
Whom you shall call your daughter, ere 'tis long.
I take the rose, and wear it next my heart.
Clara—what! all the colour gone already!
And such a solemn look! Nay, prithee, sister;
Your face must be array'd in other trim
By noontide: Philip's constancy deserves
That you should meet him with your choicest smiles.

Clara.
Francis, forbear to jest; it is not kind.

Francis.
In sooth, I jested not; I'm quite in earnest.

Clara.
But you forget your own admonishing,
To check ambitious views.

Francis.
It suited well
Our then forlorn estate: but humble thoughts
We may cast off with our necessities.
No painting now or scribbling for our bread:
You shall receive a noble dowry, sister.

Mrs. Beaumont.
Don't tease her, Frank.

Francis.
She oft has chidden me
Upon my gloomy and despondent looks.
Now 'tis my turn: I'll rally her, and chase
The melancholy humour from her brow.

Clara.
You're ever in extremes. Are we secure
Against the frowns of fortune?

Francis.
Let her frown
Hereafter as she lists. But while she's kind,
I'll bear me as becomes her favourite,
And hold my head as high as any man.

Clara.
Hold your head high, but not too high, my brother;
Nor let th' indulgence of an empty pride
Excite the world's ill-will.

Francis.
I'll use mankind
As they deserve. A plague upon their meanness!
Wealth makes them all your slaves. The spaniel race
Will lick the dust beneath the foot that spurns them.

Clara.
That wealth is safest, which offends no man.

Francis.
Who shuns offence, should live not in the world.
I scorn men's praise and I defy their censure.

Clara.
I will not blame your resolution,
So you do nothing to deserve their censure.

Mrs. Beaumont.
He has done nothing to deserve it, Clara.
It does me good to see him gay and cheerful.
Heaven keep him so, and bless you both, my children!

Scene II.

—A high road.
[Ralph Edwards alone.]
Edwards.

Three burglaries in one year, besides highway robbery
and petty larceny! This is pretty well. Am I not getting
too bold? But I was always a lucky dog. When I was at
school, I used to steal apples and gingerbread, and other boys
got whipped for it. But I've had a hard run for it this time
—thirty miles without stopping! And here I am, in the old
country again. Ha! let me see.—The last time I was about
here, I had a queer adventure. It must have been two or

three months ago. I was very near being nabbed that night.
I remember I got a bag of money about ten miles off—from an
old milkwoman. She didn't want exactly to give it me—but
I persuaded her by a little mild argument. I reached this
town very late. It must have been two or three in the
morning. What a fright I was in, when I heard the steps
behind me! I slunk into the hedge, and who should go by
but squire Beaumont's son? I knew him again. And then
up came that rascal, the steward—and a strange story he told
me—I didn't believe him, but I was glad to get off—I wonder
if he's been hanged yet—I heard he was to be.

[Enter two constables, unperceived by Edwards, who stand watching him, then look at a paper, and make signs to each other.]

I mustn't stop very long in this neighbourhood, for fear
of being known: though, to be sure, I never did much business
here but a little poaching. I wonder who those men were
that I saw in the Green Dragon. They looked rather hard at
me. I wasn't sorry to get out of their way. Now I'm safe.

I mean to get some refreshment at a place I know not
far from this town, where they give good accommodation for
travellers; then I shall start off early, and I calculate I shall
be far enough away by to-morrow evening. I must say, I've
managed matters pretty well. My father used to say, I should
be hanged or transported. I only wish he was alive, that he
might see the difference. When I've realised a fortune, I shall
just put myself into a steamer, and take my place for America;
and then I can set up for a gentleman.

[The constables come up, and place themselves on each side of him.]
Constable.

You're the man we're looking for.

Edwards.

I rather think not.

Constable.

Isn't your name Giles?

Edwards.

I rather think it's something different.

Constable.

What is it, then?

Edwards.

What's that to you?

Constable.

Come, come; we've got a warrant against you. We
know you.

Edwards.

Let me see it.

Constable.

That's very fine, I dare say. Didn't we see you at the
Green Dragon? And don't we know that you broke open
squire Morley's house. You'd better confess, and throw
yourself on the queen's mercy.

Edwards.

Come, gentlemen, mind what you're about. I'm a
respectable man, well known in these parts. Take care, or
you'll get yourselves into a scrape.

Constable.

Your name's Giles, and you must come with us. Take
him along, Jack.

Edwards.

My name's Edwards—Ralph Edwards—and if you don't
mind your own business—

Constable.

Well—Edwards or Giles—it's all the same. You'll go
to gaol. Come along.

Edwards.

This is the way they treat a hard-working man in a
free country. Damn such liberty, say I.

[They take him away.]

Scene III.

—A room in Mr. Egerton's house.
[Mr. Egerton, Philip, Isabella, Mrs. Beaumont, Francis, and Clara. Wine on the table.]
Mr. Egerton.
Philip, I'll give a toast: you'll drink it, boy,
With heart and soul; and Isabella too
Shall raise the wine-glass to her lips, and smile.
I drink the rightful heir of Langley Park;
And may he live for many many years
Among his friends, in health and happiness.

[They drink the toast.]
Francis.
I thank you, sir. Your hospitable cheer
And this expression of your kind regard
I shall remember long. The sad events,
Which hang still heavily upon our spirits,
Do somewhat overcloud the present hour:
Yet, sir, (I speak, believe me, as I feel,)
There are no better comforters of grief
Than the warm looks and voices of your friends.

Mr. Egerton.
So, Walter still refuses to confess:

Francis.
And such a mass of fiction heaps together,
'Tis hard to glean a particle of truth.

Philip.
His last account is most incredible:
He forged the will, and quarrell'd with his master
About the distribution of the spoil:
Owning so much, why owns he not the rest?

Francis.
'Tis plain enough: he thinks a part-confession
Will get belief for what he doth deny;
And by th' avowal of a lesser crime
He may escape the greater punishment.
But cunning often overshoots the mark.

Philip.
His fate on earth is seal'd. May Heaven forgive him!
But come; 'tis cool and pleasant in the garden:
How say you, madam? shall we ramble forth,
Before the damper shades of evening fall?

Isabella.
Yes, come! The rays invite us thro' the window.
Look, Clara, how the dark green laurels glow
With mellow tints, as if they caught the light
From yonder bush of laughing honeysuckles;
And all the lawn is burnish'd with bright gold.
At noon 'twas sultry, and th' unclouded sun
Scorch'd every leaf and herb: but now he seems
Like some good spirit resting from his task
Of glory. Let us forth: I love to watch
His parting beams upon the distant hills.

[They rise and exeunt.]

Scene IV.

—The garden.
[Philip and Clara in front of the scene. Francis and Isabella in the back, walking together and talking.]
Philip.
Is the rose faded, that you wear it not—
The rose I gave you?

Clara.
Had I worn the rose,
It would have faded ere to-morrow's dawn.

Philip.
But had I seen the rose upon your breast
For one short hour, it would have given me joy.

Clara.
But sure, its absence cannot give you pain.

Philip.
The estimation of the gift doth oft
Denote the giver's value.

Clara.
And can Philip
Doubt my regard for him?

Philip.
Perhaps I doubt
Its nature, Clara. Yet a word from you
Can set my heart at rest. Oh, speak it then!
Say, shall this hand— You turn yourself away:
I am indeed unworthy; for I ask
A priceless jewel, and can offer nothing
But the devotion of a simple heart.

Clara.
Philip, I will be frank, for you deserve it;
My fears are for my own unworthiness;
And I am loth to bind your honest truth
To pledges that you might repent hereafter.
I pray you, therefore, think no more of this:
There are too many obstacles.

Philip.
Oh, no!
All are removed. My father gives consent;
And Francis meets me with a brother's love.
A word of sweet assurance from your lips
Is all I need to bless me.

Clara.
Do not ask it:
I dare not link another's fate with mine.

Philip.
You dare not?

Clara.
Something tells me, 'twould be wrong.
Ours is a house in which affliction reigns:
My father living, (as you partly know,
Or never had the mention pass'd my lips,)
It was a wretched scene of jarring strife:
He died, and it hath been the will of Heaven
To send us nothing but a change of trouble.
Bethink you; 'tis a maxim old and wise,
Never to seek alliance with misfortune.

Philip.
The maxim likes not me; for I would rather
Share Clara's sorrow than another's joy.
But courage! Bright expectancies are yours,
And 'tis not meet that past calamity
Should darken present joy and future hope.

Clara.
They who have drunk too deep of sorrow's cup
Lose their belief in human happiness.

Philip.
You are too young to look so gloomily
Upon your coming years. You must not, Clara.

[They walk on. Francis and Isabella come forward.]
Isabella.
How often we have play'd together here,
When we were children. Those were happy times.

Francis.
They were; and they will never come again.

Isabella.
They never will. Yet when I think of them,
I can foresee still happier days to come.

Francis.
What can renew that freshness of the heart,
That withers by contagion of the world?
What can restore the bloom of infancy,
So charming to behold, so quick to perish?

Isabella.
But when the blossoms fall, the fruits appear,
And show their splendours to the golden sun.
The child that knows no stain, is not more pure,
Nor yet more lovely in the eye of Heaven,
Than is the manly soul, whose grosser parts
The practice of high virtue hath refined.
And all in childhood is not purity:
Vice oft betrays itself in early years:
Orlando from a child was mean and spiteful.

Francis.
Talk not of him.

Isabella.
I well remember once,
Upon this lawn we play'd at blindman's-buff,
He tore my frock, and pushed me, and was rude;
You, in an instant—

Francis.
Isabel, no more!

Isabella.
From that time forth he ever hated you,
And I have seen him scowl—

Francis.
No more of him!
I cannot bear it.

Isabella.
Well, be calm: I will not.
Past injuries are buried in the grave;
And I was foolish to remind you of them.
Come see the little jessamine you planted,
How it has thriven. I have water'd it
Day after day, and train'd it with my hand,
Twining it round the oaken trellis-work,
Which now it clasps with lover-like embrace,
And whitens with a galaxy of flowers.

[They walk on. Philip and Clara come forward.]
Philip.
He is the hero of her waking dreams:
She loves him with a faith devout and holy,
As maidens loved their knights in olden time.
Be not offended—but I sometimes wish
You had a spark of Isabel's romance.

Clara.
Alas! we live not in a golden age:
The stern necessities of life forbid us
To put our faith in dreams.

Philip.
I stand reproved:
The wisdom that is capable to bear
The ills of life, and to perform its duties,
Is better than romance. I should have wish'd
That Isabella more resembled you.

Clara.
Nay, wrong not Isabel. She hath a courage
Would not desert her in the trying hour.
I would not have you misinterpret me:
There is a morbid fancy, which creates
And fashions for its own idolatry
Things that in nature have no place or meaning:
Call it romance or what you please—the mind
Infected with such idle fantasy
Is fitted ill for uses of the world.
But that imaginative lofty power,
Which in the form of things material sees
Divine relations, meanings, influences,
And lifts itself above this mortal sphere
To commune with the pure and the eternal,
Is reason's kin and virtue's best ally,
Prompting the soul to noble thought and deed,
Giving a charm to that which else were dull
And irksome in the doing. Sure I am,
Your sister hath a spark of this in her.

Philip.
I never am with you, but what I learn
Lessons of truth and wisdom.

Clara.
Nay: 'tis you
That draw me out, suggesting by a hint
What I express in over-many words.

Philip.
What? Clara turn'd a flatterer!

[They walk on. Francis and Isabella come forward.]
Francis.
Would you not like to travel, Isabel,
In foreign climes? In France, and Switzerland?

Isabella.
Oh, yes; and see the places I have read of,
But yet can scarcely picture in my mind.

Francis.
Could we explore some unfrequented spot,
Far from the haunts of men, and be alone!

Isabella.
I should not think it solitude with you.

Francis.
'Twould give me strange delight, to visit scenes
Where nature is most wild and terrible;
Deserts and mountains, glaciers, precipices,
That scare the young chamois, and over which
The strong-winged eagle trembles as he flies:
To hear the prison'd thunder moaning
In hollow clefts, with nought to answer it
But its own echo; or perchance to stand
Upon the summit of some cloudy crag,
And view the tempest-driven avalanche
Plunge in the vale below. All this we'll see.

Isabella.
Or it may be, on blue Geneva's lake
Some light-oar'd skiff, with merry flashing blade,
Shall waft us o'er the wave at eventide;
And while the moon lies mirror'd in the deep,
And giant Alpine shadows kiss the shore,
I'll take my lute, and softly to the tune
Of some remember'd song I'll touch the strings,
And charm the night with music.

Francis.
Isabel!

Isabella.
And when we cross to Italy's fair land,
With what devotion we should stand together
Amid the ruins of majestic Rome!
How charming over shores and plains to wander,
Where every fountain, every spot of ground
Is hallow'd by some classic memory:
Sweet Como, and the falls of Tivoli,
And piny waving slopes of Apennine,
And sunny Naples, with her rock and bay.

Francis.
We'll mount the crater of Vesuvius,
And think upon a time, when all the rock
Heav'd with convulsive throes, till from its womb
Wrapt in black clouds upsprang the monster-birth,
Choking the air, and mingling earth with heaven;
As if the might of huge Enceladus
Had risen from the grave, to wage rebellion
Against eternal Jove; then, like a storm
Of sulphurous hail shot from the angry gods,
It fell in burning floods upon the earth,
And laid whole towns in ashes.

Isabella.
I would fain
Dwell on the soft and joyous parts of nature.

[Philip and Clara come forward.]
Philip.
We've come to ask a favour, Isabel—
[He puts a guitar in her hand.]
A song of other days.

Clara.
Do sing us one.

Isabella.
[She sings.]

[A noise is heard without. Enter in haste and alarm, Mr. Egerton, followed by two officers of justice.]
Philip.
Who are these men?

Officer.
(Producing a warrant, and going up to Francis.)
You are our prisoner, sir.

Francis.
For what? Upon what charge?

Officer.
We have a warrant
To apprehend you on a charge of murder.

Isabella.
Oh, no! impossible! He's innocent!

[She is about to rush forward towards Francis, but is withheld by her father. Clara has grasped the arm of Philip, and looks on in terror.]
Francis,
(with a forced effort.)
Be not alarm'd. This is some new device,
Contrived by Walter and my enemies:
But I shall disconcert their wicked schemes.
Take note; I yield me up without demur
Unto the lawful warrant of these men.
'Tis nothing, dearest friends; but I must hence
To clear the mist which their foul calumnies
Have gather'd round me. All will soon be well.