 | Francis Beaumont |  |
3
ACT I.
Scene I.
—An open heath.[Francis Beaumont alone.]
Francis
Oh! I can toil no longer! 'Tis in vain.
A load of sorrow weighs my spirit down.
The thought of what I was, and what I am,
Drives me to phrenzy! I will think no more.
My brain turns round—my giddy senses swim—
And I am sick and weary unto death.
Death! would that it were here! Thou antic Death,
That mock'st the pamper'd creatures of the world,
Why com'st thou not to him that calls upon thee?
Princes and monarchs from thy presence fly;
The high and mighty of the earth thou scarest:
He to whom man is slave and parasite,
Whom fickle woman flatters with her smile;
He whom the summer courts, and winter's breath
Not roughly visits; who commands the winds,
The land, the sea, and every element,
To minister soft motion and delight;
To him the very name of death is dreadful:
But for a wretch like me it hath no terrors;
Come in what shape it may, it could not seem
So hideous to me as life itself.
It could not—
[The form of the Tempter rises.]
Ha! what vision is before me?
Who art thou?
4
One that reads thine inmost thoughts.
Francis.
If from the realm of spirits thou art sent
To commune with a denizen of earth,
I'm in a mood to hear thee. Speak thine errand.
The Tempter.
I speak at thy suggestion, not before.
What darkly thou conceivest I unfold,
Interpret all the wishes of thine heart,
And show thee where thy strength and weakness lie.
Francis.
Hast thou the power to execute my will?
The Tempter.
To execute is thine: but I can help
To turn thy thoughts to purpose and resolve.
Francis.
I would do many things, but lack the means.
The Tempter.
Means are not wanting where the will is strong.
Francis.
Books tell me so, but not the page of life.
The Tempter.
Thou call'st on death, as myriads of thy race
Have done before, yet shunn'st the ready way
To find him whom thou seek'st.
Francis.
I shun him not.
The Tempter.
Thou eatest still the food that life sustains.
Francis.
I would not die in lingering agony.
5
The rope, the dagger, or the subtle poison,
Will bring thee to an end with speed enough.
Francis.
But suicide! There's horror in the thought!
And 'tis a last resource, when all things fail.
The Tempter.
Go, seek an honourable soldier's grave.
Francis.
Were honour to be gain'd, I'd quickly go,
Fly to the farthest corners of the earth,
And seek the victor's meed through fire and slaughter.
But to be rank'd among the nameless herd,
To sell my blood for paltry sustenance;
To fall uncared for, and to lie unburied
Amidst a heap of putrid carcases,
That other men may plant upon their brows
The laurels which I win and I deserve:
Methinks there is no honour in all this.
The Tempter.
The world would only say that Francis Beaumont
Enlisted for a common soldier.
Francis.
Mine enemies would triumph over it.
The Tempter.
A few that wish thee dead and gone would triumph:
The rest would sneer awhile, and soon forget thee.
Francis.
Before I perish, let me have revenge.
The Tempter.
Who is thy deadliest enemy?
Francis.
Orlando.
6
Thy cousin.
Francis.
Curse on his relationship.
The Tempter.
He holds the goodly fief that should be thine.
Francis.
Yes: and he spurn'd me from my father's hearth,
And bade his menials chase me from the door.
The Tempter.
He woo's the daughter of old Egerton.
Francis.
She loves him not. Her vows are given to me.
The Tempter.
Her father urges her to wed thy cousin
And his broad lands.
Francis.
She never shall be his.
The Tempter.
Last night thou saw'st him in thy father's park.
Francis.
I did. A strange desire came over me
To wander o'er the well-known haunts once more,
And muse on bygone days. In saddest mood
I sallied forth, to trespass on the land
That once I deem'd my own inheritance.
'Twas midnight. Spectre-like I paced along
The dark broad avenues, o'er which the moon
Cast a pale light; when sudden I beheld,
Returning from the steward's house, Orlando,
Wrapt in a cloak: I knew him by his gait;
He saw not me, but pass'd with hurried step
Thro' the elm walk.
7
The thought occurr'd to thee,
How easily thou might'st dispatch the man
Who stands between thee and thy dearest hopes.
Francis.
He was alone, and not a creature near
To help him, if he cried.
The Tempter.
He may, perhaps,
Be there again to-night.
Francis.
And should I kill him,
Demon or Spirit, whosoe'er thou be,
Tell me, shall I be safe?
The Tempter.
'Tis not revealed:
But wherefore askest thou? Methought, poor wretch,
Death had for thee no terrors. Go and do
What thine heart prompts, and what thy spirit dares.
I leave thee to fulfil thy destiny.
[The Tempter vanishes.]
Francis.
He stands alone between me and my rights!
I would—yet not for that; but for revenge.
To spurn me from the house where I was born,
The threshold of my ancestors! To rob me
Of my soul's treasure and my plighted love!
And Egerton, the mercenary banker,
Who courted me while I was fortune's heir,
Now, if he meets me, looking cold and sullen,
Avoiding me as if I were a beggar!
Oh! 'tis enough to make one hate mankind:
There's nothing in the world but treachery.
8
Scene II.
—A parlour in Mrs. Beaumont's cottage.Mrs. Beaumont at her work, Clara sitting before an easel, painting.
Mrs. Beaumont.
Clara, you've work'd all day. You must be tired.
Clara.
No, mother, no: I'm never tired of painting.
You know how many hours I used to spend
In daubing canvas for my own amusement:
And now—
Mrs. Beaumont.
You'll overwork yourself, my child.
Clara.
I hope to get for this Madonna, mother,
A handsome sum, thro' Philip Egerton;
He promised me to find a purchaser.
Mrs. Beaumont.
I know not what would have become of us,
But for your talents and exertions.
Clara.
And Frank's.
Mrs. Beaumont.
Alas, poor boy, he does not earn
Much by his manuscripts.
Clara.
He ought to do.
There is more merit in one manuscript
Of Frank's, than fifty of my pictures, mother;
But 'tis far easier to catch the eye,
To please the vulgar taste by gaudy show,
Than to awaken kindred sparks of thought
By that which speaks to the intelligence.
My brother's merits are not understood;
He writes for men who pay him by the page,
As if he were a common labourer.
9
He read it to me. Oh! 'twas beautiful!
He sent it up to London to a friend,
Who offered it, on his behalf, for sale
To some ephemeral publication.
Would you believe it? 'Twas return'd; his friend
Informing him, 'twas useless to apply
To any of the periodical press,
Unless he knew the editor.
Mrs. Beaumont.
Poor Francis!
Clara.
Oh, had you seen him when the letter came!
He gnash'd his teeth, and, had I not been there,
He would have cried for mere vexation.
Mrs. Beaumont.
God knows, I feel for him. And yet 'tis pity
He cannot check these fits of violence.
In the last fatal quarrel with his father,
He took my part, you know; he meant it well,
And 'tis not I should blame him,—I, the cause
Of all that he has suffer'd ever since.
Clara.
The innocent cause.
Mrs. Beaumont.
I little thought, however,
My husband, harsh and cruel though he was,
Would have been so unnatural as to leave
His children portionless.
Clara.
My dearest mother,
These trials are but sent to chasten us.
I'm happier, living in this humble cot,
In interchange of sweet domestic love,
Supported by the fruits of industry,
Than had I been an heiress, and surrounded
By crowds of flatterers.
10
Frank thinks not so.
Clara.
The time may come—
[A knocking at the outer door.]
Who's there?
A Voice from without.
I, Philip Egerton.
[She opens the door. Enter Philip.]
Philip
(to Mrs. Beaumont).
Excuse me, madam,
For coming at this hour. Is Frank at home?
Mrs. Beaumont.
He stroll'd into the garden, and from thence
Into the road, about an hour ago.
He'll soon be here.
Philip.
Clara, I know a lady
Who will be glad to purchase the Madonna,
And give a liberal price. You'll hear to-morrow.
Clara.
How shall I thank you?
Philip.
Thank me not at all:
But think of me.
Clara.
You are all kindness; all
Disinterested kindness.
Philip.
Nay, I fear
I am more selfish than I dare confess.
One gentle word, one look of Clara Beaumont,
Is a reward too rich for any service
That I can render.
11
Philip, I entreat,
No more of this. You wish'd to see my brother.
Philip.
I wish'd to tell him of a thing that happen'd—
A trifle—not worth mentioning, perhaps,
Yet trifles sometimes have significance.
Your cousin came this morning to the bank;
As he was going out, the steward, Walter,
Met him. They spoke not, but with angry looks
Scowl'd at each other; Walter, half aloud,
Mutter'd some threat,—the words I scarcely heard,
But of their import could not be mistaken.
Clara.
Is that all, Philip?
Philip.
That is all. What think you?
Clara.
'Tis not worth serious thought; but I should guess
They've quarrell'd on some matters of account.
Orlando is a man who will not suffer
The least mistake or indirection
To rob him of his own; no man from him
Will wring a doit beyond his just demand.
Philip.
It may be so:—but I must hasten back;
I left some friends at home. Good night!
Mrs. Beaumont and Clara.
Good night!
[Exit Philip.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
Clara, there is more meaning in that quarrel
Than you suppose. You know, I always thought
The will was forged.
12
The signature was witness'd
By Walter and two tenants of my father.
Mrs. Beaumont.
That Walter is a deep designing knave.
What could he mean by threatening Orlando?
Clara.
Nothing of any interest to us;
Or if it be, time will reveal it, mother.
We need not talk to Francis about this.
The least thing discomposes him: a shadow
Buoys him with hope; then disappointment comes
And plunges him in deep dejection.
Mrs. Beaumont.
I hear his step.
[Enter Francis, through the garden door.]
Mrs. Beaumont.
Where have you been, dear Frank?
Francis.
Upon the moor;
And wandering from the path, I miss'd my road.
'Tis late; and, mother, you have not been well:
Let me not keep you longer from your rest.
Mrs. Beaumont.
I'm going, Frank; and don't you hurt your eyes
With sitting up. Clara, you'll not be long?
Clara.
I'll follow instantly.
[Mrs. Beaumont retires to her chamber.]
Francis
(to Clara).
I thought, just now,
As I turned round the corner of the road,
I saw the figure of young Egerton.
Has he been here?
13
He has.
Francis.
What came he for?
Clara.
He came to speak with you.
Francis.
I rather guess,
'Twas you, not me, he came to visit, Clara.
Clara.
He told me he had found a purchaser
For my Madonna.
Francis.
He comes here too often.
Clara.
He comes not but with purpose for our good:
I should be sorry to requite his kindness
With aught that savoured of ingratitude.
Francis.
His father disallows all intercourse
'Twixt me and Isabel. And why should you
Encourage hopes which may be never—
Clara.
Francis,
This is ungenerous. Must I cast off
A valued friend, your friend from infancy,
Check the warm impulse of a noble heart,
And cripple my own means of usefulness,
For foolish pride, or want of confidence
In mine own virtue and integrity?
Or does my brother fear that Clara Beaumont
Will e'er demean herself unworthily
Of him or of the name which he inherits?
14
No, Clara, no. But times are altered much.
We've nought of value left us but our honour:
And 'tis not meet that either you or I
Should court or even seem to court a man
Whom circumstances place above our station.
Clara.
I fear but little for our honour, Francis:
I do not think that either you or I,
In all our rough encounters with the world,
Will forfeit the esteem of those who love us:
But let us also keep our hearts unsullied,
Our tempers unembitter'd by the venom
Of discontent. And now, good night, my brother;
And don't forget my mother's last request.
[Exit Clara.]
Francis.
Would I possess'd the singleness of purpose
And firm enduring courage of my sister!
The calmness of her soul, her words, her looks
Reproach me; and I stand abash'd, dismay'd
Before her, like a peevish froward boy.
I do believe that Philip truly loves her;
And, were he rich and uncontroll'd, 'tis like
His heart and hand would both be given to her:
And such a time may come, and Clara then
Will be in affluence, whilst I—alas!
I have no hope of Isabel: her father
Is bent on wedding her to wealth and grandeur.
A thousand furies rise within my breast,
Whene'er I think of that!
[A pause.]
'Tis very strange
My cousin should be wandering at that hour,
And at the steward's house. What took him there?
'Tis possible, he might be there again.
[He goes into the bed-room, and returns with a poniard in his hand.]
15
The first time this was used. 'Twas at the hall.
We acted Julius Cæsar: he was Cæsar,
And I was Brutus; and I stabb'd him then
In play: and now there's something whispers me
To stab in earnest. Can it be? 'Tis fate!
A serpent was he ever in my path.
Can I forgive his mockery and insult,
Endure the scorn of men, and struggle thro'
The dark inextricable ways of life?
I'll watch for him, and accident shall guide me.
There's no such thing as will; but we are all
Blind workers of the ways of destiny.
I'll go to bed—but not to sleep—till midnight.
| Francis Beaumont | |