University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—GROUNDS IN FRONT OF SIR G. HALLERTON'S COUNTRY MANSION. RUSTIC CHAIRS ARE PLACED IN THE PRINCIPAL WALK.
Enter Temple and Florence.
TEMPLE
(looking back).

Hist! Are we observed?

FLORENCE.

There are none near; but were there—dost thou
fear observation? Art thou ashamed of the love
which thou hast told me was thy pride?

TEMPLE.

'Tis my pride in thy love which prompts this concealment.
We are not in thy native grange, though
so near it; but the guests of a man of fashion at his
country seat.

FLORENCE.

And does the heart change with the scene?

TEMPLE.

No, sweet; but the manners do. We are surrounded
by those who would jest at thy devotion.

FLORENCE.

Except Laura Hallerton!

TEMPLE.

I would not tempt her by admitting her to our
secret. (Earnestly.)

FLORENCE.

Nay, love; you guard me too tenderly. I could
brave a laugh for you. But trust me, Laura would
not laugh. She too much values and admires thee.

TEMPLE.

What!—nay—you would play upon my vanity!
admire me!

FLORENCE.

Is it so strange? Do not I? But see, she comes.

Enter Laura and Sir George, followed by Osborne and Thornton, Lady Parabout, Miss Parabout, and other guests.
LAURA.

Ah, ma mignonne! the favourite spot.

FLORENCE.

I have ever loved it, the quiet valley circled by the
hills—Strength guarding Beauty!

OSBORNE.

Ecod, George, you're a happy fellow—

SIR GEORGE.

Am I?—A mortgage to two-thirds of their value,
considerably qualifies a man's pride in his estates.
(Aside.)

LAURA.

The view pleases you? (To Temple.)

TEMPLE.

Nature, Madam, dreamed of your coming, and exhausted
her beauty for your reception.

MISS PARABOUT.

La; how I envy Miss Hallerton! No one compliments
me. (Apart to Lady Parabout.)

LADY PARABOUT.

Poh, child! What are you, or she either, but June
peaches? Young men now-a-days, have a perfect
mania for green fruit. Their forefathers preferred the
ripe flavour of autumn.

MISS PARABOUT.

But, Aunt Parabout!

LADY PARABOUT.

Lady Parabout, child.

MISS PARABOUT.

I thought you would like Aunt better. It sounds
such a ripe autumn word.

LADY PARABOUT.

Hush, malapert! It's a bad world. Keep your
eyes open and tell me what you observe. Ah, I suspect!
—If I chose!—It's a dangerous world.

(During this dialogue between Lady Parabout and her niece, the rest converse in the back; Temple with Laura, Thornton with Florence, who receives him graciously, but eventually turns from him with hauteur.)
LAURA.

Nay; I dare not hazard discourse with you in this
vein. (To Temple.)
Ladies!

(All go out but Temple, to whom, as she retires, Laura turns with a gracious inclination.)
TEMPLE
(looking after her).
The subtle spirit, fascination, dwells
In every movement and infects with grace
The meanest thing she touches! Robe, plume, nay
The very glove she casts aside, retain
The witchery of her form. But, this is ill.
Where hearts are pledged, the eye should not be free.
My lot is cast, nor will I e'er repent
The vow that binds me to thine excellence,
My simple, faithful Florence! There's no joy
But comes to earth enveloped in a dream
Which, though it leave a solid good behind,
Is in itself more fair. “Could we but grasp
“Those evanescent glories! But of life
“The law is change, and each recurrent sun
“Dawns on decayed delights and new desires!”

Enter Sir George, Osborne, Thornton and Temple.
OSBORNE.

Her mien, though gentle in repose, is at times
more like that of a duchess than a dependant. With
what dignity she repulsed thee. The Preux Chevalier
of the day—repulsed by a semptress.

THORNTON.

Repulsed by her publicly! She shall atone my disgrace.
I will learn whether she be invincible. (Aside.)

A sempstress! She might have amassed a fortune
had she remained one, and manufactured ruffles for
gallants. Imagine those roseate fingers spanning one's
wrist for a measure!—Eh, Temple?

TEMPLE.

I could strike him. Yet to expose my secret!
(Aside.)
Is it your custom in the presence of the host
to insult his guests?

THORNTON.

Oh! the lady's ear has been pampered already. No
wonder 'tis fastidious. (Aside.)

SIR GEORGE.

Fie, fie, Sir! You should temper your mirth with
discretion.—Such agitation proves too deep an interest
for friendship. His love for this girl were death to
my hopes; I have staked all on my project of uniting
him to Laura! (Aside.)

OSBORNE.

Vivian loathes, I know, to hear beauty commended.
Frigid himself, he censures fire in others. Prithee
now, what is thine idea of a woman?

TEMPLE.

She's a riddle—Nature's paragon, and the burthen
of an epigram; the priestess who consecrates life;
and an idler's pastime. By her beauty—the brave
man's inspiration; by her helplessness—the coward's
jest. You can vouch, I think, for the truth of the
definition.

OSBORNE.

Oblige me by repeating it. That enchanting Florence
distracted my thoughts.

TEMPLE.

Name her less familiarly! you speak to her friend.

OSBORNE.

Thyself!

THORNTON.

A disinterested friend—doubtless!

TEMPLE.

Virtue and Beauty are the friends of all men who
have feeling and honour.

OSBORNE.

Give me Beauty by herself, who is the friend of all
men without exception.

THORNTON
(aside).

Could I shame him from his passion, the great barrier
to my success were surmounted. (Aloud.)
Disinterested
friend! Get a lawful title, man, to be her
champion. Pay the penalty of wedlock for monopoly.
Ha, ha, ha!

OSBORNE.

And we will subscribe to have them wrought in
embroidery. They shall hang over our grandmothers'
mantel-pieces. Damon and Chloe—the faithful Swain
and Shepherdess; or, the Pattern for Lovers!

TEMPLE.

That I were free from this restraint. (Aside.)
You
presume on our acquaintance.

OSBORNE.

Come, Thornton! A man who can't be witty in his
ill-humour wants the only excuse for it.

THORNTON.

Have with you!

[Exeunt Thornton and Osborne.
TEMPLE.

I marvel you endure this!

SIR GEORGE.

Nay, you are too impatient; they did but jest.
Marry my sister's pretty dependant! Ha, ha, ha!

TEMPLE.

Ran my will so, who should thwart it?

SIR GEORGE.

A busy-body that always interferes, and can never
be called to account—The World, my friend.

TEMPLE.

Why? How? By what right? But I can meet its
frown.

SIR GEORGE.

It will not indulge thee with a frown. Thou must
brave what is worse—its sneer.

TEMPLE.

What is its title to dictate?

SIR GEORGE.

Its power.

TEMPLE.

Why should I dread it? The World! Private selfishness
kept in countenance by numbers. A machine that
patents a new morality for every fresh generation. An
impostor even on itself! It creates its own echo; and
believes in the lie that is constantly reverberated.
Severe on the failings of the humble, to preserve the
name of virtue, it is satirical upon the excellencies of
the good, because it hates the spirit. I have a heart,
and scorn it!

SIR GEORGE.

Have a brain, and rule it. Come! thou art ambitious
—wouldst achieve distinction—bequeath a name
remembered for great service? Be honest.

TEMPLE.

I would rise by desert—the only star of a worthy
ambition.

SIR GEORGE.

But one so exalted, that it is only visible through
a telescope. The kind glass that brings it near is influence.
To rule society, you must first court it.

TEMPLE.

Yet I would not even for success play the part of a
puppet.

SIR GEORGE.

Bah! Is the mariner the puppet of the winds, because
he shifts his sail to their changes, and makes
harbour by their very caprices. Would'st thou bear
down on the rocks by choice?

TEMPLE.

Not by choice.

SIR GEORGE.

That's rational. Thy course is open: thy future,
brilliant. Wealth thou hast,—energy, talent! There
wants but one ingredient, influence, to complete the

charm. Wed highly; let thy wife's name be dazzling
in men's eyes. That's thy card.

TEMPLE.

You put it seriously.

SIR GEORGE.

And it began in a jest. But I love thee, and my
sister's interest in thee—

TEMPLE
(involuntarily).

Thy sister's interest!

SIR GEORGE.

Beshrew my tongue! But you will not expose her
weakness?

TEMPLE.

Her weakness?

SIR GEORGE.

Worse and worse! My caution plays the traitor.
My sister, sir, is proud and counts her reserve her
honour. She would not forgive me this imprudence.

TEMPLE.

Gracious lady! Wastes she kind thoughts on one
so humble?

SIR GEORGE.

She might not deem them wasted on thee. But no
more of this; let us seek our friends. I have a wager
with Osborne. Come! Are his thoughts on Laura?
(Aside.)
What! absorbed.

TEMPLE.

Oh! pardon me; the beauty of the prospect.

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—A ROOM ELEGANTLY FURNISHED IN SIR GEORGE HALLERTON'S COUNTRY MANSION. THE APARTMENT, WHICH IS DECORATED WITH SCULPTURE, PAINTINGS, &c., OPENS UPON A TERRACE.
Enter Laura and Florence.
FLORENCE.
These words are more thy mind's disguise than dress.

LAURA.
Sweet ignorance! I doubt, love, if thou know'st
What eyes were made for. Tell me now?

FLORENCE.
To see with.

LAURA.
I thought so. So were feet to walk with, child,
And hands to help one's need. I should have asked
For what fine eyes were made.

FLORENCE.
To see with—still.

LAURA.
To see with! Nay, to dazzle others' sight.
Most bright but fatal weapons woman wields
In strife with man! Would'st learn their use—attend.
Display the blithe glance first; that dares the foe
And tempts him to encounter. Give him time,
Then with a ray as brilliant but as cold
As wintry pleiad's, admiration feed,
But starve his hope; yet ere it quite die out
Emit a gleam of pity. With a burst
Of sudden glory ravish next his sense
And then bid pride eclipse it. Fold him now
In a soft haze of doubt; but melt anon
To pathos tender as the streaks of eve.
Lead him from change to change till stubborn will
Be slave to every mood. Then beauty wear
Thy regal mien; let all thy summer life
Flush thy warm cheek; and let thy tresses float
Like streaming pennons by the polished curve
Of the proud arm restrained, while pendent swings
The foot in careless freedom, as a breeze
Of triumph swayed it, or as if it scorned
The vanquished heart before it! (rises).


FLORENCE.
But dear Laura—

LAURA.
Florence I wish thee well, and all the more
For fortune's slight—would see thee bravely wed.
I'll help thee to a husband; but thyself
Must aid my plan. That needs diplomacy,
Tact, forethought, system.

FLORENCE.
And what gain by all?
Nought worth the keeping. Oh, a lover's heart
Is no beleaguer'd citadel whose walls
Are mined to gain a passage! No; it waits
To hear its lawful sovereign's trumpet sound,
And with exulting joy flings wide its gates
To let the glory enter. Laura, you
Have felt this surely.

LAURA
(touched).
Once! We've all been children,
But we live on and—ringlets would become thy face,
And well contrast thy neck.

FLORENCE.
Oh, be sincere.

LAURA.

Sincerity, girl, in this world, is like gold among the
savages, who barter treasure for glass beads. 'Tis a
costly quality, but not current money. Men, especially,
never deal in it. Not even those who most affect it.
Take for instance this Vivian Temple, who in his fortune's
sudden rise forgets and casts off his last month's
bosom comrades.

FLORENCE.
What! Vivian Temple
Desert a friend!

LAURA.
I do not blame him, child.

FLORENCE.
Thou art abused. Me, too, this rumour reached.

LAURA.
How didst disprove it?

FLORENCE.
In his face I gazed—
I heard him speak; and accusation shrank,
Awed, from his presence!

LAURA.
The preceptor's name
Who taught thee rhetoric?

FLORENCE.
Justice.

LAURA.
Pity, too,
She did not teach thee reason!—Whence that blush?

FLORENCE.
'Tis shame's at wrong.

LAURA.
Wrong?

FLORENCE.
Wrong most deep.
The slander's foul that clouds the meanest light
In virtue's heaven; but when it stains the disk
Of greatness, doubly foul—darkening the earth,
While it obscures the sun!

LAURA.
You're strong in tropes;
Your client owes you thanks.

FLORENCE.
No thanks; I erred—
Pleading for him who towers above assault.
—Lady, your leave awhile.

(Laura inclines her head haughtily, and Florence goes out.)
LAURA.
So, timorous bird,
That tremblest on the wrist, and droop'st thy head
As the noon dazzled thee! With glance oblique,
Do'st calculate a flight where quarry soars
Well nigh beyond my swoop? The only man,
I burn to humble—whose one overthrow
Were to my beauty, tribute all my train
Of vapid flatterers ne'er tithed for worth—
He taken in thy toils!—Thine may he be
When I have cast him off! For still my heart
That yearns for triumph, pines in victory;
One memory yet intruding. But this pride,
I've sworn to tame. “How? Languor, majesty
“That scatters affluent smiles, nor turns to see
“Who profits by the largess; archness, wit,—
“These are spent shafts.” Now will I dip my point
In tenderness, and at that crevice—flaw
In man's completest mail—his vanity,
Address my dart. Scorn on! Thy fate is near.

[She goes out.
Enter Temple and Sir George.
SIR GEORGE.
You'll not then with us to the morning's sport.

TEMPLE.
Think me not churlish; there's an idleness
Of spirit on me. (He sits.)


SIR GEORGE.
Rather say a fever. (Aside.)

Indulge it; so 'twill die of plethora.

[He goes out.
TEMPLE
(rising).
I cannot bar her image from my thought.
Here too hath art shaped in her costlier mould,
The vision of the Carthaginian Queen. (Advances to a statue of Dido.)

Oh, stone! Thou hast more life than breathing forms,
Save hers thou copiest. What sorcery
Masters my will and conscience? In this frame
Two lives are struggling. Now the syren's strain
Allures me unresisting, and anon,
Between its pauses, glides a purer sound,
As 'twere the whisper of some watching star,
The echo of first love. Back! back, while yet
The finer instinct sways me. I'll from hence.
From hence? What! quit the charmed sphere of grace,
Ambition, power—the sun to which all spheres
Beside, are earths?—Yet, there to live and peril
For honour's show—itself! The right being clear,
I'll think no more, but act. Who ponders—falls!

(As he is about to go Laura re-enters. He turns again to the statue.)
LAURA
(after a short pause).
You must no more peruse my face in stone;
I love you not to note it—

TEMPLE.
Deign to pardon—

LAURA.
Sir, what offence?

TEMPLE.
Perhaps an unmeant freedom.

LAURA.
Wait till I banish you. Come, your report
Of this life-mocking semblance?

TEMPLE.
Wondrous skill;
Thy look, mould, gesture, air!

LAURA.
The whole design
Offends me. Round my form the Sculptor throws
The haughty Dido's mantle—she whose step
Of pride—her head discrowned,—proclaimed her Queen.

TEMPLE.
'Twas well devised.

LAURA.
You deem then pride becomes me?

TEMPLE.
When you are proud; when humble—humbleness;
When mournful—sorrow. Differing qualities
Become thy mind as various garbs reveal
Alike one symmetry.

LAURA.
The ice breaks up;
We'll have the current soon. (Aside.)
You're as the rest.
You treat me to the opiate,—soothe the child
With flattery's comfit. There might lurk a heart
'Neath all her humours,—but who cares to find it?
And yet I would not have you think me proud.

TEMPLE.
Those gentle tones are subtler than the air,
And steep the brain in music. (Aside.)


LAURA
(as if absorbed, and directing her eyes to the statue).
There she stands.
Poor lady! Hapless Queen!

TEMPLE.
You sigh!

LAURA.
A passing thought.
How might her regal port, that thousands awed,
Droop into trembling bashfulness at sight
Of stern Æneas, who so slowly learned
A love he learned—to scorn!—Oh, had he fled
Her passion in its dawn!

TEMPLE.
He guessed it not.

LAURA.
He might have done—(for countless heralds, Love
Sends on to sound his coming),—by her voice
Wont to command, yet for his ear subdued
To faltering whispers,—by her eye, whose glance
Was silent fate, yet sank beneath his own,
As if its leave to worship were a bliss
Beyond its asking. He was blind! Be sure
That woman loves who, haughty in the crowd,
Grows humble when with one.

TEMPLE.
So melts her voice—
Her eyes so sink. How to translate this! Fool!
This dalliance is guilt. My love! My honour!

(Aside.)
LAURA.
Your silence speaks. You deem my flippant lip
Profanes a theme so tender! Well; believe me
The gilded emptiness, the costly toy.
The rest account me. I can bear it.

TEMPLE.
I—
I wrong thee, lady! Oh! Thou little know'st.

LAURA.
You will not judge me harshly.

TEMPLE.
Harshly!

LAURA.
No,
I'm sure you will not. Thanks! (Giving her hand.)
I'm bold; forgive
The heart's glad impulse. I'd control it.

TEMPLE
(retaining her hand).
Nay;—
The gaoler pines when such fair captive's freed.

LAURA.
The captive mourns to break so kind a chain.

TEMPLE.
How her touch thrills me! Rushes through my veins.
A fire whose pain is transport. (Aside.)


Enter Florence suddenly, with a book.
FLORENCE.
Vivian, a boon—dear Vivian,
I'm glad I've found you!

LAURA.
Vivian!—Oh, your name.
A signet word of privacy. (She courtesies and retires.)


TEMPLE
(aside).
Dear Vivian!
Rash girl! I warned her too.

FLORENCE.
A boon for Walter.
On favour's doubtful sea, his freight of Thought—
Toil of long days—he ventures. Thine applause—
'Tis fairly earned—how?

TEMPLE.
Your request's mistimed.
I'm vexed—ay, to the core!

FLORENCE.
Could I have guessed,
I had not importuned thee.

TEMPLE.
All's exposed! (aside).


FLORENCE.
I've a right to know thy trials.

TEMPLE.
Leave me, Florence.

FLORENCE.
Is it not loss of wealth?

TEMPLE.
No, no!

FLORENCE.
Thou'dst borne
That with a smile. What is't? Our covenant
Of love, though we from common eyes conceal it—
Is valid; is't not—and doth warrant me
To share thy sorrows? Sweet love! (Laying her hand on his arm.)


TEMPLE.
Conscience! Florence,
This irks me! (She turns dejectedly away.)

Bear with me, meek Angel; Heaven
Forget me when I—thee! Strain to my heart,
My own true love, my Florence! (Suddenly following and embraing her).


FLORENCE.
I'm too happy!

[They go out.