University of Virginia Library

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.