University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—ROOM IN SIR GEORGE HALLERTON'S COUNTRY HOUSE, AS IN ACT SECOND.
The Scene discovers Thornton and Florence.
FLORENCE.

You estimate him liberally, as friend should friend.

THORNTON.

I protest, madam, did I seek in bearing, for perfect
carriage; in thought, for nicest instinct; in disposition,
for generosity and discretion in their equipoise—
I should deem my need satisfied in his discovery.

FLORENCE.

So fair a report includes all virtues—benevolence,
honour, truth, constancy.

THORNTON.

They abound in Temple.

FLORENCE.

Oh, I do not doubt it.

THORNTON.

You make me happy. But that open volume warns
me to retire.

FLORENCE.

You! you were welcome!

THORNTON.

I intended to be so. (Aside.)
Still absorbed in the
same enchanting production! You are rightly proud
of your kinsman.

FLORENCE.

Indeed his work merits your commendation.

THORNTON.

Commendation, madam,—transport! I was of the
happy few who heard your cousin's language translated
into music.

FLORENCE.

Music! The tale is written in prose.

THORNTON.

But prose becomes music when you read it. Did I
not undertake to interest my Lord St. Aubyn for the
author?

FLORENCE.

You were so generous.

THORNTON.

Further—to impress his Lordship's taste—I proposed
to furnish him with an evidence of young Ashbrooke's
accomplishments. You promised to transcribe for me
that exquisite letter which Clarinda addresses to Sir
Harry.

FLORENCE.

When after so much unkindness she at last suspects
his constancy?

THORNTON.

The same.

FLORENCE.

It is already copied.

THORNTON.

It commences?—

FLORENCE
(reading the copy).

I ask my reason whether I may still trust you, and it
answers—no; but when I question my heart, it bids me
trust you for ever. I have given you my all, but believe
—. Have I quoted rightly? (Gives him the letter.)

THORNTON.

The Muse has dictated to one of the Graces. She
read the words as if she felt them. (Aside, complacently.)

But I go to town this morning. You designed to
honour me with a commission.

Enter, behind, Osborne, Lady Parabout, and Miss Parabout. (Florence takes off the ring and presents it to Thornton.)
FLORENCE.

I did. A stone is lost from my ring—a valued remembrance
from Miss Hallerton. Will you bid the
jeweller supply the defect?

OSBORNE.

Love tokens! a ring! She gives him what he will
never give her. (Aside.)

THORNTON.

Appointed to your service, I kiss hands on my promotion.
(Kneels, and kisses her hand.)

OSBORNE.

At her feet. (Aside.)

LADY PARABOUT
(as if shocked, to Osborne.)

I fear, Sir, we intrude.

[Lady Parabout, Miss Parabout, and Osborne go out unobserved.]
FLORENCE
(smiling).

I could trust your gallantry, though less ceremony
enforced it. When do you go?

THORNTON.

Within two hours. In the meantime, the sun woos us
to recreation. I will but ascertain the plans of our
hostess, and return to escort her loveliest guest.

[He bows and goes out.
FLORENCE.

How unjust, often, is first impulse. This gentleman,
so rich in all qualities of goodness, I had censured as
hollow and dissolute. I must atone to him for my
former slights. How he glowed in admiration of
Vivian! My hope is re-assured.—Re-assured! Did I
need another's witness to his truth? Yes; I was poor
enough to doubt; to suspect the smiles that custom
enforced; to wrest torture even from a courtesy. This
very morning I had resolved to put my foolish distress

into words. Thank Heaven, they have not been spoken.
These tears are sweet, though they condemn me. But
I must banish their traces. I will seek him at once.
There is no doubt in my heart; he shall find none in
my look.

[She goes out.
Re-enter Thornton.
THORNTON.

Gone! Why did I slight opportunity? There is
something in this girl which restrains while it invites.
Nay she attracts the more by suggesting that she can
also repel. I must have a care or I shall be ill-bred
enough to love her! However my means prosper.
Affecting to admire Temple, I insensibly endear myself.
And, what is most to the point, he cools to her hourly.
Eh!

Enter Osborne.
OSBORNE.

Well, how goes it? Is the charmer still disdainful?
What a battery has the enchanting Laura opened upon
Temple? No wonder he gives ground. The town
lady's coquetry carries it against the country girl's
simplicity.

THORNTON.

They are opposites; but perhaps his taste is wide
enough to embrace both.

OSBORNE.

No; love, like the sun, shines but on one hemisphere
at a time; and the noonday of one woman is necessarily
the midnight of her antipodes. But the lady's
coldness is too strongly fortified?

THORNTON.

Why, for every frown of last week she deigns me
now a lip full of smiles. What of that?

OSBORNE.

Nothing, I vow.

THORNTON.

Gives me sentences of sweet discourse where before
she denied syllables. What of that?

OSBORNE.

Still, nothing. Yet he knelt to her unreproved. With
what ostentation he parades her pledge. (Aside.)
—
Still nothing; nor will I credit her surrender on less
warrant than her own confession.

THORNTON.

Ha, humph! Let's change the theme. Thou hast
lost thy wager. To-morrow sees me in town. On
Wednesday, Lady Cynthia meets me in the Park.

OSBORNE.

Impossible!

THORNTON.

Will you believe her summons?

(He produces several letters, and presents in mistake the one given by Florence.)
OSBORNE
(reading).

I ask my reason whether I may still trust you and it
answers no; but when I question my heart it bids me—

THORNTON.

Hold! Pardon me—

OSBORNE.

Trust you for ever.

THORNTON.

Stay! Hear me—what have I done

OSBORNE.

But 'tis not Lady Cynthia's character.

THORNTON.

Return it, Sir.

OSBORNE.

Why, 'tis the hand whose free grace was so admired
last night—Florence Delmar's.

THORNTON.

Return it, I say; 'tis an error.

OSBORNE.

Oh, the perjury of a fair face! (Returning the letter.)

THORNTON.

Eh! What do you mean?

OSBORNE.

Does this modesty become you?

THORNTON.

But hear me.

OSBORNE.

Why dissemble? Do I not know thee?

THORNTON.

He takes it for an avowal of her passion, and will
not be undeceived. Well; I can bear the imputation.
'Twill be rumoured that she affects me. (Aside.)

Come! This is folly. I'll escape ere thou concoct
more mischief. The letter proves nothing.

OSBORNE.

Oh, nothing! But you go not alone.

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—GROUNDS IN FRONT OF THE MANSION, AS IN ACT SECOND.
Enter on one side Florence and Temple, who listens to her with an air of abstraction. Laura enters on the opposite side.
LAURA
(glancing at Temple).

No; it was not love. The heart that hath once
known it rejects the nicest counterfeit. Enough! I
tire. Yet custom bids us secure the triumph. (Aside.)

Alas! You look not well. You should more consider
yourself—or at least your friends.

FLORENCE.

Indeed, thy cheek looks fevered.

TEMPLE.

The flush of exercise.

LAURA.

Nay, you are agitated and restless.

TEMPLE.

The malady were welcome that obtained me your
pity. (Apart to her.)

LAURA.

How her eyes follow him. Craft! But thou art
matched. (Aside.)

TEMPLE.

Oh, the torture of self reproach! (Aside.)

Enter Osborne, Thornton, Sir George, Lady Parabout and Miss Parabout.
THORNTON.

Miss Delmar here!—Since you have so soon relinquished
your author, I fear he has offended your
taste.

FLORENCE.

So well pleased it that I would have others partake
my enjoyment. Indeed, you should know more of
Walter Ashbrooke.

TEMPLE.

Miss Delmar's wishes are commands.

FLORENCE.

So coldly! He turns from me as if in displeasure.

(Aside.)
LAURA.

Walter! He depend on her favour! This exceeds
endurance. (Aside.)

SIR GEORGE.

Are you sure of this? He has had letters from her!

(Apart to Osborne.)
OSBORNE.

Passionately conceived too, on the faith of these
optics. But this is not all. By the best fortune, as
he knelt to her, she investing his finger with a ring, I
entered with that Antique Envy,—Lady Parabout.

SIR GEORGE.

Did she comment on this?

OSBORNE.

Wonderfully—with her eye-brow. But see! (Directing him to the group.)

She has infected the rest with
her suspicions. The poor child is already avoided.
(As Florence addresses several guests in turn, they one by one incline to her briefly and coldly, and exchange looks with each other.)

FLORENCE.

You remember Walter! Long since you predicted
the laurel to his genius. Your influence might serve
him. (To Laura.)

LAURA.

'Tis unnecessary, fair one. He whom your patronage
distinguishes may dispense with mine. Shall we move?

(To the guests.)
FLORENCE.

There is insult in that tone. All seem to shun me.
And he, he—permits it. (Aside.—Temple approaches her.)

LAURA
(intercepting him).

I wait you.

THORNTON.

Felicitate me. (To Florence. (The rest move on.) Lady Parabout drops her scarf.)

But you are pale
and tremble? Let me support you. (She sinks on his arm.)

THORNTON.

What softness besets my heart! Would she were
less confiding. Her very trust reproaches me.

(Aside.)
Re-enter Sir George, Osborne, Lady Parabout, and Miss Parabout.
MISS PARABOUT.

There's the scarf? (Osborne presents it to Lady Parabout.)

FLORENCE
(collecting herself).

'Twas a moment's dizziness. Thanks, I am recovered.

MISS PARABOUT.

Aunt! That peach must have grown on the sunny
side of the wall. It falls from over-ripeness.

LADY PARABOUT.

They call me censorious. Come little one!

[Lady Parabout and Miss Parabout go out, followed by Thornton and Florence.
OSBORNE.

Do you credit me, now? 'Twill to town, Sir, by
the next mail. Her ladyship is the very whispering
gallery of a scandal.

SIR GEORGE.

I am confounded, but unconvinced.

OSBORNE.

Solve the problem alone. I'll watch the comedy.

[He goes out.
SIR GEORGE.

I would not believe what I must suspect. Knows
Temple this? 'Twere at least a friend's duty to warn
him. This will I do;—no more. I must detach him
from the rest. My affairs are every moment more
urgent. The crisis hangs on the hour.

[Goes out Sir George.

SCENE III.

—ROOM IN THE MANSION AS BEFORE.
Enter Florence.
FLORENCE.
I would not doubt, and yet he calmly stood
And heard her make my lowliness reproach.
Fears throng me, gloomy guests, Heaven knows unbidden.
Ah! would Time's ocean ebbed and bore me back
To childhood's realm. Dear early home, my eye
Can from yon terrace dimly trace thy bounds.
There's sweetness in the sad face of the Past!

(She walks to the window and passes through to the terrace, where she stands as in reverie.)
Enter Sir George and Temple.
SIR GEORGE.

I say you have done me wrong. I am a thoughtless
man. I may be a weak one; but I can feel for a
sister's injury.

TEMPLE.

How have I merited your anger?

SIR GEORGE.

You have not offered your heart to her. True; not
in words. But have not the eyes a language? Do not
gestures speak? Is there no significance in the glance,
in the sigh, in the pressure of the hand? Are not
actions oaths? Have not thine pledged thee a thousand
times to my sister?

TEMPLE.

Who could see her, and refuse her homage?

SIR GEORGE.

What call you homage? The silent tender of a
heart not yours to give! The false—But I am too
hasty. You cannot have absolutely committed yourself
to so lamentable a fate?

TEMPLE.

Oh! my honour, my honour, Hallerton!

SIR GEORGE.

My sister.

TEMPLE.

Would I had never seen her—never encountered
her fatal blandishments—never suffered them to wind
into my heart.

SIR GEORGE.

They have done so! Nay, do not despair. Florence
Delmar may not be inconsolable for thy loss.

TEMPLE.

Peace! Peace!

SIR GEORGE.

Why do I hesitate? 'Tis an obligation of duty. My
game, too, must be played. (Aside.)
Didst mark
how she showered her graces on Thornton?

TEMPLE.

That profligate! Beware. One breath of traduction
against her, and I shall hate thee more than I
despise myself.—I may be forsworn to my faith, but I
will not hear another blaspheme its shrine. There is
a sleeping justice in dishonour. Do not rouse it.

SIR GEORGE.

You are choleric; but I bear with you. Your unfortunate
position is penalty enough for the thoughtlessness
which has incurred it.

TEMPLE.

You have wrung from me my secret. Esteem it
sacred!

SIR GEORGE.

Am I not your friend?

TEMPLE.

My friend! Before I knew you, I was poor and
humble. Fortune has given me wealth; your society
—distinction. But there is a balance against you,
Hallerton. I am yet young; but in your circle I
have parted with the ardour of youth, its joy, simplicity
and faith. All—all are gone, even to the very
sense of what I was. It is only by the lightnings of
remorse that my blinded conscience gets glimpses of
the universe I have lost. My friend!

SIR GEORGE.

Not a word but pierces me! (Aside.)
You are
heated. We will speak further of this. Let us walk.

[They go out.
FLORENCE
(coming forward).
Doubt's over, then: or should be! But my heart
Rebels 'gainst sense. Yet this disloyal ear
Perform'd its wont too truly. I believe—
Now, I believe it all!—The shadows scarce
Have lengthen'd since he enter'd. On his march
The sun hath scarce progress'd. Still in mid heaven,
He flaunts his mocking flag. Still wave the trees.
No bird of all yon choir suspends his song.
Nature, thy heart is marble! Only earth
Is faithful to the wretched.
(Taking up a book.)
Walter, Walter!
I deem'd not when with tears I bathed thy page,
Its tale of wither'd hope was prophecy.

Re-enter Temple.
TEMPLE.
I'd be alone! With vanity and strife
Whirls my vex'd brain. What, Florence!—How you start!
Why pace you to and fro, disorderly?

FLORENCE.
I'm calm, Sir. (She sits.)


TEMPLE.
What hath moved you?

FLORENCE.
A stale sorrow,
A woman's wrong. (Offering the book).


TEMPLE
(taking it).
You give the fond conceits
Of fancy too much sway. I pray you, Madam,
Follow example and conform your course
To custom, and the fashion of the times. (Carelessly opening the book.)

What air-spun grief o'erwrought you?

FLORENCE.
I confess
A common theme. You'd know it? Years ago
A maiden gave her faith in trust to one
Who after found its custody a burthen.
Fame, courtlier manners, more instructed smiles
Made his vows—fetters. When she heard, she wept not.
Her whole heart was one frozen tear. Alas!
She was a simple girl, and had not learned
The fashion of the times.

TEMPLE.
A foolish girl!
What she supposed reluctance might be prudence.

FLORENCE.
The fashion of the times calls falsehood so?

TEMPLE.
But he did not desert her!

FLORENCE.
You have read
The story then?

TEMPLE.
I say, whate'er his sins,
His honour bound him keep the oath he pledged—
He kept his word.

FLORENCE.
And for his honour's sake!
Oh, pardon me: he did not keep his word.
He vowed a heart whose tribute was its life,
A love should leap to hers like flame to flame!
He gave her—what? A hesitating hand
Because his honour bade him. Oh, she meant
Her love to be his trophy not his chain!

TEMPLE.
He would have wed her. 'Twas his oath's extent.
What could he more than yield the rights she claimed?

FLORENCE.
The rights!

TEMPLE.
Yes; I concede the rights.

FLORENCE.
The rights of love.
They are so easily phrased—so soon restored;
Heart-strings a touch untunes, a touch repairs.
Oh, Sir, thou canst not love! Love hath no rights,
It doth not know the word. Earth's substance ta'en,
Earth's laws may give thee back. Thy fair repute
Maligned, earth's laws may vindicate. But love
That in it hath no property of earth—
Hath no appeal there. Rights it casts away,
Is proud to be defenceless; all its bond
The nature it confides in. Break that bond;
It feels its beggary—but pleads no rights.

TEMPLE.
Madam!—That stately pallor stirs my soul
More than a Hebe's blush. It is the form
Haunted my youth; but crowned, as a throne's heir
Had pass'd into a monarch. (Aside.)
I concede
You triumph here! But show the vanquished pity.

FLORENCE.
Ay; pity! There's the loss, that we must learn
To pity what we worshipp'd!—Vivian Temple!
What is the master-pang—there is but one—
That wrecks a woman's future? Pours the world
Scorn on her chosen? Well; she takes his hand,
And drops the world's. Is want that crushing pang?
I tell thee, when of nights her slender hand
Smooths his brow's anxious lines, and soul-filled eyes
Glorify pale, worn faces,—she thanks Heaven
That taught her, through her very penury,
How love can grow by suffering. Is it death?

TEMPLE
(breaking in, with much emotion).
No, no!

FLORENCE.
I say no too. Then what?

TEMPLE.
Oh; nothing, nothing!

FLORENCE.
Yes; his fall from worth!
Faith rides o'er mountain billows by one light
We deem a star. Prove that a meteor—then,
We strand, we strand!

TEMPLE
(sinking into a chair).
Florence! Am I that man?
(After a pause.)
I merit thy reproach! but wilt deny
Thy wrong—atonement?

FLORENCE.
Speak not so. Thou could'st not
Proudly proclaim thy troth.

TEMPLE.
We'll quit this roof.—
Laura's curved lip, her brother's frigid eye,
And Osborne's blighting laugh! (Aside.)
We'll quit this roof,
Grant me but time; and—I'll confess. (Hesitatingly.)


FLORENCE.
Confess!
Stay; did I hear aright, that you seek time
To make confession of your love?

TEMPLE.
Even so,
Grant me but time.

FLORENCE.
And you'll confess you spent
Your wealth on such poor merchandise. What, preface
The marriage rite with blushes? To the altar
Walk with a crest in mute apology
Declined for her you lead there? Sir, know this;
Man may reject our love: 'tis our reproach
If he degrade it!

TEMPLE.
On my knee!

FLORENCE.
I grieve,
The posture fits you. Rise; I brook not this.

TEMPLE.
Yet, Florence.

FLORENCE.
Rise, Sir! (Laughter and voices heard without.)

List; your courtly friends
Will see you at my feet. Have you no pride?

TEMPLE.
My pride forbids me not to kneel there!

FLORENCE.
Mine
Forbids you. Must I claim a stranger's right?

TEMPLE
(rising).
No; it is given you lady. You have spoken.
Heaven asks no price for pardon, but repentance,
Which you disdain.

FLORENCE.
A breaking heart disdains not. (Aside.)


TEMPLE.
Let the past vanish like a fading shore.
I'm on the seas, and chance may take the helm!

(Enter Laura, Lady Parabout, Miss Parabout, Sir George, Osborne, Thornton, and other guests.)
LAURA.
How, Truant! Here?

TEMPLE.
To my misfortune, lady,
Since you were not! (With assumed gaiety.)


THORNTON
(offering flowers to Florence).
By kind acceptance give these frail things worth.

(She mechanically takes them. He offers her escort, which she mutely declines. All go out except Florence: she gazes after them for some moments. The flowers drop from her hand. She quits the room with a step at first irresolute, but afterwards firm and measured).