 | The Heart and the World |  |
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.)
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.—
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.
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).
| The Heart and the World | |