University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

[An interval of two months is supposed to elapse between the third and fourth acts.]

SCENE I.

—SIR GEORGE HALLERTON'S HOUSE IN LONDON.
Sir George and Laura, who is engaged in writing.
SIR GEORGE.
Out on my haste to bring her back to town,
Where every moment, pompous in its trifle,
Thrusts daily back the urgent suit of prudence. (Aside.)

What humour's this? A robe so negligent,
And look so listless, mock the time. Anon
Your suitor and the marriage contract wait you,
As I appointed.

LAURA
(looking up).
Brother! to be wed
Six weeks' hence, for your pleasure, not mine own,
I yielded. Of the time I bate no second.
I've occupation.

SIR GEORGE.
All my anxious pains
Foiled by her whim! (Aside.)
Laura!

LAURA.
Before you go,
Pray you that footstool.

SIR GEORGE.
Nay; no trifling! Girl,
Must I entreat thee sign to-night?

LAURA.
Do not;
I grieve to wound entreaty.

SIR GEORGE.
I'll command thee!

LAURA.
You may expend your breath so if you please,
'Twill prove a poor investment.

SIR GEORGE.
Fool!

LAURA
(still writing).
You're civil.
I'm puzzled here to round a compliment:
Will you instruct me?

SIR GEORGE.
Mince not words for me!
I'm but your brother. You perform divinely;
But we're just now behind the curtain.

LAURA.
Else
I'd blush for you. (Resuming her letter.)

“Dear Duchess, I accept”—

SIR GEORGE
(seizing her hand).
“Dear Duchess”—nay, I'll not be rude. The Duchess
Admires thee much!

LAURA.
I'm flatter'd.

SIR GEORGE.
Magnified!
A toast, a rage, an all-ascendant star
In fashion's sky!

LAURA.
You're bounteous.

SIR GEORGE.
This may change.
You may lose admiration.

LAURA.
Not this year. (Surveying herself in a mirror).


SIR GEORGE.
This night, fair sister; save that contract's signed!
Yes, I'm quite calm.

LAURA.
Sir George, I'll take the chance.

SIR GEORGE.
There is none, Madam.

LAURA.
Then the certainty.
This man I love not. In ungarded hour
Thou didst persuade me!

SIR GEORGE.
In this guarded hour
I must do so. Refuse me;—into air
Dissolve these stately domes, these pictur'd walls;
These velvet floors. The sky's thy roof, the bound
Of thy new home—the horizon! Thou shalt tread
For carpet—stones and shingles! Nay; believe
A prodigal's confession.

LAURA.
Brother!

SIR GEORGE.
Add—
My honour, too, depends on thy compliance.

LAURA.
Explain.

SIR GEORGE.
I will. Our all surrendered, I remain
Large debtor to my friends. How came this recks not.
'Twas folly—madness! Temple proffers thee
An ample portion. Thou must save me, sister!

LAURA.
He knows it? (after an enquiring pause.)
No? oh, brother!

SIR GEORGE.
Hear me, Laura.
For this last refuge I have schemed, toil'd, borne,
And forborne,—check'd my passion, worn my thought,
Belied my nature! 'Twas my skill that foil'd
His lowly love for Florence.

LAURA.
Ha!—proceed.
He loved her! That I knew not—deem'd on him
She practised wiles. Thou said'st so.

SIR GEORGE.
No; their love
Bore a long date. One hour her coldness stung him,
I press'd the advantage; urged him by his honour
To ratify, in words, the vows his acts
Had pledged thee long before.

LAURA.
A worthy plot!
How feel'st thou, Sir? Elate? And here's the key
To Temple's change. His heart's remorse hath bred
This reveller's spirit in him. Worthy deed!

SIR GEORGE.
'Twas a base deed. I loathe it. Yet no choice
Between this secret shame, and infamy
For common eyes to gloat on! Yet not I
Alone sway'd Temple's mind. Perchance this rumour
That Florence's name too closely links with Thornton's
Had its effect.

LAURA.
How!

SIR GEORGE.
Know'st thou not 'tis said
He boasts another triumph in— (hesitating.)


LAURA.
Her shame!
The word is easy to pronounce; why pause?
Shame! shame! a very easy word. Oh! shame,
Shame on the villain; on his echo shame!

SIR GEORGE.
What I report I did not mean to vouch,
I do not pledge its truth.

LAURA.
Oh, do you not?
Except perhaps by silence. Who permits,
Authenticates a slander. Temple knew it!
I'll not believe he knew it. To the earth
He'd dashed the liar! Did she love for this?

SIR GEORGE.
You prate too much of love for one whose life
Hath made a jest of't.

LAURA.
And who taught me? Who
Ploughed up my generous shoots of early faith,
But could not mine their root; for know, my heart
Still cleaves to him you bade my lips disown.
You crush'd the flowers of life; behold its tares!
Its soil is vital and must quicken! You
Should not have said this.

SIR GEORGE.
But you'll sign this contract?

LAURA.
Never!

SIR GEORGE.
You'll see our father's name disgraced?

LAURA.
How flows
His blood in thee—heir of his name, not blood?
In me it speaks. I'd be an outcast, drudge,
Kiss Fortune's scourge, ere lock up in my heart
Such shame to him who gave it power to throb.

SIR GEORGE.
Now, sister, save me or destroy me! For
I will not live scorn's mark and finger point.
I will not—know me sister! Read my face!
I will not. So decide. (Going.)


LAURA.
Stay!

SIR GEORGE.
You require
An hour for thought, I give it.

[He goes out.
LAURA.
Oh, the strait
Where error drives us! Save a brother's fame
And life by shame! Not shame! Once Temple's wife,
I'd be so duteous, tender.—Ah, returns
The thought of Florence! Thrive upon the spoil
Torn from her breast! Not that! Still loves she him?
(With sudden resolution.)
I'll see her, prove her! If she love, I'm firm.

[She goes out.

SCENE II.

—MRS. DELMAR'S APARTMENT AS IN ACT I. AN APPEARANCE OF GREATER COMFORT AND PROSPERITY IS VISIBLE IN THE APARTMENT.
Walter, Mrs. Delmar and Florence.
MRS. DELMAR.

But child, you would make us so happy! At any
time this union should have delighted us. Now it
promises deliverance. What ribald tongue shall assail
thee when Walter's wife? You crush this calumny
when you wed him.

FLORENCE.

No, Mother! I divide it with him. I will never
wed with suspicion for my dowry.

WALTER.

To divide grief is the prerogative of Love. Annul
it, and you dethrone him.

FLORENCE.

All sovereigns have one monopoly. Love's is
sorrow.

MRS. DELMAR.

'Twill break thy heart. Thou hast not shed a tear
since that bitter night—

FLORENCE.

When my gay acquaintance stood aloof and I

became a solitude in a crowd. Nay, beloved, know
your Florence better. We give falsehood warrant,
suffering it to move us. We will not honour it by a
sigh.

WALTER.

Nor let it print its trace on our faces? Ah,
Florence!

FLORENCE.

Change and quiet—the soft air of the South will
restore me.

WALTER.

Oh Love, give me title to go with thee.

MRS. DELMAR.

Hear him, Florence;—for my sake! Thou canst
not harbour one thought of him thou hast renounced?
Nay, I would not pain thee! But think of Walter's
claims; I speak not of his genius, but of his goodness.
Has he not been faithful alike in trial and
success? Who recovered for us the rights which
fraud and power so long withheld? To whom do we
owe these comforts?

WALTER.

Plead not thus. Affection is a boon—not a debt.

FLORENCE.

He deserves more than I can give him—all the
heart.

MRS. DELMAR.
What would'st thou not do for him?

FLORENCE.
Pray for him, bless him, toil for him, die for him.

MRS. DELMAR.
This is caprice.
You bear him such regard, yet do not love him?

FLORENCE.
Oh! speech is poor to paint a difference
I feel so vast! Trust, honour, tenderness—
The all that friendship asks—compose not love!
Friendship still keeps distinction. Friends are twain,
But lovers one!
Friends are two kings in dear confederance join'd,
That still rule separate empires; but in love
Both realms united, take one name, one tongue,
One law, one faith, one consequence, one crown!
Friends are two banks a kindly stream divides;
Lovers—twin clouds into each other blent
And bath'd in the same beam. Friends are like trees
That stand with arms enlaced but parted roots;
But that we love is grafted on one stem,
Fed with our sap, and nurtur'd by our dews,
And wither'd in our blight!

WALTER.
True; let me pause.
The sun's eclipsed that woke to bursting flower
My passion's seeds and scorched it. Do I well
To hang a withered garland on this altar? (Aside.)

And yet my name would shield her.

MRS. DELMAR.
He awaits
Thy last resolve.

WALTER.
Not now; 'twere ill to stake
On one rash cast thy peace. What issue time
Shall prove thy weal—I will adopt my own.

FLORENCE
(taking his hand).
My dear—best—brother!

WALTER.

Contrast of life! Florence an outcast—Laura with
opinion for her slave. The oracle of the hour, the
dispenser of reputations—absolving or condemning by
a breath. How great her power! What wounds
might it heal. What wrongs redress. Why not
those of Florence, her childhood's friend? By Laura's
sanction innocence were cleared—malice confounded.
I will have audience of her. She may be moved to
see him who stood erect before her scorn—a suppliant
for another. (Aside.)
Hope, dear Florence—hope!

[He goes out.
Enter Attendant.
ATTENDANT.

A messenger, Madam, from Miss Hallerton; she
would know if your health and leisure permit you to
receive her. (To Florence.)

FLORENCE.

This is strange. (Aside.)
Request the messenger to
wait. I will speak with her. (Attendant goes out.)

MRS. DELMAR.

Insolent woman! Would she mock the victim of
her heartlessness? But you will not see her!

FLORENCE.

I will, dear Mother. Come—I'll show you reason
for it.

[They go out.

SCENE III.

—SIR GEORGE HALLERTON'S HOUSE IN LONDON.
Sir George Hallerton, Temple, Osborne and Thornton (at wine).
TEMPLE.
Thanks! Comrades! Thanks!

OSBORNE.
One brave libation's poured
In honour of his matchless lady—Laura!
Fill one to Temple! Come! Of Bacchus' car
The wheels should roll more glibly. Wine, George!

SIR GEORGE.
Nay;
In my dear sister's weal we pledge his own.

TEMPLE.
Out sorry host! Defraud'st me thus?

SIR GEORGE.
(aside).
I fear
Some evil issue to this mirth.

THORNTON.
I swear
Thou'st barter'd souls with Temple.

OSBORNE.
No; he feels
A brother's interest for our Vivian—mourns
That fickle Fortune frowned on him last night.
Take heart!

TEMPLE.
To-night I challenge her again.
How say you? A brave venture!

OSBORNE.
As you will.

TEMPLE.
Nay, I would stake against ye—star by star,
And beggar Heaven of all its shining wealth,
So ye dare match me!

SIR GEORGE.
Patience, Sir, be ruled.
How sits this humour with those graver ends
You late aspired to? You would serve, methought,
Your country's cause.

TEMPLE.
Pah! All men serve themselves.
King, country, friendship—coins of hypocrites!
We're selfish all.

SIR GEORGE.
Yet there's a selfish prudence
Which who neglects, forgets his very self.

TEMPLE.
A paradox! He who forgets his woe
Profits himself; and if himself be woe,
By self forgetting, doth advantage self!
Then hail oblivious wisdom! let me drain thee.

(He drinks.)
THORNTON.
A very sage!

OSBORNE
(to Sir George).
What canst thou answer, cynic?
Who's jilted thee? Why, say her heart's a maze.
Thornton shall teach thee how to thread it.

THORNTON.
Hold;
You bear too hardly on me.

OSBORNE.
Come! A toast.
Fair Florence Delmar! (To Thornton.)
Thou shalt speak her thanks
Whose lavish favours make thee deputy.

THORNTON
(smiling).
Oh base insinuator!

OSBORNE.
Nay, he knows
She did capitulate—yea, struck her flag,
Ere well he had laid siege.

SIR GEORGE.
Peace, Sir!

OSBORNE.
Tis true,
If vouchers given 'neath her own hand can prove it.

THORNTON
(affectedly).
They went not to that length.

TEMPLE.
What, Florence Delmar!
Go on—well?

SIR GEORGE.
Madman! Peace!

TEMPLE.
Go on! You say
That Florence Delmar—Oh, I choke! (aside)
You say—

THORNTON
(pointing to Osborne).
He says it, Sir!

TEMPLE.
Say it thyself.

THORNTON.
Not I.

TEMPLE
(starting up, and with sudden vehemence).
Unsay it, then! Or by the all-piercing ken
That sees the shudder of thy slanderous heart,
I'll strike thee, liar!

OSBORNE.
Friend, methinks your jest
Is hotly season'd!

TEMPLE.
Jest!—Take heed! I bid thee
Now—without pause, or moment's subterfuge,
Give thy black lie—the lie; that ere it breathe
To taint the air, it perish. Do it, lest
Confession lose its grace—compell'd, not given! (To Thornton).


THORNTON.
Rude man? I breathed no slander. How recal
The words I did not speak?

TEMPLE.
You did not speak!
Most true. Your mischief masks and walks o'nights!
Thou crawling slave! that spread'st for Virtue's feet
The net, but shunn'st her eye.

SIR GEORGE
(aside).
I dreaded this.
(Aloud.)
These are discourteous words.

TEMPLE.
They're honest words.
Dost thou rebuke them—thou, a brother; thou
Arrest the arm should shield thy Sister? Shame!

SIR GEORGE.
She needs no shield—He dares not—

TEMPLE.
Right! He dares not.
His shaft is aimed where fortune's flew before,
At one who hath no father, brother, friend!
Wrong'd, lonely, desolate! Ay, cringe!

OSBORNE
(to Thornton).
Thy blood
Is cool to brook this!

THORNTON.
Cringe to thee!

TEMPLE.
No, Sir!
To the pure excellence thy lips blaspheme—
The virgin loveliness that Providence—
Because it knew it holy—left defenceless,
But its white robes for armour! Gaze on that,
And, dazzled by its radiance, to the sense
Of thine own darkness, cringe, though not to me!

OSBORNE.
Hold, Sir! I make my own the indignity
You do my friend.

TEMPLE.
I do it not. I name it.
It is his own. The shame—the only shame—
We bear, is that we make. Hence, from my sight!
I do not lay thee prostrate, lest my hand
Should take contagion from an infamy
It cannot add to! (To Thornton.)


THORNTON.
You shall answer this.

OSBORNE.
No words, good Thornton, now! Your injury asks
A weightier chastisement. Your servant! Yet,
Reflect ere next you champion lady's fame,
You give not scandal pretext by desertion!

THORNTON.
A reckoning waits.

[Go out Thornton and Osborne.
SIR GEORGE.
I'll follow and appease them! (He follows them out.)


TEMPLE.
Truth! Truth! where was my title to redress
The virtue that I pierced? How dared I rage,
And ape the knightly frown?—I, from whose heel
Honour hath struck her spur!—Forsworn at heart!
Florence, thou art avenged! Her bonds are iron—
Iron that cankers—for whose sake I burst
Thy floral links of love. The fatal charm
Dissolves too late. The beauty which from far
Shone like a diamond crown—its summit won—
Proves but an ice-peak glittering in the sun!

[He goes out.

SCENE IV.

—MRS. DELMAR'S APARTMENT, AS BEFORE.
(Laura and Florence.)
LAURA.
She mentions not this slander. If unknown,
Oh, may she never know it; but defeat
Malice with ignorance. Now to test her love!
(Aside.)
Leave England, and no farewell words for friends!

FLORENCE.
Our journey's plan was sudden.

LAURA.
To forget
Thy friend at such a time too! No concern
Felt in her coming nuptials—question none
Whether her will goes with them!

FLORENCE.
Doubt of that
I trust were wrong to you.—She can't design
To mock me with her triumph. (Aside.)
And the happy
Need not be told their bliss.

LAURA.
Thou'rt sure I'm happy?

FLORENCE.
I'd think so.

LAURA.
Very happy!—On my brow
Shall the mine's planets cluster! Affluence
Shall make my whims despotic—luxury
Shall first exhaust my wants; then new create
To satisfy again. My rival's eyes
Shall be my splendour's mirrors. Who would pine
For husband's love whose liberal hand gives this.

FLORENCE.
For husband's love?

LAURA.
Or even waste a thought
On this unseemly change?

FLORENCE.
Change!

LAURA.
Ay; beyond
All precedent of metamorphosis.
A reveller who greets the amber dawn
With cheeks the midnight riot hath inflamed—

FLORENCE.
Why do you tell me this—why?

LAURA.
Nay, a gamester
Who squanders nightly at the feverish board
The wealth had smooth'd Care's rugged couch for years.

FLORENCE.
And you can speak it calmly?

LAURA.
I might grieve,
Could sorrow ought avail—ay, weep that lips
I once deemed tuned to virtue now should chime
In the dull scoffer's chorus.

FLORENCE.
Yet you wed?

LAURA.
The picture has its bright side—fortune, power.

FLORENCE.
Disgrace and guilt! I cannot fix the thought. (Aside).


LAURA.
Methinks you stint a bride-expectant's dues;
Congratulations, hopes!

(She rises and takes Florence by the hand.)
FLORENCE.
Farewell!

LAURA.
Farewell—
Thou wayward child! What would'st thou?

FLORENCE.
Madam, nothing.

LAURA.
Hast nought to ask—to utter—ere I go
Is there no boon? Well!

FLORENCE.
None. Yes, one thing—save him!
Oh, save him—save him!

(With sudden emotion as Laura is going.)
LAURA.
He's in peril then?

FLORENCE.
His heart—his peace are perilled!

LAURA
(tenderly).
If they be—
Such evils lie not in my scope of cure,
What can I do?

FLORENCE.
What do! What could'st thou not—
His honour for thine impulse—drain the wealth
Of all thy soul in gracious deeds to buy
His spirit's ransom? In thy nature shrine
So much of good that when he loves thee most
He needs must most love goodness for thy sake.
Desist not; faint not; for thy mighty prize
Count patience dross! Should he upbraid thee, hope!
Repel thee—hope! neglect thee—hope, still hope,
And with the tireless constancy of love
Knock at the sleeping virtue in his heart,
Till it awake and hail thee! Oh, be sure
Beauty less triumphs in a world of slaves
Than in one heart she raises and reclaims!

LAURA.
Yes, this is love! (Aside.)


FLORENCE.
Oh, did'st thou know, like me,
What lofty tones sleep in those chords which now
Harsh folly jars! If o'er his head had met
In one fell constellation all ill stars,
And poured at once their pitiless vials down—
Scorn, sickness, poverty—I could have borne it;
But thus in self degraded! Oh, what shame
Like that which cankers self respect! What death
Like that which sears the heart and makes the frame
An animated tomb!

LAURA.
Florence, I'll save him,
If there be power in effort!

FLORENCE.
Bless thee—bless thee!

(As Florence is about to kneel, Laura raises her to her bosom.)
LAURA.
'Tis I should kneel to thee, my friend—my sister!
Be withered hand ere falsely joined to his
Was pledged to hers. And yet a brother's ruin!
No other hope! (Aside.)
Sweet, we must meet again.
Thou'lt promise this?

FLORENCE.
I do.

LAURA.
Farewell!

FLORENCE.
Remember!

(Laura goes out. Florence sits as in abstraction.)