 | The Heart and the World |  |
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ACT V.
SCENE I.
—A ROOM IN SIR GEORGE HALLERTON'S TOWN HOUSE.Sir George Hallerton and Laura.
SIR GEORGE
(who embraces Laura as she kneels by his chair).
My more than sister! How shall I requite thee—
Snatched by thy rare devotion from disgrace?
My life—not words—must thank thee!
LAURA.
I have found
Again the generous strength whose visage care
Awhile obscured, the brother of my youth!
SIR GEORGE.
Thy rescued brother.
LAURA.
To the noble heart,
Which at my suit enlarged thee—not to me
Thy tribute pay. I could but tell thy strait,
Implore his aid, and frankly cry—thus do,
To save the brother of a maid who much
Hath trifled with thy peace, in wantonness
Feigning an unfelt love! Whereat at once,
His nature melted in a sudden gush,
He bathed my hands with his consenting tears
As if in asking, I had given a boon;
Nor knew I that this gracious succour came
From means so narrowed by that past excess
To which his misery drove him. (Enter Temple plainly attired.)
He is here.
So early!
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Friend, preserver! Oh, how well
Thou wear'st this princely sadness. Righteous Heaven,
Prosper the just man's cause!
TEMPLE.
Amen. Rest with you
The morning's freshness, madam!
SIR GEORGE.
Ere 'tis spent,
We must from hence. I'll bid prepare.
[He goes out.
LAURA.
Is't far
You ride to-day?
TEMPLE.
The journey's brief; but urgent.
LAURA.
Heaven have you in its keeping! In these tears
Read blessings for the brother you have saved.
Care and privation for his sake you bear—
TEMPLE.
Hush! To cause happiness—is happiness.
I'm thanked. And now? Speak—you divine my thought.
LAURA.
To-day she bids me farewell; nay, here's one
Precedes her with report.
(Enter Walter.)
What tidings, Walter?
How bears she up?
WALTER.
Too well. Though Folly jests, and envy smiles,
And Friendship leaned on—fails her, yet her heart,
This cruel siege is laid to—sounds without
No note of suffering.
LAURA.
Fain, would I hope
From her pure conscience she draws peace?
WALTER.
Alas!
Our peace takes rise in conscience, but round love
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These rudely wrenched away, its branch forlorn
Trails earth though never taint hath touched its root!
LAURA.
Too true. I cannot speak of this and keep
The strength I need. Haste, gentle friend! Conduct
This injured patience hither. Bring her straight.—
Your glance surprised would question of my guest.
Let that name sleep till your return, beseech you!
(In a lower voice apart to Walter. He goes out.)
Devoted heart! That Florence should reject
The solace of such love!
TEMPLE.
His love!—Repulsed?
LAURA.
She'd have the cloud of her imputed guilt
Rest on herself alone, and fears to taint
A pure repute by linking it with hers.
TEMPLE.
Peace, stifling heart; rejoice—thou may'st aspire!
(Aside.)
And the sole bar is this?
LAURA.
Her name redeemed,
She's free to yield her heart.
TEMPLE.
She shall be free,
Or I not live.
LAURA.
Then must thou evidence
To all, her innocence—“unwind the web
“Of meaning looks construed by rancorous hearts,
“Of harmless looks rehearsed in guilty tones,
“Of accidents that when converged around
“A central malice seem intents, of hints
“All substance when they strike, alas, all shade
“When we'd repel!” From that safe boaster,
Thornton—
How win or force confession?
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Will and faith
Do much in any war. Till next we meet
Trust in them. 'Tis thy brother's step; he seeks me.
LAURA.
You cause the trust you counsel.
[She goes out.
TEMPLE.
He shall wed her.
Oh, sacrifice, how thou dost strengthen souls!
(Enter Sir George.)
How! overcast?
SIR GEORGE.
Is not my friend in peril?
My true, proved friend?
TEMPLE.
Discern'st thou in my look
Aught that's akin to peril?
SIR GEORGE.
There I read
Alone thy quarrel's justice—
TEMPLE.
And event.
[They go out.
SCENE II.
—A GARDEN WALK FRONTING THORNTON'S HOUSE. THE WALK LAID OUT IN THE FRENCH MANNER.Enter Osborne and Thornton.
OSBORNE.
I tell you freely, in a man less known
By daring and adventure, this forbearance
Had been translated—fear.
THORNTON.
Old fellowship
May tolerate a moment's choleric heat.
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Your courage hath been proved, Sir, yet such weight
In pity's balance cast—makes honour's tremble;
Words fraught with such indignity—
THORNTON.
A wrong
That's dead—why bury it! (Impatiently.)
Those burning words
Have passed into my blood, and at its core
Cankered my manhood! (Aside.)
OSBORNE.
Nay; perhaps you're right:
The lady's beauty scarcely merited,
The blazonry of argent steel and hue
Of life-blood for a field in gules. A month
Hath withered all her freshness, from her limbs
Stolen the free roundness, from her cheek the bloom.
THORNTON.
Cease! Cease, I'm weary. All this wreck is mine.
What devil haunts me, whispering—Perjurer,
Thy victim perishes. I meant not that.
Hers was the only voice that made me feel
As once I felt in childhood. (Aside.)
OSBORNE.
Come! I'll wager—
Now listen, man!
THORNTON.
Provoke me not! Beware.
OSBORNE.
For my own sake I shall, for truly
I doubt the wisdom leaves a man at large
Prone to these strange distempers.
THORNTON.
I'll from town—
Its stifling streets, and dusty Mall at once—
This very day!
OSBORNE.
That's madder still. Leave town
When Fashion's at her solstice and when Cynthia—
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Pah!
Enter Temple and Sir George.
Who intrudes? This honour's unexpected.
TEMPLE.
Perhaps unwelcome.
THORNTON.
Plainly, Sir, you find me
Upon the eve of travel, and encumber'd
With all a journey's cares.
TEMPLE.
There's one incumbrance
From which I'd free you ere you start—a weight
Change throws not off nor time accommodates.
THORNTON.
Having small leisure, may I ask its name?
TEMPLE.
The weight of a bad conscience.
THORNTON.
You'd spared pains
Had you made sure, before you proffered help,
That I required it. Sirs, your servant! (Going.)
TEMPLE.
Stay!
Our cause needs help though yours disdains it. Sir,
A pure and lovely maid hath been traduced—
Less by the tongue than specious smiles, asides,
And telegraphic glances, add to which
False letters counterfeiting her fair hand,
Or falsely gained if real. We'd help this maiden.
THORNTON.
Dare you suspect me—
SIR GEORGE.
On strong grounds.
THORNTON.
Proof! proof!
TEMPLE.
Take this. You're what is called a gallant man,
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Some days since, I assailed you with a scorn
Brave men as little brook as blows. How comes it
That I am unchastised? It was no awe
Of me unnerved your arm; 'twas awe of truth!
OSBORNE.
Your lenity's reward! (To Thornton.)
THORNTON.
The tenderness
Men owe to ladies' fame may sometimes pinion
The arm that else would punish.
TEMPLE.
I am sorry
To find you still a braggart.
OSBORNE.
Soon thy sword
Will leap out of itself. (To Thornton.)
THORNTON.
Who heard me boast
This lady's favour? Or if 'twere assumed,
Proves that her kindness gave not— (hesitates.)
TEMPLE.
License? No!
Thou didst not say it. Look in my face and say it,
And I'll believe thee. I am glad you're dumb.
Your lip, though used to defamation, gasps
At this last master-lie. Come! your confession.
THORNTON.
You know, Sir, what restrains me. (Turns to go.)
TEMPLE.
Penitent,
I would have called thee; but must call thee—coward!
OSBORNE.
Out with thy weapon, if thou would'st not have
Me turn and echo—Coward!
THORNTON
(drawing).
Take your ground.
(They fight; Thornton, with desperation. After a few passes he is disarmed.)
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Recal thy sword.
I would not hurry thee across the verge
That makes remorse too late. Take back thy sword,
Grasp it like rescued honour, save even now,
Compunction move thee to avow thy guilt,
And lay thy slander bare. I pause a moment.
THORNTON.
Confess, and brand my name with infamy. (Aside.)
(He raises his arm as if to re-engage; then drops it irresolutely, and turns to Osborne.)
A mist's before mine eyes; let me lean on thee.
(Osborne regards him with disdain.)
TEMPLE.
A recreant's arm mates with a slanderer's tongue.
(To Sir George.)
SIR GEORGE.
True; vice indeed looks abject, but yet spare him.
(Arresting Temple's arm.)
TEMPLE.
Confess!—Mark that averted head.
SIR GEORGE.
Yet, spare him.
TEMPLE
(struggling with Sir George).
Spare—to thy guard!—spare—on what plea? The wretch
Who spoils thy substance, or lets out thy life,
Dwells mountains nearer heaven than he who creeps
Through open doors of trust to virtue's side,
And stabs her in the darkness with a lie
That hath all poison's pangs but not its mercy—
It racks, corrodes, and blasts, but does not kill.
Free me—thou block'st the lightning's passage. Way!
(Bursting from Sir George.
Up to thy guard!
(After a pause, casting away his sword, as by a sudden impulse.)
No need, I bid thee live;
There lies my sword. (Grasping Thornton's arm.)
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Around thy brow, is the young day's pure breath;
Live—through yon azure screen pierce myriad eyes
Of holy watchers; “live—the calm fair earth
“That bears thee up, solds in its silent womb
“The dead of ages!” Live—and if the life
New-leased from heaven, thou in its very face,
Dar'st—as thou hast done—to vile ends profane,
Do, DO!
(Thornton drops his sword.)
But, oh! if thou would'st live,
There yet is time, honoured and blest of men,
By thine own heart acquitted—now, confess,
Blot out, atone thy guilt; and I, to whom
Thou late didst sue for being, at thy feet
Will fall, acknowledging a thrice-paid debt.
That letter?
THORNTON.
I confess—by chance obtained,
Then used to serve a guilty boast.
TEMPLE.
Proceed.
THORNTON.
Within,
The whole will I set down and testify.
Oh, hide me earth! My cup of shame is full!
OSBORNE.
Farewell, Sir! after this we meet no more.
TEMPLE.
How, Osborne! Mate thee with the criminal,
And shun the penitent? Oft the world's way—
Be it not thine. My hand, Sir. Osborne, yours!
(Osborne gives his hand to Thornton.)
Florence, I fly to bind thy breaking heart,
And though its pulses throb for me no more,
'Tis fortune past desert to make thee happy. (Aside)
(To Thornton.)
Come, on thee smiles the sun approvingly;
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And feel thou hast the right. Come, Thornton, come!
[They go out.
SCENE III.
—SIR GEORGE HALLERTON'S TOWN HOUSE.Florence (seated), Laura and Walter.
LAURA.
Dost thou not speak to friends?
WALTER.
You clasp our hands
In token of assent, and yet refuse
The rights of friendship—trust and sympathy.
FLORENCE.
Sympathy soothes complaint, and I complain not.
WALTER.
Thou dost; such silence more than words complains.
FLORENCE.
The grief that words can ease no solace needs,
The grief they cannot—finds none.
WALTER.
Yes, they vent
The tide that else might burst its flood-gates.
FLORENCE.
Ay;
They burst at last!
LAURA.
Oh, give thy sorrow way,
If not for thy relief, to vindicate
Thine innocence by protest. This harsh world
Mistakes the patience at its bar for guilt,
And oft confirms the wrong that silence suffers.
FLORENCE.
I disavow the court; it first creates
The lie on which it next assumes to judge.
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Poisoning the silence it disdains to break,
The glance that stabs in pity, and the forms
That swerve aside to let contagion pass!
LAURA.
Thou shalt have justice.
FLORENCE.
All shall. But, thou—Heaven,—
Whence souls inherit virtue, lift up mine
To confront wrong with dumbness till the hour
When man's impeachments stand themselves impeached
At thy great audit! (Rising.)
WALTER.
Laura, I could think,
Thus gazing in thine orbs, which tenderness
Softens, not dims—the perfect dream restored
Of my past worship. (Apart to her.)
LAURA.
Were it happiness
For you to deem so?
WALTER.
Life could ask no more
So she might share it.
LAURA.
Leave us now. Yet stay! (In a louder voice.)
A welcome errand waits you. Bear this letter
To Vivian Temple's lodgings. 'Tis from one
He hath redeemed from shame, from worse—the guilt
That is shame's source.
WALTER.
This Temple's deed!
LAURA.
A marvel,
Yet give it welcome. You shall after learn
How he whose lapse we mourned hath so retrieved it,
That all his clouding errors are but foils
To brighten his repentance.
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Can it be?
LAURA.
Accept the wonder for the joy comes with it.—
Now leave us, do not speak, you see she's moved.
(Apart to him. Walter goes out.)
FLORENCE
(who, after regarding LAURA intently for some moments, rises and approaches her.)
Now Laura! Is this true?
LAURA.
You speak of Temple.
Whate'er he was, he is what women deem
The men they love should be. 'Tis just to say so,
Though I, perverse, discard him.
FLORENCE.
Do not mock me.
You could not look upon me thus and mock me!
Now, answer.
LAURA.
As I live my words are true.
FLORENCE.
Thanks! How I love thee, Laura. Thanks!
LAURA.
For what?
FLORENCE.
For bliss I had paid life for with a smile,
My gain so vast! He is restored to honour,
Virtue, and good men's blessings.
LAURA.
I rejoice
To see this ardour and yet tremble too,
'Tis born so suddenly.
FLORENCE.
Thy news was sudden—
A sun without a dawn, that lit at once
My midnight world with glory. Ah, no breath
Of slander pitiless can freeze that joy,
No failing strength impair it!
LAURA.
By this rapture,
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Would'st bid him rise, thy chosen!
FLORENCE.
Never, Laura;
Never, my friend.
LAURA.
Then why this transport?
FLORENCE.
Why!
Does love whose life is in its current, pause
For flowery banks to flow in? Count me not
So poor I cannot in the good rejoice
I do not share. No; when, as it shall do,
The world grows proud of him, and in Time's march
He moves triumphant, followed by acclaim—
I may not bind the garland on his brow,
Nor travel at his side; but I may catch—
Far off in my lone life's sequestered haunt—
A note from the full anthem of his praise,
And bless the heavens for him!
LAURA.
Oh, could he hear thee!
FLORENCE.
Ere he should know the love this heart conceals,
This heart should break. His own was never mine,
Save in a dream of impulse.
LAURA.
Thine it was;
It is thine only. Nay, I'll prove— (Enter an Attendant)
Your news?
(She speaks to him apart, dismisses him, and returns to Florence.)
We're interrupted. Sweet, awhile retire
Till I dismiss these comers, for I know
It is grief's instinct to shun scrutiny.
The library! Await my coming there.
(Florence goes out. As Laura, who conducts her to the door, again comes forward, enter hastily, Temple, Sir George, and Walter.)
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I bade thee trust in will and faith!
LAURA.
They conquer?
TEMPLE.
The record. Does it dazzle thee with joy? (Presenting papers.)
SIR GEORGE.
Thank Temple solely for this happiness.
LAURA.
Quick with these tidings to the library!
You'll find her there whom chiefly they concern.
(Apart to Walter, who goes out, followed by Sir George.)
The charter of new life! Her name redeemed—
And by your act?
TEMPLE.
The stainless innocence
Which ne'er did voucher need to those who knew her
Shines manifest to all. You hold the proofs
Subscribed by him who wronged her—now repentant.
LAURA.
I thank you for her; but so deep a debt
Should her own lips acknowledge.
TEMPLE.
Spare me, Madam.
A debt to me! Oh, my unworthiness
Had gained too dear a boon if by my life
One gleam of joy the more might brighten hers.
(The library door opens, and discovers Sir George, Walter, and Florence, who holds the papers in her hand.)
FLORENCE.
Credentials of my honour—borne by him!
Nay—let me pass. (Advancing.)
WALTER
(restraining her.)
Nay; they're in earnest converse.
LAURA.
You love her, yet?
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As deeply as I pray
A purer love may bless her. Florence, Heaven
Sow all thy path with joys as dear as thou
To eyes that fear to lose thee; be thy tears
But dews to nurture peace, and from its depths,
Life's roughest sea sweep jewels to thy feet!
FLORENCE,
Of me he speaks—of me! (Again advancing.)
WALTER.
Be patient still.
LAURA.
You'll see her then—at least to say farewell?
TEMPLE.
See her! ay, while the heart hath sight, or memory
The power to bless that sight with what it loves;
But no more face to face. I've too much wronged her
To bear—or hope it. You, my friend, will speak
For me these parting words. Say that I sought
Her pardon and her blessing—that I bear
Her memory for my banner. It shall never—
No never, stoop to shame!—You'll tell her this—
And—
LAURA.
Do you weep?
TEMPLE.
Ah, now I feel 'twere bliss
Could I but hear her say—thou art forgiven!
She would not scorn my penitence.
FLORENCE.
Oh, free me! (Bursting from Walter.)
No! no—
She would not, could not, does not, Vivian—No!
She honours—thanks thee.
TEMPLE.
Florence! (He kneels.)
FLORENCE.
Still he loves me. (Apart.)
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There's not an accent but my heart shall hoard,
And live upon its echoes when we part! (Rising.)
LAURA.
Part! What a word for lovers.
FLORENCE.
Vivian,
Is it your will we part?
TEMPLE.
My will!
LAURA.
His will!
FLORENCE.
A word, a sign,—thou lovest me?
TEMPLE.
Do I dream!
Give not my hopes a taste of bliss which lost,
Scorning all meaner nourishment, they starve.
Fate's in your breath; pause ere you speak—I love thee!
FLORENCE.
Then what shall part us? When I wept thy fall,
I clung to what thou wert—the very tomb
Of thy dead faith more precious than the life
Of any meaner joy! and now my soul
Hails her reviving trust as from the grave,
What, what shall part us?
TEMPLE.
To my breast! (They embrace.)
Cling—cling!
And art thou in his arms whose lips should kiss
The dust thy steps make holy? Yet I deemed
This hand was pledged unto a worthier mate.
LAURA.
A pet device I plotted to disclose
The depths of love which—hoping no reward,
Wrought for thee as if worlds repaid success.
(To Florence.)
See, Sir! The hand you thought was knit to hers
Claims only mine and takes from lowliness
The faith which splendour dizzied.
(Gives her hand to Walter.)
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'Twas a fall
Whose end was dignity.
SIR GEORGE.
Repented error
Is virtue fortified.
LAURA.
Why here's a tale
Strange as thou e'er didst set to idle song.
FLORENCE.
Call it not idle. There's no faith expressed
By bard, but seeks for home the human breast.
Tis in the heart the loveliest shapes Ideal
Demand their shrine. The good man makes them Real—
Does deeds with Poetry's bright impulse rife,
And makes the Dreams of Fancy—Truths of Life!
CURTAIN FALLS.
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