University of Virginia Library

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.

OSBORNE.
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—

THORNTON.
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,
One who permits no wrong, foregoes no right.
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.)
TEMPLE.
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.)

Live man—the gale that plays
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;
A day draws near thou shalt return his glance,
And feel thou hast the right. Come, Thornton, come!

[They go out.