University of Virginia Library

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.
I know its penalties;—the lip of scorn
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.

WALTER.
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,
Thou surely lov'st him; were he at thy knee,
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.)
TEMPLE.
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?

TEMPLE.
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.)


TEMPLE.
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.)
WALTER.
'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!