 | The Heart and the World |  |
ACT I.
SCENE I.
—A ROOM IN SIR GEORGE HALLERTON'S TOWN HOUSE.Sir George Hallerton and Transit.
SIR GEORGE
(rising hastily and casting papers to his steward).
No matter! It must be done, my station—my very
credit depend upon it. What can you suggest?
TRANSIT.
Alas! Sir, our resources are exhausted.
SIR GEORGE.
Nay, one remains. Degrading expedient! A prodigal
becomes twice a beggar; when necessity has
seized his fortunes, how often must he pawn conscience
for a full acquittance!
(Aside.)
I tell you, Sir,
these are debts of honour that cannot stand without
disgrace.
TRANSIT.
Sir George, I lament your position.
SIR GEORGE.
You lament it! Show me how to escape from it.
To true wit difficulty is not the curb, but the spur.
What's a brain that's baffled by a crisis?
TRANSIT.
The quickest wit, Sir, is still debtor to opportunity.
The very fox has his chance from the huntsmen; but,
here the hounds are on us before we start!
SIR GEORGE.
Reserve your smartness. Five years ago, I was a
man of feeling and principle;—nay, marked for distinction;
master. Now! (Aside.)
There's my Irish timber?
TRANSIT.
Felled, Sir, to the last tree.
SIR GEORGE.
My Yorkshire lands?
TRANSIT.
Mortgaged to the furthest acre.
SIR GEORGE.
You deliver yourself pungently. Begone! Take
with thee, those detestable remembrancers. That
doleful face might illustrate the Bankrupt's Gazette.
Begone, Sir!
[Transit goes out.
SIR GEORGE.
Ruin and disgrace so near, and but one alternative!
Bitter need; yet being need, I will embrace it. My
sister shall marry this wealthy prodigy,—Temple.
Though obscure, he is well derived; and, thanks to
that Crœsus uncle who through life denied him assistance,
endowed with princely revenues. As yet, undisciplined
to artificial life, his romantic nature has
already piqued Laura's ambition. Though impulsive
and enthusiastic, he is, if I err not, vain and aspiring;
—cannot long resist her captivation. Yet, should she
in the end discard him, as is her custom with the
subdued vassals of her beauty? That must be looked
to. I fear she yet retains too tender a recollection of
the penniless student whom I compelled her to dismiss.
Psha! 'Tis my will that Temple wed her. On
such a bride the settlements should be munificent—
the pin-money itself a fortune; once secure in her
affluence, 'twere but sisterly duty to apply it to a
brother's rescue.
Enter Osborne, Thornton, and Temple.
OSBORNE.
Nay, faith, he shall hear all! I cannot teach him,
Sir George, the art of declining an inconvenient acquaintance.
We met an insolent fellow who, on the
ago, presumed to accost him on the open Mall.
THORNTON.
One Ashbrooke, who labours under the delusion
that he can make the world wiser. You patronised him
I think for a week in the country.
(He sits.)
SIR GEORGE.
An amiable visionary.
THORNTON.
He believes in patriotic ministers, constant women,
and other mythological traditions
(languidly).
OSBORNE.
Positive derangement! Why is he at liberty?
THORNTON.
Because the lunacy's harmless. The mania of philanthropy
is fatal to none but its possessor.
OSBORNE.
Such men are curious relics of past barbarism; but
as for these days, odsbud, even Temple blushed to
encounter him!
TEMPLE.
He detected me in your company.
OSBORNE.
You improve. But this Ashbrooke—
TEMPLE.
Is as generous and high-hearted as your estimate of
him is unworthy and absurd. The circle that disclaims
him, loses more in his one omission than it
possesses in its whole combination. His wisdom is
only unappreciated because—I mean—that is—Sir!
OSBORNE.
Your elocution's passable; but you commence in
too high a key. Come! you are ready to laugh at
your own folly.
THORNTON.
From what obsolete writer did you extract your
matter?
Prithee in what century did he flourish?
TEMPLE.
Sir, I will not suffer—
OSBORNE.
Mark now the contest between the fire in his eye,
and the laugh that already quivers on his lip! Faith,
thou shalt laugh. A man of thy condition! Fashion's
most promising neophyte! That under lip positively
twitches. Nay, give way!
(Laughter, in which Temple faintly joins.)
TEMPLE.
What spell is this that degrades me against my
will?
(Aside.)
SIR GEORGE.
This man is not proof against ridicule. He would
be a hero without the risk of becoming a martyr.
(Aside.)
OSBORNE
(to Temple).
Come! take heart; I shall see thee a Man of Quality
yet. Here's Thornton—my specimen pupil—who under
my tutorage has graduated to the rank of Doctor Doctissimus
in the College of Love. The list of his victims
is—pardon me—nearly as long as that of your creditors.
(to Sir George.)
THORNTON.
Now you afflict me. How have I incurred these
imputations?
OSBORNE.
You may go through his triumphs alphabetically,
from A—Amarylla, to Z—Zephyrina. Would'st deny
it?
THORNTON.
Get thee hence for a scandal-monger.
OSBORNE.
Scandal, is't? Zephyrina frowns then!
THORNTON.
Thou art ever in ambush for a weakness;—a
moving Gazette of Frailty. Fie! Fie!
(drawing Temple aside.)
To what a pass has refinement brought us. Your
gallant of last century was never weary of reporting
his successes. Our ingenious Lotharios publish
their victories by disclaimers; and ruin innocence by
affecting to shield it.
TEMPLE.
As Thornton's friend, you should not—even in jest—
accuse him of such infamy.
OSBORNE.
Infamy! Such immoderate epithets distress me.
TEMPLE.
What softer appellation do you give to vice?
OSBORNE.
Vice, Sir, is—ill-breeding. Vice is the raw, coarse
material of character. Virtue—the delicate fabric
wrought out of it. As there are reptiles offensive to
the eye, which your French cook converts into a bait
for the epicure; so the deed which shocks you in the
clown, becomes an elegant accomplishment in the man
of fashion, and gives a zest to polite society.
TEMPLE.
And this is its morality?
OSBORNE.
Do not rail at it. 'Tis a pleasant code. Nay, here
comes one who might reconcile it to a cynic.
(Enter Laura.)
Thou art touched! Eh?
TEMPLE.
His very praise seems to profane her beauty. She
is indeed peerless!
(Aside.)
LAURA.
Fortune is kind to-day. I desired your judgment on
a bijou I am about to add to my cabinet—The Graces
from the Antique.
(To Temple.)
TEMPLE.
I should be unjust—I could not resist.
(Confused.)
I fear I should contrast them with a model more
perfect than the Sculptor's.
He does credit to his preceptor.
THORNTON.
Less effort. Your compliment should glide on the
stream of discourse to the feet of your charmer. To
labour is to ply your oars unskilfully, and to dash the
spray in her face.
(Apart to Temple.)
LAURA.
I rate, Sir, your courtesy at its worth. You had
been no less obliging to the cynosure of last night's
masquerade.
THORNTON.
The fair unknown, about whom the world so unreasonably
went mad?
OSBORNE.
The symmetry of a may-pole!
THORNTON.
The grace of a hoyden!
TEMPLE.
I never witnessed a more enchanting manner.
(Aside.)
She's web-footed—is she not?
THORNTON.
Round-shouldered I'm sure she is.
LAURA.
And yet, they say she had many men of undoubted
fashion at those web-feet of hers.
THORNTON.
No doubt; she wore diamond buckles in her shoes.
LAURA.
True; then her courtesy in the minuet.
OSBORNE.
As though she went on wires.
LAURA.
So.
(Caricatures a courtesy.)
THORNTON.
And her laugh!
LAURA.
A scream in hystericks. Ha, ha, ha!
(Laughs in mimicry.)
To the life!
THORNTON.
'Twas discreet in her to wear her mask all night.
LAURA.
You are right.
OSBORNE.
Then the vulgar ostentation of her bracelet!
THORNTON.
Monstrous ill chosen.
LAURA.
No, there I protest! Say what you will of myself;
but do not—do not calumniate my bracelet!
(Draws it from her reticule, and clasps it on her arm.)
THORNTON, OSBORNE.
(Simultaneously.)
Yours!—You the incognita!
LAURA.
Has flattery no blush?
OSBORNE.
Hem! But, Madam, your face was concealed by
your mask. Can you wonder that we should judge
blindly of beauty when its sun was under an eclipse?
LAURA.
Does the ornament become my arm?
(To Temple.)
TEMPLE.
In truth, lady, not more so than that simple ruffle.
LAURA.
My ruffle! 'Tis the work of a delicate hand. To
be serious—the history of this little ruffle has much
moved and interested me. 'Twas wrought for my
milliner by a noble girl whose mother some months
since, by the death of her husband, and the delay and
expense of an unjust law-suit, has been suddenly reduced
from a modest competence, to extreme destitution.
Her daughter—the child of a merchant residing
in the country, was admitted to be the frequent companion
of my girlhood.
Your tale interests me much.
LAURA.
If inferior in position to her friend—'twas but
another proof that the law of fortune is not that of
desert. There are few whom I have more esteemed
and regarded than Florence Delmar.
TEMPLE.
Florence Delmar!
(Aside.)
Did you say Florence
Delmar?
LAURA.
You would remember her name. You feel for her
reverses. Perhaps, he may aid her.
(Aside).
I became
but yesterday, and by mere chance, apprised
of her misfortunes. She shall not want a home while
mine can shelter her. I have invited her to our country
place, which you and our friends here, have promised
to honour shortly with your presence. My guests
will respect her for my sake.
(With emphasis.)
TEMPLE.
Respect her! Destitute, did you say?—Heartless
and thoughtless! that my sudden elevation, these frivolous
scenes, and—shall I own it—the artificial charm
of town beauty should have induced me to neglect her!
Desert her in misfortune! Her pure image rises before
me in tender reproachfulness. I will break through
this false enchantment. I will find out her abode.
Every moment's delay upbraids me.
(Aside.)
LAURA.
He is given to these reveries.
(Aside.)
TEMPLE.
In town! the cause of her silence is explained.
(Aside.)
Farewell, Miss Hallerton; I have just recalled
urgent business. Sir George, good morning!
LAURA.
You will visit our poor rout to-night?
TEMPLE.
I fear that pleasure will be denied me.
Or superseded by a greater?
TEMPLE.
Yes, no!—I did not mean—
LAURA
(piqued).
Do not retract, Sir. I like honesty. Yet I had
counted on you.
TEMPLE.
She is offended.
(Aside.)
My affairs are most pressing.
(He bows.)
THORNTON.
What abrupt whim is this?
(Apart to Osborne.)
OSBORNE.
We must discover. Stay, Vivian, our roads lie together.
We were about to move.
(Temple goes out.)
What haste! Till to-night, madam, yours in loyalty;
till to-night, George.
(Osborne and Thornton follow
Temple out.)
SIR GEORGE.
So, fair sister, your favourite courtier seems disposed
to rebellion.
LAURA.
My sovereignty can suffer little from his defection.
(She sits.)
SIR GEORGE.
Of that, you can best judge. In your empire, rebellion
is at least a novelty. I always thought your new subject
would prove intractable.
LAURA.
'Tis five o'clock, Sir George.
SIR GEORGE.
Five o'clock! Twilight follows on the heels of
daybreak. I commend you to your councils with your
milliner.
[Sir George goes out.
LAURA.
And time flies with him. With me, how tardily it
creeps. Yes! in spite of admiration and success, I am
oppressed by the tedium of existence. It might have
been otherwise. The fondest dream of my heart
But why invoke the remembrance that tortures?
Life must have occupation. (Rising.)
I will bring
this stubborn Temple to his knee,—extort from him
the homage he alone withholds. I will outshine myself
to-night; enchain the free; and rivet anew the
fetters of the bound. And now to prepare for the
pageant. (She goes out.)
SCENE II.
—AN APARTMENT, NEAT, BUT POORLY FURNISHED, IN THE SUBURBS OF LONDON.Walter Ashbrooke; and Mrs. Delmar, who walks anxiously to the window.
WALTER
(laying aside a book).
Dear Aunt, I am persuaded of her safety. So long
an absence but proves that her noble efforts have succeeded.
MRS. DELMAR.
'Tis already dusk, and she alone in this vast and
heartless city! 'Twill soon be deep night. She promised
to return in an hour.
WALTER.
And declined my escort. She has of late been jealous
of her solitude.
MRS. DELMAR.
She fears to intrude on your studies. You apply
yourself too closely, dear Walter. Your cheek loses
its freshness; your step its firmness. And after all
what avails thy toil?
WALTER.
To prompt high aims; to comfort sorrow; to cherish
love.
MRS. DELMAR.
So unfortunate; yet so hopeful.
WALTER.
I have my griefs; but the life that may serve others
world always neglect its benefactors. How happy,
dear Aunt, should my success aid the amelioration
of our fortunes! The same costly barrier of law
withstands at present the assertion of our common
rights. But, fear not.
MRS. DELMAR.
'Tis the motto of youth. What can detain thy
cousin? Heaven preserve her. 'Twas a sin to repine
at poverty while so dear a treasure was left me. Did
I lose her! Hush! Ah, the music of that footfall—
'tis she! Thank God!
Enter Florence.
FLORENCE.
Dear Mother! dear Walter! how dark; you flit
before me like shadows. But my heart will guide me
to your arms.
(She embraces Mrs.
Delmar. Lights
are placed on the table.)
FLORENCE
(as she lays aside her hat and mantle).
Come! ask the result of my travels. Do not fear;
Providence has blessed us, my Mother!
(Giving a
purse.)
Take this; it contains two of the brightest
guineas. Their burnished faces seemed to smile on
me, as if they knew the happiness they brought.
Throughout the winter and the spring I may hope to
dispose of all my embroidery. On Tuesday, I am to
receive the price of my sketches. Have we not cause
for gratitude?
MRS. DELMAR.
And all this gained by thy toil and humility! My
cherished one; so softly tended! Ah, amidst all my
thankfulness, the pang of necessity wounds me through
thee!
FLORENCE.
Do not say so. I could bless the trials that permit
me, not to repay, but acknowledge thy love. And our
horizon clears. Hope and affection convert labour into
delight. Do they not, Walter? Dear Mother, we'll
have our old Grange back again yet. We shall again
column-like, sustaining their dome of emerald. On
winter nights thine antique chair shall yet stand in its
dark brightness, by the hearth, round which shall
gather our dear, familiar friends.
MRS. DELMAR.
Friends! You forget, child, that we are fallen.
FLORENCE.
Our fortunes are, not we.
MRS. DELMAR.
'Tis the same thing in the great world.
FLORENCE.
The great world's then too narrow for me to breathe in.
WALTER.
So say I! How true are the instincts of her heart!
(Aside.)
FLORENCE.
You wrong our friends, dear Mother. But this
morning how kind a greeting came from Laura
Hallerton: how warm a welcome to her country home.
I must prize her kindness, though I cannot use it.
Generous Laura! You knew her, Walter?
WALTER.
Knew her. Ah, would that I had never known her,
or knowing, could forget. Yes, I knew her!
(Aside.)
MRS. DELMAR.
Accept her hospitality. For thy sake, I'd have it
proved that we are not entirely abandoned. Stay!—
Thou must not go. By report she's much changed,
and I would not have thee meet one who, 'tis said,
frequents her house.
FLORENCE.
Oh, she would entertain none whom you would have
me avoid.
MRS. DELMAR.
One 'twould pain thee to meet.
FLORENCE.
Her name? or his name?
I am loath to name him.
FLORENCE.
One 'twould pain me to meet!
MRS. DELMAR.
Yes; he who forgets in fortune's promotion, the
vows of his obscurity. Thou knowest now.
FLORENCE
(hesitating).
No,—dear Madam—no.
MRS. DELMAR.
Plainly then I speak of Vivian Temple.
FLORENCE.
Do not judge him harshly. He has not heard of
our reverses.
MRS. DELMAR.
Nor sought to hear.
FLORENCE.
Is this just? He cannot have heard!
(Aside.)
Consider the rapid change in his affairs; the thousand
occupations it brought; his absence from England;
the sudden calamities which drove us from our country
home. He needs but to be reminded.
MRS. DELMAR.
Ah! my child,—he who must be reminded of thy
affection never deserved it.
FLORENCE.
My affection!
MRS. DELMAR.
For months his whole life was a protest of his own.
FLORENCE.
Of his friendship!
MRS. DELMAR.
Friendship!
He trifled with thy love—
FLORENCE.
You do not know him!
MRS. DELMAR.
He coldly trifled—
Mother!
MRS. DELMAR.
Basely!
FLORENCE
(much moved).
No!
Have I deserved this?
MRS. DELMAR.
I was rash;—and yet
What tells the earnest pleading of thy look?
FLORENCE.
He of our past was part. We knew him, Mother,
Ere care had warned our joy, it was but brief.
We knew him, honour'd him, admir'd—
MRS. DELMAR.
And lov'd!
FLORENCE.
Say loved! Ah, let us never deem that friend
Link'd with those early memories, can forsake!
Wer't so—I would not know it. Oh! to breathe
Coldly the name lips of their freight o'er proud,
Could scarcely falter once;—to see the face
Once with such radiance bright, Thought turned to seek
Relief from light's excess, to blankness wane—
Pluck up such early trust!—If it must die
Let it fade slowly—wither leaf by leaf,
And tint by tint; but let no cruel hand
Tear from the heart the root of its best bliss—
The faith that grows in childhood!
MRS. DELMAR.
Is the hand
Cruel, my child, that but unveils delusion?
FLORENCE.
Oh! blest is the delusion that still trusts
Though in a phantom;—and the truth accurs'd,
That wakes us to exclaim, “'Twas all a dream!”
—Mother, forgive this!
(Taking Mrs. Delmar's hand.)
MRS. DELMAR.
Sweet, be calm.
I will.
The true ne'er cause regret; the false deserve none.
I'm calm—My frame—where laid I it?—'Tis here.
(She takes her frame, sits, and commences her work.)
WALTER
(after a pause, to MRS. DELMAR),
Mark you? Her thought and eye are far apart.
Her glance would feign intentness on her task—
Denies her bidding oft to read the air.
See how her hand—its purpose midway lost—
Suspends its effort! Note its listless fall.
Enter Attendant.
ATTENDANT.
A letter, please you!
(She places it near Florence and withdraws.)
MRS. DELMAR.
Florence, 'tis for thee—
For thee, my darling!—Wake!—A letter!
(Placing it in her hand.)
FLORENCE
(apathetically).
Oh!—
Yes—true!
MRS. DELMAR.
More haste—I'm curious!
FLORENCE
(glancing at the superscription).
What!
No!—Hush!— (opening and perusing it.)
I have not conjured with desire.
'Tis real—tis real!
MRS. DELMAR.
This agitation;—tears!
Are they of grief or rapture? Speak!
WALTER.
Perhaps,
These news demand your private ear.
FLORENCE.
Stay, Walter—
My all but brother—nought from thee to hide
Believed without a voucher!—His—you guess!
(She reads.)
“What can my beloved Florence think of me? Can
her reproach be severer than that of my own heart? And
yet circumstances have been untoward. Florence, the
tidings of your privation, and your heroic endurance
have but reached me within this hour.” Do you hear?
within this hour! “Your delay to answer my letter
acquainting you with the change in my prospects, and of my
hope shortly to entrust them to your ear, is now explained.”
He wrote then! you hear, he wrote! “To-morrow—
(I say to-morrow for your sake, and that you may not be
startled by my abruptness)—to-morrow I will reveal to
you aspirations long indulged, hopes long cherished in
secret, but which till now, my poverty forbade me to utter.
Florence, my own Florence—will you” . . . “will you”
. . “will you.” Read it, Mother!
MRS. DELMAR
(resuming the letter).
“Will you by your sympathy animate me to the tasks
which bring men honour—which must be noble if you
can approve them; and crown effort by the love which
were triumph's richest prize, and failure's dearest consolation?
Believe ever in the truth of
Vivian Temple.”
MRS. DELMAR.
A mother's blessing on thee!
WALTER.
Joy, dear Florence!
MRS. DELMAR.
Well hath he conquer'd censure. I was harsh.
Now art thou free to love him.
FLORENCE
(falling on her mother's neck).
And to honour.
| The Heart and the World | |