(S^acnell Untuecaitg Slibtatg atltaca, H»m $ark FROM THE BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY COLLECTED BY BENNO LOEWY 1854-1919 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY Cornell University Library PS 2494.081L3 1870 The last Mandevllle, The heart's sacrlfl II 3 1924 022 067 486 Cornell University Library The original of tliis bool< is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022067486 THE LAST MANDEVILLE THE HEART'S SACRIFICE - THE MOM MATILDA OF DENMARK TRAQEDIES BEING IN COMPLETION OF THE SECOND VOLUME OP THE DKAMATIC SERIES LAUGHTON OSBOEN NEW TOEK THE AMEEIOAN NEWS COMPANY 117, 119, 121 NASfeAIT STREET I m ifopo n.xx i . .r. i •. - w 4 ■^'fSS ^ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 1. A F G II T ON OBDOEN, In the Clerk's OfBce of the District Court of the United States for the SoutheriL District of New York. The New York Printing Company, 8i; 83,1^//*^ 85 Centre St, New YosicJ ' THE LAST MAI^^DETILLE^ MDCOCXLVII CHARACTERS, etc. Julian Mandeville. Sir Richabd Mandeville, Baronet, his Uncle. Arthur, Viscount Oapbl, Son of the Earl of Essex. Hubert Carl, Servant of Julian. Prances Mandeville, Julian's sister. Elinor Morton, a girl in humble life. EUPHROSINE DB BeAUFFREMONT. The Countess Beauffeemont de Sennect, Etiphrosine's Mother. Servants of Sir Richard Mandeville. Madame de Beanffremont's Servant. Swiss Guard, &c. Scene. Chiefly in London, and at Julian's villa in its vicin- ity. In Act II. in the Pays ( Canton ) de Vaud, in Switzerland. Time of Action. With the license of the romantic drama, it includes a period of over a ttvelvemonth. Epoch. The reign of Charles II. THE LAST MANDEVILLE Act the First Scene I. A room in the house of Julian's mother. Julian. Frances. Jul. And now, sweet sister, that we be alone, Bay on. Fran. But — I 0, Julian, think I our mother — Jul. Timid, remember. Fran. But from love alone. Jul. Yet thou too lov'st me ? Fran. Brother 1 Jul. And thy heart Is gentle hke thy mother's, if more warm. ^ Then, when thou earnest in, with cheeks all flush' d, And eyes that shone like flame, and trembling lips, Was it from fear, that cheek's augmented bloom. And thine eyes' brightness ? And those innocent lips. 2T4 THE LAST MANDETILLE Did the brief ague of a womanly dread Alone thus make them quiver ? — Fran. But, my brother, — Jul. Or was it not the glow of quicken' d blood, The fire of anger, the precipitate zeal That trembled in its haste to utter all, And crowded word on word, so fast, they fell Confus'd and broken, was 't not these, the signs Of a fond, generous, upright, candid spirit, Rous'd to unwonted action by the wrongs Of a lov'd brother, and an uncle's guile ; Frances, this, was it not, I saw ? M-an. Too well. But I am young, and took too little heed. And then -^ I fear — I do not Jul. Love Sir Bichard i Most wondrous fault ! a being so pure as thou Proceed ; the cause of thy emotion, all ; Quick, tell it, now our mother is away. This precious uncle ? — Fran. Is our father's brother. This did our mother, when she broke the tale, Bid us both ponder. Jul. And I have, too long. What power lurks in the name of Uncle then, Or kindred blood, that we, who are not debt-bound, Should brook oppression from the one, or fear To take in vain the other ? If Sir Bichard Deceives me, let me know 't, that I may tell him. ACT I. sc. 1. 275 ' Say on, my sistsr. [She hesitates. Fy ! thou silly child ! Dost judge so meanly of thy brother's brain, To deem a slanderer's tooth could bite him mad ? Fran. But thou art hasty ; and I fear O Julian, If thou shouldst with our uncle come to strife I — Jul. Why think'st thou that ? Am I an idiot then To war with every man who holds me vile. Or speaks but sUghtingly of my desert ? I ? If Sir Eiohard hath his kin in scorn, Perhaps his kin dolh quite as much by him ; And thus we are quits. Fran. But thou wilt tell him. Jul. Tell? 'Faith I and I will. If I do not ! Fran. Oh Heaven 1 For our dead father's sake I our living mother's ! Jul. Oome, come, fair sister; let us hear this tale. Fran. No, not for worlds I I do adjure thee Jul. Nay, Showing these scruples, thou becloud'st my brain With dark surmise. Yet, what hast thou to tell. If not some trifle ? Is 't not so, my sister ? [lai/ing his hand on her head, and affecting to smile. Fran. It is but this, no more. Thou hast had, thou know^st, [pifmidly. Some credit as a bard. Jul. Against my will ; Rank'd with the million whom half-sneering friends ^76 THE LAST MANDEVILLB And tender Saccharissas make divine, The petty fires that sparkle in all skies ; While I would keep my orb unseen, unfelt, Cloud-hid till at its zenith, then at once Blaze on the world, enlightening and ador'd. Fran. As, sure, thou wilt. Might I but live to see That brilliant hour, to know thy glorious beam's Shine on mankind as Still they have shone on me, I should die happy. Jul. Wouldst thou turn my brain ? Thou fond idolater I \kissing her.] — "What of the bard ? Fran. As thou hast heard, I have been at Essex' House, And I had told thee, when our gentle mother, Through tenderness for thee, broke off the tale, I found there Uncle.* " O," said Lady Ellen, " Thou comest in time. Here be some verses, given By good Sir Richard to a friend of ours, Written at her suggestion. I pronounce. They read like Julian's, and Sir Richard here Would pass them for his own." — " With pardon, no,'' Our uncle interpos'd. — " Would have me then Infer so much ; for whose the parent brain He will not tell. Come, Prances, lend thine eyes And more accustom'd sense, and sit our judge.'' Jill. How were they nam'd 1 Fran. " A Viijion of Queen Mab." Jul. The folly that, a se'nnight since, I wrote At his great instance I Well ? liran. I said they read ACT I. SC. 1. 211 A little like thy style, albeit the hand Was certainly not tliine. " There 1 " Ellen cried, " The verdict hear, Sir Richard Mandeville 1 The work is Julian's, but the transcript thine. Besides, my good Sir Richard, know we not Thou never wast warm'd by spark of poet's fire, "While thy hot nephew glows with it alone ? " " Tut ! " quoth our uncle, seeming not to Mke This raillery, " Julian yet is but a boy. Scarce knows to tell the stamp and ring of verse, Let alone coin it. Still, he showcth some parts, And, when he shall have conn'd a little more, And feen much more the world, will do right well. But now, what sounds to you the throstle's song Spirts from the chirp-pipe of a fledgeling sparrow, And every thatch is dissonant with like music." Jul. Sy Heaven I [between his teeth. Fran. Soon after this he left. And Ellen, Turning to me with that sarcastic look She wears at times But, Julian, that strange smile ! T were better not contijaue. Jul. Pray, go on. A poet's vanity makes indeed his life : Who stabs at that, strikes at his heart ; and more, — In the one other passion that divides My spirit, my sister ! I have been Of late so deeply wounded ! But of this Thou knowest nothing. Mind me not. Go on, • — I pray thee, Frances : I am not a child. 218 THE XAST MANDEVILLE Fran. No, and thou art too gallant-soul'd and good To he so fraud-deluded, as thou hast been, Most frontlessly, my brother I Jul Ay 7 Go on. M-an. " How odd," quoth Lady Ellen, " Sir Richard never Will Usten aught in Julian's praise I " " 'T is like He was not in the mood to-day," I said : " He has I know for him much good will." " Display'd After a quite new fashion," she rejoin'd ; " For, did I hold his portraiture well-drawn, When my own senses mark its lame design, Your brother must seem a schoolboy, overgrown, And self-conceited." Miter Sir Richard MandeVille. Se glances cdiemately from Julian to his sister, and at last fixes his eyes upon the former, who looks full at him, while PraKoeS holds her head down in confusion. Sir H. What has happen'd now 7 Jul. You had better dip for knowledge in its source, With Lady Ellen Capel. Thence I draw The draught I have swallow'd. Sir R. Julian, thou art pert. What 's to do, Prances ? Thou, methinks, hast lost Thy natural quiet ; and Julian has shot up Six inches since I saw him. Fi-an. Uncle —^ Julian — ACT I. sc. 1. 279 Oh Heaven 1 dear Julian I — Jul. I will make reply. Frances, release my arm : this arrogant man Shall have from me his answer, as is fit. This is to do. Sir Richard Mandeville : — Why wear you here among us a saint's mask, Warping my mother's over-phant heart By lip-praise of her son, that you may flout, In your own visage, and gibe at him abroad ? Fran. Julian I my brother I Oh, what have I done ! Think of our mother. — Sir R. Stop not his brave breath. I prithee, Fanny, let thy brother rant Till the fit spend itstE I have not thriv'd For eighteen thousand suns, to shake to pieces At a mere cockerel's crowing, or be ruffled By the swollen insolence of a braggart boy. Jul. By Christ's death ! Sister, pardon me. For you, Sir Richard, have a care ! the boy may prove More than your match, for all your boasted years. [Emt. Sir R. Indeed I {smiling.'] — But lo, my sister 1 Fran, [running to the side of the scene, as to meet her. Oh, my mother 1 Scene closes. 12* 280 THE LAST MANDEYILLB SOBNE II. Julian's Study, or Library. Enter Julian. He walks to and fro for some minutes in silence, hut in apparent agitation, Jul. Fool'd I fool'd — past thought I my open temper made The dupe of But I did not trust him all 1 How many covert sneers, how many taunts, Veil'd in the semblance of a lying praise, Rise naked now before me ! Tet, 't was wrong, Wrong to give way to passion, if alone For thy sake. Mother, — wrong, and most unwise. But who that sudden had awoke, and seen The death-fang'd adder ooil'd beside his couch. Would turn to sleep again ? Who durst? Who could? " I '11 not forgive him. — Yes, yes, well I know My strong self-love alone it is that 's stung, Hurt that I stand so low-plac'd in his eyes Whose false thought-weighing I aflfect to scorn. I have burrow'd in darkness, and my vision smarts Turn'd to the daylight. Yet Why it is well I I would not be at peace with one I hate, ACT I. SC. 3. 281 Nor ever valued. I will not forgive Lim 1 Hi sits down. A gentle tap is heard at the room-door. Is 't Prances ? Has she come to mourn to me Her fond imprudence ? with her seraphs-voice, To lay the billows of my storm-toss'd pride ? And I too will console the gentle -spirit I have griev'd, and, as I kiss away the tears That rain for me, and on my heart make still The throbbing of her bosom, lull to sleep My vehement nature, and in a sister's love Find the relief and reason moral lore Knows not. Aloud, hut gently.] Oome in, if it is thou, my sister. The door opens directly, and Enter Sir Richard. Julian rises and stands upright. Sir Richard MandeviUe Sir R. Soft, softly, Julian. Not to renew a senseless strife I am come. But to implore it be forgotten. Of thee I ask no exculpation. For myself. If I have done thee wrong, there, — I am sorry. [offering his hand, Jul. {drawing hack.'] I do not want your sorrow. G-o back, and say. To ray mother who sent you hither, that for her care 282 THE LAST MANDEVILLB I am duly grateful, but now am old enough To act alone and choose myself my friends. Sir R. This I had not believ'd from other hps, Nor could have look'd for, Julian, in a heart So generous as thine. Jul. Am I inept, That you affect this style ? Is 't not enough. My youth to have deceiv'd and forward trust, By feigning interest in my weal and fiieding My pride by praises that your heart disvouch'd ? Would you my senses mock, as nurses coax Some peevish child? I would be left alone. Sir R. Py, fy I I see where thou art gall'd, but know The hurt is nothing deeper than the skin. What ! shall thy father's son deny his brother Impartial hearing ? Come, come, set thee down, And let us reason. [Sits down and draws Jitl. gently to a seat beside him.] I have heard tliB tale Brought by thy sister from Lord E?sex'. Now, Tlie Lady Ellen, thou knowest, is a plippant «— Jul. I know it not, sir. Lady Ellen Capel Is a most excellent, right-thinking girl. Sir R. Well, as thou wilt. But never story lost By being told. What motive could I have To play thee false ? Ask of thyself; thou 'It own Thou wrong'tt me. What advantage could I draw By feigning interest, as thou sayst ? And sure Thou 'It not pretend the Devil himself would feign But for some purpose ? ACT I. SC. 3. 283 Jul. Ay, sir ; and I do : And many men are devils ; and for no end But being so. Sir R. Well, well ; thou yet are young. But say, is not thy father's and my blood Sufficient cause of interest in thy weal ? Do be a man, and leave these phantasies, Childish and mischief-fraught, to weaker minds. Jul, Why there it is, sir I Childish — weaker — man I Reminded well. I ask again, why here Build you at home, to tumble down=abroad? Speak to the point, sir, — if you really would Explain your doublenesa. Sir R. Speak to the point I How can I, when thy talk is but a riddle ? Jul. So solve it, then. Among our friends abroad, Sir Richard Mandeville, you laugh to scorn My boyish talenis, whensoever made The theme of idle converse, and take pains To undervalue me where favor'd mist, I am .nsham'd, sir, this to say myself; But you would force me to 't. And now, explain Tour conduct, if you can. [Rising.'] Though I not ask it. And rather would you 'd leave it as it stands. Sir R. [Rising, and after a hrief pause in which he looks atten- tively at Jul. My words thou hast haply heard, but not their tone. I say, as I said then, in the same mode And with the selfsame feehngs, kindling meaning 284 THE LAST MANDEVILLB To be of use : thy talents, nephew mine, Are more than common. Thou wouldst make them steps To thy aspiring. It is well. Not well, That, in thy over-haste to climb, thou plantest Thy ladder in the sand, and in thy tasks Beginn'st where thou shouldst end. Thou art too vain — Forgive me — of thy genius, whose great strength Thou feel'st, unconscious that its efforts rude And ill-directed are the uncouth pranks Of a young giant, liker far to harm. Than profit, others or thyself. Why, think, Thou art not yet three-and-twenty I Being so young. Nor mixing in the world, what canst thou know Of men ? When yesterday thou didst return, A twelvemonth gone, from France, thy wings then tried For the first time, thou hadst thy primal course, Thy first year's pupilage, gone barely through. In the great study of mankind. Till then. Thy hours were spent in solitary thought. Not even the poets handled that should bo Tutors at once and models : such thy pride. Burst from thy monkish solitude ; one day, One hour, with men who mingle in the world. Will stead thee more than weeks of musing lone. The princes of the line thou hast made thy walk. Them study a,s thy masters. And perhaps. With perseverance, when thou hast attain'd To perfect manhooil, say some seven years hence, Thou mayst aspire to lay the corner-stone ACT I. 8C. 2. 285 Of the great pile thou 'dst raise, and doubtless will Do very well. During this harangue, which, especially towards the close has heen accompanied with sneers more or less covert, Julian has appeared to he smothering a violent emotion. lie now speaks with studied calmness, and in a soft, smooth voice : — Jul. Sir Richard Man Jeville, Frances, I see, and Lady Ellen, both Knew scarcely more of you, than you of me. My father's brother has license ; but such prate, Thrust on me by another, were held, as it is, Impertinent and insulting. Sir R. [with indifference.] And no doubt. With such occasion, thy fool-hardy humor, Or wouldst thou christen it valor, Master Julian ? Had prick'd thee to defy him on the spot I Jul. By Heaven, you have said it 1 We will make at once The occasion actual you have well conceiv'd. Takes his sword from a couch, where it lies with his cloak and hat, and flings aside the sheath. Uncle and nephew now no longer, one Alone of us shall leave tliis spot alive. Draw ! draw, I tell you : ties are at an end : We now stand, man to man. iSir B. Not quite, unless Thou stand'st as madman ; which I am apt to think. 286 THE LAST MANDEVILLE Jul. Liar and villain I Draw, or like a dog I '11 slay you. Sir R. Boy and fool t thou dar'st not, lest Thou hang as one. [^Sir R. as he speaks, strikes down sud- denly, with his stick, the blade of Jul. and disarms him. Miter Fbancbs, hurriedly. Fran. For mercy 1 stop I oh stop I — No wound? Nor thou? Thank God!— What — what is this 7 Sir R. [putting on his hat Thy brother Prances, has been drinking deep At Helicon. The sacred fount is strong, More than I thought. [Mdt — Jul. springing at him. The door closes between them. Fran, [falling on Julian's necJc. Julian 1 oh my brother I What hast thou done ? Jul. Hush I sister — nothing. And Mother — where is she ? Fran. In her own room. Bhe heard thee not. Jul. How happy 1 Leave me now : I have need of thought. M-am. But Jul. Pear me not : 't is past Fran. You did not fight ? Jul. No, no, thank Heaven ! but — I — ACT I. SC. 3. 28V His lips — ■ hia eye — ■ his oold insulting speech — I could not brook it : I — I — would have fought. There, {kissing her on the eyelids. dry those eyes ; there, go. I '11 walk awhile ; The open air will help me to myself. Fran. For God's sake. I brother I No, no, no, thou canst. Thou canst, not mean Jul Mean what ? Fran. O do not go I Think, Julian, 't is thy uncle : 0, for pity ! — Jul. Nay, on my word, which yet I never broke, I have no thought, no wish to meet him. I will — Avoid him. Let that satisfy thee : there. Fran. But such a night I Thou wilt not go. Jul. Why not? Fran. It-is the dreariest gloom of black December. The fog is dense, and through the unwholesome air A cold fine raia is drizzling, and the walks Are coated, in the uncomfortable streets, With a thin, slimy mud. Jul. 'T will suit me well : Darkness and rain and I are consorts meet. Fran. Alas 1 — Thou 'It come back to thy sister soon ? Jul. To her unmatchable love, her virtues, ay. [Exit Fran, Pure being I who hast thy mother's tender soul, Without its weakness. Would, would I had lov'd but thee I — Elinor I — That woman should have writ 288 THE I^ST MANDEVILLE Her faith with water I Twelve, but twelve brief months 1 And so coinplete a change I Her heart alone, Why that were monstrous ! but, to give up ail 1 All I all 1 and in twelve Death and Hell I the work Is scarce the half that old. Six months I And I — For three whole years But I — derision I I — 1 lov'd her purely, lov'd her with my soul : I would not wrong her, and — fool I for this, Left home, and country, tore my heart away. That some less scrupulous lover ° Madness ! Down, Thou swelling heart 1 why should But no 1 rage on : I fled the house, and left the door ajar, That thieves might in and strip the unguarded wealth ; I set a trap and left it, that, when sprung, They who had neither plann'd, nor watch' d, might stop And laughing snatch its spoil ; abhorr'd delict I I brought the tree to bearing, nay, shook down Its mellow'd fruit, and let it strew the ground, For chance to gather. Cursed be the feara Of heart-pale righteousness, the stumbling virtue That tiirn'd me from the field of my long tilth, That one who had not toil'd No, Julian, no 1 Parley not thus with conscience ; let thy heart Swell with disdain or sorrow, not the throbs Of frustrate passion ; be not so deprav'd To thirst for the polluted stream, whose draught. When bubbling free to thy parch'd lips, and tempting With sparkling freshness, thou didst timely shrink, Shrink honestly, from tasting. Oh I polluted ? — ACT I. SO. 3. 289 Elinor ! Elinor I And it was I,' I, with my friendship, that was love scarce mask'd, And treacherous caresses, who arous'd The sleeping passion in thy innocent breast, And in thy unus'd veins the venom pour'd Whose prurience no medicine, alas ! Of reason will allay ; I, that broke down The rampire of thy chastity, and laid The city open to the spoiler ; I ! What I do I weep ? 'T is well. But, wo is me ! Oh Elinor 1 the tears Remorse distils Fall like the rain upon the rivel'd flowers. When a long drought has wither'd leaf and stem . And burn'd into the roots that gave them life 1 He hvddes on his sword, wraps himself slowly in his mantle, and takes his hat. At this — this hour, — how often 1 I '11 not think on 't. What 's Elinor to me ? I now to Elinor ? ' {Exit. 290 TUB LAST MANDEVILLE Scene III. A retired street in the tetter part of London. A dark and misty night. Brder J0LIAN, muffled in his chak and walking slowly. Enter, directly after him, Elinor, She grasps his mantle timidly, Elin. [softly a/nd tremblingly. Julian! Jul. [drawing his mantle closer roand his face. Ah! Elin. [imphringiy and grasping his cloak more holdlyj] Julian I Wilt thou leave me then To [voice choked wiih sois^ — die in the streets 7 Jul. [shuddering, and to himself. Can it be Elinor, That touches me, and speaks such words as these 1 aloudl] Elinor! Eliru Yes ; dost — do you not then know me, Jul — Master Mandeville, I mean. Has then A twelvemonth so much chang'd you 7 Jid. No, — not me ; I am the same ; but> oh G-od ! Elinor ! ACT I. sc. 3. 291 IIow has it changed thee I [She smites her hands together and hides her face. TJnhappy girl I How is it we meet here ? Why art thou out Alone, and at this hour, on such a night ? What, what have I to do with thee ? What now ? Elin. Have I no claim to your compassion then ? None ? No — no I I have none. Good night, sir ; Grod Forgive you ; I can die like other creatures Wretched like me ; I — I can live like them. Jul. Stay, Elinor 1 Wliat means this ? Speak to me I Elin. Mean ? Julian ! Oh 1 I am a poor, unhappy Why didst thou leave me ? Why refuse my prayer To follow thee ? [Bursting into tears. She clings to him, and hides her face in the folds of his mantle. Jul. Poor girl ! [He puts hii arm, covered as it is with the cloak, about her, and draws her like a child to his bosom. Speak, Elinor. Wiiat is 't distresses thee ? Why hast thou come To seek me such a night, when all the day Is open to thee ? Elin. Let me hide my slianae In — in thy mantle, ~ and — and I will tell thee. — My mother died ttiis morning. The last friend I had on earth lies cold there [pointing behind her, but with- out raising her head, — in the house 292 THE LAST MANDEVILLE Where I no more can dwell. I kill'd her ; my — Dishonor broke her heart. She has left nothing. Our little all must go to pay our debts. To-morrow — oh, oh, oh 1 — to-morrow, Julian, Elinor is without a roof to shelter her, A bed to lie on, or a crust to eat. Believe, believe her, she would not appeal To thy compassion, were it less than this : But — but — I cannot live the life of shame I Indeed I cannot, Jalian I [sobbing. Jul. Lift thy head. Thou hast a right to my compassion, Elinor : And it is thine. Thou need'st not quit thy home, — Save for a better. I will see, to-morrow, That all thy wants are answer'd, Elinor raises her head, looks up into his face for a moment, then turns and walks away. Julian stands a moment as confounded, then follows her quickly. She breaks into sobbing, and before he touches her, sits down at the door of a house, on the opposite side of the scene. What means this ? [trying to raise her. Didst thou not hear me ? £ilin. [motioning him away. Gro — go I Leave me, sir. I wiU not tax your charity's forc'd aid. ACT 1. SC. 3. 293 I 'd starve and rol first; and I will, I will. Gro away, Master Mandeville ; go, go ! Leave me alone ; I may as well begin [with a frightful levity, and wringing her hands. My trade now as a month hence. Jul. Elinor! Elin. Leave me, I say, directly ; go, sir, go I Unless \with same unnatural levity. you 'd buy the first fruits of my shame ? You do not wish to purchase, do you ? you ? [attempts to laugh, hut bursts into tears. Jul. [endeavoring to raise her. Elinor I EUnorl Slin. [with angry vehemence. Leave, leave me, sir 1 Jul. Never 1 — Dear Elinor I £lin. [looking up. Indeed 1 And tears ? Tears, scalding tears, from your eyes, on my cheeks ? My wicked cheeks I Oh Julian I [burying her face in his lap, as he leans over her. Jul. [raising her. She hides her head on his breast.] Ehnor, "We both are wicked. But for me, oh God ! The villain, that has wrong'd and left thee thus. Haply had ne'er assail'd thy virgin heart, Or left it whole, thy mother were alive, And thou still happy, for thou wert content. Alas I But come ; the night is deadly damp. 294 THE LAST MANDEVILLE And the chill rains will pierce thee to the bone. [puts her arm through his. •Poor orphan, we will seek thy desolate home, The home my crime has darken'd of its sunshine, And vacant left of all things but despair. T^Exeunt. Scene IV. A naked and poor chamber in Elinor's lodging. A farthing-rushlight turning in the empty hearth. Miter Julian and Elinor. Jul. llooking round him with horror. Good God I Elin. Speak lower : my poor mother lies In the next room. Jul. No chair ? no table ? not A spark of fire ? Ulin. Nothing : seiz'd on all, — Save the straw pallet where I us'd to lie ; And that — she lies on, now : they tore her bed Prom under her, — although, upon my knees, I pray'd them leave it for a single night. ACT. I. sc. 4. 295 I could not bear, though well I knew that she Could feel no more, to let her body lie On the bare floor, — she too, who was — who was — So good, so Oh ! oh ! oh 1 oh 1 oh ! Jul. Hush, Elinor : Grive not this way to sorrow. So. Poor child ! — This is too horrible ; and all alone. I '11 send, straightway, some persons of thy sex. And all that will be needflil for the time. And there | Yputting his purse on the chimney-piece. thou wilt have want of it. Hush, bush ! Thou wouldst not grieve me further ? So. To-morrow, When thy poor mother Do not weep again — When all ia over, — thou shalt lodge elsewhere. Elin. Thou — thou 'rt too good for me I What shall I say ? Jul. No, no ! Say nothing: 't is thy due from me. Tbou shalt be shelter'd elsewhere, where strange eyes Alone can scan thee. Thou shalt want for nought. But — let me plainly speak — not while the mark Of thy mishap deforms thee wilt thou oft Behold me : 't were a sorrow to thyself. And a sore trial unto me. Perhaps — I cannot say — perhaps dislike might come. — Elinor hows down her head and crosses her hands upon her bosom in resignation and submission. After a brief pause, Julian resumes : And thou 'It not tell me who thy wronger was ? Vol. II.— 13 296 THE LAST MANDEVILLE JEKn. Tell thee ? thee ? Never 1 Jul Well It is as well. Yet thou couldst take this serpent to thy breast ? Methinks, the heart, that was for Julian gone Sick even to death, recover'd wondrous-well, To learn a new love in six Uttle months. £!lin. Speak not so bitterly ! Indeed, indeed, I am not light of faith. My heart has never. Even in my ruin, for one moment swerv'd From its first, its sole love. Jul. And this to me ? To me 1 [looking on her fixedly and scornfully. while on thy HUn. [with great vehemence. By the corpse Of my poor murder'd mother I her whose heart I broke by my dishonor ! [falling on her knees. By the abus'd And wounded spirit, that even now is kneeUng To Heaven for vengeance on my guilty head 1 Rising abruptly.] But thou wilt not believe me : 't is no matter. Appearing to weep silently, she hides her face against the mantlepiece. Jul. I will forgive thee, Elinor, [taking her hand.] That is much. Take courage. I will send, as I have said. We meet, to-morrow. Until then. [Exit. JElin.] 'T is just. ACT I. sc. 4. 297 My Grod ! my God ! I have deserv'd it all ; Much more from him, much more. Yet comes it hard. Ah, did he know I Oh horror I that were death : I then indeed 'T is agony to think on 't. [pressing both hands on her hearty and gasping. He never will suspect him — him : no, no ! The traitor, hypocrite 1 — "What wiles, what lies, To make me his ! while Julian — Julian Oh, How could I be so blind ! Alas, dear Julian ! Why didst thou leave me, when I begg'd and pray'd? Ah, hadst thou yielded I But thy heart was pure, Was noble, was too loving : thou didst not Dream the poor EUnor could prove so frail. Thus didst thou say — 'T will do me good once more To read his feelings : it will spare, the while. The agony of thoughts I dread to meet Alone with thee, mother ! — 'T is still here : [taking two letters from her bosom. Poor Elinor has no place to keep it else. — Heading.'] " I have been the fool of fancy and a dream." So have we both. But 't is not that, [refolding the letter. That — that, — The first, — that warn'd me of our danger, bade The adieu, which ruin'd me. Why did my words. The passionate words I wrote him in return. Not move his nature ? But, he answer'd thus. — [opening the second letter and hissing it. Endeavoring ineffectually to read it over, weeping. I cannot read it now : I have no eyes. 298 THE LA.ST MANDEVILLE But oh I the words are ever on my brain, Where he so passionately bade farewell, Yet spoke of change, of change for both of us, Which time should make, and he would know to reckon. Yes, thou didst say so. Then thou wouldst come back. A change ? 'T is come : but how unlike to that Thou thought'st to calculate 1 And thou ^rt back ; And thou — thou art unohang'd — unobang'd, thank God ! No, no I it is my hopes speak : would he else Have quit me thus ? so lone ? so 0, my mother I Loohing m terror toward the room where the hodjy is supposed to lie. ' Heavens 1 what was that ? The dead — they hear not I No ! Else were the silent grave no place of rest. There I — [starting again. — 'T is the people Julian sends. Dear Julian ! Ah, let my hopes speak still ! He must, he shall, Shall love me, or I 'm wretched — past all thought I Shocking at the door. Elinor ^Mfe up the letter, first kissing it passionately. — As she moves to the door, taking the rushlight with her, the Drop falls. ACT II. SC. 1. 299 Act the Second Scene I. The foreground represents a fooipafh on the declivity of a mountain ( in the Pays de Vaud, in Switzerland. ) On the far side of the path, a, rough rail supported by rough posts — ioth appearing to he of the limhs of trees with the hark still on. _ The Lake of Geneva seen lehind. To the back of thai, the menacing mountain of Meillerie. On the Sight, the Dent du Midi, crested with snow ; on the Left, the Jorat and the Jura ; the lake spreading off in the distance, between its mountain-bg/nkSf which soften, as they recede. Julian is seen, leaning over the rail. After a time, he comes slowly down. Jul. Beautiful Nature I — Nature, only thou ; Man is but art, — gopljistioation vile. — Here, goddess, is thy most magnificent seat : Thy throne is on the never-lessen'd mountains ; Thy voice resounds in thunder 'raid their caves : The sempiternal snows thy coronet ; The purple forests, thy imperial robe ; The broken cataracts, the ceaseless base That, with thy multitudinous other sounds, 300 THE LAST MANDEVILLB Of wood, and flood, and, in their season, birds, Makes up the music that attends thy state. Though awful, yet thou smilest; and the tints That deck at times thy coronal ; the vine. Whose tendrils, round thy throne's unshakable base, And clustering fruit present a contrast sweet. Fragility with firmness, grace with power ; The mirroring water that reflects thy charms, ^or less thy majesty and seat divine ; All these are lovely, soft, seducing, bright. Gladly am I thy worshiper : for man, With man disgusted, weary, heartsick, spent, Finds solace in thy silent intercourse. Thy tongueless eloquence. Thou, unkind Elinor, Thy wayward fancies, and reproachful frowns, Are here forgotten. Nature nought to thee, Thou hast no portion in these wondrous scenes, And Switzerland is to thee but change of place. Ah well ! I '11 look once more on Meillerie," And on thy waters, Leman : then, for home ; To love — ay, but exacting — and to gloom. He retires up the stage, and leans over the rail. Enter, on the path, Madame and Eupheosine de Beauffremont, in conversation, — followed by a footman. Julian starts, turns, bows, and makes way for them, by pressing closer to the rail, when they pass him singly, — Euphro- siNE acknowledging his courtesy by a slight inclination, ACT II. SC. . 301 hut showing confusion at his evident ad/miration, Julian follows her off the scene with his eyes, and continues gazing long after they have passed. He- then turns, with a sigh, and Exit in the opposite direction, hut still in the path. Scene II. The Souterrain of Chilton Castle. Enter Julian, followed hy Hubert, who hears a campstool and a portfolio. At Julian's heck, he places the stool, and handing the portfolio to his master, the latter sits down and hegins to sketch the. scene. Enter the Countess and Bupheosine, attended as in the Scene preceding, and a Soldier of the Castle as their guide. Julian and Euphbosine's eyes encounter. She evinces slight embarrassment. Julian looks pleased, hut hends his head and affects to resume his task, watch- ing however, from time to time, the figure of Euphrosine, while the ladies examine the place. Euph. ' And this is where St. Victor's aged Prior, For Freedom and for Truth, his limbs resign'd 302 THE LAST MANDEVILLE To fetters. And the heroic martyr's tread Has worn the vault's rock pavement, as they tell. Coun. Ay, so the poets, guides, and travelers say. And so this Swiss would teach, but not our eyes. Yet, in this column gray, lo where the ring That kept the good man to his weary round ( If chain'd he was indeed ) for six long years I Hideous monotony ! Yet, oh my child ! How many, that conceive themselves at large, Live worse confin'd, and in worse cells than this 1 Euph. But that conception, Mother, makes them free : The fetters, that are self-impos'd, fret not Into the spirit : as we think, we are. But is 't not strange, that in this castle old. Where crown'd Savoy once aw'd his little realm, This only is to see ? Coun. Strange, were it so. It is the keeper's secret, who, his ease Consults in showing the least may earn his fee. Jvl. [coming forward. Pardon the freedom : will you condescend To look these sketches over, where I have taken All the old Castle boasts of any mark. You will at a glance be able to pronounce. This, Ipointing, while the ladies hold the book between them and turn over the leaves. this, I think, is the sole part that may Repay a visit ; a saloon of old, For banquets haply, or the council us'd. ACT II. SC. 3. 303 Its marble columns, ceiling quaintly carv'd, And antique windows well may claim regard. Coun. What say'st thou, Eu'phrosine ? Miph. 0, by all means ! Julian speahs to the guard, slipping privily into his hand a piece of money. Exit &UAED. Julian consigns his portfolio amd pencil to Hubert, who folds up the camp- stool, and falls with the other servant into the rear, and the "whole party Exeunt. Scene III. [The middle court of the Castle. In the foreground, the inhabitable part of the Chateau, with a narrow entrance in an angle facing the right of the scene. On the left, a large arched opening in a rude wall, leading from the interior to the outer court, drawbridge, etc. . ; Julian, Countess, Euphrosine, conversing : Hubert and the other servant behind. Jul. [to Ooun.] 'T is, as you say, a rude and ugly place. But who can tell ? perhaps, in after time,' Some mightyjbard may visit where we have been, 13* 304 THE LAST MANDEVILLE Lend fiction's hue to color these blank walls, Through the old dungeon pour a deeper gloom, And make its thrall immortal as the skies. But lo, the guard. Enter through the Arch, the Soldier with the keys. I '11 bid him, with your leave, Show you the chapel, cemetery, all That may amuse you, then no more intrude. Coun. sir, we thank you warmly : in a stranger, This gentle courtesy Jul. [looking at Euph., whom he has not failed to regard from time to time, while addressing the Coun. Repays itseE My deepest recollections of this place "Will not be of its vault nor moated walls. Bowing profoundly, while the ladies acknowledge the civility. — He turns and gives directions to the Guard in dumhshow, then Exdt on the right with Hubert, while the rest proceed up the stage through the Arch, and Exeunt at the left. ACT II. SO. 4. 805 yoENE IV. Tlie exterior of Chillon Castle. Enter from the bridge of the Castle, Julian, followed hy Hubert with the draw- ing-implements^ &c. Jul. Gro on : I '11 follow slowly. [Mcit Hub. — Euphrosine I Sweet name I And what ? Hark, Hubert I Stay 1 He-enter Hubert. How is that lady nam'd ? thou hast doubtless learn' d. Hub. Madame de Beauffremont, so please you, sir. Jul. The younger lady ? Hub. Her sole daughter, sir. Jul. Not married ?j Hub. No, sir. Jul. Boglish, as 't would seem. Hub. The elder : but the Count de Beauffremont Was French. Jul. Was? 306 THE LAST MANDETILLE Huh. Yes, sir ; he is some years dead. 'T was so, at least, I understood their man. Jul. Thank thee. Thou need'st not wait. [Exit Hub. Pensively.'] De Beauffremont? Methought there was an accent, slightly foreign. That seem'd to sweeten more her honied speech. — Euphrosine de Beauf I could have sworn Her name was Euphrosine 1 'T was made to suit her. — What grace I what gentleness I — I never saw, I think, a form so perfect, yet so slight. — Her very motions seem'd to woo support ; Yet unaffected — wholly. 0, to shelter So fair, and seeming delicate a creature, And guard her, with one's own broad breast, against The rains, the frost, the driving pitiless winds, Of this so wintry and ungenial world I — Ah I I had quite forgotten, — there is one That needs all my protection. Shame, O shame I Let me shake off this daydream ; 't is dishonor. — '' The fetters — that are self-impos'd — fret not — Into the spirit " : what a birdlike voice I — Why this is madness I I am not in love I No, no ; nor shall be. — But I must see more Of this bewitching sylph. — And then, her soul I What purity 1 what gentle, winning grace I — " The fetters, that are self-impos'd" By Heaven ! 'T is a false sentiment : I feel that well : What know I of her soul? — Poor Elinor I " But is 't not strange that in this Castle old f " * ACT II. SC. 5. 307 Vexation 1 — Euphrogine. [Moving on, musingly. - " By all means." — Repeating the name with increased soft- ness, and still musingly.^ Euphrosine. [Mcit. ScESK V. A mountain-path, leading up to the Village of Montreux, which is seen upon the right. Miter Julian. The pastor of Montreux shonld know these dames. In his position, persons of their ranis Must I will ask him. Stay I what do I do I Since Elinor is with me, were it well 1 No ; and, as yet, I have acted on that plea. And shunn'd to visit him, that good old man. So let me still : 'twere vile ; 't were Ah, by Heaven I The Countess and Bttphrosine are seen to enter the Village from the left at the top of the path and turn toward one of the houses. And toward the very house 1 They knock I They enter 308 THE LAST MAKDEVILLB Is it fatality that sends her thither ? I know not. Her I mv^t know. Euphrosine. \^pronouncing the name softly and tenderl He ascends rapidly, yet with apparent labor, the mountain-path, and Scene closes. Scene VI. A room in a Swiss Cottage. Elinor is seen seated at a window, with her eyes fixed vacantly on the glass, over whic/i her fingers wander as if she was unconscious of her occupation. Enter, with an air of happy animation and of triumph, ' Julian. He observes Elinor's gloomy abstraction and changes countenance. Jul. My fault I my fault I How could I so forget ? Poor orphan 1 [He approaches her softly and kisses her cheek. Elinor, art thou not well ? What ails thee ? Elin. [turning from him and answering with asperity. Nothing ; nothing that is strange : ACT 11. SO. 6. 309 Thou hast us'd me to neglect. [She rises haughiily and Exit. Jut How I Is 't for her To show resentment ? her, who my affection First sUghted, then dislionou'd ? her, to whom No tie unites me that I may not sever ? Whom, at this very moment, I could No ! No, no ; I must not think so : I am bound Still to protect her. Yet, it is unwise, This peevish humor ; ay, if not ingrate. — Haughty, dull Ehnor I I wEl fly to Buphrosine : She has no eye of fire, to kindle rage. No frown of ice to chill me to neglect. — Ah, let me pause I why should I visit Euphrosine I This day I have seen my danger ; and I thrill, — But not with terror. 0, delicious day I The lake before me, and herself beside. The sky all beauty, and the air all balm, How could I but be eloquent ! Love breath'd Upon my Kps, and Rapture shap'd my words. She hsten'd, Euphrosine, — in silence deep, And knew it was her presence mov'd to all. Voices heard within, in violent altercation. What now ? The door is suddenly thrown open, and Enter Elinok, in a transport of resentment, followed hy Hubert, who is earnestly imploring her. Hub. But, madam ! 310 THE LAST MANDEVILLE Elin. Vfflain ! — They see Julian. Elinor retains her look of passion, but with more of dignity : Hubert looks confounded and terrified. Jul. [after looking from one to another for a moment in silence^ Hubert Carl, Thou art no more my servant. On the morrow, Come to my chamber for thy due, with means To take thee back to England. Go, sir. [Exeunt, Elin. and Huh., — Elin.- hy the door. Hub. at the side scene. — So. I do conceive this villany much more Than marvel at it. She has lost, poor girl, Her right to be thought pure ev'n toward the base. Yet, for my menial I [lapsing into musing. thus on Buphrosine I — Py, this is dotage I Be it ; 't is relief. And why not think on her ? Delicious day I I saw the blush upon her virgin cheek, When our eyes met, and my heart fiU'd responsive. She '11 love me, Buphrosine I for I shall make her : I see it now. And I will love her more. But then, I '11 not avow it: my fate is fix'd ; Body and soul I am tied for life to Elinor. But I will have a holiday and dance Till my chains rattle — will their weight permit. Why not ? What harm can come thereof? Once parted, I shall be swept from Euphrosine's young mind By newer conquest, while for me this beam ACV II. SC. 6. 311 Of summer beauty and joy, forgotten never, Will help to make life's winter seem less drear. Be-enter Elinor. EUn. Julian, I would — a favor ask. Jul. I, grant. What is it, Elinor ? Min. Thou 'It pardon Carl ? Jul What 1 Is it thou that ask'st it ? and of me ? SHin. But only in his words he gave offence. Jul. Enough. What wouldst thou have ? The same respect I myself claim, I have bid him show to thee. Ulin. But I am hasty, and 't was his first grave fault. And verbal, as I have said ; and then, poor wretch, He is so repentant, and pray'd me, as for life, To intercede. I know thou 'It not refuse. Thou, who art generous, and kind, and just. To Elinor this act of mercy and grace. Jul. Not when she smiles, and pleads without a frown. As thou wilt, Elinor. I hope, one day I have no cause to wish thou hadst not prevail'd. For never yet my head obey'd my heart, Or my will foUow'd those it should have led. That I not rued it. 'Faith I 't is strange ; but — Could I be superstitious, I should deem This now were some presentiment of ill Whose shadow darks my vision. Let it pass : My word is given. Only, this observe : Thou hast not bhnded me ; and Hubert's fault 312 THE LAST MANDEVILLB Is more presumptuous than thou dar'st admit, [Mcit. Elin. Thou art wiser than thou thiok'st. But wast thou more, , \Ri71gs a handbell. Thou shouldst not blind my jealousy. Come in. Re-enter Hubert. I have bought thy pardon with an aching heart. There, go. No words. Our compact bear in mind. \JSkcit Hvh. Julian, Julian I and can this be true ? Inconstant ? — But, oh me 1 what, what am I ? Tet, this detested — woman ! Mercy, God 1 [gasping. 0, that these Alps would fall together now, And crush us both ! — De Beaufifre Noble 1 — Death I {Rings bdl again, violently. Again Re-enter Hubebt. And is this Is she — Is she then so beautiful ? Hub. Not as sjme others I have seen, [bowing significantly. Elin. [passionately^ Don't trifle. Is this a time, or am I in a mood ? — Speak : answer me. - Hiib. [maliciously. J Beautiful as an angel; with a voice I min. GrO, go I Sub. My master 's gone there now. Slin. Begone I [passionately. [Mcit Sub. Insolent villain I — Cursed Switzerland I What brought us to this execrable place 1 ACT II. sc. 7. 313 Beautiful? It is false I I '11 not believe it : The wretch beheld my agony, and spoke To torture me. I 'H see her : I 'II — I 'II see her : I'll Beautiful! Eu — Euph My heart I my heart I \Mcit. '» Scene YH. The mountain-path, with the bacJcgroimd, &c. as in the first Scene of the Act. Enter, from the right, Julian and Eupheosine. Euph. [looking bach.'] My mother and the Dean are far behin<'. Let us await them here. Jul. As you shall please. — 'T was here — on this same spot — by yon rude rail, — My eyes first saw — your mother and yourself. I never shall forget it. [with deep expression. Euph. [after a pause of embarrassment. Yet there be Scenes near us, of much greater charm than this. What is the one you pictur'd to my mother ? Jul. Ah, 't is a toil to reach it few would like. — 314 THE LA8T MANDEVILLE Behind the sunny village of Veytaux, There winds a footpath, broken, steep, and scant, Tip to the summit of the Jaman peak, Where peeps the cheese-hut dimly through the mist. And the strong herd their glistening pasture crop Through snows whose thin drifts never wholly melt. Surpassing is the view, to him who chmbs That path at early dawn I The minish'd lake, Prom horn to horn of its crescentic course ; Towns, villages, and hamlets ; ridge on ridge Of mountains, — tufted here, even to the peaks. With giant firs, — there, rearing their bald heads, Stern and unblenching, in the face of heaven ; All seen below hia feet — before his breast — Softly remote — sublimein vastness near 1 Lo 1 scuds the vapor 'twixt it and his eye ; Ascends the mist, from vale and mountain's side, And wraps him hke a mantle ; he sees nought^ — Nought but the spot whereon he stands, — the while The driving shower wets him to the skin. Sudden, forth bursts the sun I before it rolls The gray and billowy haze, and, like a veil Eais'd slowly from the face of beauty, shows la dazzling brightness all the landscape wide. Euph. You fill me with great longing. Oould I see ? Should I be able to ascend so far ? Jul. 'T were cruel to permit you : 't is a toil Even for a man ; but you ! — so softly made — {looMng at her admiringly. ACT II. sc. 7. 315 So Pardon me. A brief way, it is like, You might go up. — Euph. No, no, I will fix here. It is my mother's scene ; and — it is mine. They look over the rail, for a hrief while Jul. [suddenly pointing with his left hand forward, and to the right of the stage. See, see, how beautif Uy the setting sun Tinges the white top of the Southern Peak I Ewph. Most beautiful ! the very tenderest tint That decks the petals of the new-born rose, — The inner side o' the leaf I Jul. Tou soon return To England, I am told ? Euph. [turning as with surprise at his abruptness. Tes ; for some time We have waited a relation from the south. His coming is now look'd for, every day. Jul. And, as the rose-tints we but now admired. So win your recollections be of me. If at all pleasing. Mark, even while I speak. They are vanish'df and the scene is left all cold. And hueless as before. — But I [looking to the right, where the Countess is expected, and speaking quickly. 1 — but I, If I may dare to say it, I am like ThQ sun which gives those evanescent tints : 316 THE LAST MANDEVII-LB In a brief moment, lie will disappear ; But 't is to bear with him, to other climes. The aspect which he show'd in this. Eu,]jh. [confused — turning to the right.] Our friends : They are nigh us, now : let us go back, and meet them. [Mcetmt, to the right. Scene VIII. i The sandy shore of the Lake, near ViUeneuve. The water is partly hounded by the mountain Meillerie. The moon in full splendor, just above the mountain. Enter Julian and Elinor — walking slowly. Jul It is a lovely evening. Elin. Yes. Jul The sky How beautifully tranquil, and the lake ! ACT II. sc. 8. 317 Elin. Yery. Jul. The atmosphere, though still, most sweet. They walk to and fro awhile, in silence. Observe, my Elinor, that sheet of light Within the mountain's shadow. How much less Of beauty would it have, if narrow'd not. And clear-defin'd, by that black shadow broad. And blacker Meillerie himself, who looms G-randly obscure behind its brightness I ' Slin. [stopping short, and facing Ml., while she lays her hand upon his arm in an impressive manner. Yes. And such, such even as that sheet of light, Art thou to Elinor, — the brighter, ay. More precious, because single and defin'd Amid the darkness of her gloomy fate. Thou hast made me what I am : to thee I owe What little of refinement I possess. The excited talents and acquired tastes That fit me to participate thy joys. And comprehend thy feelings. But to thee I owe it, likewise, that I am alone. And when the moon shall set behind those peaks ( It threatens now, ) what, what will then be left To the dark, desolate mountain ? Not its own Dark shadow even. Such will be my fate. 'T is even so near. Jul. Thou art poetic, Ehnor. Elin. Do not deride me, Master Mandeville. 318 THE LAST MANDBVILLB 'T is more tlian I can bear — or I deserve — When my heart 's breaking ; 't is indeed. Jul. [putting his arm soothingly ahout her waist.'\ Dear Elinor I Look on this lake. Thou hast taken from it an image : Let me draw one for thee. See, how it lies In beautifuUy even surface, catching Not less the pale stars in its water, than The brightness of the moon. Say, is it not More wooing-soft, more lovely, thus compos' d, Than broken up by storms, as last we view'd it. Lurid and swollen, its angry waves breast-high, Chafing and roaring, on this narrow sand. Like Ocean on his beaches ? Elin. Would not I Be as yon lake, but for thy ruffiing moods ? Thou, Julian, thy caprices, are the storm That works me into passion. Mark me now. Think me not ignorant of what is passing. Of what has late seduc'd thee from thyself. If not from me. Thou lov'st another : thou Art swearing unto her the faith that 's mine. JuUan, beware ; beware, I say 1 I am Dependent on you ; but I will not be A slave to an unkind master. I can go. Go from you ; I — I will — go from you — go — Go anywhere, from Jul. Weeping, Elinor ? [compassionately and tenderly. ACT ir. sc. 8. 319 Blin. Weeping, sir. You have left me nothing else But tears. [Then with fierceness, raising her head boldly and haughtily : Were I a man, I — -would not weep. She makes a step from him, as if to walk alone, and the Drop falls. ToL. II.— 14 320 THE LAST MAKDEVILLE AoT THE Third Scene I. As in Act I. Sc. I. — A room in the house of Julian's mother — in London. A writing-table in one corner, with a folded letter on it. Fbances. Sir Eichaed. Fran. Uncle, I must not, and I will not hear These wicked tales of Julian. If you must. Poison my mother's ear ; but leave mine pure. Sir R. Thou 'rt marvellously constant, and, methinks, Of late infected with thy brother's gall : Thy speech smacks of its bitterness. Fran. 'T is time. When not my maiden state, nor the dear tie That binds me to an only brother, nor My fatherless condition is remember'd, To vindicate my rights myself. Sir R. Thy rights ? And, prithee, what be they ? Fran. To be respected, As a young maiden, sister, and half-orphan, Should be respected by the man that claims To be her father's brother. Sir R. Quite his stvL; : ACT III. sc. 1. 321 Hi,(j;h, pithy, enigmatic. Thou improvest. Pray, Mistress Frances, is it of thy rights. Thy virgin, sisterly, half-oiphan rights, To quote these wicked stories to thy brother, [pointing with his stick to the letter. And lay the sin of malice on thy uncle, Thy natural guardian ? I'ran. I am no tale-bearer. Sir R. And darest thou then to let me see that scrawl ? Frances hands it to Mm. Quite spirited. And, treating thee in kind, I should return the tender sheet unread. Fran. No. since you doubt me, read it, I entreat. Sir R. [reading, '' Dear brother, it may be very bold in me, " A woman, and so young, to dare advise thee." How modest! Fran, [extending her hand for the letter. If you mock me Sir R. On my soul ! — Ah, this is goodly stuff about his " honor " And " fame " — Oho 1 — ''in peril ! " — and say'st thou here — "Forgive me, if I err; it is well meant." The cozening plea of all your mischief-makers. Reading.] " Strange scories, Julian, reach us " — [Reads to himself. What is this ? 322 THE LAST MA.NDEVILLE " A maiden should not understand, I know, Such things " The Devil took early care of that. And maidens are as wise now as their dams. But [readmg.] thou confessest — let me see what 's here - ■ — " Am so far ignorant, I better see The extent of evil, than conceive its kind." A well-push'd argument of virgin shame. Thou shar'st thy brother's genius, with his gall. Fran. Again, Sir Kichard 1 Give me back the sheet. I lent it to your jealousy, not scorn. Sir R. 0, thou shalt pardon me. I '11 mock no more. In sooth, fair niece, I 'm wondrously inclin'd To know if thou hast spread in brain as limb : When last thou wrot'st to me, thou wast a child. Heading.] " Can it be possible ? " [Reads to himself. Ahem, ahem ! " Unprincipled woman " " Noble-hearted brother " And — "When in earher days my httle arms " I flung about thy neck " How very fine ! There, take the letter. Thou art still a child. Fran. And yet [checks herself. Sir R. What wouldst thou say ? lyan. I am old enough. To know my duty, and to say no more. [ Going. Sir R. And dost thou dream to lead thy brother back To the straight path, by such a clue as that ? [pointing scornfully to the letter, which Frances takes with her. ACT III. sc. 3. 323 The labyrinth of vice is more perplex'd. Frances colors and appears about to speak, but represses her feelings, and turning her eyes again from her uncle, whom she had faced, Exit. Sir R. It is the accursed spirit of our race : A Mandeville, for all her woman's heart. I should not hate her for it ; yet I do : For I do doubt she reads into my soul. Let her : it is a valiant one at least, Albeit what fools and boys would christen base. \_Wxit. Scene II. In a villa in the vicinity of London — a parlor.^ Julian, reading a letter with an appearance of deep emotion. Jul. Frances, Frances ! what remorse and shame Thou wakest here, [pressing his hand heavily en his heart. Thou gentlest, best of sisters 1 [Folds the letter and presses it to his lips and forehead. 324 TUB LAST MANDEVILLE 'T is worse, yet better than thou tliink'st. And thou, Thou, Biiphi'osme, [ pronouncing ihe name with great softness. whom I love desperately 1 The thought of thee too is a mortal pang, Although I bless it, — thee, whom, but for this ! — = — Yet, hopeless, I have foUow'd thee : thou gone. What were the mountains and the lake to me 1 I have follow'd thee, — to see thee, hear thee, breathe The air thou brealhest, and to feed my heart, 111 secret, with a joy I dare not own, — A joy that wastes me eveu while it feeds. Wiiy should I, for a But I '11 not abuse her. Yet to give all, for one who gave up me I O.ie whom my pity, not my love protects \ Ha! this needs more reflection. Enter Hubert. What, sir, now? Hah. A letter by express. \^Exit Huh. Jul. [examining the seal, as he breaks it open and undoes the silk that ties if. These arms I know not. He reads it to himself, with an appearance of great trouble. Distraction ! Do I dream ? Decline my visits ? And then, the encloj'd I — But let me read again. Reading.] " In sending Master Mandevilie the enclos'd, " Madame de BeaufFrernont the occasion gives him " To evidence its falsehood, if he can. " His word shall be sufficient. Until then, ACT III. SC. 2. 325 " The honor of his visits is declin'd." Patience I I shall go mad. This billet, [unfolding and glancing at the enclosure.'] Death ! Here branded as a libertine and known Seducer I [reading apparently with great difficulty and sev- eral hursts of passion. Living with a ruin'd girl In Switzerland, while ! Horror ! [again reading in the enclosed note.] And-my love, My pure, though passionate, my reUgious love, Por Euphrosine, made what I dare not name I Liar! Infamous liar ! [crumpling the enclosure. together. And — who ? who ? Elinor ? Ha I To compass their revenge, "Women will stoop to anything : she knew My love for Euphrosine ! she told me so ! Eesented it I — Enter Elinor. Didst thou write this ? Didst thod ? [forcing the billet into her hand. Elin. [Reading it to herself, and coloring. I did not, sir. Jul. But thou didst know of it ? Of this rich villany ? Speak ! Elin. When Elinor deals In such work. Master Mandeville, rest sure You shall not be the last to hear thereof. I could have wisU'd you, sir, more nice of mind 326 THE LAST MANDBVILI.E Than to disclose me what I have notic'd there. [Exit — indignantly- Jul. To read the allusioa to herself might call That blood-spot up ; and her denial was firm. Her anger ? That I reckon nought : for rage, Like the dark fluid of the ink-fish, hides The evading conscience, cha?'d by just reproach, And haughty carriage oftener is the strut And swell of empty show than the demean Of innocence wrong' d, too proud for self-defence. But then the writing. [ Considering it. In it is no trace Of Elinor. My uncle's hand — disguis'd 7 Be presses his Jiand to his forehead, and goes up the stage to fling himself upon a couch, hut starts bach and piclcs up something from the cushion. How came this here ? His signet ! His ! [Eommining it. His crest I Deep as the Devil himself had graven it there I Stands motionless for a moment, as if perfectly overcome — then rings a hell violently. Enter Elinor. She starts at his expression and changes countenance. Elin. [timidly. Hubert just now is out. Is there aught, Julian, ACT IIIv sc. 2. 321 That I can for thee ? Jul. Yes ; 't is thou I want. Se shuts the door behind her, and, seizing her arm, holds the ring directly before her face. What is this ? Look at it ! Is it known to thee 1 Elinor stands as if turned to stone. Ha I Is my suspicion just ? Was — was it he ? How came it here ? How came He, here? Dost thou Know him? Is he thy friend ? Was 'the that — that? He gasps, but still holds Elinor's arm grasped tightly, while he gazes on and in her face, Elin. [falling at his feet and clasping his knees. Mercy I Forgive me I Oh, forgive me, JuHan I Jul. \struggling for breath. 'T wag he then — he — that wrote this — this damn'd billet ? {tearing from his pocket Mad. de B.'s letter with the enclosure. Speak — if thou wouldst not kill us both. Speak — woman — Devil — was it he ? Elin. It was. My Q-od ! my God 1 Have mercy on me I oh I Jul. And here — here — here — Here in my house — he plann'd this devilish wile, That was to ruin me ? with thee to abet him I 'T was he too that — was 't not ? Out with it, woman ! Confess it all — all I or — my heart will break — And thine to gaze upon me. Elin. Julian — I — 14* 328 THE LAST MAUDEVILLE I know not what you mean. Jul. "S. is false I thou dost. Wouldst thou then have me to repeat my sense, And blast thee with the echo of thy shame ? He 't was that did debauch thee — in my absence — This precious uncle I Was it not ? Speak — speak I Elin. My Grodi forgive me I Jul. Why, that 's true — thou need'st it. — Ha, ha I 't was playing the devil with a will, And to some purpose, lo befool my mistress. When I was gone, lest I should do it myself; Dost thou not think it was ? to gather in ^ My harvest, lest 't should rot for want of harvesters. O, curse him ! curses on him I Though he were Ten times my father's brother, curses on him ! And thou — thou Elin. Do not kill me ! Mercy I mercy ! Jul. Kill thee I What should I kill thee now for ? If I had done 't some eighteen months ago indeed, It had been well for both of us. — But for thee, — Thee, Elinor — whom I lov'd — and would not harm Because I lov'd thee, — oh ! for thee — to — to Elin. Tou weep ! Tou '11 not then hurt me ? Jul. Do I weep 7 True 1 I forgot it was my uncle, then — My uncle, dost thou hear me I I forgot It was my flesh-and-blood own uncle thou Didst wanton with. Oh I oh I oh I — A last word : That child I — was 't his ? {Elin. cowers. ACT III. sc. 3. 329 Thou 'rt worse even than my thought I Off I off from me ! wretch ! harlot 1 let me go. He flings her off. Elinor falls on, the flaor ; and the Scene instantly closes, — Julian being seen to go off without regarding her. Scene III. Another room in the villa. A table furnished with writing-materials and a lighted taper. Enter, hastily, Julian. He sits down at the table, and appears to write, with agitation and rapidly, a letter, which folding, he drops therein his uncle's signet, then ties the letter with a silhen thread and seals it, in the fashion of the times. He comes down with the letter in his hand. Jul. If aught will bring thee to the point, 't is this. Thou art a Mandeville, — no dastard then : And here is what would fire a heart of ice. The world will term a parricide's my act. That shall not move me : let it judge my wrongs. The woman that I lov'd debauoh'd, as t were 330 THE LAST MANDEVILI/K Even in my arms, is injury i( self The deepest possible. What, when the injiirer Is one whose previous malice I have known, But not forgot ; whose gibe, and sneer, and smile Still rankle in the heart I this, for that He is my father's blood, I might forgive. But when this secret enemy has crept, Like a foul toad, unto the naked root Of my most delicate and dearest hopes. And blasted them, it may be, for all time, Exuding the cold poison of his malice Where e'er my name is cherish'd most, — conspiring, In a refined deviltry, witli her He had robb'd me of, to ruin me in the eyes Of one still dearer, make me vile before The simple mother that lov'd me with such trust. The sister that ador'd me, and the friends That honor'd me I — No 1 Heaven alone, or Hell, May shake my steadfast purpose ; man shall not. [Rings bell. Enter Hubert, with a letter in his hand. Saddle the bay, the one Lord Capel gave ; And seek Sir Richard Mandeville with this. Bear back his answer with all speed. That done. Let my effects be pack'd without delay ; But mine alone. ITttb. Sir, Mistress Morton 's gone. ACT III. sc. 3. 331 Jul. Gone? Whither? When? Hub. But shortly since, sir ; where We know not. Jul. Why not tell me this before ? Hub. I knock' d, sir, often at your chamber door ; Tou did not speak : and, sir, we were not bid To stop her. She has left this letter. Jul. [to himself.] G-one ? — Thou need'st not pack to-day. Go, where I bade thee. [ma Hub. Gone ? Gone ? Unfortunate, misguided girl I I would have left tliee with a home at least, And means to save thee from resort to crime. Crime 1 But what poverty constrain'd her first ? What now, to this prodigious sin, whose die Makes wantonness beside it look snow-white ? And with my uncle too I cursed fact ! Tears open the letter violently. With his eyes on the page.] Keep me in sight ? — I never shall espouse ? PaHsitiff. 'T may be even so. [sadly.] — [Heads. " Farewell. I 'd say, God bless you ; But you have planted in my heart a sting Which will not let me pray for good on either." And that is true, poor wretch I and thou in mine; My fault was weakness ; thine, to me God grant. Its bloody fruits may not weigh on thy soul I Takes his hat and Exit as Scene closes. 332 THE LAST MANDEVILLE Scene IV. A wooded lane, near Julian's villa. Julian, with a paper folded as a note, in his hand. Hubert, hooted and spurred, and dusty, — his right hand armed with a riding-whip. Jul. [fa himself, hut aloud, and loohing on the note. Writ with a crayon ? No seal ? Not even a thread ? Huh. Sir Richard was about to mount, to ride : His foot was in the stirrup, and one hand Lay on his horse's mane, when I drew near. Soon as he op'd your missive, sir, he hah'd, And dropp'd the ring it cover'd in his glove. Then raii the writing o'er with troubled brow, And, crying, " Very fine 1 " tore off the back. Laid it upon his saddle, and, thus, wrote ; Then, handing me the billet folded, said : " There is thy master's answer. Take 't, good Hubert: " And take good care of him ; he has it here " — Touching his forehead, sir, in this wise. Jul. {sternly.} Sirrah I Hub. Pardon; I thought 't would please you, sir, to know All that he said, and did. ACT III. sc. 4. 333 JijX. But with such zest To make the repetition, is What then ? Huh. He sprang into his saddle, and rode off. Jul. Alone ? Huh. Yes, sir. Jul. Which way ? Huh. The same, 't would seem, I came mjself ; I pass'd him on the road. Jul. Bring me Blacli Rupert, and take back the bay. {Drawing tight the hucJcle of his sword. Be quick. [Mat Hub. — And to my servant, too I rage ! [Reading the note. " If thou be mad, I have my senses still. " Live sparingly, good nephew, and thy prayers " Say oftener, or thou wilt oblige thy friends " Take care of thee. 'T -is Bedlam gives repose " To witless bards and disappointed swains." Malignant fiend ! But 1 will have thee yet. 0, on one hand, a palace of delights. And Buphrosine to share them ; on the other, A desert, and that man — that man and I Alone in 't I Would I not choose this f — G-reat G-od I [looking to the left, whence a sound is heard as of a horse coming from a distance at full speed. Am I distracted ? 't is himself 1 This way ? His horse is past control, — will throw him : ha I [Sound as of a fall. 334 THE LAST MANDKVILLE God I he will drag him to his. death 1 I '11 save him. [^Surming out to the left. Re-enter Julian supporting, with an air of great rductance, and even loathing, Sik Richard, who is without his hat, and his dress in great disorder. Jul. There ; lean against that tree : ere long, will come One that may help you with more wiU than I. Sir Richard supporting himself against the tree, •» Julian retires a step or two. Sir Richard passes his left hand over his brow, and seems for a moment or two to le gathering his thoughts, then extends his right hand to Julian with an appearance of some warmth and frankness. Julian draws hack, coldly and haughtily. Sir R. Why tlien, at peril of your own limbs, save me ? One minute more, my death had taken place Without your agency. Jtd. And my revenge Unsatisfied. Perhaps for that I thought 'T were malice perfected, to make thy life Thy enemy's charity. Sir R. [impressively, after looking athim, for a full minute, from head to foot. Well, thou shalt have The amend thou seekest, — if thou '11 take it now: ACT III. SO. 4. 335 Thou liast left me without power to refuse. Jul. [calling to the right. Fasten the horses there, and come this way. Re-enter Hubert. Assist Sir Richard : help him to his steed ; Thou 'It find the creature, tied to yon dwarf beech. Wait on Sir Richard home. If thou should find The beast unruly, mount him in his stead, And lend thine own. » Sir R. [to Jul.] Thanks. Prithee, first, good Hubert, See my girths tighten'd. Hubert, who has looked from one to the other with an air of inquisitive surprise, Exit. Sir Richard talees Julian hy the sleeve, comes forward, and in an under tone, but deeply, while he smiles : Thou shalt have thy wish, Though thou wast twenty times my brother's son. Jul. [pressing Sir R.'s hand passionately. And I — I will exact it, though my sire Himself stood 'twixt you and my wrath. Look to it. [Sir R. smiles again. Sir Richard 1 Sir ! Sir Richard Mandeville : Do not look so. We now know one another. Sir R. Even so — and hate. Again re-enter Hubert. Huh. All is secure, sir, now. 336 THE LAST MANDEVILLE I '11 bring him to you ? - Sir R. No, go on, my friend ; I am better now : I '11 follow to the spot. [Exit Huh. Sib Richabd, as he moves slowly after him, turns half-way round, smiles again, and touches the hilt of his sword significantly. Julian half-raises his, sheathed, with his left hand, and makes a step forward, as if to rush on him, hut, by a seemingly violent effort, restrains himself. — Mcit Sir Richard. * Jul. [clasping his hands passionately together. He hates me too at last I blessed chance, That I should save, at peril of my own. The Ufe he had rather lose than feel my gift I Scene V. An open space in a grove, near Julian's villa, the front of which is seen through the intervals of the trees. Hubert. Elinor, Elin. Thou dost with my impatience trifle, Hubert. I came to ask thee of thy master. ACT 111. sc. 5. 337 Huh. Well, And I to tell fhee. Elin. Thee ? Dost thou forget ? — Hub. That treachery makes us equal ? No, not 1 1 Besides, if I must speak so plain Elin. What!— No! Thou darest not so insult me ! But, go on ; G-o on : I mind our compact. Hub. It is well : I thought, by Jude ! you had forgot it quite. After the note Sir Richard sent, ( that scrawl, I show'd you ere it reach'd my master's hand, ) They had a meeting. Elin. Who ? Not ? — Spe :k ! Hub. I mean, Sir Richard and bis nephew. EKn. Fought? Hub. I know not. I found them in the lane. Sir Richard's horse, It seems, had thrown liim ; and, 't is like, his life My master sav'd. If so, his thanks were odd : For, as they parted gravely — on the spot, I saw Sir Richard give a devilish grin. And touch his sword-hilt. Elin. And ? What then ? what then ? Hub. Last night, there came a billet for my master. I never saw him yet so fill'd with joy. His eyes flam'd like two coals EKn. Stop I 338 THE LAST MANDEVILLE Hub. Hear me out. He shook his clench'd fist high above his head — Holding in 's other hand the note. — SUn. [with a gasp of relief^ I breathe. Huh. 'T was all that then I saw ; he bade me go : But, pausing at the door, I heard him shout, " ^i last 1 " and then the clash and ringing sound Of metal thrown upon a table. Soon, He left his chamber. I embrac'd the chance. There on his table lay a heap of swords, A string, and — guess. JEUn. The letter ? And thou hast it ? Hub. Ay, in my head : how should I dare to take it? Elm. On, on ! It was ? — Hub. A challenge from Sir Richard. Slin. Sir Richard ? and to — him ? Hub. Prom him to him. EUn. Grod I Say on. Hub. 'T was more the acceptance than The offer of a fight. It simply said. The baronet would pass the house this day. Soon after daybreak, and alone, his sword His only weapon, and about him borne A note, to certify, in case of death. He fell in duel fairly ; and he pray'd. His nephew would the same grace do to him. The cord was measure of his blade. Elin. "Well, well ? Hub. This morn, at daybreak, for an hour or more. ACT III. sc. 5. 339 My master pac'd the lawn, ( I rose to watch bim. ) Each minute ( as it seem'd, ) he gaz'd the east, Or look'd upon his watch. At length, he bade The groom his blood-bay saddle, cursing him For being slow : the first time that his mood Was ever, to his servants, less than mild. Elin. But whither did he ride ? ' Hub. To town, be sure, To meet Sir Richard. Elin. And ? — Hub. To fight, I think. Elin. Thou canst not think so I Hub. Humph I Elin. His father's blood ? Hub. They are both Mandevilles. At Naseby fight, When Noll had lopp'd off, at the shoulder-joint. Sir Julian ( that 's Sir Eichard's sire ) 's right arm. The tough old baronet, with his left arm, strove To put his poniard through the usurper's throat, And would, but Cromwell seiz'd him by the wrist, And cleft him to the chine. His son, sole brother, And junior of Sir Richard by a year, Smote, with his glove, his enemy in the face. In a church-porch, and died in duel for 't. My master is his mother's child, 't is true. But not the less his father's. Elin. O my God I And they will fight I We must prevent it, Hubert. Huh. I see not how. Besides, it is too late : 340 THE LAST MANDEVILLE My master has by this time reach'd the town. Elin. And he may perish ! Stop them ! save him, Hubert I Hub. Sir Eiohard ? Elin. No, no I Julian — him — thy master. Huh. What 's he to you ? Elin. No matter. I enough. That 't is my fault. Hast thou no feeling ? none ? He never wrong'd thee : and he did forgive thee The wrong thou woaldst have done to him. Think too, 'T is partly thy fault Hub. And who tempted me ? Elin. Not 1 1 Don't say 't was 1 1 Huh. Thy beauty, then. Elin. Curs'd be its fatal influence I To this. My ruin and But save him, save him, Hubert ! Repair thy fault ! Huh. It is too late, I say. Nor could I, were it not, or if I would. Is it not Master Mandeville you speak of? My master ? Are you mad ? What could / do, — His servant ? Do not wring your hands. Eeflect : He ruin'd thee ; and thou but payest him back. Elin. Cold-blooded, dastard villaiu I it is false. Huh. Oh I very well. [ Going off. In future, Mistress Mortoi, Plot by yourself. My master may survive ; And t'le French lady Elin. Ah ! — Stay, Hubert 1 stay I Come back : I did but jest : I Wretched me I ACT III. sc. 5. 341 Huh. [coming hack slowly. But, mistress, to receive, for pay, bad words Elin. Thou shalt not any more. Thou must not mind me. Huh. No, but it seems my service is for nought. The recompence you promis'd was not this, Nor will I longer work without my hire. Elin. But yet the work 's not done ; nor canst thou claim Thy guerdon, till it be. Huh. I know not that. I know not why I should not pay myself, {advancing rather quickly. While it is in my power. Elin. Traitor I Ah I Thou dar'st not I [Putting her hand into her hosom. And I am not in thy power. Advance a step, and I will strike thee dead. [He retreats. Why so. What canst thou say, thou foolish man ? Have I yet broke our compact ? Hub. But, 't is hard Elin. To wait for thy reward until 't is due ? No, I will keep my word : when Hubert does All I demand, then Hubert shall receive All he deserveth ; when my great revenge Has taught to Ah, my Grod ! yet save him, save I I 'd not destroy him ; not by Still there 's time. Is there no help ? Ohl wilt thou not take pity ? Huh. And the French lady ? Elim. Ah I 342 THE LAST MAJS^DETILLE Huh. Young, noble, rich. And beautiful. Elin. No more 1 thou 'It drive me mad. Let — let him, her, me perish, all the worid ! [Exit. Hubert follows, smiling. Scene VI. The house of Sir Richard Mandeville. An antechamber. Several servants in livery whispering together. Their manner indicates some extra- ordinary and horrible event, of recent occurrence. Enter Another Servant, in different livery. New Servt. Where is the master ? 1st Servt. [exchanging looks with his fellows. Oh! New Servt. Sir Richard Mandeville ? 1st Servt. Sir Richard ? [ The servts. again exchange looks. New Servt. Yea ; my lady is a-dying : I cannot stop ; I must away, post-haste, A.cr in. so. 7. 343 To Master Julian : wilt thou 2d Servt. Hush ! he come*. Miter Julian. See I he has heard of it : how wild he looks 1 I never saw an heir so sore-dislress'd. Jul [to himself.'] What terrible event does this imply ? These solemn and affrighted looks I [Passes on, — Servant leading solemnly the way towards a door. 1st Servt. [holding back the new comer who is aiout to address Julian.] Not now : I '11 tell thee why. A moment, he '11 be back. As Julian's conductor is about to open the door, Scene changes. Scene VIL A room,. Several persons, servants and others, standing in a group. A couch with what, from the form, tfcc, appears to be a dead body, covered with a white cloth. Sntetr Julian, with the Servant. Jul. Ha! What is this? Servi. The body of my master. Vol. II.— 15 344 THE LAST MANDEVILLE JiTLiAN stands as if petrified. The servant falls hack in dismay at his expression, and the various other spectators use various gestures of affright and wonder- ment, as they gaze upon him. Jul. Speak I How ? By ? Dead 7 He turns his head over his shoulder, and gazes thus, fioixdly, on the body the whole time while the Servant answers. Servt. We thought you kueir it, sir. This morning, "we were wafcen'd by a fall That shook the house, when, coming' dowrir we saw Sir Richard prostrate on the lowest floor, Expiring. As his hat beside Mm lay, And by the door the groom stood with his horse, — Waiting there by his order.-, as he said, — 'T is thought the baronet, for some rencounter, Descending when tlie lamps were burning dim. Had miss'd his step, and o'er the balustrade Of the great spiral stair, two stories' height, Pitoh'd headlong, Jul. [now turning his face from the body, to the servant. Spake he aught 7 Servt. One word ; " Aveng'd 1 " Jul. Oh [ [covers his face vHth his hand, and averts it. Servt. And, that said, his head fell back, The eyes roH'd horribly, and life was gone. ACT III. sc. 7. 345 Aside, to the rest.'\ His grief is sore ; 't is fit we sliould retire. \_Exii, with the rest. Jul. Iremoving his hands as the door shuts. I came to shed thy blood ; and there thou liest Cold, lifeless, mangled, all incapable Of thought or feeling. I have pray'd to be Alone with thee ten minutes ; and alone I am with thee at last, — may be for hours. If so it please me, and with none to hinder : Where is my satisfaction 1 I have vow'd Avengement on thee : Fate has ta'en it for me, And wreak'd it to the utmost. Lifeless, cold. Mangled, incapable of thought or feeling ; I might upbraid thee now, thou wouldst not hear me ; I might make mock of thee, thou wouldst not see me ; I might thy body wound, thou wouldst not feel me. " Aveng'd " ? Thou felt'st it so : but I am not. No : Elinor — seduo'd from me — defil'd — Made to conspire against my joy and peace — Elinor has left me ; Euphrosine I have no more the right to visit now. And could not, if I had, for very shame. I am alone, alone now, — disappointed. Dejected, wretched, — while, foul cause of all, Thou liest at rest, on that oblivion pillow'd Which thou hast robb'd me of, perchance for ever, Till I shall join thee. Oh I 't will harrow me. This thought, this thought ; 't will cling around me still, Press on my brain, and eat into my vitals. 346 THE LAST MANDEVILLE Dead — dead — dead : but not within thy coffin Will my revenge be buried : it will tread The earth with me, move wheresoe'er I move, Dwell in my heart, and there, there, at all times, In every place, cry, ceaseless, to be sated. Dead I I will look on thee, [fle lifts the doth, wad looks upon the face.] Ha ! dost thou smile ? Dar'st thou ? [fie raises his hand as if to strike, hut drops it, and retreats. 'T is the mockery of fancy. Thou dost I [looking again.] Vile thing 1 [raising his hand again, hut dropping it. Oh Grod 1 the lips are curl'd And rigid with past agony. Shame I shame I [covering his face with hoth hands. This demon passion I to have sunk me thus ! Se is about to leave the room, but, when he reaches the door, stops, as with a sudden thought, and turns. That note he was to bear on his person : ah I 'T were worse than death to leave it — to be seen, Talk'd of, perhaps, among the fools of court 1 He goes to the body, gazes in its face, turns down the cloth, lays one hand upon its breast, and thrusts the other into the pockets. Ope not thy sightless orbs, to blast me now ; Let not thy blue lips curl, to drive me mad I It is the dreadfulest act I e'er have done. Oh Grod I I feel, even through his habit's fold, ACT HI. 8C. 1. 347 The solid flesh, all cold and stark. There — there. \_drawing forth the note and replacing the cloth. Reads.] " In fair, though secret, duel fallen, fought, " On my own challenge, with my loving nephew. " Let none pursue him therefore. If he live, " The madhouse will save justice all that pain.'' Crushing the note together, in his hands.] villain ! villain ! scornful to the last ! Malignant fiend I if that I deem'd thy soul Hung o'er thy body and would feel the blow, I Wretched me I while yet I am myself, Let me go hence ; and pardon me, high Heaven 1 \_Mcit, looking once more back, as the Drop falls. 348 THE LAST MANDEVILLB Act theFoitrth Scene I. A room at Sir Jidian's residence in London. Sir Julian, in deep mourning. He appears sad and abstracted. Lord Capel endeavoring to arouse him. Lord O. Why, worse and worse, thou sullen eremite I Where shall this end ? Wilt thou wear sackcloth, man, Adore the Saints instead of maidens' eyes, Set amorous strains no more to Waller's lute, " Or force even Dryden own thy satire's nerve, But tag King David's psalms with monkish rhyme ? 'T will stead thee much when Charles's wit is cold, And his duU Grace of York 's our master : now, Be more of the day, and, if thou must be sage. Wear lace above thy camlet. But, ah me ! I did forget ; forgive my heedless vein : These weeds are for thy mother ; and this grief Sir Jul. Broods not above her sepulchre, my lord. Lord G. Not then thy uncle's ? — Sir Jul. 'S death ! [walking Jrom him, in great agitation. Lord C. I did not know There was such love between you ; though indeed ACT IV. sc. 1. 349 A fate so awful Sir Jul. Good my lord, have done. [Lord C. looks surprised and hurt. Pardon me, Capel, this abruptness ; more, My seeming coldness. True, as only, friend, If mortal could assuage my sorrow, thou Wert call'd to minister. Ask now no more. Lord C. How ehang'd 1 in one brief year. Tet, why complain, Who have my own griefs which I may not tell ? Sir Jul. Well have I mark'd it. We, who heretofore Kept our hearts like an open book, for each To read at will and comment-on unohecfd. Have double-clasp'd them now, like friends at court, Where envy teaches cunning, and dissembling Is rivalry's sole armor and chief weapon. Lord C. Tet such wear smiling faces ; we do not And one of us, — which, Julian, is not I, . — Has kept aloo^ and. each day grows more strange. Sir Jul. A melancholy, Capel, deep as mine, Would come like mildew on the social hall, Bespotting all things with unsightly mold. Lord C. Not where all things are humid as itself If my mood be not sad enough, my lady's Is of a temperature to match thine own, — [Sir Jul. abruptly walks apart. At least U grown so now, since my return. Being so congenial, old acquaintance too, Enamor'd both of Switzerland's romance, Its lakes and mountains never- tiring theme 350 THE LAST MANDEVILLE For spirits such as thine and Biiphrosine's SiK Julian, whose step has grown more and more rapid and agitated, now turns abruptly, and, in a voice broken hy emotion : Sir Jul. My lord — you know Lord O. Thou art the strangest man I That silly slander of a low amour ( Monstrous delict for Charles's saintly reign I ) Is no more listen'd now than Cromwell's psalms. Sir Jul. Thanks to thee, Capel. Lord 0. To thy sister, say ; Who loves thee, Mandeville, as men love life, [sighs. And I do love thee more, that she does so. When I was wed, thou wast again away. Wandering, men said, in Wales, but none knew where. Sir Jul. Flying from thoughts that chas'd, and chase me still, Eternal hunt ! that, dreaming or awake. Will never slacken, till the harass'd brain , Sleep — like my uncle's. — Pardon. And my sister ? Thy wedding What was 't, Gapel, thou wouldst say ? Lord C. [who has heen observing him with anxiovs surprise. Madam de BeauftVemont being then with us. Her prejudice against thee ( Euphrosine's Never I think had any vital warmth ) Vanish'd, like mist, before the steady day Of truth and love — thy sister's love, I mean. She honor'd at the time my father's roof. Sir Jul. Which, since the desolation of our own, Has spread its shelter o'er the orphan maid. ACT IV. sc. 1. 351 Shelter no other noble house can give In these degenerate times. Lord C. Thank then her love, Not mine ; or, if thou owest my friendship aught, Be oftener near my hearthstone. Sir Jul. What to do ? To deeper grave my sorrows, and to carve Like lines of wo in hearts that yet are free — Free from such shapes at least as furrow mine ? [He has walh'd up the scene again, and, turning hack' adds solemnly : My lord, there 's danger in my contact ; shun it ; Or from one common blight G-od keep us all ! Lord C. Indeed ? [looking at him with increasing wonder. Sir Jul. I say it, and Amen 1 Lord C. Then should The plague-spot of thy grief be well-defin'd. But yet I see it not. Well, Julian, be 't Even as thou wilt. Come seldom ; only come. Or, shall I rather visit here ? Sir Jul. [eagerly.] Yes, here. Here, often as thou canst ; come every day, Each hour, so thou have heart for 't ; for mine Can never have enough of thee. But there, There in thy home — where — where Lord 0. I understand : And though the shame or pride is overcharg'd, 'T is noble ; more so, that the age is gross. [Sir Jul. shows great uneasiness. 15* 352 THE LAST MANDETILLE Be that for time to lessen and efface, " That equally will scar thy sorrow's wound, Deep though it be and hidden. Yet some time, If rarely, let my lady see thee. Eyen now I left her in a mood that sorts with thine. Go and console her while I am away. Thou startest. Thou 'rt the oddest man I Here I Urge thee myself to visit mine own wife, And clear the way for thee ; and one would think I 'd bid thee court my grandmother I I would Thou hadst a wife, Sir Juhan ; thou shouldst see, I would not be so churlish, didst thou ask me. Sir Jul. Thou 'rt like to other preachers, my dear lord ; Thy practice and thy doctrine differ wide. Lord C. Thou dost me right : albeit a cavalier, 'T is not in morals. 'T was a false mirth, wasted To seek to dissipate thy heavy gloom. Adieu awhile. Thank Arthur's honest love, — Or fellow-misery, wouldst thou jiidge more near, — Mad Villiers " makes thee not, for this sour mood, The palace-jest. [Exit. Sir Jul. [loohing after him with sadness. 'T would be at thy expense. Tes, I will CEtU to see thy [choking. Oh I not mine I Not mine, not mine 1 though still to me but Euphrosine. I '11 see thy wife. Lord Capel, — tell her all, — Then fly forever from this fatal scene, "Where I die daily, lest a living death ACT IV. sc. 1. 353 Fall on far worthier hearts. Going, stops, and turtis, as hearing something. What have we here ? Prances 1 And Capel, blushing like a girl, Steps eager after. Oh! another knot In this entangled skein. But one at least I go to sever. 'T is my dear heart-strings That twine it ; and, may Grod grant, mine alone I [Bkcit, at one side, while Enter, from the opposite, Peanoes, followed timidly, yet eagerly, by Lord Capel. i^are. [looking after Sir Jul. What, not one word ? Unkind I Lord C. Nay, Mistress Frances, Seest not he waves his hand ? pray, stop him not. Alas, our JuUan is not in that mood Thy converse would give joy to. [joining her. Fran. Oh my lord. What is there wrong ? Time was, even from his friend I needed not to ask what ail'd my brother. His heart was open then ; but now, so chang'd Pardon, my lord, I cannot help but weep ; Though vainly do I search my conscience through To find the cause in me. Lord C. The cause in thee I Then were my friend, thy brother, chang'd indeed. Why even the idle court thy love's devotiop Have learn'd to reverence, apd ^hp come more near, 354 THE LAST MANDEVILLE To know thee, and to warmer hearts, I mean, Pind him worth envy even for this alone. Fran. 'T is envy then which follows true desert. " When other brothers merit half the love That Julian does, they will not lack their due. This better than Lord Capel who should know ? Lord C. If to be good and loving were but one, Then none indeed. But were your brother's friend All that your very fondness for that brother Bids you assume, yet could not Ellen he That brother's sister, worthy though the while, ■ Most excellent maid, to be that sister's friend. Fran. Lord Capel does forget it is his blessing His sister cannot love him with that love I bear to Julian, orphan and alone. Lord 0. No, not alone, Grod knovveth; for there be hearts That love, adore thee, more than any kin — [eagerly, in a transport of admiration, taking her hand ; then embarrassed. I mean Fran, [gently disengaging her hand, and shrinking from him, but timidly and ivith emotion. Tet are not kin for all. Whereas Ellen has both her parents and yourself: And you, have you not parents, sister, — Euphrosine ? Lord Capel, visibly moved, in turn shrinks from Frances, who, without looking at him, hastens to add : But do not mock me by this caurtly parle. My brother's gloom, his wild and absent look, ACT IV. sc. 1. 355 His thin, wan cheeks, his voice, and oh, my lord. His harsh impatience, his, who to my love Was wont to be as gentle as a child. This makes me restless. Fill'd with fancies vague Yet terrible, I came to try, once more, The power that was my glory once and joy : But, oh my lord, you saw ! Lori C. Foresaw. And 'twas That I foresaw " this shock to thy sweet spirit, And would avert if, or abate its foi'ce. That I presum'd to follow thee unbid. gentle lady I even now thy brother EepeU'd my friendly urgence. In this mood, Impracticable and averse, think'st thou. Though thou art dear as ever to his heart. Thy solace would be timely, thy love's quest Meet ready answer ? Let nie tend thee home. Trust me, there is no reason for alarm, Though much for soirow, seeing hiin thus chang'd. Fran, /will indeed withdraw; but you, my lord, '° Think not of me : I would beseech you wait Till Julian come; and let the anxious hearts That yearn for him beneath your father's roof Be gladden'd through your instance. Take him else To your own home, or But, alas, I see You have no hope to move him. my lord. You will not leave him wholly to himself? Lord 0. Sweet lady, no." I comprehend thy wish. And is there wish of thine that Oapel's spirit 356 THE LAST MANDEVILLB Bounds not to meet, though 't were of Hghter kind Than now exalts, and makes thee in the eyes Of G-od in Heaven an angel like his own ? G-o to the roof that, honor'd as thy home, Gives me the right to feel myself thy brother; I will not quit this place till Julian c me. What o'er his mood I may, though little hoping, I will essay for thine, for all our sakes. Eest tranquil : and now let me lead thee forth. ^Exeunt. Scene II. !rwilight Charing- Cross. The Statue of Charles I. Elinor standing in its shadow. To her Miter Hubert. JElin. Thou 'rt faithful ; but thou 'st kept me over long. Hub. Faithful I Hold thou thy truth as I shall mine, And, pretty Mistress Morton, Hubert's place Is better than his lord's. Ulin. Wilt thou have done ? ACT IV. SO. 2. 351 Speak but once more in that insulting cant, Our compact 's broken, and thy master learns What viper he is warming in his kitchen. Hub. Oh, if you come to vipers, what was she My master warm'd so lately in his bosom 7 Pardon I you stung me. JEUn. With a broken fang. Gro on, sir : what news bring'st thou ? Hub. ' Precious. Hear. All things are order'id for a prompt departure. JEUn. I trust that thou dost lie. I — — Mercy, Heaven I G-o, and unpunish'd ! Hub. ITay, I said not that. If what he longs for most, and you pretend Tou long for with him,. is to be the whip, He is like to feel it. SKn. Ahl Sub. Gruess whence I come. EUn. From — not from — From? — ; — Hub. Lord Capel's, be you sure. I traok'd him thither, driven as he were mad. Why do you smite your hands? I thought 't would please ye. £!lin. Her ruin would : their love r- it drives me wild. Eub. That 's passing strange, when, as my dull eyes see, Tou hope, that ruin only of that love. EJin. And yet it makes me heartsick, mad, I tell thee. But what hast thou, thou sneering, bantering devil. To do with that ? — So, all is over. 358 THE XAST MANDEVILLE Huh. No. Elin. Was it a lie then ? Does he not then go ? Huh. In one hour hence, Sir Julian leaves the kingdom. Elin. Then all is over, villain. Huh. [with mocleing emphasis.'] Lady, no I Elin. Didst thou not dog him, furious with his lust. To the adulteress ? Htib. To his lady love, Tlie honorable wife, whom even the Duke Dares not asperse, nor Rochester lampoon. Of the lord Capel, to that lady's house — Elin. Stop, or I strike thee I Huh. Soft ; the statue hear?. — To that fair lady's dwelling did the hound, Call'd Hubert, track his master's step, to please His master's — Elin. Cast-off mistress. / will say it : Thou shalt not dare it. Even in this place [putting her hand into her bosom with a threatening gesture. Huh. [mockingly. What I where his martyr'd Majesty looks down, Commit a murder 7 — But a truce. I see Tou want me not; and, if these eyes are stone, [carelessly indicating, with his head, the statue. Others are round us, and quick ears besides. I '11 see you where 't is safer. Elin. Stay : 't was wrong And very foolish to be angry. Yet ACT IV. SC. 2. 359 To see one's plans of womanly revenge, So painfully upbuilded, all o'erblown I — Huh. And once more, I say, " No ! " Elin. Yet is he gone To bid adieu 1 Hub. Do people always do What they go bent on doing ? Elin. Fellow, yea, Thy master does. His honorable soul — • Don't sneer, sir I — his romantic love of right Are urging him — I see it all as plain As if he told me ( have I not good cause ? ) — To break off this connection. And he 'II do it. Hub. To put the broken parts again together. As he did once in Switzerland, and here. Elin. Thou growest refln'd. Hub. I see you now and then. — But men in love are ranch like men in drink ; They know they stagger, yet tliey walk not straight. And my romantic, honorable, master May fall the sooner, striving to keep up. Hush I by St. Jude, see where his carriage comes, Hot driving I as he went. 'T is well for us. The blinds are down. Look, Mistress Morton, look I The coachman has his head bent o'er his shoulder : Are they pursued ? Or does he fear See there I He laughs now with the footboy, and makes signs. All 's safe : but something 's inside, I would swear. Elin. Dost think ~ {vehemently, hut in a suppressed tone. 360 THE LAST MANDBVILLB Huh. 'T is time that I were gone. Farewell. Elin. If it be doae ! \with restrained^ hut convulsive emotion. Hub. Don't keep me. Nor forget How I have labor'd. \_moves off hastily. Elin. Thou shalt have thy wage. Take now my thanks — [Exit Huh. — Elin. looks after him with vindictive expression. and hatred, and deep scorn. [Exit Elin. Scene III. Same as Scene I. of the Act. Lord Oapel alone, seated in a musing and melancholy attitude. After some minutes : Lord C. fooUsh, foolish visions 1 Worse than mad, To let these shadows of fantastic joy Steal o'er my spirit I What to me should be Her spotless beauty and her stainless soul ? What could be, were I libertine as loose As Wilmot " ? Fatal bon i I too rashly tied I And she, poor Euphrosine I though not her heart. ACT IV. sc. 3. 361 More than my own, went with her wedded hand, Yet must the indifference I cannot hide Deepen her sadness. Noble that she is, [He comes down." Her pale cheek sinks, like Julian's, yet no murmur Ah ! can it be ? It flashes through my brain Like lightning in deep darkness I Do tbey love ? He will not see her — they were friends abroad — He shudders at her name, she thrills at his Death 1 I '11 not think it ! it were madness round — Julian, and Frances, Arthur, Euphrosine, All wretched, yet all honest. Be this true. It makes my dreams more deadly-wicked still. Yet, voluptuous twilight of the soul 1 Down from the glowing heaven where Love reposes Thy rosy atmosphere pours all around me, And the husb'd sense is happy but to feel I Prances I Iwiih softness.'] — Why am I here ? [with sud- den animation, or starting, as if rousing himself with an effort.] To wait for Julian I To keep him from himself. Who shall keep me 1 [sadly. If he knew I if I It is his footstep I — Yet 'T is strangely heavy, dull, as though some weight Julian 1 my friend I — Ah ! Miter Sir Julian with Euphrosine tying, apparently semdess, in his arms. Her hair, all disheveled, drops over them and over her dress, and her head unsupported Jiangs doivn. 362 THE LAST MANDBVILI^E JnLiAN lays her on a couch, then, loohiri^ wildly on Capel, who stands motionless, as with horror and amazement, hursts into a frantic laugh. Sir Jul. Ha, ha, ha 1 'T is she ; It is thy wife, I say ; and I have robb'd her Of all right to that name. Why dost thou stare ? Hast thou no weapon ? I have kill'd thy wife, And bring a life to thee. Where are thine arms ? Is thy sword rusted in its scabbard 7 Look. [pointing to Euphrosine. Lord O. [rushing on him with fury. Villain 1 — Or [slowly, in a deep and mournful tone. art thou mad ? Sir Jul. Both — both, I tell thee — Mad and a villain. Ere thou cam'st, I lov'd her — Lov'd her 1 how I lov'd her I I had given My soul for one kiss of her virgin lip, Which then no man had tasted I but to strain her Once in these longing arms before I died, I would have borne all woes that ever fell Upon the wretchedest of mankind I — And now [He turns slowly round to the hody, hut without moving from, his place. O Euphrosine I [hursts into tears. Suddenly hreahing into fury, and advancing two steps towards Capel. What ! ha3t thou eyes ? or ears ? ACT IV. SC. 3. M3 I tell thee I have foully wrong'd thy wife, The lady of Lord Capel. There she lies. Thou wouldst have me to see her ; thou wouldst trust her To me, her lover — and her lov'd, as that [pointing to her body. Should tell thee, -wittol ! coward I Lord C. [drawing and rushing on him. Ah, come on. Sir Jul. Yes, yes I Lord C [noticing his strange delight, drops the point of his sword, with a look of mingled pity and horror. No, not by my hand. Capel's sword Can do no murder. Sir Jul. 'T is a woman's sword. Take that, [striking Mm with the flat of his blade. Por thy wife's sake. Lord 0. [attacking him instantly. Let her bewail the victim. Sir Julian, after a few passes, lunges purposely aside, and flings him.selfwith great force on the point of Capel's weapon. It passes through his dress, under the arm. Sir Jul. Unlucky chance I I trusted to have perish'd By thy lov'd hand. Why wouldst thou spare me ? Lord 0. [solemnly, in a voice deep in tone, slow of movement, and mournful. Julian, Thy punishment rests not- with me. If 't please thee 364 THE LAST MANDEVILLB To have set a thorn for ever in the breast Of a true friend — of one who lov'd thee — as — • [fe's voice hreahs. He lov'd no othei' man — be pleas'd. Be kind — To — her. 'T is all that thou canst do for her, For the brief while that will be left : her shame She will not long survive, to be a curse In thy chang'd eyes. [Be looks at Eupli. a moment, stifles a groan, and hursts from the apartment. Sir Jul. Q-one. Left her all to me. Well — We must live together. It will be A sad life, Euphrosine ; but we must set Our shoulders to the task, and bear the load Between us. 'T will not be for long. He said well. Fragile as thou art, poor girl, Thou canst not long sustain the iron weight Of the charg'd conscience. Pity 't were thou shouldst. How still ! She looks as though Perhaps I [He kneels beside her. No breath I Jle puts his hand to her cheek.} Gold I — Can it be ? — Dead ? — No, no. Yet, unhelp'd, She may die. Let her ; 't is a mercy thus. Se rises, and walles gloomily from the couch. Let her die thus. Mine only now forever. Would God she were the grave's ! — [Starting, he turns eagerly round. ACT IV. SC. 3, 365 Hush ! is 't ? She stirs I She I [Darting to her in a seeming ecstasy of delight, Buphrosine 1 my love I my life I my soul ! He throws himself beside her — ■ raises her from the cushion, fans her lips, chafes her hands, dec.