Representative American Plays/Superstition/Act 4

Scene 1.^ Before tlie house of Ravens- worth.

{Enter Ravensayorth from the house, meeting Walford.)

Ray. You come in happy time; I would have sought you Walford, my soul is sick, even to death. To look upon the miseries, our sins Bring down upon us. But I am re-

solv'd ; — This day's events at length have steel'd

my heart Against the accursed cause; who must

not longer Pollute, unquestion'd thus, our whole- some air. Walf. You know the cause then? Ray. Who can know this woman,

This Isabella, and be ignorant ! But she must answer it — the time is

come; She and her son must answer for their

deeds. And since my letters to the government Have f ail'd to bring their aid — ourselves,

my friend, Must call them to the judgment seat. Walf. Not so ;

Your efforts have been crown'd with sad

success. Commissioners have even now arriv'd, — I came to let you know it. Ray. Thanks, my friend,

You make me happ5\ Walf. Happy, Ravensworth !

Ray. And should I not rejoice that guilt like theirs Should cease to spread its poison thro' the land? Walf. Where shall we find the evidence

of guilt ? Ray. The trial shall produce it, doubt it not; Meantime, methinks the general belief

1 This scene was omitted in the representation.

In their dark crimes; the universal hor- ror

Inspir'd e'en by their presence — as if nature

Shudder'd instinctively at what was mon- strous.

And hostile to its laws, were, of them- selves,

A ground to rest the charge on. Walf. Ah, my friend,

If reason in a mind like yours, so form'd,

So fortified by knowledge, can bow down

Before the popular breath, what shall protect

From the all-with'ring blasts of super- stition

The unthinking crowd, in whom cre- dulity,

Is ever the first bom of ignorance? Ray. Walford, what meanest thou by su- perstition !

Is there in our religion aught forbidding

Belief in sorcery! Look Ihro' this land,

Or turn thine eyes abroad — are not the men

Most eminent for piety and knowledge —

The shining lights of a benighted age.

Are they not, too, believers? Walf. There have been,

In every age, among the learn'd, divines,

Statesmen, philosophers, astronomers.

Who have upheld with much ability,

The errors they believ'd in. Abstract points

In science, may be safely tolerated,

Altho' erroneous — But there may be doc- trines.

So fatal in their influence, that, until

Their truth is manifest, 'twere well not cast them.

With lavish hand, among the multitude..^ Ray. And is not sorcerj^ manifest as day?

Have not our senses testified unto it? Walf. We have heard infant witnesses aver it,

And seen them while they seem'd to suf- fer it;

We have heard wretches in despair con- fess it.

And have seen helpless creatures perish for it ;

And yet — Ray. What yet?

Walf. Ravensworth! these things

Have happened : on a day of gloom and terror.

When but to doubt was danger, to deny, death ;

When childish petulance, e'en idiocy, ​Were gravely listened to, when mere sus- picion, Could, with a hint destroy, and coward

malice, With whispers, reach'd at life; when

frenzy's flame. Like fire in tow, ran thro' the minds of

men, Fann'd by the breath of those in highest

places, E'en from the bench, yea, from the sacred

desk. Rav. Hold, Walford, I have held thee as

my friend. For many years, beware — Walf. I know thy power

Over the multitude, but fear it not. I have discharged my duty, fare thee

well. Rav. Stay, Walford, thou art honest, but

mistaken. We will dispute no more. But tell me,

friend. Have the commissioners enquired for me"? Walf. They have. Before they enter on

their duties. They 'd have thy counsel. Rav. They shall have it straight,

I '11 go to them at once. 'T is almost

night — There is no hour to lose, I pray thee,

Walford, As I may haply, be detain'd abroad. Let thy good Alice stay here with my

daughter Till my return. Walf. Most willingly. I '11 haste.

And bring her hither. Rav. Nay, we '11 go together.

(Exeunt.)

Scene 2. An Apartment at Isabella's.

{Enter Isabella and Chaeles.)

IsA. Ungrateful people ! Charles. Had they not presum'd

To cloud your clear name with their

viperous breath, I could forgive them. 'T was not for the

herd I drew my sword. ISA. Unthankful wretches; what!

Upon the very act that saved their lives, To found a charge that might endanger thine ! Charles. 'T is even so : I am in league, it seemS;

With fiends, so say their worships; and

the sti'anger. Is no less, than the prince of fiends him- self. Nothing is too ridiculous for those Whom bigotry has brutaliz'd, I laugh At their most monstrous folly. ISA. But such folly,

When it infects the crowd, is dangerous. Already we 've had proof what dreadful

acts Their madness may commit, and each

new day The frenzy spreads. We are suspected

too — Then your imprudent duel — my son. We must remove from hence. Charles. Remove, from hence'?

ISA. Yes ; ere the monsters catch us in the

toils They are preparing. Charles. Mother, you w^ere wont

To bear a mind whose firmness could

resist Your sex's common weaknesses! ISA. I know not

How it is, Charles, but dark and sad

forebodings Hang o'er my subdued spirit; and I

tremble E'en for thy life. Charles. Banish those thoughts, my

mother. ISA. I try, but cannot. — Yes; we will

hence; my son. Tho' on the verge, perhaps, of that dis- covery The hope of which has held me here so

long. We will begone to-morrow. Charles. So soon, mother?

IsA. You do not wish it. Charles, a

mother's eye Can penetrate the heart. The gentle

Mary — She will be left behind — is it not so? But this is boyish, you are yet too young To entertain such fantasies — and then You know her father — sadder still my

son; Well, we '11 not cross the ocean — we '11

but seek The nearest spot that is inhabited By rational beings. And besides, your

youth Will wear a j^ear or two. How say you.

Charles, Are you contented? Charles. You 're the best of mothers. ​And were my heart strings fasten'd to the spot,

I 'd with you, tho' they sunder'd. But you spoke

A moment since, of some discovery

You were near making: what discovery *? ISA. It was an inadvertence — Charles. Must I never

Hope to enjoy your confidence'? ISA. Not now —

Another time, my son. Charles. Another time —

'T is ever thus you put my questions by.

Rather forbid me e'er again to ask

Of what so much concerns me, and I promise

However hard the task, I will obey you.

I trust you have ne'er found me disobedi- ent! ISA. You have been all a mother's heart could wish.

You ask but what you have a right to ask,

And I have always purposed a fit time —

When that your age were ripe enough — Charles. Well, mother,

Has not that time arrived? ISA. Your age, dear Charles,

Has scarce reach'd manhood yet. 'T is true, your courage,

Your conduct amidst danger — manly vir- tues, —

Are well approv'd. Your judgment too — so much,

A mother may believe and say — is far

Beyond the years you count. But there 's a quality;

A virtue it may be, which is the growth

Only of minds well disciplin'd; which looks

On human actions with a liberal eye.

That knows the weakness of the human heart.

Because it feels it; and will not con- demn

In others, what itself is conscious of —

That will not with the tyrant prejudice.

Without allowance or extenuation,

Yea, without hearing pass its dreadful sentence. Charles. And am I such a one'?^ thanks to my nature.

Which I feel is not quite so vile. My breeding,

1 This passage is confused. It should probably read: Thanks to my nature,

Which I feel is not so vile, and to my breeding Which has been liberal, nay, thanks to those Who daily here exhibit its deformity, I scorn this monster prejudice.

Which has been liberal. Nay thanks to

those Who daily here exhibit its deformity, I scorn this monster prejudice. ISA. And yet—

Should you — I could not live if you

should hate me. Charles. Hate you, my mother'? Had

not all your actions Been, as I 've seen them, noble ; all your

precepts As I have ever found them, full of good- ness. Could I recall the tenderness you 've

shewn Towards me, and cease to love you. —

Never, never! All crimes however great, dwindle to

atoms Near filial ingratitude; the heart That is that monster's throne, ne'er knew

a virtue. IsA. Ah! how shall I commence! — What

would you know. Charles. Why you left England? Why

in this wilderness. Amidst a race that scorn, that shun and

loathe us,

You linger mother ;

Who is my father"? ISA. Ah !

Charles.

out existence "? Chiefly,

{Taking her hand.)

{Turning awag.)

In our own England,

At school, among my frank and laugh- ing mates.

When they have put this question, it was done

In merry mood, and I could bear it — well —

Although I could not answer it ; but here,

mother — to these cold and selfish be- ings,

Their smooth tongues dipp'd in bitter- ness, their eyes

Scowling suspicion — what can I reply? IsA. Poor boy, poor boy! Well, Charles, the time is come

And if my spirits fail not — you shall know all.

Your father — but I cannot, no, I cannot

Commence my story there. — I was left, Charles,

W^ithout a parent's care, just at that age

That needs it most. I had ne'er known my mother.

And was scarce fifteen when my father's fate

Forc'd him to abandon child and home and country; ​For lie had been a patriot, as be deemed

it, Or, as his destiny decreed, a traitor. — He tied to this new world. Charles. Does be yet livef

ISA. Alas! I know not, rumours came to England That be survived. It was to find my

father. And on my knees implore his benedic- tion ; — Haply, sbould be forgive, to minister Unto his age's comfort — I came bitber. Charles. 'T is strange, if living, be sbould seek concealment, After the general amnesty. ISA. 0! Charles;

He was excepted in that act of mercy ; He bad done that, the king might never pardon. Charles. Unhappy man ! ISA. Most true, — But let me haste

To close my dark recital. I was plac'd In charge of a kinsman — a perfidious

villain Whose avarice sold, betray'd me. — my

son. It is not fit thy ears sbould bear the tale, And from my lips. I wept, implor'd, re- sisted — Riches and pleasure tempted me in vain Coupled with shame. But hellish craft

at length Triumph'd over credulous vanity — The

altar Was made the scene of sacrilegious mock- ery, Tbe holy vestments of the priest, became A profane masking habit — Charles. Power of Justice !

Could you behold this and forbear to strike ! ISA. The illusion vanisb'd, and I fled, I fled

In horror and in madness. Charles. Dreadful, dreadful!

ISA. It was thy birth that sav'd me from destruction — I had thee to live for, and I liv'd; deep

bid In solitude, under an assum'd name, Thou wer't rear'd, Charles, amidst thy mother's tears. Charles. An assum'd name — in solitude — Shame, shame! Why not unmask the villain to the world, And boldly challenge what was yours"? ISA. His rank —

Charles. No rank sbould shield injustice. Quick, inform me

Who was the wretch? Give me the vil- lain's name. ISA. He was thy father, Charles. Charles. In the sight of Heaven

I here disclaim and curse — IsA. Forbear, forbear —

Or curse me too — Charles. His name, his name —

ISA. You will destroy me!

{She falls into his arms.) Charles. What have I done? I will be calm — forgive me.

{Enter Lucy.)

Lucy. A person from the village, madam, asks

To be admitted to your presence. IsA. How !

Does be declare his business? Lucy. He declines it,

Until he see yourself. ISA. Admit him, Lucy.

{Exit Lucy.)

Charles. Madam, you tremble still, let

me support you. IsA. No; I must learn to overcome this

weakness.

{Enter Messenger.)

Now, Sir, I 'm she you ask for — to your business. ]\Iess. My business is with both. ' You, Isabella And Charles, surnam'd Fitzroy, are cited

both. By a commission of the government. To attend them at their session on the

morrow At nine in the morning. Charles. And to what purpose?

Mess. That

You'll learn from them, farewell.

{Exit Messenger.)

Charles. Why farewell, gravity.

IsA. What can this mean? Charles. They do not know themselves. IsA. I fear I 've been too tardy. Charles. Nay, 'tis nothing.

To question us, perhaps, upon our means.

And pack us from the parish, nothing more.

But, madam, you were interrupted, ere

I learn'd the name — ISA. Not at this moment, Charles.

Charles. Well then, enough of sorrow for to-day —

I will return anon, and laugh with you ​At the absurdities of these strange peo- ple. At supper we '11 discuss our plans for the

future. We may be happy yet. — ISA. But whither go you?

Charles. I ought to visit him I wounded, madam, And perhaps I may gather in the village, Something that may concern us — and per- haps — ISA. Well do not be long absent; it is

night. Charles. I will not, madam: I shall soon return.

{Exit Charles.)

ISA. He does not feel the danger, his frank spirit, His careless youth, disdains it. We must

fly.-

{Enter Lucy.)

Bid Edward, with all speed, prepare the

horses. Then follow to my chamber. We must

prepare In all haste, for a journey — Lucy. Madam, a journey —

To-night"? IsA. To-night: it is most necessary. So, bid Edward Be secret. Lucy. He is here.

Edw. {Within.) You cannot pass.

{Enter Edward.)

IsA. What noise is this*?

Edw. Madam, in spite of me

They press into your presence. ISA. We are lost !

{Enter several Officers.)

1st. Officer. For that we do we have

sufficient warrant. ISA. What means this rudeness? 1st Officer. Answer; where 's your

son? ISA. He is not in the house. 1st Officer. {To attendants who go out.)

Go you, make search. ISA. Again I ask, what is your business

here? 1st Officer. Read {hands her a paper). ISA. Gracious Heav'n ! Is this the charge

against us! But why this second visit ! we are cited To answer in the morning.

1st Officer. But the judges

Have chang'd their mind. Your chamber

is your prison 'Til you are sent for. We '11 attend you thither. IsA. But one word with my servant — 1st Officer. Not one word;

It is forbidden, come — IsA. My son, my son! {She exchanges significant looks with Lucy, and Exit guarded. ) Lucy. I understand {going.) 2nd Officer. And so do we — our duty.

You are not to stir hence, nor hold dis- course One with another. Lead them in — away. {Officers lead off Lucy, and Edward.)

Scene 3. Before the house of Ravens- worth

{Enter Mary from house.)

He does not come. I do not wish it, sure —

At least I ought not. But has he for- gotten ?—

That is impossible. — Perhaps he fears —

no! Charles never fears — should he

not come —

1 ought to hope he could not — ah! a

figure. Stealing between the trees — should it be

he: But may it not be a stranger! ah, let me

fly:

{Exit, into the house.) {Enter Charles cautiously.)

'T was she, her white robe, emblem of her innocence.

Dispels the darkness of the libertine night.

And all around her 's purity and bright- ness.

She is alone. As I pass'd thro' the vil- lage

I learn'd her father was in council there. —

She is alone and unprotected quite —

She loves me and confides in me — be that,

Tho' passion mount to madness, her pro- tection.

The door is f asten'd, right ; a common guest

Comes by a common passage — there are posterns

And wicUets for the lover. Let me try,

{Exit behind the house.) ​Scene 4. A chamber; a window in the flat; a light burning near the window.

Mary discovered, a book in her hand.

I cannot read, — my thoughts are all con- fusion, If it be he, will he not think the light Was plae'd designedly. I will remove it. {Goes towards the window, starts on Charles appearing at it.) Charles. Be not alarm'd, my Mary: it

is I. Mary. Charles, how could you"? — Charles. How could I refrain

When that the beacon light so fairly

blaz'd From steering to this haven? Mary. There ! I f ear'd

You would presume to think — Charles. But I think nothing —

Presume, know nothing, but that thou,

my Mary, Art the divinest creature on the earth And I the happiest — my best, my dear- est, That thou might'st live forever near this

heart ; And why not there forever! What pre- vents it, What can — what shall"? My beauteous, my beloved. Mary. No more;

This warmth alarms me — hear me,

Charles — I've given to thee my heart and maiden

vow, 0, be content — and — leave me — Charles. Leave thee, Love'?

Mary. Before you teach me to despise my- self; Ere you yourself despise me. Charles. Have I, Mary,

Have I deserv'd that from thee? Lo,

I 'm calm — And gaze upon thee as the pilgrim looks Upon the shrine he kneels at; the pure

stars Look not on angels with a holier light. Mary. I do believe you, Charles — but this meeting. So rash, so — Charles. 'T was presumptuous in me, Mary, I do confess it. Mary. Still you mistake me, Charles,

I do not say, I did not wish you here — Yet I must wish you gone. It is so wrong —

I am so much to blame — Charles. ' I will not stay.

To give you pain. Mary. But do not go in anger —

Charles. Anger ! at you ! Mary. A happier time will come —

Each moment now is full of peril,

Charles ; My father may return, and should he find you!— Charles. One word and I will leave you. You will hear. To-morrow, that we 've left this place for ever. Mary. How, Charles? Charles. My mother has resolv'd to fly The persecutions that surround her here And we depart to-morrow — if we may — For we 're already cited — Mary. Heav'ns ! for what ?

Charles. It can be nothing surely. But, dear Maiy, Tho' absent, ah remember there is one Who lives for you alone. Mary. Charles, can you doubt it?

Charles. And should there, Mary, should there come an hour Propitious to our loves; secure and

safe — Suspicion dead, her eye, nor ear to mark

us — And should the lover that adores .you,

Mary, Appear at that blest hour, with certain

means To bear you far from cruelty and slav'ry. To love and happiness? — Mary. No more, no more —

Charles. Would you consent? Mary. tempt me not to sin —

'T would break my father's heart — Charles. Give me your promise.

{Enter Ravensworth, Walford, Alice.)

Mary. {Observing her father.) Unhand me, oh unhand me — Father, father! {Faints in Charles' arms.) Rav. Thy father's here to save thee, hap- less girl. And hurl confusion on thy base betrayer. Charles. {Attending only to Mary.)

She 's dead, she 's dead ! Ray. Haste, tear her from his arms

Ere the pollution of his touch destroy her.

(Alice and Walford convey Mary out.) ​Charles. And have I killed her! {gazing

after her.) Rav. Wretch, and do you mourn

Over the clay, that would have kill'd the

soul?

{Re-enter Walford.)

Walf. She has revived, and calls for thee,

my friend, Charles. She lives, she lives! Then I

defy my fate. Rav. Outcast from Heav'n, thy doom is near at hand. Walford, we '11 strait convey him to the

church, Where by this time the judges have as- sembled. To try his sinful mother. Charles. How ? my mother !

And have ye laid your sacrilegious hands Upon my mother? Rav. Silence wretched youth.

I will but see my daughter — meantime

Walford, Guard well your prisoner. Charles. Guard me! heartless father,

That feelest not the ties of blood and

nature — Think you, at such an hour, I 'd quit my mother ?

{Exeunt Ravensworth, Charles and Walford. )