Part 5

Oh, Marwood! With what feelings did I come to you, and with what must I leave you! A kiss, my dear Bella.

ARABELLA.

That was for you, now one for me! But come back again soon, do!

(_Exit_ Mellefont).

Scene V.

Marwood, Arabella, Hannah.

MARWOOD (_drawing a deep breath_).

Victory, Hannah! but a hard victory! Give me a chair, I feel quite exhausted (_sitting down_). He surrendered only just in time, if he had hesitated another moment, I should have shown him quite a different Marwood.

HANNAH.

Ah, Madam, what a woman you are! I should like to Bee the man who could resist you.

MARWOOD.

He has resisted me already too long. And assuredly, assuredly, I will not forgive him that he almost let me go down on my knees to him.

ARABELLA.

No, no! You must forgive him everything. He is so good, so good----

MARWOOD.

Be silent, little silly!

HANNAH.

I do not know on what side you did not attack him! But nothing, I think, touched him more, than the disinterestedness with which you offered to return all his presents to him.

MARWOOD.

I believe so too. Ha! ha! ha! (_contemptuously_).

HANNAH.

Why do you laugh, Madam? You really risked a great deal, if you were not in earnest about it. Suppose he had taken you at your word?

MARWOOD.

Oh, nonsense, one knows with whom one has to deal.

HANNAH.

I quite admit that! But you too, my pretty Bella, did your part excellently, excellently!

ARABELLA.

How so? Could I do it, then, any other way? I had not seen him for such a long time. I hope you are not angry, Madam, that I love him so? I love you as much as him, just as much.

MARWOOD.

Very well, I will pardon you this time that you do not love me better than him.

ARABELLA (_sobbing_).

This time?

MARWOOD.

Why, you are crying actually? What is it about?

ARABELLA.

Ah, no! I am not crying. Do not get angry! I will love you both so much, so much, that it will be impossible to love either of you more.

MARWOOD.

Very well.

ARABELLA.

I am so unhappy.

MARWOOD.

Now be quiet----but what is that?

Scene VI.

Mellefont, Marwood, Arabella, Hannah.

MARWOOD.

Why do you come back again so soon, Mellefont? (_rising_).

MELLEFONT (_passionately_).

Because I needed but a few moments to recover my senses.

MARWOOD.

Well?

MELLEFONT.

I was stunned, Marwood, but not moved! You have had all your trouble in vain. Another atmosphere than this infectious one of your room has given me back my courage and my strength, to withdraw my foot in time from this dangerous snare. Were the tricks of a Marwood not sufficiently familiar to me, unworthy wretch that I am?

MARWOOD (_impatiently_).

What language is that?

MELLEFONT.

The language of truth and anger.

MARWOOD.

Gently, Mellefont! or I too shall speak in the same language.

MELLEFONT.

I return only in order not to leave you one moment longer under a delusion with regard to me, which must make me despicable even in your eyes.

ARABELLA (_timidly_).

Oh, Hannah!

MELLEFONT.

Look at me as madly as you like. The more madly the better! Was it possible that I could hesitate only for one moment between a Marwood and a Sara, and that I had well nigh decided for the former?

ARABELLA.

Oh, Mellefont!

MELLEFONT.

Do not tremble, Bella! For your sake too I came back. Give me your hand, and follow me without fear!

MARWOOD (_stopping them_).

Whom shall she follow, traitor?

MELLEFONT.

Her father!

MARWOOD.

Go, pitiable wretch, and learn first to know her mother.

MELLEFONT.

I know her. She is a disgrace to her sex.

MARWOOD.

Take her away, Hannah!

MELLEFONT.

Remain here, Bella (_attempting to stop her_).

MARWOOD.

No force, Mellefont, or----

(_Exeunt_ Hannah _and_ Arabella).

Scene VII.

Mellefont, Marwood.

MARWOOD.

Now we are alone! Say now once more, whether you are determined to sacrifice me for a foolish girl?

MELLEFONT (_bitterly_).

Sacrifice you? You recall to my mind that impure animals were also sacrificed to the ancient gods.

MARWOOD (_mockingly_).

Express yourself without these learned allusions.

MELLEFONT.

I tell you, then, that I am firmly resolved never to think of you again, but with the most fearful of curses. Who are you? And who is Sara? You are a voluptuous, egoistic, shameful strumpet, who certainly can scarcely remember any longer that she ever was innocent. I have nothing to reproach myself with but that I have enjoyed with you that which otherwise you would perhaps have let the whole world enjoy. You have sought me, not I you, and if I now know who Marwood is, I have paid for this knowledge dearly enough. It has cost me my fortune, my honour, my happiness----

MARWOOD.

And I would that it might also cost you your eternal happiness. Monster! Is the devil worse than you, when he lures feeble mortals into crimes and himself accuses them afterwards for these crimes which are his own work! What is my innocence to you? What does it matter to you when and how I lost it. If I could not sacrifice my virtue, I have at least staked my good name for you. The former is no more valuable than the latter. What do I say? More valuable? Without it the former is a silly fancy, which brings one neither happiness nor guilt. The good name alone gives it some value, and can exist quite well without it. What did it matter what I was before I knew you, you wretch! It is enough that in the eyes of the world I was a woman without reproach. Through you only it has learned that I am not so; solely through my readiness to accept your heart, as I then thought, without your hand.

MELLEFONT.

This very readiness condemns you, vile woman!

MARWOOD.

But do you remember to what base tricks you owed it? Was I not persuaded by you, that you could not be publicly united to me without forfeiting an inheritance which you wished to share with me only? Is it time now to renounce it? And to renounce it, not for me but for another!

MELLEFONT.

It is a real delight to me to be able to tell you that this difficulty will soon be removed. Content yourself therefore with having deprived me of my father's inheritance, and let me enjoy a far smaller one with a more worthy wife.

MARWOOD.

Ha! Now I see what it is that makes you so perverse. Well, I will lose no more words. Be it so! Be assured I shall do everything to forget you. And the first thing that I will do to this end, shall be this. You will understand me! Tremble for your Bella! Her life shall not carry the memory of my despised love down to posterity; my cruelty shall do it. Behold in me a new Medea!

MELLEFONT (_frightened_).

Marwood!----

MARWOOD.

Or, if you know a more cruel mother still, behold her cruelty doubled in me! Poison and dagger shall avenge me. But no, poison and dagger are tools too merciful for me! They would kill your child and mine too soon. I will not see it dead. I will see it dying! I will see each feature of the face which she has from you disfigured, distorted, and obliterated by slow torture. With eager hand will I part limb from limb, vein from vein, nerve from nerve, and will not cease to cut and burn the very smallest of them, even when there is nothing remaining but a senseless carcass! I--I shall at least feel in it--how sweet is revenge!

MELLEFONT.

You are raving, Marwood----

MARWOOD.

You remind me that my ravings are not directed against the right person. The father must go first! He must already be in yonder world, when, through a thousand woes the spirit of his daughter follows him (_she advances towards him with a dagger which she draws from her bosom_). So die, traitor!

MELLEFONT (_seizing her arm, and snatching the dagger from her_).

Insane woman! What hinders me now from turning the steel against you? But live, and your punishment shall be left for a hand void of honour.

MARWOOD (_wringing her hands_).

Heaven, what have I done? Mellefont----

MELLEFONT.

Your grief shall not deceive me. I know well why you are sorry--not that you wished to stab me, but that you failed to do so.

MARWOOD.

Give me back the erring steel! Give it me back, and you shall see for whom it was sharpened! For this breast alone, which for long has been too narrow for a heart which will rather renounce life than your love.

MELLEFONT.

Hannah!

MARWOOD.

What are you doing, Mellefont?

Scene VIII.

Hannah (_in terror_), Marwood, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT.

Did you hear, Hannah, how madly your mistress was behaving? Remember that I shall hold you responsible for Arabella!

HANNAH.

Madam, how agitated you are!

MELLEFONT.

I will place the innocent child in safety immediately. Justice will doubtless be able to bind the murderous hands of her cruel mother (_going_).

MARWOOD.

Whither, Mellefont? Is it astonishing that the violence of my grief deprived me of my reason? Who forces me to such unnatural excess? Is it not you yourself? Where can Bella be safer than with me? My lips may rave, but my heart still remains the heart of a mother. Oh, Mellefont, forget my madness, and to excuse it think only of its cause.

MELLEFONT.

There is only one thing which can induce me to forget it.

MARWOOD.

And that is?

MELLEFONT.

That you return immediately to London! I will send Arabella there under another escort. You must by no means have anything further to do with her.

MARWOOD.

Very well! I submit to everything; but grant me one single request more. Let me see your Sara once.

MELLEFONT.

And what for?

MARWOOD.

To read in her eyes my future fate. I will judge for myself whether she is worthy of such a breach of faith as you commit against me; and whether I may cherish the hope of receiving again, some day at any rate, a portion of your love.

MELLEFONT.

Vain hope!

MARWOOD.

Who is so cruel as to grudge even hope to the unhappy? I will not show myself to her as Marwood, but as a relation of yours. Announce me to her as such; you shall be present when I call upon her, and I promise you, by all that is sacred, to say nothing that is in any way displeasing to her. Do not refuse my request, for otherwise I might perhaps do all that is in my power to show myself to her in my true character.

MELLEFONT.

Marwood! This request----(_after a moment's reflection_) might be granted.--But will you then be sure to quit this spot?

MARWOOD.

Certainly; yes I promise you. Even more, I will spare you the visit from her father, if that is still possible.

MELLEFONT.

There is no need of that! I hope that he will include me too in the pardon which he grants to his daughter. But if he will not pardon her, I too shall know how to deal with him. I will go and announce you to my Sara. Only keep your promise, Marwood. (_Exit_.)

MARWOOD.

Alas, Hannah, that our powers are not as great as our courage. Come, help me to dress. I do not despair of my scheme. If I could only make sure of him first. Come!

ACT III.

Scene I. (_A room in the first inn_.)

Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.

SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.

There, Waitwell, take this letter to her! It is the letter of an affectionate father, who complains of nothing but her absence. Tell her that I have sent you on before with it, and that I only await her answer, to come myself and fold her again in my arms.

WAITWELL.

I think you do well to prepare them for your arrival in this way.

SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.

I make sure of her intentions by this means, and give her the opportunity of freeing herself from any shame or sorrow which repentance might cause her, before she speaks verbally with me. In a letter it will cost her less embarrassment, and me, perhaps, fewer tears.

WAITWELL.

But may I ask, Sir, what you have resolved upon with regard to Mellefont?

SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.

Ah, Waitwell, if I could separate him from my daughter's lover, I should make some very harsh resolve. But as this cannot be, you see, he is saved from my anger. I myself am most to blame in this misfortune. But for me Sara would never have made the acquaintance of this dangerous man. I admitted him freely into my house on account of an obligation under which I believed myself to be to him. It was natural that the attention which in gratitude I paid him, should win for him the esteem of my daughter. And it was just as natural, that a man of his disposition should suffer himself to be tempted by this esteem to something more. He had been clever enough to transform it into love before I noticed anything at all, and before I had time to inquire into his former life. The evil was done, and I should have done well, if I had forgiven them everything immediately. I wished to be inexorable towards him, and did not consider that I could not be so towards him alone. If I had spared my severity, which came too late, I would at least have prevented their flight. But here I am now, Waitwell! I must fetch them back myself and consider myself happy if only I can make a son of a seducer. For who knows whether he will give up his Marwoods and his other creatures for the sake of a girl who has left nothing for his desires to wish for and who understands so little the bewitching arts of a coquette?

WAITWELL.

Well, Sir, it cannot be possible, that a man could be so wicked----

SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.

This doubt, good Waitwell, does honour to your virtue. But why, at the same time, is it true that the limits of human wickedness extend much further still? Go now, and do as I told you! Notice every look as she reads my letter. In this short deviation from virtue she cannot yet have learned the art of dissimulation, to the masks of which only deep-rooted vice can have recourse. You will read her whole soul in her face. Do not let a look escape you which might perhaps indicate indifference to me--disregard of her father. For if you should unhappily discover this, and if she loves me no more, I hope that I shall be able to conquer myself and abandon her to her fate. I hope so, Waitwell. Alas! would that there were no heart here, to contradict this hope. (_Exeunt on different sides_.)

Scene II.

Miss Sara, Mellefont.

(Sara's _room_.)

MELLEFONT.

I have done wrong, dearest Sara, to leave you in uneasiness about the letter which came just now.

SARA.

Oh dear, no, Mellefont! I have not been in the least uneasy about it. Could you not love me even though you still had secrets from me?

MELLEFONT.

You think, then, that it was a secret?

SARA.

But not one which concerns me. And that must suffice for me.

MELLEFONT.

You are only too good. Let me nevertheless reveal my secret to you. The letter contained a few lines from a relative of mine, who has heard of my being here. She passes through here on her way to London, and would like to see me. She has begged at the same time to be allowed the honour of paying you a visit.

SARA.

It will always be a pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of the respected members of your family. But consider for yourself, whether I can yet appear before one of them without blushing.

MELLEFONT.

Without blushing? And for what? For your love to me? It is true, Sara, you could have given your love to a nobler or a richer man. You must be ashamed that you were content to give your heart for another heart only, and that in this exchange you lost sight of your happiness.

SARA.

You must know yourself how wrongly you interpret my words.

MELLEFONT.

Pardon me, Sara; if my interpretation is wrong, they can have no meaning at all.

SARA.

What is the name of your relation?

MELLEFONT.

She is--Lady Solmes. You will have heard me mention the name before.

SARA.

I don't remember.

MELLEFONT.

May I beg you to see her?

SARA.

Beg me? You can command me to do so.

MELLEFONT.

What a word! No, Sara, she shall not have the happiness of seeing you. She will regret it, but she must submit to it. Sara has her reasons, which I respect without knowing them.

SARA.

How hasty you are, Mellefont! I shall expect Lady Solmes, and do my best to show myself worthy of the honour of her visit. Are you content?

MELLEFONT.

Ah, Sara! let me confess my ambition. I should like to show you to the whole world! And were I not proud of the possession of such a being, I should reproach myself with not being able to appreciate her value. I will go and bring her to you at once. (_Exit_.)

SARA (_alone_).

I hope she will not be one of those proud women, who are so full of their own virtue that they believe themselves above all failings. With one single look of contempt they condemn us, and an equivocal shrug of the shoulders is all the pity we seem to deserve in their eyes.

Scene III.

Waitwell, Sara.

BETTY (_behind the scenes_).

Just come in here, if you must speak to her yourself!

SARA (_looking round_).

Who must speak to me? Whom do I see? Is it possible? You, Waitwell?

WAITWELL.

How happy I am to see our young lady again!

SARA.

Good God, what do you bring me? I hear already, I hear already; you bring me the news of my father's death! He is gone, the excellent man, the best of fathers! He is gone, and I--I am the miserable creature who has hastened his death.

WAITWELL.

Ah, Miss----

SARA.

Tell me, quick! tell me, that his last moments were not embittered by the thought of me; that he had forgotten me; that he died as peacefully as he used to hope to die in my arms; that he did not remember me even in his last prayer----

WAITWELL.

Pray do not torment yourself with such false notions! Your father is still alive! He is still alive, honest Sir William!

SARA.

Is he still alive? Is it true? Is he still alive? May he live a long while yet, and live happily! Oh, would that God would add the half of my years to his life! Half! How ungrateful should I be, if I were not willing to buy even a few moments for him with all the years, that may yet be mine! But tell me at least, Waitwell, that it is not hard for him to live without me; that it was easy to him to renounce a daughter who could so easily renounce her virtue, that he is angry with me for my flight, but not grieved; that he curses me, but does not mourn for me.

WAITWELL.

Ah! Sir William is still the same fond father, as his Sara is still the same fond daughter that she was.

SARA.

What do you say? You are a messenger of evil, of the most dreadful of all the evils which my imagination has ever pictured to me! He is still the same fond father? Then he loves me still? And he must mourn for me, then! No no, he does not do so; he cannot do so? Do you not see how infinitely each sigh which he wasted on me would magnify my crime? Would not the justice of heaven have to charge me with every tear which I forced from him, as if with each one I repeated my vice and my ingratitude? I grow chill at the thought. I cause him tears? Tears? And they are other tears than tears of joy? Contradict me, Waitwell! At most he has felt some slight stirring of the blood on my account; some transitory emotion, calmed by a slight effort of reason. He did not go so far as to shed tears, surely not to shed tears, Waitwell?

WAITWELL (_wiping his eyes_).

No, Miss, he did not go so far as that.

SARA.

Alas! your lips say no, and your eyes say yes.

WAITWELL.

Take this letter Miss, it is from him himself----

SARA.

From whom? From my father? To me?

WAITWELL.

Yes, take it! You can learn more from it, than I am able to say. He ought to have given this to another to do, not to me. I promised myself pleasure from it; but you turn my joy into sadness.

SARA.

Give it me, honest Waitwell! But no! I will not take it before you tell me what it contains.

WAITWELL.

What can it contain? Love and forgiveness.

SARA.

Love? Forgiveness?

WAITWELL.

And perhaps a real regret, that he used the rights of a father's power against a child, who should only have the privileges of a father's kindness.

SARA.

Then keep your cruel letter.

WAITWELL.

Cruel? Have no fear. Full liberty is granted you over your heart and hand.

SARA.

And it is just this which I fear. To grieve a father such as he, this I have had the courage to do. But to see him forced by this very grief-by his love which I have forfeited, to look with leniency on all the wrong into which an unfortunate passion has led me; this, Waitwell, I could not bear. If his letter contained all the hard and angry words which an exasperated father can utter in such a case, I should read it--with a shudder it is true--but still I should be able to read it. I should be able to produce a shadow of defence against his wrath, to make him by this defence if possible more angry still. My consolation then would be this-that melancholy grief could have no place with violent wrath and that the latter would transform itself finally into bitter contempt. And we grieve no more for one whom we despise. My father would have grown calm again, and I would not have to reproach myself with having made him unhappy for ever.

WAITWELL.

Alas, Miss! You will have to reproach yourself still less for this if you now accept his love again, which wishes only to forget everything.

SARA.