André

ACT IV

Scene, the Encampment

Enter M'Donald and Bland

Bland

 
It doth in truth appear, that as a – spy —
Detested word! – brave André must be view'd.
His sentence he confesses strictly just.
Yet sure a deed of mercy, from thy hand,
Could never lead to ill. By such an act,
The stern and blood-stain'd brow of War
Would be disarm'd of half its gorgon horrors;
More humanized customs be induced;
And all the race of civilized man
Be blest in the example. Be it thy suit:
'T will well become thy character and station.
 

M'Donald

 
Trust me, young friend, I am alone the judge
Of what becomes my character and station:
And having judg'd that this young Briton's death,
Even 'though attended by thy father's murder,
Is necessary, in these times accurs'd,
When every thought of man is ting'd with blood,
I will not stir my finger to redeem them.
Nay, much I wonder, Bland, having so oft
The reasons for this necessary rigour
Enforced upon thee, thou wilt still persist
In vain solicitations. Imitate
Thy father!
 

Bland

 
My father knew not André.
I know his value; owe to him my life;
And, gratitude, that first, that best of virtues, —
Without the which man sinks beneath the brute, —
Binds me in ties indissoluble to him.
 

M'Donald

 
That man-created virtue blinds thy reason.
Man owes to man all love; when exercised,
He does no more than duty. Gratitude,
That selfish rule of action, which commands
That we our preference make of men,
Not for their worth, but that they did us service,
Misleading reason, casting in the way
Of justice stumbling-blocks, cannot be virtue.
 

Bland

 
Detested sophistry! – 'T was André sav'd me!
 

M'Donald

 
He sav'd thy life, and thou art grateful for it.
How self intrudes, delusive, on man's thoughts!
He sav'd thy life, yet strove to damn thy country;
Doom'd millions to the haughty Briton's yoke;
The best, and foremost in the cause of virtue,
To death, by sword, by prison, or the halter:
His sacrifice now stands the only bar
Between the wanton cruelties of war,
And our much-suffering soldiers: yet, when weigh'd
With gratitude, for that he sav'd thy life,
These things prove gossamer, and balance air: —
Perversion monstrous of man's moral sense!
 

Bland

 
Rather perversion monstrous of all good,
Is thy accurs'd, detestable opinion.
Cold-blooded reasoners, such as thee, would blast
All warm affection; asunder sever
Every social tie of humanized man.
Curst be thy sophisms! cunningly contriv'd
The callous coldness of thy heart to cover,
And screen thee from the brave man's detestation.
 

M'Donald

 
Boy, boy!
 

Bland

 
Thou knowest that André's not a spy.
 

M'Donald

 
I know him one. Thou hast acknowledg'd it.
 

Bland

 
Thou liest!
 

M'Donald

 
Shame on thy ruffian tongue! how passion
Mars thee! I pity thee! Thou canst not harm,
By words intemperate, a virtuous man.
I pity thee! for passion sometimes sways
My older frame, through former uncheck'd habit:
But when I see the havoc which it makes
In others, I can shun the snare accurst,
And nothing feel but pity.
 

Bland [indignantly]

 
Pity me!
 

[Approaches him, and speaks in an under voice.

 
Thou canst be cool, yet, trust me, passion sways thee.
Fear does not warm the blood, yet 't is a passion.
Hast thou no feeling? I have call'd thee liar!
 

M'Donald

 
If thou could'st make me one, I then might grieve.
 

Bland

 
Thy coolness goes to freezing: thou'rt a coward.
 

M'Donald

 
Thou knowest thou tell'st a falsehood.
 

Bland

 
Thou shalt know
None with impunity speaks thus of me.
That to rouse thy courage. [Touches him gently, with his open hand, in crossing him. M'Donald looks at him unmoved.] Dost thou not yet feel?
 

M'Donald

 
For thee I feel. And tho' another's acts
Cast no dishonour on the worthy man,
I still feel for thy father. Yet, remember,
I may not, haply, ever be thus guarded;
I may not always the distinction make.
However just, between the blow intended
To provoke, and one that's meant to injure.
 

Bland

 
Hast thou no sense of honour?
 

M'Donald

 
Truly, yes:
For I am honour's votary. Honour, with me,
Is worth: 't is truth; 't is virtue; 't is a thing,
So high pre-eminent, that a boy's breath,
Or brute's, or madman's blow, can never reach it.
My honour is so much, so truly mine,
That none hath power to wound it, save myself.
 

Bland

 
I will proclaim thee through the camp a coward.
 

M'Donald

 
Think better of it! Proclaim not thine own shame.
 

Bland

 
I'll brand thee – Damnation!
 

[Exit.

M'Donald

 
O, passion, passion!
A man who values fame, far more than life;
A brave young man; in many things a good;
Utters vile falsehood; adds injury to insult;
Striving with blood to seal such foul injustice;
And all from impulse of unbridled feeling. —
 

[Pause.

 
Here comes the mother of this headstrong boy,
Severely rack'd – What shall allay her torture?
For common consolation, here, is insult.
 

Enter Mrs. Bland and Children

Mrs. Bland

 
O my good friend!
 

M'Donald [taking her hand]

 
I know thy cause of sorrow.
Art thou now from our Commander?
 

Mrs. Bland [drying her tears, and assuming dignity]

 
I am.
But vain is my entreaty. All unmov'd
He hears my words, he sees my desperate sorrow.
Fain would I blame his conduct – but I cannot.
Strictly examin'd, with intent to mark
The error which so fatal proves to me,
My scrutiny but ends in admiration.
Thus when the prophet from the Hills of Moab,
Look'd down upon the chosen race of heaven,
With fell intent to curse; ere yet he spake,
Truth all resistless, emanation bright
From great Adonai, fill'd his froward mind,
And chang'd the curses of his heart to blessings.
 

M'Donald

 
Thou payest high praise to virtue. Whither now? —
 

Mrs. Bland

 
I still must hover round this spot until
My doom is known.
 

M'Donald

 
Then to my quarters, lady,
There shall my mate give comfort and refreshment:
One of your sex can best your sorrows soothe.
 

[Exeunt.

Scene, the Prison

Enter Bland

Bland

 
Where'er I look cold desolation meets me.
My father – André – and self-condemnation!
Why seek I André now? Am I a man,
To soothe the sorrows of a suffering friend?
The weather-cock of passion! fool inebriate!
Who could with ruffian hand strive to provoke
Hoar wisdom to intemperance! who could lie!
Aye, swagger, lie, and brag! – Liar! Damnation!!
O, let me steal away and hide my head,
Nor view a man, condemn'd to harshest death,
Whose words and actions, when by mine compar'd,
Shew white as innocence, and bright as truth.
I now would shun him; but that his shorten'd
Thread of life, gives me no line to play with.
He comes, with smiles, and all the air of triumph;
While I am sinking with remorse and shame:
Yet he is doom'd to death, and I am free!
 

Enter André

André

 
Welcome, my Bland! Cheerly, a welcome hither!
I feel assurance that my last request
Will not be slighted. Safely thy father
Shall return to thee. [Holding out a paper.] See what employment
For a dying man. Take thou these verses;
And, after my decease, send them to her
Whose name is woven in them; whose image
Hath controul'd my destiny. Such tokens
Are rather out of date. Fashions
There are in love as in all else; they change
As variously. A gallant Knight, erewhile,
Of Cœur de Lion's day, would, dying, send
His heart home to its mistress; degenerate
Soldier I, send but some blotted paper.
 

Bland

 
If 't would not damp thy present cheerfulness,
I would require the meaning of thy words.
I ne'er till now did hear of André's mistress.
 

André

 
Mine is a story of that common kind,
So often told, with scanty variation,
That the pall'd ear loaths the repeated tale.
Each young romancer chooses for his theme
The woes of youthful hearts, by the cold hand
Of frosty Age, arm'd with parental power,
Asunder torn. But I long since have ceas'd
To mourn; well satisfied that she I love,
Happy in holy union with another,
Shares not my wayward fortunes. Nor would I
Now these tokens send, remembrance to awaken,
But that I know her happy: and the happy
Can think on misery and share it not.
 

Bland [agitated]

 
Some one approaches.
 

André

 
Why, 't is near the time.
But tell me, Bland, say – is the manner chang'd?
 

Bland

 
I hope it – but I yet have no assurance.
 

André

 
Well, well!
 

Honora [without]

 
I must see him.
 

André

 
Whose voice was that?
My senses! – Do I dream – ?
 

[Leans on Bland.

Enter Honora

Honora

 
Where is he?
 

André

 
'T is she!!
 

[Starts from Bland and advances towards Honora; she rushes into his arms.]

Honora

 
It is enough! He lives, and I shall save him.
 

[She faints in the arms of André.

André

 
She sinks – assist me, Bland! O, save her, save her!
 

[Places her in a chair, and looks tenderly on her.

 
Yet, why should she awake from that sweet sleep!
Why should she open her eyes – [Wildly.] – to see me hung!
What does she here? Stand off – [Tenderly.] – and let her die.
How pale she looks! how worn that tender frame! —
She has known sorrow! Who could injure her?
 

Bland

 
She revives – André – soft, bend her forward.
 

[André kneels and supports her.

Honora

 
André – !
 

André

 
Lov'd excellence!
 

Honora

 
Yes, it is André!
 

[Rises and looks at him.

 
No more deceived by visionary forms,
By him supported —
 

[Leans on him.

André

 
Why is this?
Thou dost look pale, Honora – sick and wan —
Languid thy fainting limbs —
 

Honora

 
All will be well.
But was it kind to leave me as thou didst – ?
So rashly to desert thy vow-link'd wife? —
 

André

 
When made another's both by vows and laws —
 

Honora [quitting his support]

 
What meanest thou?
 

André

 
Didst thou not marry him?
 

Honora

 
Marry!
 

André

 
Didst thou not give thy hand away
From me?
 

Honora

 
O, never, never!
 

André

 
Not married?
 

Honora

 
To none but thee, and but in will to thee.
 

André

 
O blind, blind wretch! – Thy father told me —
 

Honora

 
Thou wast deceived. They hurried me away,
Spreading false rumours to remove thy love —
[Tenderly.] Thou didst too soon believe them.
 

André

 
Thy father —
How could I but believe Honora's father?
And he did tell me so. I reverenced age,
Yet knew, age was not virtue. I believed
His snowy locks, and yet they did deceive me!
I have destroy'd myself and thee! – Alas!
Ill-fated maid! why didst thou not forget me?
Hast thou rude seas and hostile shores explor'd
For this? To see my death? Witness my shame?
 

Honora

 
I come to bless thee, André; and shall do it.
I bear such offers from thy kind Commander,
As must prevail to save thee. Thus the daughter
May repair the ills her cruel sire inflicted.
My father, dying, gave me cause to think
That arts were us'd to drive thee from thy home;
But what those arts I knew not. An heiress left,
Of years mature, with power and liberty,
I straight resolv'd to seek thee o'er the seas.
A long-known friend who came to join her lord,
Yielded protection and lov'd fellowship. —
Indeed, when I did hear of thy estate
It almost kill'd me: – I was weak before —
 

André

 
'T is I have murder'd thee! —
 

Honora

 
All shall be well.
Thy General heard of me, and instant form'd
The plan of this my visit. I am strong,
Compar'd with what I was. Hope strengthens me;
Nay, even solicitude supports me now;
And when thou shalt be safe, thou wilt support me.
 

André

 
Support thee! – O heaven! What! – And must I die?
Die! – and leave her thus– suffering – unprotected! —
 

Enter Melville and Guard

Melville

 
I am sorry that my duty should require
Service, at which my heart revolts; but, sir,
Our soldiers wait in arms. All is prepar'd —
 

Honora

 
To death! – Impossible! Has my delay,
Then, murder'd him? – A momentary respite —
 

Melville

 
Lady, I have no power.
 

Bland

 
Melville, my friend,
This lady bears dispatches of high import,
Touching this business: – should they arrive too late —
 

Honora

 
For pity's sake, and heaven's, conduct me to him;
And wait the issue of our conference.
Oh, 't would be murder of the blackest dye,
Sin execrable, not to break thy orders —
Inhuman, thou art not.
 

Melville

 
Lady, thou say'st true;
For rather would I lose my rank in arms,
And stand cashier'd for lack of discipline,
Than, gain 'mongst military men all praise,
Wanting the touch of sweet humanity.
 

Honora

 
Thou grantest my request?
 

Melville

 
Lady, I do.
Retire!
 

[Soldiers go out.

Bland

 
I know not what excuse, to martial men,
Thou canst advance for this; but to thy heart
Thou wilt need none, good Melville.
 

André

 
O, Honora!
 

Honora

 
Cheer up, I feel assur'd. Hope wings my flight,
To bring thee tidings of much joy to come.
 

[Exit Honora, with Bland and Melville.

André

 
Eternal blessings on thee, matchless woman! —
If death now comes, he finds the veriest coward
That e'er he dealt withal. I cannot think
Of dying. Void of fortitude, each thought
Clings to the world – the world that holds Honora!
 

[Exit.

End of the Fourth Act