Act 3 — SCENE III.

[Last Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]

A handsomely fitted Chamber in London.—A practicable window in F.

Enter ARTHUR WALTON, FLORENCE, the LADY ELIZABETH CROMWELL.

Eliz. [To Arthur.] Urge not your suit through me, when she is here. Give half Love's reasons that to me you gave, Why she should not be cruel, and I think You'll hardly find her so—[To Florence.] Nay! be not scornful, You know I can betray you—[Goes to the window.]

Flor. Oh, be silent!

Arth. Dear cousin, will you forth to walk? The day Is fine.

Eliz. [Running to the window.] I do protest it has been raining long.

Arth. To-morrow I must leave—

Flor. To-morrow, really? Shall you be absent long? Adieu, then, sir.

[Going.]

Arth. Distraction! I deserve not this unkindness. Florence, why spurn my love thus?—

Flor. Nay, I think But just escaped one brother's persecution, 'tis Too bad another should annoy me.

Arth. Pardon, Madam, my cousin; henceforth I'll not grieve you.

[Going.]

Flor. Stay!

Arth. [Rushing to her.] What is it?

Flor. Nothing, but I think you promis'd To ride my horse; you know she is too gay; Nay, 'tis no matter if you have forgotten. It is no wonder, since you walked so long With those two foreign ladies yesterday: The youngest dresses somewhat out of taste To suit our English fancy. Did you not The other evening speak of English dress As something prudish, not quite to your taste? Are you going far to-morrow?—

Arth. They are not foreign, I do assure you; I have known them long, The daughters of my honour'd friend, John Milton.

Eliz. [Aside.] She knows it well as he does.

Flor. No? Indeed?

Arth. [Pointing to Elizabeth.] Ask her.

Flor. I am not curious, sir, to hear With whom you walk; but, if you mention them, Of course 'tis natural I speak of it— Elizabeth! Will you come here and answer him! he talks Of one old Milton's daughters, when I'd ask About the fashions.

Eliz. [With emotion, at the window.] See, there goes another Doom'd to the block; the excellent Laud scarce cold Within his grave— It makes me heart-sick, girl! To live, when just men die, that love their king, And I, his daughter, his, that wills it so, And does not stir to save them—nay, approves, Condemns, and sanctions; O 'tis dreadful! dreadful!

Arth. [To FLORENCE.] Is she thus often!

Flor. Ay, too often thus Of late she suffers. [Runs to her.] Dear Elizabeth! There, Walton, go!

Arth. And may I hope?—

Flor. Is this a time? Do you not see she is ill?— You will return, Ere long—go, call a servant!

[He looks at her, she waves her hand impatiently, he goes out. Exit ARTHUR, L.]

Eliz. [Points to the window.] Is it gone?— He was quite young. Think you my father sat In judgment on him?

Flor. Know you not he is Now with the army?

Eliz. True! true!

[Passes her hand over her brow.] It is o'er. Where is your cousin gone?

Flor. Who?

Eliz. Arthur Walton.

Flor. Oh! he has left.

Eliz. Your answer to him?

Flor. None.

Eliz. Out, flirt! I found you weeping, and you told me You lov'd him—

Flor. Did I? I'd forgotten it.

Eliz. Well, you will lose him thus.

Flor. Then, he's not worth The keeping, in my thought.

Eliz. You have done wrong. I know the business he is gone upon. You may not see him more—

Flor. I don't believe it, Although he said it.

Eliz. Girl! he hath to do A secret and most dangerous mission.

Flor. What! In truth!—I'll call him back to speak to you.

[Runs to the window.]

Ah! he has gallop'd off so fast without Once turning. Ah! to danger—Oh, wretch! wretch! Fool that I am. [Weeps.]

Eliz. [To FLORENCE.] Poor child! You love him, then?

Flor. Oh! yes, I love him all— All, for I am not vain. There is no thought Dividing the wild worship of my soul.

Eliz. And yet you spoke so carelessly, and trifled With this the noblest and the best oblation, A woman—but a poor divinity, I fear at best, my Florence!—may receive, The heart of a true gentleman. I mean No creature of dull circumstance, himself A mean incumbrance on his own great wealth. How oft before their lovers women try To seem what they are not—if true their hearts, As thine is, apes not more fantastic show— If mean and paltry, frankness is the flag 'Neath which they trim their pirate, little bark To capture their rich prize—

Flor. Enough! enough! I know it all, I cannot help it, if He were here now, I could not choose but do it. I have a head-ache. I must weep alone. I pray you to excuse me for an hour.

[She goes out, R.S.E.]

Eliz. Poor girl! how needless is the pain she gives Two true and faithful hearts—and I myself, That never had the chance to love, or heart To give away, yet seem to know so well What it must be.—Oh, were I Florence now, Could I have dealt so harshly with him?—No! Why, one would think I lov'd him. She said so But yesterday. Indeed I love them both— Him for his love of her. Elizabeth! Why burns thy cheek thus?—Yet a transient thought Might stain the wanderings of a seraph's dream, And thou art mortal woman. Oh, beware! Dwell not on "might have," "could;" since "cannot be" Points from thy past to thy futurity. [Exit, L.]