CON. It must be! Adieu!
HOL. Adieu!
CON. Stay! the bouquet you have purchased for me, give it me--at least
I may keep that.
HOL. (_picking up the bouquet, and giving it to her._) Ah!
thanks--thanks!
CON. Poor man!
[_Exits door, R._
HOL. To part without embracing her. I would have given the world for
one embrace, and have called her my----; but no, it's impossible! I
will go at once--if I look on her again, my courage will fail me; and
yet, I cannot leave her thus--one embrace, one kiss, and I depart
forever. Ah! Constance! Constance! my dear Constance! (_falls on his
knees, and covers the shawl of CONSTANCE with kisses._)
_Enter FLETCHER, C._
FLE. Come, that's all right--Melfort's promised to come. (_sees
HOLDER._) Hollo!
HOL. Constance! my own Constance!
FLE. What are you doing there?
HOL. Some one here! Oh! it's you, sir? I should not like to have been
surprised by any one but you.
FLE. What's the matter with you, Mr. Holder?
HOL. You think me a little cracked, I dare say. You shall know all. I
can confide in you. You are good.
FLE. Speak out, man, for really I cannot comprehend.
HOL. When I have told you, you will understand that I cannot go
without one embrace. You will assist me to find a way. After that, I
swear, by all that's good, I will leave the place for ever.
FLE. Well! proceed.
HOL. My story is not long: Twenty years ago I was a tailor in Long
Acre. I was not a fashionable tailor, but still I did a good trade,
and made money. I met a young girl--she was pretty--very pretty. She
lived alone with her father, an old chorus-singer, who was always
drunk, at least he was never sober--and consequently Martha was very
unhappy. I proposed marriage to her, and she accepted. For three years
I was the happiest of men. I was passionately fond of my wife. I had a
daughter whom I adored. My happiness was too great to last. About this
time a young man often came to me, and ordered a variety of clothes
which he never wore. On one occasion I observed him speak to my wife
in a manner I thought rather strange. I mentioned it to Martha, and
she said I must be mad. I loved her--and was silenced. Some few days
after, this young man came again. I hear whisperings, then bursts of
laughter. This time I asserted my position as a man and a husband.
Martha replied in most unblushing terms. Next day I went out. When I
returned, my house was empty, my home deserted. Martha had eloped with
this young man, and taken my child with her.
FLE. The wretch!
HOL. Little by little my wounded pride effaced the image of Martha,
but another memory clung to me; my daughter, the child I had danced on
my knee, that I taught to lisp my name, this babe whose smile was
sunshine to me, whose first word was like an angel's whisper to my
ear, she was lost to me for ever.
FLE. Poor fellow! poor fellow!
HOL. Fifteen years dragged its weary time away, when one day I
received a letter without an address--it was from Martha. She had
doubtless written it on her deathbed. Her seducer, after having taken
her to France and Italy, and dissipated time amidst their pleasures,
had abandoned her. She dared not return to me. "Pardon me," said she,
"I have been bitterly punished. As for your daughter--"
FLE. Well, your daughter?
HOL. It was the greatest blow of all, but it must be told. "As for
your daughter, I know not where she is, but you will easily recognize
her if you recall my form and features. Such as I was when you first
saw and loved me, such is your child to-day--the same face, the same
look, the same voice." I uttered a cry of joy. My child lives--I shall
see her once again.
FLE. Why, this is stranger than fiction.
HOL. I traversed the town in the hope of meeting her--resorted to
every public place. I was repulsed from every door--my inquiries were
laughed at; but jeers and insults could not stay me. I peered into
each coach and cab, watched at the door of every ball, waited by the
entrance of all the theatres--everywhere. I stared in every woman's
face that passed. One day I heard a voice, the voice of Martha: a
woman appeared--the form of Martha. "Constance," said some one. The
woman turned--the face of Martha. Constance--it was the name of my
child!
FLE. She!
HOL. Yes, I saw her again next day. Not a day passes without my seeing
her.
FLE. And you have not thrown yourself in her arms? You have not made
yourself known to her?
HOL. No.
FLE. Why not?
HOL. How might she have received my burst of affection? A word effaces
not fifteen years of indifference. The love of a father and child is
not an instinct. I can endure being unknown to her, console myself by
looking on her and loving her in secret; but to say to her, "I am your
father," and not be loved--
FLE. She would soon learn to love you.
HOL. If I had been a stranger to her for fifteen years, and they said
to me, "Here is your daughter," that would not suffice to make me love
her. Now, thank heaven, I have nothing to reproach her with, poor
child! To forgive is to merit forgiveness. Besides, I am poor, old,
and without resources. When I shall have told her that I was her
father, what would she have done? Offered me bread as a duty. There
are those who would have eat of such bread. Would she have placed me
beside her in her carriage, or with her groom on the box?
FLE. What then do you desire?
HOL. To depart. She has advised me to do so; only before my departure
I would enfold her in my arms--press one kiss of affection on her
cheek.
_Enter JONES, C._
JONES. A letter, sir.
FLE. Oh! you are returned at last.
JONES. I only went to the theatre--I told you, sir, what for.
FLE. Does it take an hour to go there?
JONES. On my way back I called on Miss Penelope, sir, and informed her
that in future, sir, you had promised to stick to blank verse.
FLE. Give me the letter.
JONES. Here it is, sir.
FLE. It's from Melfort! "My dear fellow, you must excuse my coming to
your house--remember I have a character to lose, and were I to
rehearse with a girl of seventeen anywhere but in the theatre, the
world would _affiché_ me to her." A vain ass!
[_Crushes up the letter._
JONES. I'm very fond of _dialect_ with _les Dames_. Is the piece
French, sir?
FLE. Go to the devil!