 | The Curfew |  |
SCENE I.
—The Inside of a Cottage.(Robert knocks without.)
Robt.
—Hist, hist! Mother.—
(Enters)
Not
at home? Then I'll leave this purse on the table,
and call for her blessing another time.
[Enter Matilda from the opposite side.
Mat.
My Son.
Robt.
Your blessing, mother, let it be a short
one. There is something will keep famine from
the door till I return.
Mat.
Where got you this?
Robt.
Ask no questions, 'tis yours.
Mat.
No, not for worlds would I partake thy guilt.—
How came it thine?—Oh my foreboding heart!
Where have you slept these three nights?
Robt.
Peace I say.
Mat.
Should you have join'd the band of savage ruffians—
Robt.
I have, what then?
Mat.
What then! hast thou a moment
Weigh'd the full horrors of an outlaw's life,—
T'exchange the noblest attributes of man
With the vile dregs and offscum of society,
And bear about a conscience that will start
And tremble at the rustling of a leaf?
To shroud all day in darkness, and steal forth
Cursing the moon that with enquiring eye
Watches your silent and felonious tread,
And every twinkling star that peeps abroad
A minister of terror—
Robt.
Peace I say.
Mat.
The blessed sleep you know not, whose sweet influence
Ere he can stretch his labour-aching limbs,
Softly seals up the peasant's weary lids.
On the cold earth, with over watching spent,
You stir and fret in fev'rish wakefulness:
Till nature, wearied out, at length o'er-comes
The strong conceit of fear, and 'gins to doze:
But as oblivion steals upon your senses,
The hollow groaning wind uprears you quick,
And you sit, catching with suspended breath,
Well as the beating of your heart will let you,
The fancied step of justice.
Robt.
Hark! who's there?
Mat.
No one, my son!
Robt.
Again!—'tis a man's footing.
Mat.
I hear nothing—
Nor aught do I behold, save on yon tree,
The miserable remnant of a wretch
That was hang'd there for murder—Look.
Robt.
I dare not—
Can you look on it?
Mat.
It annoys not me.—
I am no murderer.
Robt.
Nor I, nor I.—
I am no murderer neither—yet for worlds
I dare not look that way.
You are a robber,
And he who robs, by sharp resistance press'd
Will end the deed in blood—'twas so with him—
He once possess'd a soul, quick as your own
To mercy, and would quake as you do now,
At the bare apprehension of the act
That has consign'd him to yon naked tree,
Where every blast to memorize his shame
May whistle shrilly through his hollow bones,
And in his tongueless jaws a voice renew,
To preach with more than mortal eloquence!
Robt.
'Tis a damn'd life, and I will leave it,
mother,—to-morrow—
Mat.
Nay to-night, why not to-night?
Robt.
To-night I cannot.
(A knocking at the
door)
Hark!
Mat.
There's some one now.
Robt.
To-morrow, mother, I am your's again.
Mat.
To-morrow then—
[Exit Robert.
What visitor is this
That knocks so gently? (Opens the door.)
Enter Philip.
Is it thou, old man? (Aside.)
What brings thee o'er the bitter breathing heath
Out of thy dwelling at this freezing hour?
The piercing air will not respect thine age,
Or do shy, white hairs rev'rence.—Who art thou?
Phil.
Servant to the Baron; or rather one
grown out of service—yet he keeps me like an old
tree that has borne good fruit in its time.—He
had a lady once, and I a mistress; once do I say?
She may be yet alive, strange things have come
to pass—they report you have the gift of knowing
sea, or air, but you are acquainted with it.
Mat.
They have abus'd thee.—
Phil.
Be not offended—if you would but tell
me whether my dear lady outliv'd the wreck—
Mat.
You would reveal it.
Phil.
Never.
Mat.
Yes, you would reveal it,
Old men and women will be ever babbling.
Phil.
No, as I'm a man.
Mat.
I almost trust thee, for thou dost not swear.
If I should tell thee then that she surviv'd—
Phil.
I would bless thy voice for ever.
Mat.
Should guide thee to the spot which
she inhabits.
Phil.
I would walk barefoot to it over flint.
Mat.
If I should shew her to thy wand'ring
sight—
Phil.
I would gaze on her tho' blindness follow'd.
Mat.
Look at me—I am she.
Phil.
Nay—now you mock me.
Mat.
I am not on such subjects us'd to jest—
Old Philip too forget me?
Phil.
Nay, now I look again; it is, it is my
Lady—my ever-honour'd Lady, my sweet Lady,
my kind Lady—but how did you escape the winds
and the waters? Does my young master—yet I
fear to ask.
Mat.
He lives, and is a man.
Phil.
Thank Heav'n! thank Heav'n!
Mat.
The warring elements that heard my cries
Would not divorce a mother from her child;
We were both sav'd: to yonder dreary coast
A little treasure, from the wreck preserv'd,
Bought us this humble dwelling.
Phil.
'Tis a sad one; but you shall change it
soon. I am sent by the Baron to bring you to
the Castle.
Mat.
How?
Phil.
The foolish people have accus'd you of being a witch.
Mat.
Of witchcraft? Well—I see an end in this
Most level to my wishes. Come, let's on.
All will be set to rights.
Phil.
Grant Heav'n it may!
Mat.
We shall be happy yet, and like two streams
United once, and parted by mischance,
Meet at the close, and end our course together.
[Exeunt.
| The Curfew | |