University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Abbey Garden at Sawley. Enter Lady Margaret and Lady Emma.
LADY MARGARET.
What a sweet place, my Emma! The high Moon
Plays on the rippling water—gilds the turrets
Of the fair Abbey—sheds a silvery light
Upon the moistened green leaves—and makes gems
Of the small dew-drops lying on the roses.

LADY EMMA.
It is the very moonlight of Romance!

LADY MARGARET.
It is so, Emma; and methinks this Craven
Is all romantic land. Its rocks and hills,
Wild and majestic, set in contrast bold
With vales of emerald softness, and lit up
By gorgeous summer suns, or moons like this—
Why, 'tis a land to dream about, as having
No real existence!

LADY EMMA.
So the Lady Margaret
Throws the rich colouring of her fancy o'er
Scenes not yet made familiar, and thence drawing
One half of their enchantment. For myself,
I would not give my own small brook of Wansbeck
For any stream that murmurs through this land;
I do esteem old Cheviot more majestic
Than yonder rugged eminences; and—

LADY MARGARET.
Nay, sweet but sworn Northumbrian! I will own
All you have said, and all you meant to say,
To be most true—if that you will not check
My present mood by these comparisons.
For, sooth to say, I love the pleasant land,
And, might one dare to own it, love its people.

LADY EMMA.
Of whom few specimens have met your eyes
Save the rude villagers that ran to gaze
As our procession passed.

LADY MARGARET.
One I have seen—
What think you of our Guide?

LADY EMMA.
As of a rude,
Uncultured, uninformed, ungracious Monk.

LADY MARGARET.
Upon my life, ungracious epithets!

LADY EMMA.
What, marked you not his gesture, when aside
He threw my noble Brother's hand, that proffered
A liberal guerdon for the monk's brief service?

LADY MARGARET.
'Twas but a fit of absence, dearest Emma,
For which he did apologise.

LADY EMMA.
Apologise!
He muttered something, but so sullenly,
It seemed as if his heart did curse his tongue
For making it.

LADY MARGARET.
I did not so interpret
His bearing. But my Emma, you must own
That he did paint each varied scene we passed
In terms of pure and natural eloquence?

LADY EMMA.
Like to some wandering Poet, whose costume
Is marvellously tattered and bepatched;
With whom each crag is rugged, every hill
Is picturesque, each brook a purling fountain,
And every cavern gloomy or romantic!
He prated in most nauseating terms.

LADY MARGARET.
You could not think so! Did you hear his voice?
Noted you that?

LADY EMMA.
I've sometimes heard a harsher.

LADY MARGARET.
O! 'tis a voice of amplest compass, Emma.
Of trumpet loudness to be heard in battle
By fighting thousands, it hath yet the tones
Of sweetest lute to melt in Beauty's bower!

LADY EMMA.
In neither of which places, good my lady,
'Tis like to have much practice.

LADY MARGARET.
They do err
Who say that Love is blind. The lynx hath not
So sharp an eye-sight. Maugre his disguise,
I knew him, Emma—knew the Stranger Knight
Who joined our stag-chase on the wilds of Cheviot—

LADY EMMA.
Amazement! Can it be?

LADY MARGARET.
Who saved my life
When human aid seemed hopeless—but who left
The life he saved without the heart he found,
For that he stole and keeps!

LADY EMMA.
'Twere too romantic
For this prosaic time! You may mistake.

LADY MARGARET.
No, Emma, no! The very traits you marked
As proofs of rudeness, but confirm, to me,
The truth of Love's discovery.

LADY EMMA.
I remember
That gallant Stranger well. His air was noble;
His manners such as one would thence infer
The breath of Courts was native to his lungs,
And Princes his first play-mates!—He assumes
An odd disguise to shroud his rank and name in.

LADY MARGARET.
Ah! that way lies a mist, which coldly falls
Upon my love, and checks it in the bud!
His rank he told not; and it makes me 'shamed
To speak of what I own not to myself,
Save in some tender moment when Pride sleeps,
And Fancy frames her visions.

LADY EMMA.
Splendid ones,
I doubt not, where most gorgeous castles rise
Like clouds of Summer's glowing atmosphere,
Based upon—nothing. Cruel man! to leave
Not e'en a name for love to feed upon.
Had he declared his name, though it might be
But simply Henry—

LADY MARGARET.
Do the fates inform,
And make thee, even in thy jest, prophetic?
I do believe that Henry is his name!

LADY EMMA.
Indeed! O, then the name will fairly sound
In a sad ballad chanting forth the loves,
The high, mysterious loves, and piteous fate
Of Henry and of Margaret, sung by—

LADY MARGARET.
Hold!
Thou endless jester. I am not just now
In mirthful mood.

LADY EMMA.
And rather would enjoy
The moonlight hour alone—to muse on Henry!
Well, be it so, I go.

[Going.
LADY MARGARET.
If go thou wilt,
Remember, dearest Emma, to be mute
On this discovery!

LADY EMMA.
Silent as the Moon,
That, like a prudent lady, hears all love-tales,
And tells none.

[Exit Lady Emma.
LADY MARGARET.
(solus).
Go, light-hearted maiden, go!
Thou lovest, and art loved again. Thy love
Is placed upon a known and noble object;
While I!—He comes!—My heart, resume the Percy!

[Enter Henry abruptly, who kneels and throws back his hood.
LADY MARGARET.
Arise! What art thou? Speak.

HENRY.
A hapless wretch,
If I shall have incurred thine anger, Lady,
By this intrusion; blest as the blest gods,
If I obtain thy pardon!

LADY MARGARET.
Strong and urgent
Must be thy reasons, if they justify
This freedom, taken by a man unnamed,
And, save as Guide, unknown.

HENRY.
(rising).
It was not thus
The Lady Margaret looked, at yon cascade
Among the Cheviots, when to this poor arm
'Twas owing that the bright Rose of the North
Was not against the sharp and pointed rocks
Dashed headlong—to exhale its fragrant life
Amid the roaring whirlpool!

LADY MARGARET.
No; nor thus
That her Deliverer looked! He stood that day
Honoured amongst the honoured. Now he stands
In strange and most inglorious contrast with
His former self. Go to, thou art not He!
The Youth I mean was honourable, was noble
In soul at least, and would have rather dashed him
On the sharp rocks thou speakest of, than take
This mean advantage of a casual deed,
Which Instinct would, without a spark of Nature,
Have prompted to a villain!

HENRY.
Now by Heaven!
That supposition wrongs me, Lady. I
Claim nothing on that happy deed's account—
Presume not e'en in thought upon it—take
No mean advantage thence.

LADY MARGARET.
What call'st thou then
This rude intrusion? What claim else hadst thou
On which to ground a fair excuse for it?
Then, too, this monkish dress. Disguise denotes
The man that wears it to be fool or villain,
Just as his aim is base or virtuous;
And which thine is—I ask not.

HENRY.
If correct
That argument, it were indeed not worth
The trouble of a question, Lady,—since,
On either supposition, I must seem
An object to be rid of.

LADY MARGARET.
Was the act
Of self-devotedness that saved my life,
A thing to be ashamed of? to be wrapped
In a Monk's garment, lest some eye should see,
And recognise, and praise? Or didst thou think
That I, the rescued, was so poor of soul,
That I should blush to own my rescuer?
Why, man, the meanest serf that ever toiled,
Had he achieved the deed, should have been welcomed
As Margaret's friend; should from my hand have ta'en
Such meed as Gratitude may give to Worth,
Though England's proudest stood beside and saw me!

HENRY.
Slight guerdon may requite a casual deed,
“Which Instinct would, without a spark of Nature,
Have prompted to a villain.”

LADY MARGARET.
Pardon me
That word, sir; it was said in haste, and rashly.
I am thy debtor—deeply—lastingly—
And would repay thee!

HENRY.
Percy's broad domains,
With their long list of hamlet, tower, and town,
Could not supply my guerdon.

LADY MARGARET.
No!

HENRY.
Unless
Thy lovely name did grace the inventory;
And that one item would compensate well
The absence of the others!—Frown not, Lady;
I am a man that, if I speak at all,
Must speak my thought—being an old man's son
Who taught me this from childhood.

LADY MARGARET.
'Tis a rule
Well worth th'observance, so the thought be such
As doth become the speaker and the hearer—
Which thine at present doth not. Who art thou,
That darest thus presume upon my goodness?

HENRY.
A madman! having all the signs developed
That mark a madman's malady—save this,
That I do know myself to be a madman.
Yes, Lady, he that fell in love with th'moon,
As classic fable tells, was sane as I,
Who kneel in adoration most devout
[Kneels.
To a fair being, shining in a sphere
Of hopeless height above me!

LADY MARGARET.
Is it so?
Then must I think my charms have made a conquest,
A glorious capture, doubtless, of a heart
Warmed with no vulgar tide! But since, fair sir,
I found thee in the garb of Chivalry,
And now behold thee in Religion's garb,
How may I style my lover—Monk, or Knight?

HENRY.
I do deserve that thou shouldst laugh at me;
Nor will thy mirth abate, when I shall tell
My parentage.

LADY MARGARET.
I know it all, untold.
Thy father in a lordly hall was bred,
Thy mother in a cloister; hence thou veerest
Betwixt the hood and helmet.

HENRY.
Hear the truth;
My sire was bred a Shepherd.

LADY MARGARET.
If his son
Possess a Shepherd's virtues, he outshines
A Baron's heir without them!

HENRY.
Hem!—My virtues,
Unlike my madness, have not yet developed
Themselves by signs. My vices—less obscure—
Are somewhat widely blazoned. Not a hearth
In Craven, from the castle to the cot,
That is not vocal with my deeds. My name
Will still the wayward child, when that of Barghest
Hath lost its spell.

LADY MARGARET
(alarmed).
Ha! Thou art then the Outlaw
Men talk of in these wilds!—Help! ho, there—help!

HENRY.
Fear nothing, Lady! The great Devil's self
Would dread a hotter hell for wronging thee!
Permit me to remove this—I am not—

LADY MARGARET.
Didst thou say fear? Man, I am of a race
That never knew the word. But I will be
Freed from the degradation of thy presence!
Thou dost, it seems to me, contaminate
The very air I breathe! Didst save my life
To sicken it with infamy? Away!

HENRY.
Now by a true man's soul! I leave thee not,
Till thou hast heard me out. My heart's as proud
As thine is, Lady; and—

[Enter Lord Fenwick.
LORD FENWICK.
Ha! what means this?
Wretch, hast thou ventured insult? Hast thou dared—

HENRY.
When I shall come to thy confessional,
I may esteem thy questions worth an answer;
Till then I deign none.

LORD FENWICK.
Then, my surly Monk,
Thy frock had need be changed to mailèd vest,
Thy cowl to cap of steel; for, by St Paul,
Unless thy body is betaken hence,
And instantly—thy Order shall not save thee!

HENRY
(tearing off his frock and hood).
I ask it not. Behold me, boastful Chief,
Armed to thy wish, and ready at thy word,
To prove I trust to nothing but my blade
For my protection!

[Both draw.
LADY MARGARET
(stepping between them).
Hold!— (to Fenwick)
My Lord, I beg
This matter may be left to me.—Whate'er
That man's design—scarce can I deem it evil—
For one good deed by him achieved erewhile,
I owe him much; and he is not my friend
Who seeketh now his injury.

LORD FENWICK.
Enough.— (to Henry).

Protected by this Lady's interference,
Unquestioned go; though one disguise thrown off
Leaves thee in mystery still.

HENRY.
When next we meet—
And meet we shall where none can interpose
Between us—thou mayst learn the mystery,
In the keen glimmer of encountering steel!

[Exeunt Henry at one side, and Lady Margaret and Lord Fenwick at the other.

SCENE II.

The Interior of Cuthbert the Ranger's cottage. Cuthbert is discovered lying on a Longsettle, with bandages on his head and arm. His Wife is busied about the house.
CUTHBERT
(endeavouring to raise himself).
Peace, woman, pr'ythee peace! I'll not have patience!
I tell thee Patience is a fool, as thou art.
Will Patience heal this sword-gash? Will it knit
The severed sinews, and re-string my arm,
As it was strung this morning? If it wont,
Of what avail is it?

WIFE.
Good Father Peter
Would sweetly show thee—

CUTHBERT.
Woman, hold thy tongue!
Is Father Peter wounded? What knows he
Of the keen pain—the foul fiend take the pain!
I heed not that. But to be pinioned here!
To be laid up like a disabled hound
Gored by a stag at bay!—A murrain seize
The skulking scoundrels!—Where is Fanny, wife?

WIFE.
Poor Fanny!

CUTHBERT
(mimicking her).
Ay, poor Fanny!—Why, an owl
Might say as much. I ask thee, woman, where
Fanny, thy daughter, is? Dost thou not hear?

WIFE.
Poor Fanny!

CUTHBERT.
Still, poor Fanny!—Thou hast lost,
Methinks, the little sense that thou wast born with.
Canst thou not answer me?

WIFE.
Dear Cuthbert, be
A little patient. Give me time to answer.

CUTHBERT.
Time! Is the tale so long? But take thy time;
For, like a restive hunter, thou wilt stand,
Let the vexed rider spur.

WIFE.
At morning-tide
She left the cottage, blithesome as a fairy,
And garlanded like—

CUTHBERT.
Like a Christmas mummer.
O ye are idiots both—she for her pride,
And thou for thy abetment of it. Well?

WIFE.
She came again at noon, her eyes in tears,
Her fair cheek white as any lily leaf,
And her long hair unbraided—

CUTHBERT.
A spiked pit
Receive his living carcass, that dares wrong
A hair of Fanny's forehead!—My poor girl!
Through all her playful life, she never said
A harsh word to her Father.—Did she not
Acquaint thee, woman, who the villains were
That had misused her?

WIFE.
Meek as any lamb,
She nothing did but weep, and sing of Henry—

CUTHBERT.
Sing? Weep and sing? The woman's mad!

WIFE.
No, Cuthbert,
But I do fear for her! She looked so wild
When she went out, and O! she still is out,
Although the moon's an hour above the Fell!

CUTHBERT.
That is her step! I know it. 'Tis as light
As the young roe's!
[Enter Fanny.
Dear Fanny, wherefore this?
Didst thou not know thy father had been wounded?

FANNY
(untying a kerchief).
Ay, they will kill us all—but I have here
A charm to foil their witchcraft! These are plants
Gathered in moonshine. I forget their names—
But Henry knows them, and will tell me them.
Poor Henry! I am sure he is unhappy!—
But that's not it.

CUTHBERT.
What's Henry to thy father?
What dost thou mean, my Fanny?

FANNY.
Nothing—nothing.

WIFE.
Question her not. It pains her. Dearest Fanny—

FANNY.
Dearest!—'Tis a sweet word, but there's a sting in't.
There was a bee i'th'blossom that I clutched,
And O! I bleed—bleed—bleed.

WIFE.
Let me bind up
Thy hair, my daughter; it is such a sight.

FANNY.
Mother, 'tis black and bonny, and will glisten
In the fair morning sun, and I will tie it
About his neck, and fasten him—Ha! ha!
[Laughing.
The stag is in the toils pitched by the hind—
Seize on him, Foresters!—But he is strong,
And, free and fetterless, darts up the hill!

CUTHBERT.
O my poor child! my child!

WIFE.
Speak to us, Fanny,
As thou hast ever done. I am thy mother—

FANNY.
Dost think I know thee not? Thou art my mother.
There is a strange mist here;
[Putting her hand to her eyes.
but yet I see thee,
And thee, too, father.

CUTHBERT.
Blessed be thy name,
O God! my daughter is herself again!

WIFE
(brings a chair and places FANNY in it).
Sit, Fanny, sit. Thy stomach, love, is empty,
And hence these air-bred fancies. I will bring
A little pasty and a little milk.
Bestir thee, Cuthbert—O! I wander too;
One sorrow drives another out.—My child,
This is new milk. The cream, see, just begins
To yellow o'er the surface. Drink, my dear.
[Fanny, in taking it, spills a little on her garment.
Mind it not, love, 'twill wash again.

FANNY
(setting down the milk).
They dress
The dead in unsoiled white. Is not Death proud
To deck him like a Bride? 'Tis a cold feast, though,
The worms the revellers.

WIFE.
Banish, dearest love,
These gloomy thoughts. To-morrow is, thou knowest,
The Rush-bearing of Kirkby Malhamdale,
Where I have seen thee merry. Thou shalt go.

FANNY.
Mirth for the hostel, garlands for the church,
And rushes for the dead. The garlands die,
And the mirth's mute; but evermore the dead
Lie snug beneath the rushes—so that they
Have still the best of it.—Why dost thou weep?
I had forgot—thou weepest for my father;
And I will join thee— (she kneels beside him)

Father, thou art ill;
A barbèd arrow gives a deadly wound!

CUTHBERT.
My dear, 'twas not an arrow, but a sword.

FANNY
(starting up).
I say it was an arrow! and I know
A leech that well can cure thee. He will not
Fly from my father too. I'll find him soon
Where the moon shines into the greenwood's depth
To woo the pale white roses!

[As Fanny attempts to rush out, her Mother seizes her; Cuthbert, by a painful effort, gets upon his feet, but falls before he reaches them; and, finally, Fanny dashes her Mother aside, and Exit.

SCENE III.

The Abbey Garden at Sawley. Enter, from opposite sides, Roddam and Cathleen.
RODDAM.
Cathleen, I'm doubly glad—glad to escape
From all the stir and revelry within,
And glad to meet with you.

CATHLEEN.
I, too, rejoice
To make a brief escape from sighs and tears.

RODDAM.
From sighs and tears! What mean you, sweet Cathleen?

CATHLEEN.
Some matter of deep import, and unmeet
For ear that's less than noble, passes now
Between the Ladies in their secret chamber,
Which wets the Percy's cheek, and stamps concern
Upon the Fenwick's brow.

RODDAM.
A mystery!

CATHLEEN.
Which Time may solve or not, as best he likes;
I pry not into it.

RODDAM.
It will not change
Our purposed route, I hope?

CATHLEEN.
No; that is fixed.
We visit some wild scenes of lake and crag,
That bear the liquid name of Malhamdale.

RODDAM.
I'm glad of it; I would not waste my time
In these dull walls.

CATHLEEN.
Dull! spoke you not just now
Of revelry?

RODDAM.
O, Revelry hath ta'en
Devotion's seat, and pranks it gloriously—
'Twere a rich scene for eye that's fond of such.
At one end of the long Refectory
Sits the Lord Abbot, jovial as the chief
Of some proud hunting-feast. On either hand,
Our knights and nobles quaff the grape's high juice,
And high affairs discuss. Transverse from these,
An ample board extends its crowded length,
Where page and groom, where monk and sacristan,
On humbler cheer regale. Apart from all,
A choir of Minstrels touch the harp, or sing,
At every pause of revelry.

CATHLEEN.
All this,
And Roddam talk of dulness!

RODDAM.
O Cathleen,
Where thou art not, 'tis dull; and, in my mind,
The merrier the duller.

CATHLEEN.
That's a riddle.

RODDAM.
Which Love may soon expound. From yonder crowd
My spirit fled to thee, and left me set
Still as the sculptured Saint upon the wall,
That with the same cold and unaltered mien
Looks down upon the banquet.

CATHLEEN.
And when you
Sat thus, in fixed abstraction, what might be
The business of your spirit?

RODDAM.
Said I not
It was with thee? It was; and then it flew
But, mind, it bore thee with it—to a scene
Thou knowest well! Tower, wood, and glen, at hand,
And Cheviot in the distance.

CATHLEEN.
That description
Can suit but Roddam with its woodland dell.

RODDAM.
Right. On the dell's green verge arose a Bower,
Moss-lined, and roofed with heather. There we sat,
While into it looked the mild setting sun,
And all the music of the Spring waked round it!

CATHLEEN.
'Twas a sweet vision!

RODDAM.
Yes; but, love, I had
A previous one, which gave propriety
To it—a vision of a little Church
On Beaumont Side, where thou and I did join,
With talismanic ring, the magic chain,
Viewless but felt, connecting heart with heart,
Made by the artist—Love!

CATHLEEN.
Alas, my Roddam—
What have I said!

RODDAM.
What thou shouldst ever say,
My Roddam! Never sounded in mine ear
My name so sweetly. Call me so all night,
And I will listen till the morning break,
And ask thee still to say it!

CATHLEEN.
Doubting not
Thy love and faith, I will not call it back;
Though it might seem too—

RODDAM.
Forward, thou wouldst say;
But dream not that I think it so, Cathleen.
I marked with rapture kindness in thine eye,
Long ere thy tongue confessed it. But it seemed
The exclamation had a tone of sadness,
As well as of affection in it; why
Was this, Cathleen?

CATHLEEN.
I heard thy sunny visions,
And thought how different mine were. Thou wilt smile
To hear that my strange dream of yesternight
Still hangs upon my spirits, like an omen
Of some unguessed calamity.

RODDAM.
Come, love;
We will have nothing sad to mar the pleasure
Of this bright hour. I know a freer walk
Beside yon river. Let us thither, love!
Lost in a brief delusion, we shall fancy
We stray—as wont—on Beaumont's pastoral banks,
And that the murmurs of this southern stream
Are those of Beaumont o'er her pebbled bed!

CATHLEEN
(sings).

[Exeunt.