University of Virginia Library

Scene 1.

A Gothic chamber. On one side a huge hearth, over which an armorial scutcheon and an carl's coronet, boldly carved. The walls covered with old portraits—tall beaufets in recesses filled with goblets and other vessels of silver. An open door admits a view of a cloister, and the alleys in the courtyard without.
A table spread with fruits and wines, at which are seated Lady Montreville, Vyvyan, and Eveline.
Vyv.
Ha! ha! In truth we made a scurvy figure
After our shipwreck.

Lady M.
You jest merrily
On your misfortunes.

Vyv.
'Tis the way with sailors:
Still in extremes. I can be sad sometimes.

Lady M.
That sigh, in truth, speaks sadness. Sir, if I
In aught could serve you, trust me.

Evel.
Trust her, Vyvyan.
Methinks the mournful tale of thy young years
Would raise thee up a friend, wherever pity
Lives in the heart of woman.

Vyv.
Gentle lady,
The key of some charmed music in your voice
Unlocks a haunted chamber in my soul;
And—would you listen to an outcast's tale,—
'Tis briefly told. Until my fifteenth year,
Beneath the roof of a poor village priest,
Not far from hence, my childhood wore away;
Then stirred within me restless thoughts and deep;—
Throughout the liberal and harmonious nature
Something seemed absent,—what, I scarcely knew,
Till one calm night, when over slumbering seas
Watched the still heaven, and down on every wave
Looked some soft lulling star—the instinctive want
Learned what it pined for; and I asked the priest
With a quick sigh—“Why I was motherless?”

Lady M.
And he?—

Vyv.
Replied that—I was nobly born,
And that the cloud which dimmed a dawning sun,
Oft but foretold its splendour at the noon.
As thus he spoke, faint memories struggling came—
Faint as the things some former life hath known.

Lady M.
Of what?

Vyv.
A face sweet with a stately sorrow,
And lips which breathed the words that mothers murmur.

Lady M.
(aside.)
Back, tell-tale tears!

Vyv.
About that time, a stranger
Came to our hamlet; rough, yet, some said, well-born;
Roysterer, and comrade, such as youth delights in.
Sailor he called himself, and nought belied
The sailor's metal ringing in his talk
Of El Dorados, and Enchanted Isles,
Of hardy Raleigh, and of dauntless Drake,
And great Columbus with prophetic eyes
Fixed on a dawning world. His legends fired me—
And, from the deep whose billows washed our walls,
The alluring wave called with a Siren's music.
And thus I left my home with that wild seaman.

Lady M.
The priest, consenting, still divulged not more?

Vyv.
No; nor rebuked mine ardour. “Go,” he said,
“The noblest of all nobles are the men
In whom their country feels herself ennobled.”

Lady M.
(aside.)
I breathe again. Well, thus you left these shores—

Vyv.
Scarce had the brisker sea-wind filled our sails,
When the false traitor who had lured my trust
Cast me to chains and darkness. Days went by,
At length—one belt of desolate waters round,
And on the decks one scowl of swarthy brows,
(A hideous crew, the refuse of all shores)—
Under the flapping of his raven flag
The pirate stood revealed, and called his captive.
Grimly he heard my boyish loud upbraidings,
And grimly smiled in answering: “I, like thee,
Cast off, and disinherited, and desperate,
Had but one choice, death or the pirate's flag—
Choose thou—I am more gracious than thy kindred;
I proffer life; the gold they gave me paid
Thy grave in ocean!”

Lady M.
Hold! The demon lied!

Vyv.
Swift, as I answered so, his blade flashed forth;
But self-defence is swifter still than slaughter;
I plucked a sword from one who stood beside me,
And smote the slanderer to my feet. Then all
That human hell broke loose; oaths rang, steel lightened;
When in the death-swoon of the caitiff chief,
The pirate next in rank forced back the swarm,
And—in that superstition of the sea
Which makes the sole religion of its outlaws—
Forbade my doom by bloodshed—griped and bound me
To a slight plank; spread to the winds the sail,
And left me on the waves alone with God.

Evel.
Pause. Let my hand take thine—feel its warm life,
And, shuddering less, thank Him whose eye was o'er thee.

Vyv.
That day, and all that night, upon the seas
Tossed the frail barrier between life and death;
Heaven lulled the gales; and when the stars came forth,
All looked so bland and gentle that I wept,
Recalled that wretch's words, and murmured, “All,
Ev'n wave and wind, are kinder than my kindred!”
But—nay, sweet lady—

Lady M.
Heed me not. Night passed—

Vyv.
Day dawned; and, glittering in the sun, behold
A sail—a flag!

Evel.
Well—well?

Vyv.
Like Hope, it vanished!
Noon glaring came—with noon came thirst and famine,
And with parched lips I called on death, and sought
To wrench my limbs from the stiff cords that gnawed
Into the flesh, and drop into the deep:
And then—the clear wave trembled, and below
I saw a dark, swift-moving, shapeless thing,
With watchful, glassy eyes;—the ghastly shark
Swam hungering round its prey—then life once more
Grew sweet, and with a strained and horrent gaze
And lifted hair I floated on, till sense
Grew dim, and dimmer; and a terrible sleep
(In which still—still—those livid eyes met mine)
Fell on me—and—

Evel.
Quick—quick!

Vyv.
I woke, and heard
My native tongue! Kind looks were bent upon me.
I lay on deck—escaped the ravening death—
For God had watched the sleeper.

Evel.
Oh, such memories
Make earth, for ever after, nearer heaven;
And each new hour an altar for thanksgiving.

Lady M.
Break not the tale my ear yet strains to listen.

Vyv.
True lion of the ocean was the chief
Of that good ship. Beneath his fostering eyes,
Nor all ungraced by Drake's illustrious praise,
And the frank clasp of Raleigh's kingly hand,
I fought my way to manhood. At his death
The veteran left me a more absolute throne
Than Cæsar filled—his war-ship; for my realm
Add to the ocean, hope—and measure it!
Nameless, I took his name. My tale is done—
And each past sorrow, like a wave on shore,
Dies on this golden hour. (Turns to Eveline.)


Lady M.
(observing them.)
He loves my ward,
Whom Clarence, too—that thought piles fear on fear;
Yet, hold—that very rivalship gives safety—
Affords pretext to urge the secret nuptials,
And the prompt parting, ere he meet with Alton.
I—but till Nature sobs itself to peace,
Here's that which chokes all reason. Will ye not
Taste summer air, cooled through yon shadowy alleys?
Anon I'll join you.
[Exit Lady Montreville.

Vyv.
We will wait your leisure.
A most compassionate and courteous lady—
How couldst thou call her proud?

Evel.
Nay, ever henceforth,
For the soft pity she hath shown to thee,
I'll love her as a mother.

Vyv.
Thus I thank thee (kissing her hand)
.

[Exeunt through the cloisters.