Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel—
Marmaduke and Oswald entering.
Mar.
I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves:
When first I saw him sitting there, alone,
It struck upon my heart I know not how.
Osw.
To-day will clear up all.—You marked a Cottage,
That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock
By the brook-side: it is the abode of One,
A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford,
Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas!
What she had seen and suffered turned her brain.
Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone,
Nor moves her hands to any needful work:
She eats her food which every day the peasants
Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived
Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice;
But every night at the first stroke of twelve
She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard
Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm,
She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one—
She paces round and round an Infant's grave,
And in the Churchyard sod her feet have worn
A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep—
Ah! what is here?
[A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes
as if in sleep—a Child in her arms.
Beg.
Oh! Gentlemen, I thank you;
I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled
The heart of living creature.—My poor Babe
Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread
When I had none to give him; whereupon,
I put a slip of foxglove in his hand,
Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once:
When, into one of those same spotted bells
A bee came darting, which the Child with joy
Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear,
And suddenly grew black, as he would die.
Mar.
We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip;
Here's what will comfort you.
[Gives her money.
Beg.
The Saints reward you
For this good deed!—Well, Sirs, this passed away;
And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog,
Trotting alone along the beaten road,
Came to my child as by my side he slept
And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden
Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head:
But here he is,
[kissing the Child]
it must have been a dream.
Osw.
When next inclined to sleep, take my advice,
And put your head, good Woman, under cover.
Beg.
Oh, Sir, you would not talkthus, if you knew
What life is this of ours, how sleep will master
The weary-worn.—You gentlefolk have got
Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be
A stone than what I am.—But two nights gone,
The darkness overtook me—wind and rain
Beat hard upon my head—and yet I saw
A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze,
Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky:
At which I half accused the God in Heaven.—
You must forgive me.
Osw.
Ay, and if you think
The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide
Your favourite saint—no matter—this good day
Has made amends.
Beg.
Thanks to you both; but, Oh Sir!
How would you like to travel on whole hours
As I have done, my eyes upon the ground,
Expecting still, I knew not how, to find
A piece of money glittering through the dust.
Mar.
This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady!
Do you tell fortunes?
Beg.
Oh Sir, you are like the rest.
This Little-one—it cuts me to the heart—
Well! they might turn a beggar from their doors,
But there are Mothers who can see the Babe
Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it:
This they can do, and look upon my face—
But you, Sir, should be kinder.
Mar.
Come hither, Fathers,
And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch!
Beg.
Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us.
Why now—but yesterday I overtook
A blind old Greybeard and accosted him,
I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass
He should have used me better!—Charity!
If you can melt a rock, he is your man;
But I'll be even with him—here again
Have I been waiting for him.
Osw.
Well, but softly,
Who is it that hath wronged you?
Beg.
Mark you me;
I'll point him out;—a Maiden is his guide,
Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog,
Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before
With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur,
I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth
He does his Master credit.
Mar.
As I live,
'Tis Herbert and no other!
Beg.
'Tis a feast to see him,
Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent,
And long beard white with age—yet evermore,
As if he were the only Saint on earth,
He turns his face to heaven.
Osw.
But why so violent
Against this venerable Man?
Beg.
I'll tell you:
He has the very hardest heart on earth;
I had as lief turn to the Friar's school
And knock for entrance, in mid holiday.
Mar.
But to your story.
Beg.
I was saying, Sir—
Well!—he has often spurned me like a toad,
But yesterday was worse than all;—at last
I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I,
And begged a little aid for charity:
But he was snappish as a cottage cur.
Well then, says I—I'll out with it; at which
I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt
As if my heart would burst; and so I left him.
Osw.
I think, good Woman, you are the very person
Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale,
At Herbert's door.
Beg.
Ay; and if truth were known
I have good business there.
Osw.
I met you at the threshold,
And he seemed angry.
Beg.
Angry! well he might;
And long as I can stir I'll dog him.—Yesterday,
To serve me so, and knowing that he owes
The best of all he has to me and mine.
But 'tis all over now.—That good old Lady
Has left a power of riches; and I say it,
If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave
Shall give me half.
Osw.
What's this?—I fear, good Woman,
You have been insolent.
Beg.
And there's the Baron,
I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress.
Osw.
How say you? in disguise?—
Mar.
But what's your business
With Herbert or his Daughter?
Beg.
Daughter! truly—
But how's the day?—I fear, my little Boy,
We've overslept ourselves.—Sirs, have you seen him?
[Offers to go.
Mar.
I must have more of this;—you shall not stir
An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught
That doth concern this Herbert?
Beg.
You are provoked,
And will misuse me, Sir!
Mar.
No trifling, Woman!—
Osw.
You are as safe as in a sanctuary;
Speak.
Mar.
Speak!
Beg.
He is a most hard-hearted Man.
Mar.
Your life is at my mercy.
Beg.
Do not harm me,
And I will tell you all!—You know not, Sir,
What strong temptations press upon the Poor.
Osw.
Speak out.
Beg.
Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman.
Osw.
Nay, but speak out!
Beg.
He flattered me, and said
What harvest it would bring us both; and so,
I parted with the Child.
Mar.
Parted with whom?
Beg.
Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl
Is mine.
Mar.
Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife?
Beg.
Wife, Sir! his wife—not I; my husband, Sir,
Was of Kirkoswald—many a snowy winter
We 've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred!
He has been two years in his grave.
Mar.
Enough.
Osw.
We 've solved the riddle—Miscreant!
Mar.
Do you,
Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait
For my return; be sure you shall have justice.
Osw.
A lucky woman!—go, you have done good service.
[Aside.
Mar.
(to himself).
Eternal praises on the power that saved her!—
Osw.
(gives her money).
Here's for your little boy—and when you christen him
I'll be his Godfather.
Beg.
Oh Sir, you are merry with me.
In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns
A dog that does not know me.—These good Folks,
For love of God, I must not pass their doors;
But I'll be back with my best speed: for you—
God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters.
[Exit Beggar.
Mar.
(to himself).
The cruel Viper!—Poor devoted Maid,
Now I do love thee.
Osw.
I am thunderstruck.
Mar.
Where is she—holla!
[Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.
You are Idonea's Mother?—
Nay, be not terrified—it does me good
To look upon you.
Osw.
(interrupting).
In a peasant's dress
You saw, who was it?
Beg.
Nay, I dare not speak;
He is a man, if it should come to his ears
I never shall be heard of more.
Osw.
Lord Clifford?
Beg.
What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs,
I love her, though I dare not call her daughter.
Osw.
Lord Clifford—did you see him talk with Herbert?
Beg.
Yes, to my sorrow—under the great oak
At Herbert's door—and when he stood beside
The blind Man—at the silent Girl he looked
With such a look—it makes me tremble, Sir,
To think of it.
Osw.
Enough! you may depart.
Mar.
(to himself).
Father!—to God himself we cannot give
A holier name; and, under such a mask,
To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed,
To that abhorrèd den of brutish vice!—
Oswald, the firm foundation of my life
Is going from under me; these strange discoveries—
Looked at from every point of fear or hope,
Duty, or love—involve, I feel, my ruin.
