University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Gardens of the Castle—a different part from that in Act I.
MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

Who would have thought the proud Countess would
have been so pleased with the love of this wild Captain
for my young lady? I think he must have given her
some of the golden ointment too! But anything to
thwart the suit of the young Lord. She expects him
to marry no one less than a princess I suppose.

Enter Sir Maurice.
SIR MAURICE.

Ugh! ugh! Have you seen Lord Ashdale pass this
way?

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

No, your Worship!

SIR MAURICE
(caressingly).

So this sea-Captain is making love to your pretty
charge, Mistress Prudence! I suppose, between you
and me, there will be a marriage in the family.

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

I am sure, Sir Maurice, I shall not say you nay.

SIR MAURICE.

Say me nay? I never offered thee anything.

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

I thought you said “between you and me there was
to be a marriage in the family.” We might do a sillier
thing, Sir Maurice. Better marry than do worse.

SIR MAURICE.

Worse!—Go and do your worst. I defy your seductions,
you antiquated Dalilah. Hence; and if you
chance on Lord Ashdale, say I would see him.

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

If you should be serious, Sir Maurice, in your proposal—

SIR MAURICE.

Pish!—am I to be your jibe too?— [Exit Mrs. Prudence, laughing.]

Every new slight I receive in
this household I treasure up here—here!

Enter Gaussen.

Ha—so soon returned! hast thou seen the priest?—
hast thou got the proofs?—hast thou—

GAUSSEN

The priest left his house this morning an hour ere I
arrived, in company with a stranger, who, from what I
could learn, is a seaman: but the description does not
suit the one we look after.

SIR MAURICE.

I see the lands of Arundel dropping from my gripe—
but, no—no! if I miss the proofs, I will secure the
claimant. Giles Gaussen, this day five-and-twenty

years ago, didst thou not commit a crime that, if told,
would bring thee to the scaffold?—Go to!—unless this
Norman die, the hemp is spun that will fit thee with a
halter.

GAUSSEN.

I would I had the boy once more in my clutches.
Think you I have forgiven him for this gash? Till then,
the wenches (curse them!) did not mock at me—and—
no matter! But what is he to the dead man? Thou
told'st me it was his parents who paid me the gold to
rid them of him.

SIR MAURICE.

Why, hark, I will tell thee—hush! what's that?—get
aside—it is he himself—quick!—

[They hide amidst the trees.
Enter Norman and Violet.
VIOLET.
What, Norman, she consents?

NORMAN.
Yes, tremble not,
My best beloved.

VIOLET.
I tremble lest hereafter
Thou deem'st me over bold.

NORMAN.
Not bold, but trustful
As love is ever!—Nay, be soothed, and think
Of the bright lands within the western main,
Where we will build our home, what time the seas
Weary thy gaze;—there the broad palm-tree shades
The soft and delicate light of skies as fair
As those that slept on Eden;—Nature, there,
Like a gay spendthrift in his flush of youth,
Flings her whole treasure in the lap of Time.—
On turfs by fairies trod, the eternal Flora
Spreads all her blooms; and from a lake-like sea
Wooes to her odorous haunts the western wind!
While, circling round and upward from the boughs,
Golden with fruits that lure the joyous birds,
Melody, like a happy soul released,
Hangs in the air, and from invisible plumes
Shakes sweetness down!—

Enter Lady Arundel.
LADY ARUNDEL.
Ye have fix'd the hour and place
For flight—this night?

NORMAN.
Why, Lady, no; as yet
The blush upon her cheek at thought of flight
Lingers like dawn in heaven,—but like the dawn
The blush foretells the smile the heaven shall wear!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Trifle not—Ashdale is no dull-eyed rival;—
If he suspect—

NORMAN
(fiercely.)
What then?

LADY ARUNDEL.
So hot! forget you
Your word to waive all contest?—No—that glance
Does answer “No.”—And now, fair sir—this letter
To the Venetian goldsmith, Paolo Trezzi,
Yields you this lady's dower; for from these halls
Never went bride without her portion.

NORMAN.
Lady,
Ye who have dwelt upon the sordid land,
Amidst the everlasting gloomy war
Of Poverty with Wealth—ye cannot know
How we, the wild sons of the Ocean, mock
At men who fret out life with care for gold.
O! the fierce sickness of the soul—to see
Love bought and sold—and all the heaven-roof'd temple
Of God's great globe, the money-change of Mammon!
I dream of love, enduring faith, a heart
Mingled with mine—a deathless heritage
Which I can take unsullied to the stars,
When the Great Father calls his children home;—
And in the midst of this Elysian dream,
Lo, Gold—the demon Gold!—alas! the creeds
Of the false land!—

LADY ARUNDEL.
And once I thought like him!
Ah! happy Violet!— (more coldly)
well—of this hereafter.
What hour can boat and boatmen wait your orders?

NORMAN.
The favouring moon breaks one hour ere the midnight.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Meet where the Castle chase, by the last gate,
Slopes to the ocean-beach—

NORMAN.
Ay—as I took
That path this morn, I saw the scathed ruins
Of an old chapel on the spot you name;—
Meet me there, Violet—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Ha—within that chapel!

NORMAN.
Is it not holy ground?

LADY ARUNDEL
(impatiently).
Well, well—begone,
And meet one hour ere midnight—

VIOLET.
Let us wait
And hope, dear Norman—

LADY ARUNDEL.
“Hope,” girl! he must quit
These halls this day—would you his blood?—

VIOLET.
The love
I bear thee steals so little from the earth,
I cannot think it err because its faith
Will not nurse fear;—to-night, then—but, alas!
See the sky lowers—the nights are dark—

NORMAN.
Nay, then,
Streams o'er our path the Planet Saint of lovers:
And mark this white plume with the sparkling gem,
Pluck'd from the turban of the Algerine
That happy day—so thou shalt see the token
Gleam thro' the shadows.

VIOLET.
Yet—

NORMAN.
On board my bark
We boast a reverend priest—who shall attend
To consecrate our vows!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Come! to your chamber
I'll with thee and allay all fear; hark! steps!
Go, sir—let Ashdale find thee not!—remember
Thy word; and so farewell and prosper.

NORMAN.
Ah!
Shall we not meet again?—God's blessing on thee!
Wilt thou not bless me too?

(Kissing her hand.)
LADY ASHDALE.
I!—Heaven will bless thee.

(Pressing his hand convulsively.)
[Exeunt Lady Ashdale and Violet.
NORMAN.
Now could I linger here whole hours; and dream—
Of what?—well, Falkner has return'd ere this.

Enter Servant.
SERVANT.
A cavalier, arrived in haste, demands
An audience, sir.

NORMAN.
Of me?

SERVANT.
Upon the instant.
He bade me name him “Falkner.”

NORMAN.
Falkner! Ever
Ready in need—admit him: sure true Friendship
Is a magician—and foretels our wishes.
Enter Falkner.
Welcome, thrice welcome. Listen to me—bid
Our boat attend me on the beach below,
Close by a ruin'd chapel—where the sea
Washes the forest's farthest verge—one hour
Before night's last: our chaplain too is needed.
See to it—quick!—away!

FALKNER.
Piano, friend—
As the Italians phrase it—slow and sure.
I've famous news;—the priest I sought and found,
And left him near these halls. He has the proofs
(And will reveal them) of thy birth—thy name.
Well; art thou dumb?

NORMAN.
O Heavens! for this one day
Thou mak'st life bankrupt in its blessings!—He?
Onslow—art sure?—

FALKNER.
Some men may know their names,
Tho' you do not. He told me his was Onslow.

NORMAN.
Where shall I seek him?

FALKNER.
By the very chapel
Thou spok'st of!—

NORMAN.
Is this destiny?

FALKNER.
And wouldst thou
Have me still see thine orders—

NORMAN.
To the letter.
The boat—the chaplain—send to the ship and bid it
Veer round—in sight of the beach—before the hour.

FALKNER.
Explain—

NORMAN.
No time for words, dear Falkner—go!

[Exit Falkner.
Enter Mistress Prudence.
MISTRESS PRUDENCE.
Sir Maurice!—Where's Sir Maurice?—Have you seen
Sir Maurice here?

NORMAN.
A fico for Sir Maurice!
Ah! Mistress Prudence, when we meet again,
Poor Captain Norman may be Captain Crœsus!
Oh, Violet! birth and wealth were sweet indeed,
If they could make me worthier to possess thee.

[Exit.
[Sir Maurice comes forth.
MISTRESS PRUDENCE.
Where have you hid yourself, sir?

SIR MAURICE.
Hid myself!
Am I a man to hide myself?

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.
The Countess
Requires your presence on the instant; I
Said you were—Ah, she comes.

[Exit.
SIR MAURICE
(to Gaussen, who is stealing out).
Keep close—keep close!

Enter Lady Arundel.
LADY ARUNDEL.
Dost thou not dread to look upon me?—What!
I gave thee gold—gold to thy heart's content—
To waft young Arthur to a distant land;—
Gold for his future lot—not bribes for murder!
Sold to the pirate!—cast on the wild seas!
O traitor!—traitor!

SIR MAURICE.
I knew nought of this.
Hush!—hush!—Speak low! He I employed the traitor,
Not your poor trusty knight;—but mark me, cousin;
Not then your danger half so dark as now.
Time flies the while I speak.—Thou scarce wert gone
When came a stranger with such news!—Old Onslow
At hand—he has the proofs!—I—I can save thee,
And I alone!—Who is the traitor now?

LADY ARUNDEL.
Terror on terror crowds upon me, like
Waters above a drowning wretch!

SIR MAURICE.
Be quick!
And, hark! I must bribe high!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Get me the proofs,
Silence the priest, and whatsoe'er thou ask'st
Is thine.

SIR MAURICE.
The farms and manor-house of Bothleigh—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Thine—thine!

SIR MAURICE.
Agreed!—now go in peace and safety—
Leave me to work.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Oh, Percy! for thy sake—
For thy sake this—not mine—bear witness, Heaven!
I will go pray.

[Exit.
SIR MAURICE.
Ay, pray! when weak bad women
Gorge some huge crime, they always after it
Nibble a bit of prayer, just to digest it!
So gluttons cram a hecatomb of meat,
And then correct it with a crumb of cheese.
Come from thy lair, my jackal of the sea.
[Gaussen comes forth.
Fly to the chapel. Ah, thou know'st those ruins!—
Swoop on the grey-hair'd man thou findest there:
Seize, and conceal, and gag him in some cave.
Tear from him all—papers and parchments—all!
Bring them to me—a thousand bright broad pieces.—
The seaman took the longer path;—this way—
You see the track, it halves the distance.

GAUSSEN.
If
He struggle, must I—

SIR MAURICE.
Prate thou not of struggles;
I give thee orders but to seize the papers.
Fail, and thou know'st I have thy secret!—Win,
And thou art rich for life—away!
[Exit Gaussen.
At worst
I am a thousand pounds a-year the warmer;
At best—why, that's to come. I know a tame,
Patient, poor cousin—Gods, how I will plague him!
As he goes out enter Lord Ashdale.
Hadst thou come sooner, thou hadst spoil'd a love-scene.

ASHDALE.
Wert thou its witness, then?

SIR MAURICE.
Ay, in the corner,
Like peeping Tom. You've been at Coventry?

ASHDALE.
Jest not—thou madden'st me.

SIR MAURICE.
Thou'lt swear to keep
Our counsel from thy mother?

ASHDALE.
By my honour.

SIR MAURICE.
They fly this night—they meet one hour ere midnight
By the old chapel. Boat and priest await—
She'll know him by the jewel in his plume:
Put one in thine—I'll sell thee one a bargain.

ASHDALE.
This night! the chapel! Oh, by earth and heaven,
I will not lose this girl! I thank thee, Knight.

[Exit.
SIR MAURICE.
Both flies are in the web! I know a spider
Who shall eat both. When shall I wake an earl?

[Exit.

SCENE II.

In the background a Gothic chapel partially in ruins; —through a broken arch the sea seen at a little distance. In front, broken forest-ground, a small brook running to the sea. At the side, a small tower that admits to the demesnes of the Castle. Sunset.
ONSLOW
(in front of the chapel).
More than ten years have pass'd since I beheld him—
The noble boy;—now time annuls my oath,
And cancels all his wrongs! Ye dismal wrecks—
Well might the lightning scathe your bloodstain'd walls,
To death and marriage consecrate alike,
As is the tale that trembles on my lips!
Lo, the toad battening where the altar stood,
But ruin spares the tomb! So thro' the earth
How many altars vow'd to human love
A single tomb outlasts!

Enter Gaussen from the tower.
GAUSSEN.
What, in time?
Alone, too?
[Rushing upon Onslow.
Speak not, stir not, or thou diest!
The scrolls—the papers that thou bear'st about thee!

ONSLOW.
Avaunt, I know thee, murderer! On this spot
The dead rise up against thee.

GAUSSEN.
Dost thou know me?
Then know thy doom and doomsman!

ONSLOW.
Villain! off!

[Breaks from him and passes through the arches of the chapel.
GAUSSEN
(following).
Thy blood on thine own head!

Enter Norman.
NORMAN.
A human cry!
Ha! ruffian,—hold!

[Rushes through the arches.
Re-enter Gaussen disarmed.
GAUSSEN.
Disarm'd! my hand is palsied!

[Norman appears as in pursuit—Gaussen, creeping along the ruins, enters the tower unperceived.
NORMAN.
Is it a fiend, that earth should swallow?

ONSLOW
(within, groaning).
Oh!

[Norman re-enters the Chapel.
GAUSSEN
(from the tower).
We meet again!—

Enter Norman, bearing Onslow, wounded.
ONSLOW.
Ah! life is fading fast!—
Let me look on thee—once more I behold thee,
And can depart in peace!—

NORMAN.
Hush—do not speak!—

ONSLOW.
Nay, words grow few. I bade thee meet me here;
Yonder where Murder found me—on this day
Twenty and five years back—thy father—

NORMAN.
Father!
Say on! my father?

ONSLOW.
Died, most foully murder'd

NORMAN.
Blood—blood for blood—the murderer—name him!

ONSLOW.
Listen.—
There was a page, fair, gentle, brave, but lowborn;—
The daughter of the lordly House he served
Saw him and loved:—they wed in stealth;—these hands
Join'd them together in yon holy walls;
They met in secret. I—I—my voice fails me!

[Norman goes to the brook, brings water in the hollow of his hand, and sprinkles the face of the old man.
ONSLOW.
The father learn'd the love—not wedlock—deem'd
His child dishonour'd.—On this spot the lovers
Met, with design to fly. I loved the youth—
His foster-sire—I was to share their flight.—

NORMAN.
Speak on—speak on.

ONSLOW.
'Twas night—a fearful night—
Lightning and storm!—They met—and murderous hands
Seized on thy father—dragg'd him from her breast!—
Oh!—that wild shriek—I hear it still!—he died
By the same wretch that is my murderer now.

NORMAN.
Thy murderer now? O thanks, revealing Heaven!
One death, one deed—one arm avenges both!

ONSLOW.
Died in these arms—three flagstones from the altar—
Near the lone tomb where the first Baron sleeps;—
Still mark the gore-stains where his bones are buried.

NORMAN.
Oh!—horror—horror!

ONSLOW.
Three nights thence thy mother
Gave birth to thee;—a kinsman, whose cold heart
Promise of gold had soften'd to her grief,
Bore to my home the babe!

NORMAN.
And she, my mother?
Does she live still?—my mother?

ONSLOW.
She survived—
Forced to a lordlier husband's arms. The tale
Of the sad past unknown!

NORMAN.
It was her face
Mine infant eyes beheld?—

ONSLOW.
In stealth a wife;
In stealth a mother—yes!—But with new ties
Came new affections.—To the second nuptials
A second son was born.—She loved him well;
Better than thee—than her own soul.

NORMAN.
Poor mother!—

ONSLOW.
But few words more.—I—I—Oh—

NORMAN.
Breathe less loud,
My soul is in my ears.

ONSLOW.
Too moved by pity—
Too sway'd by fear—lest they should rend thee from me,
I took a solemn oath to veil the secret—
Conceal thy rights—while lived her sire, and he,
Her second lord; and thus allow'd thy youth
To quit my roof:—they died,—the sire and husband,—
Some two years since;—thou still afar. I sought
Thy mother, and her heart was marble;—Oh!
Here—here (gives papers)
. Go, seek thy shelter in the law;
But shun yon towers!—thy mother—

NORMAN.
But one word!
My mother's name!—

ONSLOW
(pointing to papers).
There!
[Raises himself to his feet with a sudden effort.
Hear my last words, Heaven!
Protect the wrong'd!—upon this head I lay
An old man's blessing—Now, farewell!

[Dies.
NORMAN.
Stay—stay
Thy flight, thou gentlest spirit! Dumb! He breathes not!
Dead—dead—my second sire! O hell-born deed!
Could not these white hairs plead for thee?
—Revenge!
Earth give no shelter to the man of blood!
Conduct his feet, Ordainer of all doom,
To retributive slaughter; and vouchsafe
This arm thine instrument! Mine eyes deceived me,
Or the red beam, streaking the vaulted gloom,
Show'd me the face of—Well! the Heavens are just,
And we shall meet again!—Farewell, farewell!
Heaven gains a saint in thee!—My mother lives!
What tho' she has another child to love?
Is not a mother's heart a mighty space,
Embracing all her children? Of that realm
How little will content me!—She will fold
Her arms around me, and from out her breast
The eyes that look to hers shall melt away
With passionate tears the past and all its sorrows!
What—what! her son—her son! Mysterious Nature,
At the first glance I loved her! Wealth, lands, titles,
A name that glitters, like a star, amidst
The galaxy of England's loftiest born!
O Violet—O my bride—and O my mother!
Out from my heart henceforth each low desire,
Each meaner hope my wilder youth conceived!
Be my soul instinct with such glorious thoughts
As, springing to great deeds, shall leave my land
A bright heroic lesson of the things
In which true nobleness endures for ever!
And while I told my woes she wept, she did!
'Tis her sweet writing! bless her! See, she calls me
Arthur, and child (kissing the papers)
, and child, her precious one,
Her hope, her darling! Mother—my own mother!

[Opens the papers—Scene closes.