Orval, or The Fool of Time :: :: University of Virginia Library

Left? gone? where? 'sdeath, sirrah, why dost thou answer not? Speak, you staring fool! Are you all dumb? Zounds! do you know me? Am I a man to be mocked by mine own valets? Andrew! Where is Andrew?

Servants
(whispering).

Ay, Master Andrew, go forward. Tell him thou. We dare not

Andrew.

(I would I were a tinker's ass! I had rather carry tin kettles than this news. O Lord, is it not the very day our poor Lady first came to the Castle? I shall never get it off my heart. It lies there as heavy as lead.)

Orval.

Andrew!

Andrew.

Ay, my lord.

Orval.

Come hither, Andrew.

Andrew.

Ay, my lord.

Orval.

Nearer, Andrew.

Andrew.

Ay, my lord. (It will choke me. It sticks like a fish-bone in a man's gullet.)

Orval.

So, Andrew. Art thou too in the conspiracy? Where is thy lady? Devils in hell! dost thou hear me, fellow?

Andrew.

No, my lord, ay, my lord.

Orval.

Where is she gone?

Andrew.

Gone! Ay, my lord. Indeed, to be sure. And 'tis there the pity of it, I say.

Orval.

Knave, thou shalt smart for this. Where is my wife?

Andrew.

Gone, my lord.

Orval.

Where?

Andrew.

Away, my lord.

Orval.

The witch catch thee! Whither, sirrah?

Andrew.

To the Mad-House.

(Exeunt servants hastily.)
Orval
(after a long pause).

Veronica! Veronica! . . . . Eh? . . . hark!
Was it her voice there? . . . No . . . Veronica!
Gone? gone? . . . What said those men to me, just now?
Impossible! . . . Oh, she but hides herself.
I should have guess'd that sooner. A child's trick,
Poor girl, to punish me for my long absence.
Ah, but this lasts too long. Veronica!
Veronica! . . . Enough! enough! . . . Forgive!
Forget! . . I do implore thee, love! . . . No sound.
And surely I search'd everywhere . . . No trace!
And those men's faces . . . . . Oh no, no! my God,
That were too horrible!

Hilo! hilo! Without!
Without! . . . No voice . . . no footstep . . . no reply!
The house is empty.

And the woman to whom
I vow'd a faithful heart, a life of love,

And loving care . . . Devil! have I cast her, living,
Into the dwelling of the damn'd? It was
So pure a thing, so innocent and glad!
Perfectly fair and good, to me God gave her.
What have I done with her? Where is she now?
Ha! ha! . . . . Who laugh'd then? . . . was it I myself?
Mad? . . is it I, not she, that's mad? . . Ah no,
I dare not hope that. It would be too just,
Therefore too merciful. I can reason yet,
And reasonably know myself a wretch.
There is no blood upon these hands of mine.
Why do they feel so like a murderer's?
Thou cursèd hand! thou hast kill'd the innocent.
Quick, then, and kill the guilty!

(Draws his dagger.)

Out, thou sharp
Straightforward justicer!

(Sinking his hand.)

Nay! even thou
Would'st be too lenient. There's no point o' the law
Thou dost administer can reach and strike
The original culprit. Silly lancet, all
Thy simple surgeoning cures nothing. Here
There is an ulcer which thou canst not probe.
The soul! the soul! I cannot kill the soul!
Back to thy case!

(He sheathes the dagger.)

What am I, then? In Hell
What name shall devils invent for one more damn'd
Already than Hell's devilishest? . . . And she?

Where now is laid that saintly head? What cries
Of horror and of infamy now shame
Those modest ears? That brow so calm . . . that lip
So innocently smiling . . . changed, O Heaven!
Changed . . . and by me . . . to what? Ah wretched wife,
Didst thou send forth, into the wilderness
Where God himself was tempted, and where all
Save He have perish'd, thy poor simple mind
To seek me, and hast lost it thus?

A Voice from below.
Ha! ha!
Optime! Optime! O what a theme
For a tremendous poem! What a rare
Dramatic genius! Bravo!

Orval.
Ah, the voice
Of Satan still! Peace, mocking fiend.
What, ho!
My horse! my pistols! ho!
To horse! to horse!

(Rushes out.)