University of Virginia Library

Scene 4.

A room in the Convent at Oxford.
Mary, Dorothea, Beatrice.
[When the curtain rises they are all three singing together—
Chorus—
Chorus—
Chorus—
Chorus—

Dor.
(Jumping up quickly, and running to the window).

—What a beautiful morning
it is though. Too bright for singing.
Oh, Beatrice! do you know there are
soldiers in the town—officers, too—
such beauties! I saw them yesterday
—Cavalry. They are passing
through to new quarters. Such beauties.
Red and gold and blue. And
such long spurs.

Mar.

—Long swords, you mean.

Dor.

—No; long spurs; and the loveliest
moustaches. There was one in particular
—a fair man, with bright eyes
—he looked up here in passing, and I
waved my hand to him. I fancy he
likes nuns. I hope so.

Bea.

—Oh, Dorothea! you are utterly incorrigible.
You should go out into the
world, my dear, and take your fill of
flirting, dancing, &c. You were never
meant for a nun.

Dor.

—I am none so foolish, dear; am I?
Well, we are only in on trial—on approval
—“on sale or return,” so to
speak. Our novitiate will be soon
over, and then—then—

Mary.
(From the window).

—Here they come.

[Beatrice and Dorothea move to the window.
Dor.

—Oh, the beauties—what lovely horses
and men. They are leaving Oxford
this morning, I fancy. Probably they
are on their way to Woodstock. If
so, they will pass under our window.
Yes, now they are coming.

Mary.

—I don't like them much. They look
so bitter and bloodthirsty, with those
long, swinging swords.

Dor.

—Stuff!—mere goose-talk, my child.
You were evidently made to pass your
life as a sequestered nun—hidden, like
fair Rosamond, in some pleasing solitude

—only with the love and the
lover left out; or only a beetle-browed
priest for a lover, and the
dullest possible hymn-tunes—

Mary.

—Oh, Dorothea, remember what we
have been singing.

Dor.

—I do, child, remember it all too well,
and that is just why I speak. As I
was going to say—with the dullest
possible hymn-tunes for songs and
love-sonnets. However— (shrugs her shoulders contemptuously).

Mary.

—But, Dorothea, those hymns are
lovely.

Dor.

—Lovely, child! Perhaps they are—to
you. But then, you know nothing
about love. And love is the only
lovely thing—to a true woman. You
are not a woman yet—you are a mere
nun. You will not be a woman till
you have loved—and, perhaps, suffered.
(She sighs gently; and a deeper expression than usual flits across her face).

For my part, I think that the
true use of those slow hymn-tunes is
to make one appreciate better the
swift love-tunes—when they come
dancing and throbbing through the
air, and setting all one's heart on fire.
Oh—delightful.

[They have been occupied together, and have not noticed Beatrice. They now hear

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a smothered shriek—and at the same time the clanking of the soldiers riding past outside.
[Beatrice sinks into a chair, ejaculating—

Ah, my God!

[Mary and Dorothea attend to her.
Mary.

—What is it—what is it? (To Dorothea)

What can it be?

[Dorothea runs to the window and looks out hastily at the troops.

Nothing, nothing, dear—only she has seen
somebody. I understand it all. Go
and get some water, and call for help
—quick, quick!

[Beatrice has fainted quite away. Dorothea attends to her. Mary goes and returns, bringing assistance. She gradually comes to. Clamour at the door. Heavy steps on the stairs. Servants and nuns enter. More nuns and servants below. They bring in upon a litter an officer in the uniform of an English cavalry regiment, just thrown from his horse, and evidently dying.
[Mary and Dorothea rush to the door, and try to prevent them. It is obviously too late.
Do.
(to servants)

—Don't bring him in here for
heaven's sake! Is he dead—wounded
—ill—what? Has there been an
accident?

1st Ser.

—He has been thrown from his

horse, ma'am—it took fright at a
great awkward hay-waggon, a little
way down the road there, and he
seems to be dying, I fear.

2nd Ser.

—Yes, ma'am—yes, ma'am—it is a
most dreadfullest thing, to be sure;
and him such an 'ansome young man,
too, and full of spirit. If it had
only been one of those great ugly
serjeants, now, or the clumsy driver
of the cart!

3rd Ser.

—We can't bring him to any other
part of the house, Miss, the other
rooms are occupied. Our orders were
to bring him in here. It's not for long,
I fancy.

[The above sentences must be spoken swiftly and confusedly by the servants, as in great perturbation. Beatrice, who has recovered and has listened intently to the servants without turning round, now rises majestically and approaches the litter, her eyes fixed upon the dying man. The others instinctively recede.
Dying, is that so? Then our hour has come.
We shall be separated soon, to meet.
Edward!
[He raises his head languidly.
Ah! ah!—My love!
[She approaches and kisses him on the forehead.
I thought it would be in another world,
But God is gracious, and he gives us this.
He gives us this stray perfumed flower to pluck,

Bea.
—E'en in the fields of earth.

Ray.
(speaking with difficulty).
—He's dead.

Bea.-
Not by,
Not by your hand, my loved one—oh, God grant it!

Ray.
—Not by my hand, but by the hand of God.
I sought him fiercely, sought him for long years,
Bitter in vengeance, armed with furious wrath,
And at the last I found him: in the snow,
The cold white snow he died, but not by me.
These papers, Beatrice (taking papers from his bosom and giving them to her)
will tell you all.
I am too weak to tell the story now;
But all revenge has long since died away,
Leaving the pure sweet spirit of love alone.

Bea.
—Thank God for that—oh! blessed be God for that!
My prayer was answered—on one dismal day
I had a strong foreboding you would meet,
You and my husband; well I knew your natures;
And what fierce manner of contest would ensue,
And then I prayed—prayed as I never prayed
Before, that God would in His mercy keep
My lover from blood-guiltiness, and turn
The wild heart of my husband to Himself.
That prayer was answered—for you met without
The red sad stain imbruing either hand.

Ray.
—That prayer was answered—now we meet without
The pangs of foul remorse to mar our joy.
Yet I am dying—dying; dying, Beatrice;
I had hoped for time wherein to comfort thee;
Time to plant flowers upon the soil of pain—
Time to rejoice—to laugh perhaps—to be glad.
And now I am dying—yet I die beholding
The one face which through life, since first I saw it,
Has reigned as perfect empress o'er my heart.

Bea.
—And my true heart, oh, lover, has been thine,
Thine as thou knowest from the very first.
A foolish whim compelled me to dissemble
In Paris, when I drove you to the field;
But if you had known, oh, Edward, if you had known
The agony of her who drove you forth—
My pangs of bitterest grief, the deed being done,
You would not only have forgiven me,
But granted me some pity of soul besides.
And then in that wild meeting at the Château
I yearned—I longed—what can a woman do?
[She sobs.
But this is the true marriage—yea, the second.
This is our perfect union, for our souls
Were knit in holy passion from the first,
And death, which seems to separate, unites.
Now we are man and wife before high God—
Death is the priest, most sacred of the train,
Who brings our hands together; our strong souls
Were passionately wedded years ago.

Ray.
—Weaker I grow—they have not brought a doctor?

Bea.
—They have gone for one; he shortly will be here;
But—

Ray.
—I am far beyond a doctor's help—
Are those the words, my lady, you would say?
[Looking up in her face, and half smiling.
It matters little; I am well content.

Bea.
—And I am well content, because I am sure
That not for long shall I be left behind.

Ray.
—There is yet one thing; the gift—you would not give;
The gift of love, that cruel love denied;
I am dying Beatrice, may I have it now?

Bea.
—Surely, my lord.

[She stoops and kisses him tenderly on the lips.
Ray.
—Oh, maiden, holy kiss—
Death is worth having, for he brings me this—
This sacred, glorious gift so long denied,
This holy guerdon of a perfect bride.
Now, as the body aside with pangs is rent,
First is my spirit unutterably content;
Sing to me Beatrice, chant some fair song,
That I may die thy sweet love-thoughts among!

[She sends out all except Mary and Dorothea, and beckons those two to the couch. Then she goes to the window, and gathers a large red rose from a cluster just outside. This she brings to Raynor, gives it to him, and whispers,—
[Bea.]
It is I—take it!

He takes it, falls back on his pillow, and a glorified expression slowly begins to overspread his features and render them radiant. Beatrice whispers to Mary and Dorothea, and they begin to sing very softly—
[Mary., Dor.]

[He dies.
[Mary and Dorothea sob wildly. But Beatrice flings back her long dark hair which had become loosened, and speaks.
Death when it joins two loving hearts in one,
Is not the dark-winged death that mortals shun,
Rather a garden filled with perfect bloom
Of flowers that shall outshine, outdare the tomb—
Rather a joyous meeting-place—a height
Whereon the sad and lost ones may unite—
I have found my lover; heaven shall out of sorrow
Prepare the dawning of a bright to-morrow—
Love doth not vanish—'tis the one thing sure.
The one thing certain—no death can obscure
That love high agony hath rendered pure
And endless—Godlike—worthy to endure.