University of Virginia Library

Chapter XV.

Scene—A wooded ridge sloping to a ravine; a wild rude bridge spanning a rocky chasm; two of the gipsy-gang are seen crossing the bridge; they come forward.
BROLSON.
Thy scheme's o'er long—the briefer plan the better—
A dagger in his throat were quicker done,
And quieter. Granting we seize the lad,
What then? At every step there stands a bar:
Take we the path thy project travels out—
Detection is as certain as the act;
And we may lock the gyves upon our wrists
At once. Egad, I feel them now even with thy talk.

RIVDILL.
Pooh, thou wert born at night, and thus thy brain
Is full of boggart shapes and nervous fears;
I, who saw light one fine bright summer-morn,
Am fearless, enterprising, strong, and bold;
Belike too sanguine—'tis a better fault
Than thine, of meeting trouble half the way.

BROLSON.
If thou demurr'st, why be it so, say I.
But think, his death just doubles our reward.

RIVDILL.
And Wolfbane, too, how wilt thou manage him?

BROLSON.
Lord Kelford doubts this Wolfbane, and demands
Our utmost secrecy, with prompt despatch.

RIVDILL.
Secrecy with Wolfbane? with . . . ha! ha! ha!
Were he against the murder of this youth,
If thy quick hand were even at his throat,
Thy knee upon his breast, thy dagger's point
Uplifted for the blow—that Wolfbane's eye
Would, like a spell, arrest it in mid-air,
And fix thee powerless!

BROLSON.
I defy his power! first for the deed,
And next for the reward, which having fast,
We'll put some thousand leagues between this wood
And our abiding-place. What need we fear?

RIVDILL.
Fear?
Fear his art, his spells. Laugh on, I care not!
I too can laugh pretended power to scorn;
But Wolfbane's no pretender: he has power!
I've seen, ay, felt it shivering through my frame
Until I stood like ice; no foot could stir,
The ground and I were one, incorporate,
Until he breathed upon each marble limb,
And I stepped free!

BROLSON.
Stand back, for here he comes.

RIVDILL,
pale and trembling.
Who? Wolfbane?

BROLSON.
No, 'tis that witch, old Midgley.
And with her comes our prize—look to thy knife:
Back . . . 'neath the trees!
So, we're in luck.

[They conceal themselves.]
Enter Midgley and Adolphus.
ADOLPHUS.
How drear and dismal hang these toppling cliffs,
Haggard with age? It seems a place unblest!

MIDGLEY.
'Tis scarce the spot for thy young eyes, my boy.
They'd better love the free and open fields
Than these o'erhanging, frowning precipices:
There are as strange deformities in Nature,
As many passionate and reckless features,
As there be moods of mind: thy love is yet
For Nature's mild, unwrinkled countenance—
It suits the softer memories of thy youth.
But cheer thee; thine's a good brave heart, my boy,
And most unlike thy proud unnatural father.

ADOLPHUS.
My father? You knew my father, then?
I've some remembrance of a lofty form—
A noble soldier whom they called my father;
Was he so?

MIDGLEY.
Thy sire was in the army.

ADOLPHUS
Mine is a dim, deceiving memory:
Sometimes I fancy I have dreamt it all.
You knew my father? Oh, I'm glad to speak
With one that knew my father!
What is thy name?

MIDGLEY.
Call me Midgley.

ADOLPHUS.
Midgley! it seems as in a dream I'd heard
That name before; yet is not all a dream?
This savage wild, these woods, thyself?
The wailing voices of the wind-lashed trees,
As though the storm had scourged them ruefully?
And these strange mutterings of mysterious things?

MIDGLEY.
This wood is never silent; its great heart
Beats with a thousand pulses; in the night
'Twould make one think that spirits walked abroad,
Such shapes and sounds startle the eye and ear.
But of your father? Think you of him still?

ADOLPHUS.
There never passed the day I thought not of him:
I love my father; but my heart ne'er beat,
My eyes ne'er filled with tears, my tongue ne'er faltered,
As when I thought of her, my poor, lost mother!

MIDGLEY.
Dead! that, too, I know; woe for her loss!

ADOLPHUS.
Dost thou believe the Dead can list our prayers?
That they, who loved us to their end of days,
Retain their sympathy with human love?
That, conscious of our tenderness, they watch
In angel pity o'er us? Can it be
That our remembrance is yet dear to them?
Oh, blest persuasion! oh, most sweet belief!
Angels of brightness, is there one indeed,
One of your heavenly host, who watcheth now,
With all a mother's tenderness of gaze,
To guard the pathway of her orphan child?
Oh, when, dear angel-mother, may I kneel
Beside thy humble grave, in humble hope
That still thou seest my love, and lov'st me still!

MIDGLEY.
I have wept more with thee, and for thee, boy,
Than e'er I sorrowed for my own hard griefs,
Or death of kin, where tears are natural.
If e'er thy mother watched, she watcheth now!
What age wert thou when she, thy mother, died?
'Tis fancy, boy; thou canst not recollect her!

ADOLPHUS.
Oh, yes, I do! Not recollect my mother?
I was not six, yet I remember her:
Though nothing in the room nor frame, nor furniture,
Nor aught, only my mother! only my poor mother!
How pale she looked! I cannot call her features:
A pale and weeping face, and garbed in black;
So pale, I weep at its remembered paleness!
Oh, I bethink me well—how close she clasped me!
Again, and once again, how sad she spoke,
'Till some one entered, speaking angrily,
And bore her weeping, shrieking, and imploring,
Where I ne'er saw her more!
And now she's dead! my poor, unhappy mother,
And left me with one only wish on earth,
Which I have prayed for daily, yes, and nightly;
It is to see her grave, to kneel upon it,
To say how much I loved, would have consoled her,
How still I cherish her dear memory,
And that I count the swiftly passing days
As steps upon the road which leads me to her!

MIDGLEY.
I know thy mother's grave!
Now, wouldst thou to it?

ADOLPHUS.
Thou know'st it? thou? They said she died abroad,
Was buried none knew where; but let us go!
Thou'rt human? nothing evil? that would tempt my soul,
And make my love the bait for my perdition?
I am a boy, a poor neglected boy,
Wishing to be good, yet no one teaching me;
I know not where begins that sin we read of,
That sin against the Spirit, where it ends.
I may be jeopardising even now
That hope which is the lamp of my existence,
To reach my mother's sainted arms in heaven!
What art thou? thou hast a dark, unpardoned look,
Like one God hides his face against . . .

[Starts away, alarmed.]
MIDGLEY.
I am going to thy mother's grave!
Wilt go?

ADOLPHUS.
Thou wilt not harm my soul?

MIDGLEY.
But one besides myself can shew it thee,
And when we die
All knowledge of her burial-place dies too!
Thine eyes will never gaze with filial love
Upon that hallowed mould!

[Going.]
[Exit Midgley.]
ADOLPHUS.
Hear me! have mercy!
Oh, assist me, Heaven!
Angels, that hover round me in my dreams,
Be near me in my waking! Midgley stay!
Take me! do what thou wilt!
Shew me my mother's grave!

[Exit Adolphus.]
Re-enter Brolson and Rivdill, cautiously and stealthily, from under the brushwood.
BROLSON.
Cast thy cloak thus round the old beldame's throat,
Strangle her first, then hurl her o'er yon rocks
Beyond the firs; they have a dismal depth
No eye can penetrate. Leave him to me;
The fewer hands the better for despatch;
I'll finish him, and quickly: hush! be firm!

[Exeunt warily.]