University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

An apartment in twilight, almost dark; the door of an inner chamber, standing a little ajar, at the bottom of the stage.
Enter John of Lorne and Sir Hubert de Grey, disguised as peasants.
De Grey.
Nay, stop, I pray; advance we not too far?

Lorne.
Morton hath bid us in this place to wait.
The nurse's chamber is adjoining to it;
And, till her light within give notice, here
Thou mayst remain; when I am call'd, thou'lt leave me.

De Grey.
Till thou art call'd! and may I stay to hear
The sweetness of her voice—her footstep's sound;
Perhaps snatch in the torch's hasty light
One momentary vision of that form—
The form that hath to me of earthly make
No fellow? May it be without transgression?

Lorne.
Why shouldst thou not? De Grey, thou art too fearful;
Here art thou come with no dishonest will;
And well she knows thine honour. Her commands,
Though we must yield to them, capricious seem;
Seeing thou art with me, too nicely scrupulous;
And therefore need no farther be obey'd
Than needs must be. She puts thee not on honour.
Were I so used—

De Grey.
'Spite of thy pride, wouldst thou
Revere her still the more.—O, no, brave Lorne,
I blame her not. When she, a willing victim,
To spare the blood of two contending clans,
Against my faithful love her suffrage gave,
I bless'd her; and the deep, but chasten'd sorrow
With which she bade me—Oh! that word! farewell,
Is treasured in my bosom as its share
Of all that earthly love hath power to give.
It came from Helen, and, from her received,
Shall not be worn with thankless dull repining.

Lorne.
A noble heart thou hast: such manly meekness
Becomes thy gen'rous nature. But for me,
More fierce and wilful, sorely was I chafed
To see thy faithful heart robb'd of its hope,
All for the propping up a hollow peace
Between two warlike clans, who will, as long
As bagpipes sound, and blades flash to the sun,
Delighting in the noble sport of war,
Some fierce opponents find. What doth it boot,
If men in fields must fight, and blood be shed,
What clans are in the ceaseless strife opposed?

De Grey.
Ah, John of Lorne! too keenly is thy soul
To war inclined—to wasteful, ruthless war.

Lorne.
The warlike minstrel's rousing lay thou lov'st:
Shall bards i' the hall sing of our fathers' deeds
To lull their sons to sleep? Vain simple wish!
I love to hear the sound of holy bell,
And peaceful men their praises lift to heaven:
I love to see around their blazing fire
The peasant and his cheerful family set,
Eating their fearless meal. But, when the roar
Of battle rises, and the closing clans,
Dark'ning the sun-gleam'd heath, in dread affray
Are mingled; blade with blade, and limb with limb,
Nerve-strain'd, in terrible strength; yea, soul with soul
Nobly contending; who would raise aloft
The interdicting hand, and say, “Be still'd?”
If this in me be sin, may heaven forgive me!
That being am not I.

De Grey.
In very deed
This is thy sin; and of thy manly nature
The only blemish worthy of that name.
More peaceful be, and thou wilt be more noble.

Lorne.
Well, here we will not wrangle for the point.
None in th'embattled field who have beheld
Hubert de Grey in mailed hauberk fight,
Will guess how much that knight in peace delights.
Still burns my heart that such a man as thou
Wast for this weak, unsteady, poor Maclean—

De Grey.
Nay, with contempt, I pray thee, name him not.
Her husband, and despised! O, no, no, no!
All that pertains to her, e'en from that hour,
Honour'd and sacred is.

Lorne.
Thou gen'rous heart! more noble than myself!
I will not grieve thee.—I'll to Helen go,
With every look and word that might betray
Indignant thoughts, or wound her gentle spirit,
Strictly suppress'd: and to her ear will give
Thy gen'rous greetings, and thy manly words
Of cheering comfort;—all most faithfully
Shall be remember'd.

De Grey.
Ay, and my request.

Lorne.
To see the child?

De Grey.
E'en so: to look upon it;—
Upon the thing that is of her; this bud—
This seedling of a flower so exquisite.
[Light is seen in the inner chamber.
Ha! light is in the chamber! moves the door?
Some one approaches. O! but for a moment
Let me behind thy friendly tartans be,
And snatch one glance of what that light will give.
[Conceals himself behind Lorne, who steps some paces back, setting his hand to his side, and tilting his plaid over his arms to favour him; while the door of the inner chamber opens, and Helen appears, bearing a lamp, which she afterwards sets upon a stone slab as she advances.
Her form—her motion—yea, that mantled arm,
Press'd closely to her breast, as she was wont
When chilly winds assail'd.—The face—O, woe is me!
It was not then so pale.

Lorne
(to him, in a low voice).
Begone: begone.

De Grey.
Blest vision, I have seen thee! Fare thee well!

[Exit in haste.
Helen
(coming forward, alarmed).
What sound is that of steps that hasten from us?
Is Morton on the watch.

Lorne.
Fear nothing; faithful Morton is at hand:
The steps thou heardst were friendly.

Helen
(embracing Lorne).
My brother! meet we thus,—disguised, by stealth?
Is this like peace? How is my noble father?
Hath any ill befallen?

Lorne.
Argyll is well;
And nothing ill, my sister, hath befallen,
If thou art well and happy.

Helen.
Speakst thou truly?
Why art thou come? Why thus upon our coast?
O take it not unkindly that I say,
“Why art thou come?”

Lorne.
Near to the opposite shore,
With no design, but on a lengthen'd chase,
A lusty deer pursuing from the hills
Of Morven, where Sir Hubert and myself
Guests of the social lord two days had been,
We found us; when a sudden strong desire
To look upon the castle of Maclean,
Seen from the coast, our eager fancy seized,
And that indulged, forthwith we did agree
The frith to cross, and to its chief and dame
A hasty visit make. But as our boat
Lay waiting to receive us, warn'd by one
Whom well I knew (the vassal of a friend
Whose word I could not doubt), that jealous rancour,
Stirr'd up amongst the vassals of Maclean,
Who, in their savage fury, had been heard
To utter threats against thy innocent self,
Made it unsafe in open guise to venture,
Here in this garb we are to learn in secret
The state in which thou art.—How is it then?
Morton's report has added to my fears:
All is not well with thee.

Helen.
No, all is well.

Lorne.
A cold constrained voice that answer gave:
All is not well.—Maclean—dares he neglect thee?

Helen.
Nay, wrong him not; kind and affectionate
He still remains.

Lorne.
But it is said, his vassals with vile names
Have dared to name thee, even in open clan:
And have remain'd unpunish'd. Is it so?
[Pauses for an answer, but she is silent.
All is not well.

Helen.
Have I not said it is?

Lorne.
Ah! dost thou thus return a brother's love
With cold reserve?—O speak to me, my Helen!
Speak as a sister should.—Have they insulted thee?
Has any wrong—my heart within me burns
If I but think upon it.—Answer truly.

Helen.
What, am I question'd then? Thinkst thou to find me
Like the spoil'd heiress of some Lowland lord,
Peevish and dainty; who, with scorn regarding
The ruder home she is by marriage placed in,
Still holds herself an alien from its interest,
With poor repining, losing every sense
Of what she is, in what she has been? No.—
I love thee, Lorne; I love my father's house:
The meanest cur that round his threshold barks
Is in my memory as some kindred thing:
Yet take it not unkindly when I say,
The lady of Maclean no grievance hath
To tell the Lord of Lorne.

Lorne.
And has the vow,
Constrain'd, unblest, and joyless as it was,
Which gave thee to a lord unworthy of thee,
Placed thee beyond the reach of kindred ties—
The warmth of blood to blood—the sure affection
That nature gives to all—a brother's love?
No, by all sacred things! here is thy hold:
Here is thy true, unshaken, native stay:
One that shall fail thee never, though the while,
A faithless, wavering, intervening band
Seems to divide thee from it.

[Grasping her hand vehemently, as if he would lead her away.
Helen.
What dost thou mean? What violent grasp is this?
Com'st thou to lead me from my husband's house,
Beneath the shade of night, with culprit stealth?

Lorne.
No, daughter of Argyll; when John of Lorne
Shall come to lead thee from these hated walls
Back to thy native home,—with culprit stealth,
Beneath the shades of night, it shall not be.
With half our western warriors at his back,
He'll proudly come. Thy listening timid chief
Shall hear our martial steps upon his heath,
With heavy measured fall, send, beat by beat,
From the far-smitten earth, a sullen sound,
Like deep-dell'd forests groaning to the strokes
Of lusty woodmen. On the watch-tower's height,
His straining eye shall mark our sheathless swords
From rank to rank their lengthen'd blaze emit,
Like streams of shiv'ring light, in hasty change,
Upon the northern firmament.—By stealth!
No! not by stealth!—believe me, not by stealth
Shalt thou these portals pass.

Helen.
Them have I enter'd,
The pledge of peace: and here my place I'll hold
As dame and mistress of the warlike clan
Who yield obedience to their chief, my lord;
And whatsoe'er their will to me may bear,
Of good or ill, so will I hold me ever.
Yea, did the Lord of Lorne, dear as he is,
With all the warlike Campbells at his back
Here hostile entrance threaten; on these walls,
Failing the strength that might defend them better,
I would myself, while by my side in arms
One valiant clan's-man stood, against his powers,
To the last push, with desp'rate opposition,
This castle hold.

Lorne.
And wouldst thou so? so firm and valiant art thou?
Forgive me, noble creature!—Oh! the fate—
The wayward fate that binds thy gen'rous soul
To poor unsteady weakness!

Helen.
Speakst thou thus?
Thus pressing still upon the galled spot?
Thou dealst unkindly with me. Yes, my brother,
Unkindly and unwisely. Wherefore hast thou
Brought to this coast the man thou knowest well
I ought not in mysterious guise to see?
And he himself—seeks he again to move
The hapless weakness I have striv'n to conquer?
I thought him generous.

Lorne.
So think him still.
His wishes tend not to disturb thy peace:
Far other are his thoughts.—He bids me tell thee
To cheer thy gentle heart, nor think of him,
As one who will in vain and stubborn grief
His ruin'd bliss lament,—he bids me say
That he will even strive, if it be possible,
Amongst the maidens of his land to seek
Some faint resemblance of the good he lost,
That thou mayst hear of him with less regret,
As one by holy bands link'd to his kind.
He bids me say, should ever child of his
And child of thine—but here his quivering lip
And starting tears spoke what he could not speak.

Helen.
O noble, gen'rous heart; and does he offer
Such cheering manly comfort? Heaven protect,
And guide, and bless him! On his noble head
Such prosp'rous bliss be pour'd, that hearing of it
Shall, through the gloom of my untoward state,
Like gleams of sunshine break, that from afar
Look o'er the dull dun heath.

Lorne.
But one request—

Helen.
Ha! makes he one?

Lorne.
It is to see thy child.

Helen.
To see my child! Will he indeed regard it?
Shall it be bless'd by him?

Enter Morton in haste.
Morton.
Conceal yourself, my lord, or by this passage
[Pointing off the stage.
The nearest postern gain: I hear the sound
Of heavy steps at hand, and voices stern.

Helen.
O fly, my brother! Morton will conduct thee.
(To Morton.)
Where is Sir Hubert?

Morton.
Safe he is without.

Helen.
Heaven keep him so!
(To Lorne.)
O leave me! I, the while,
Will in, and, with mine infant in mine arms,
Meet thee again, ere thou depart.—Fly! fly!

[Exeunt; Helen into the inner chamber, putting out the lamp as she goes, and Lorne and Morton by a side passage.