University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A small Gothic hall, or ante-room, in Argyll's castle, a door at the bottom of the stage, leading to the apartment of the earl, before which is discovered the piper pacing backwards and forwards, playing on his bagpipe.
Enter Dugald.
Dugald.
Now, pray thee, piper, cease! That stunning din
Might do good service by the ears to set
Two angry clans; but for a morning's rouse,
Here at an old man's door, it does, good sooth,
Exceed all reasonable use. The Earl
Has pass'd a sleepless night: I pray thee now
Give o'er, and spare thy pains.

Piper.
And spare my pains, sayst thou? I'll do mine office,
As long as breath within my body is.

Dug.
Then mercy on us all! if wind thou meanst,
There is within that sturdy trunk of thine,
Old as it is, a still exhaustless store.
A Lapland witch's bag could scarcely match it.
Thou couldst, I doubt not, belly out the sails
Of a three-masted vessel with thy mouth:
But be thy mercy equal to thy might!
I pray thee now give o'er: in faith the earl
Has pass'd a sleepless night.

Piper.
Thinkst thou I am a Lowland, day-hired minstrel,
To play or stop at bidding? Is Argyll
The lord and chieftain of our ancient clan,
More certainly, than I to him, as such,
The high hereditary piper am?
A sleepless night, forsooth! He's slept full oft
On the hard heath, with fifty harness'd steeds
Champing their fodder round him;—soundly too.
I'll do mine office, loon, chafe as thou wilt.

[Continuing to pace up and down, and play as before.
Dugald.
Nay, thou the chafer art, red-crested cock!
The Lord of Lorne has spoilt thee with indulging
Thy wilful humours. Cease thy cursed din!
See; here the earl himself comes forth to chide thee.

[Exit.
Enter Argyll, attended, from the chamber.
Arg.
Good morrow, piper! thou hast roused me bravely:
A younger man might gird his tartans on
With lightsome heart to martial sounds like these,
But I am old.

Piper.
O no, my noble chieftain!
It is not age subdues you.

Arg.
No; what else?

Piper.
Alack! the flower and blossom of your house
The wind hath blown away to other towers.
When she was here, and gladsome faces brighten'd
With looking on her, and around your board
Sweet lays were sung, and gallants in the hall
Footed it trimly to our varied measures,
There might, indeed, be found beneath your roof
Those who might reckon years fourscore and odds,
But of old folks, I warrant, ne'er a soul.
No; we were all young then.

Arg.
(sighing deeply).
'Tis true, indeed,
It was even as thou sayst. Our earthly joys
Fly like the blossoms scatter'd by the wind.

Enter a Servant.
Serv.
Please you, my lord,
Some score of vassals in the hall attend
To bid good morrow to you, and the hour
Wears late: the chamberlain hath bid me say
He will dismiss them, if it please your honour.

Arg.
Nay, many a mile have some of them, I know,
With suit or purpose lurking in their minds,
Ridd'n o'er rough paths to see me; disappointed
Shall none of them return. I'm better now.
I have been rather weary than unwell.
Say, I will see them presently.

[Exit servant.
Re-enter Dugald in haste.
(To Dugald.)
Thou comest with a busy face: what tidings?
Dugald.
The Lord of Lorne's arrived, an' please your honour:
Sir Hubert too, and all their jolly train;
And with them have they brought a lady, closely
In hood and mantle muffled: ne'er a glimpse
May of her face be seen.

Arg.
A lady, sayst thou?

Dugald.
Yes; closely muffled up.

Arg.
(pacing up and down, somewhat disturbed).
I like not this.—It cannot surely be—
[Stopping short, and looking hard at Dugald.
Whence comes he?

Dugald.
He a-hunting went, I know,
To Cromack's ancient laird, whose youthful dame
So famed for beauty is; but whence he comes,
I cannot tell, my lord.

Arg.
(pacing up and down, as he speaks to himself in broken sentences, very much disturbed).
To Cromack's ancient laird!—If that indeed—
Beshrew me, if it be!—I'd rather lose
Half of my lands, than son of mine such wrong,
Such shameful wrong, should do. This sword I've drawn
Like robbery to revenge, ne'er to abet it:
And shall I now with hoary locks—No, no!—
My noble Lorne! he cannot be so base.

Enter Lorne, going up to Argyll with agitation.
Arg.
(eyeing him suspiciously).
Well, John, how is it? Welcome art thou home,}
If thou returnst, as well I would believe,
Deserving of a welcome.

Lorne.
Doubts my lord
That I am so return'd?
[Aside to Argyll, endeavouring to draw him apart from his attendants.
Your ear, my father.
Let these withdraw: I have a thing to tell you.

Arg.
(looking still more suspiciously upon Lorne, from seeing the eagerness and agitation with which he speaks, and turning from him indignantly).
No, by this honest blade! if wrong thou'st done,
Thou hast no shelter here. In open day,
Before th' assembled vassals shalt thou tell it;
And he whom thou hast injured be redress'd,
While I have power to bid my Campbells fight
I' the fair and honour'd cause.

Lorne.
I pray, my lord—
Will you vouchsafe to hear me?

Arg.
Thoughtless boy!
How far unlike the noble Lorne I thought thee!—
Proud as I am, far rather would I see thee
Join'd to the daughter of my meanest vassal,
Than see thy manly, noble worth engaged
In such foul raid as this.

Lorne.
Nay, nay! be pacified!
I'd rather take, in faith, the tawny hand
Of homeliest maid, that doth, o' holidays,
Her sun-burnt locks with worsted ribbon bind,
Fairly and freely won, than brightest dame
That e'er in stately bower or regal hall
In graceful beauty shone, gain'd by such wrong—
By such base treachery as you have glanced at.
These are plain words: then treat me like a man,
Who hath been wont the manly truth to speak.

Arg.
Ha! now thy countenance and tone again
Are John of Lorne's. That look, and whispering voice,
So strange appear'd, in truth I liked it not.
Give me thy hand.—Where is the stranger dame?
If she in trouble be—

Lorne
(aside).
Make these withdraw,
And I will lead her hither.

[Exit, while the earl waves his hand, and Dugald and attendants, &c. go out: presently re-enter Lorne, leading in Helen, covered closely up in a mantle.
Lorne.
This is the dame, who, houseless and deserted,
Seeks shelter here, nor fears to be rejected.

Helen
(sinking down, and clasping Argyll 's knees).
My father!

Arg.
That voice!—O God!—unveil—unveil, for mercy!
[Tearing off the mantle that conceals her.
My child! my Helen!
[Clasping her to his heart, and holding her there for some time, unable to speak.
My child! my dearest child!—my soul! my pride!
Deserted!—houseless!—com'st thou to me thus?
Here is thy house—thy home: this aged bosom
Thy shelter is, which thou shalt quit no more.
My child! my child!
[Embracing her again; Helen and he weeping upon one another's necks.
Houseless! deserted—'neath the cope of heaven
Breathes there a wretch who could desert thee?—Speak,
If he hath so abused his precious trust,
If he—it makes me tear these hoary locks
To think what I have done!—Oh thoughtless father!
Thoughtless and selfish too!

[Tearing his hair, beating his forehead with all the violent gestures of rage and grief.
Helen.
Oh, oh! forbear! It was not you, my father;
I gave myself away: I did it willingly:
We acted both for good; and now your love
Repays me richly—stands to me instead
Of many blessings.—Noble Lorne, besides—
O, he hath been to me so kind—so tender!
[Taking her brother's hand, and pressing it to her breast; then joining her father's to it, and pressing them both ardently to her lips.
Say not I am deserted: heaven hath chid me—
Hath chid me sorely: but hath bless'd me too,—
O, dearly bless'd me!

Arg.
Hath chid thee sorely!—how I burn to hear it!
What hast thou suffer'd?

Lorne.
We will not tell thee now. Go to thy chamber,
And be awhile composed. We have, my father,
A tale to tell that will demand of thee
Recruited strength to hear.—We'll follow thee.

[Exeunt; Lorne supporting his father and Helen into the chamber.

SCENE II.

The garden of the castle.
Enter Argyll, Lorne, and Sir Hubert de Grey, speaking as they enter.
Lorne.
A month!—A week or two!—No, not an hour
Would I suspend our vengeance. Such atrocity
Makes e'en the little term between our summons,
And the dark crowding round our martial pipes
Of plumed bonnets nodding to the wind,
Most tedious seem; yea, makes the impatient foot
To smite the very earth beneath its tread,
For being fix'd and inert.

Arg.
Be less impatient, John: thou canst not doubt
A father's keen resentment of such wrong:
But let us still be wise; this short delay
Will make revenge the surer; to its aim
A just direction give.

De Grey.
The earl is right:
We shall but work in the dark, impatient Lorne,
If we too soon begin.

Arg.
How far Maclean
Hath to this horrible attempt consented,
Or privy been, we may be certified,
By waiting silently to learn the tale
That he will tell us of his lady's loss,
When he shall send to give us notice of it,
As doubtless soon he will.

De Grey.
If he, beset and threaten'd, to those fiends,
Unknowing of their purpose, hath unwillingly
Committed her, he will himself, belike,
If pride prevent him not, your aid solicit
To set him free from his disgraceful thraldom.

Lorne.
And if he should, shrunk be this sinew'd arm,
If it unsheath a weapon in his cause!
Let ev'ry ragged stripling on his lands
In wanton mock'ry mouth him with contempt;
Benlora head his vassals; and Lochtarish—
That serpent, full of ev'ry devilish wile,
His prison-keeper and his master be!

De Grey.
Ay; and the keeper also of his son,
The infant heir.

Lorne
(starting).
I did not think of this.

Arg.
Then let thy headstrong fury pause upon it.
Thanks to Sir Hubert's prudence! thou as yet
Before thy followers hast restrained been;
And who this lady is, whom to the castle,
Like a mysterious stranger, ye have brought,
From them remains conceal'd.—My brave De Grey!
This thy considerate foresight, join'd to all
Thy other service in this woeful matter,
Hath made us much thy debtor.

De Grey.
I have indeed, my lord, consider'd only
What I believed would Helen's wishes be,
Ere she herself could utter them; if this
Hath proved equivalent to wiser foresight,
Let it direct us still; let Helen's wishes
Your measures guide.

Arg.
Ah, brave De Grey! would they had ever done so!
I had not now—
[Taking Sir Hubert's hand with emotion.
Forgive me, noble youth!
Alas, alas! the father's tenderness
Before the chieftain's policy gave way,
And all this wreck hath been.

Lorne.
'Tis even so.
That cursed peace; that coward's shadeless face
Of smiles and promises, to all things yielding
With weak, unmanly pliancy, so gain'd you—
Even you, the wise Argyll!—it made me mad!
Who hath no point that he maintains against you,
No firmness hath to hold him of your side:
Who cannot sturdily against me stand,
And say, “Encroach no farther,” friend of mine
Shall never be.

De Grey.
Nay, Lorne, forbear!—forbear!
Thine own impetuous wilfulness did make
The other's pliant mind more specious seem;
And thou thyself didst to that luckless union,
Although unwittingly, assistance lend.
Make now amends for it, and curb thy spirit,
While that the Earl with calmer judgment waits
His time for action.

Lorne.
Beshrew me, but thy counsel strangely smacks
Of cautious timid age! In faith, De Grey,
But that I know thy noble nature well,
I could believe thee—

Arg.
Peace, unruly spirit!
Bold as thou art, methinks, with locks like these,
Thy father still may say to thee, “Be silent!”

Lorne
(checking himself, and bowing very low to Argyll).
And be obey'd devoutly.—O forgive me!
Those locks are to your brows a kingly fillet
Of strong authority, to which my heart
No rebel is, though rude may be my words.
[Taking Sir Hubert 's hand with an assured countenance.
I ask not thee, De Grey, to pardon me.
Resistance here with gentleness is join'd:
Therefore I've loved thee, and have laid upon thee
The hand of sure possession! claiming still
A friend's endurance of my froward temper,
Which, froward as it is, from thee hath borne
What never human being but thyself
Had dared to goad it with.

De Grey.
It is indeed
Thy well-earn'd right thou askest, noble Lorne,
And it is yielded to thee cheerfully.

Arg.
My aged limbs are tired with pacing here;
Some one approaches: within that grove
We'll find a shady seat, and there conclude
This well-debated point.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A court within the castle, surrounded with buildings.
Enter Dugald and a Vassal, two servants at the same time crossing the stage, with covered dishes in their hands.
Vas.
I'll wait until the Earl shall be at leisure;
My business presses not. Where do they carry
Those cover'd meats? Have ye within the castle
Some noble prisoner?

Dugald.
Would so it were! but these are days of peace.
They bear them to the stranger dame's apartment,
Whom they have told thee of. There, at her door,
An ancient faithful handmaid of the house,
Whate'er they bring receives; for none beside
Of all the household is admitted.

Vas.
Now, by my fay! my purse and dirk I'd give
To know who this may be.—Some chieftain's lady
Whom John of Lorne—

Dugald.
Nay, there, I must believe,
Thou guessest erringly.—I grant, indeed,
He doffs his bonnet to each tacks-man's wife,
And is with every coif amongst them all,
Both young and old, in such high favour held,
Nor maiden, wife, nor beldame of the clan
But to the Earl doth her petition bring
Through intercession of the Lord of Lorne;
But never yet did husband, sire, or brother,
Of wrong from him complain.

Vas.
I know it well.

Dugald.
But be she who she may,
This stranger here; I doubt not, friend, ere long,
We shall have bickering for her in the field
With some fierce foe or other.

Vas.
So I trust:
And by my honest faith! this peace of ours
Right long and tiresome is—I thought, ere now,
Some of our restless neighbours would have trespass'd
And inroads made: but no; Argyll and Lorne
Have grown a terror to them: all is quiet;
And we ourselves must the aggressors be,
Or still this dull and slothful life endure,
Which makes our men of three-score years and ten
To fret and murmur.

Enter Rosa, with a servant conducting her.
Serv.
(to Dugald).
A lady here, would see my Lord of Lorne.

Dugald.
Yes, still to him they come.
[Looking at Rosa.
Ha! see I rightly?
Rosa from Mull?

Rosa.
Yes, Dugald; here thou seest
A woeful bearer of unwelcome tidings.

Dugald.
What, hath thy lady sent thee?

Rosa.
Alas, alas! I have no lady now.

Dugald.
Ha! is she dead? not many days ago
She was alive and well.—Hast thou so soon
The castle quitted—left thy lady's corse?

Rosa.
Thinkst thou I would have left her?—On the night
When, as they say, she died, I from the castle
By force was ta'en, and to mainland convey'd;
Where in confinement I remain'd, till chance
Gave me the means of breaking from my prison;
And hither am I come, in woeful plight,
The dismal tale to tell.

Dugald.
A tale, indeed,
Most dismal, strange, and sudden.

Rosa.
How she died
God knows; but much I fear foul play she had.
Where is the Lord of Lorne? for first to him
I wish to speak.

Dugald.
Come, I will lead thee to him.—Had foul play!

Vassal.
Fell fiends they are could shed her blood! If this
Indeed hath been, 'twill make good cause, I wot;
The warlike pipe will sound our summons soon.

[Exeunt Dugald and Rosa, &c., as Argyll and Sir Hubert enter by the opposite side.
Arg.
And wilt thou leave us then, my noble friend?
May we not still for some few days retain thee?

De Grey.
Where'er I go, I carry in my heart
A warm remembrance of the friendly home
That still within these hospitable walls
I've found; but longer urge me not to stay.
In Helen's presence now, constrain'd and strange,
With painful caution, chasing from my lips
The ready thought, half-quiver'd into utterance,
For cold corrected words, expressive only
Of culprit consciousness,—I sit; nor e'en
May look upon her face but as a thing
On which I may not look; so painful now
The mingled feeling is, since dark despair
With one faint ray of hope hath temper'd been.
I can no more endure it. She herself
Perceives it, and it pains her.—Let me then
Bid you farewell, my lord. When evening comes,
I'll, under favour of the rising moon,
Set forth.

Arg.
Indeed! so soon? and must it be?

De Grey.
Yes; to Northumberland without delay
I fain would take my road. My aged father
Looks now impatiently for my return.

Arg.
Then I'll no longer urge thee. To thy father,
The noble baron, once, in better days,
My camp-mate and my friend, I must resign thee.
Bear to him every kind and cordial wish
An ancient friend can send, and—
[A horn heard without.
Hark! that horn!
Some messenger of moment is arrived.—
We'll speak of this again.—The moon to-night
Is near the full, and at an early hour—
Enter a Messenger, bearing a letter.
Whose messenger art thou, who in thy hand
That letter bearst with broad and sable seal,
Which seems to bring to me some dismal tidings?

Mess.
From Mull, my lord, I come; and the Maclean,
Our chief, commission'd me to give you this,
Which is indeed with dismal tidings fraught.

[Argyll opens the letter, and reads it with affected surprise and sorrow.
Arg.
Heavy, indeed, and sudden is the loss—
The sad calamity that hath befallen.
The will of heaven be done!
[Putting a handkerchief to his eyes, and leaning, as if for support, upon Sir Hubert; then, after a pause, turning to the messenger.
How didst thou leave the chieftain? He, I hope,
Permits not too much sorrow to o'er come
His manhood. Doth he bear his grief composedly?

Mess.
O no, it is most violent! At the funeral,
Had not the good Lochtarish, by his side,
Supported him, he had with very grief
Sunk to the earth.—And good Lochtarish too
Was in right great affliction.

Arg.
Ay, good man;
I doubt it not.—Ye've had a splendid funeral?

Mess.
O yes, my lord! that have we had. Good truth!
A grand and stately burial has it been.
Three busy days and nights through all the isle
Have bagpipes play'd, and sparkling beakers flow'd;
And never corse, I trow, i' th' earth was laid
With louder lamentations.

Arg.
Ay, I doubt not,
Their grief was loud enough.—Pray pass ye in.
(To attendants at a distance.)
Conduct him there; and see that he be treated,
After his tedious journey, as befits
A way-tired stranger.
[Exeunt all but Argyll and Sir Hubert.
This doth all hope and all belief exceed.
Maclean will shortly follow this his notice,
[Giving Sir Hubert the letter.
To make me here a visit of condolence;
And thus within our power they put themselves
With most assured blindness.

De Grey
(after reading it).
'Tis Lochtarish,
In all the arts of dark hypocrisy
So deeply skill'd, who doth o'ershoot his mark,
As such full often do.

Arg.
And let him come!
At his own arts we trust to match him well.—
Their force, I guess, is not in readiness;
Therefore, meantime, to stifle all suspicion,
This specious mummery he hath devised;
And his most wretched chief, led by his will,
Most wretchedly submits.—Well, let us go
And tell to Lorne the news, lest too unguardedly
He should receive it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

An apartment in the castle.
Enter Sir Hubert de Grey, beckoning to Ross, who appears on the opposite side.
De Grey.
Rosa; I pray thee, spare me of thy leisure
Some precious moments: something would I say:
Wilt thou now favour me?

Rosa.
Most willingly.

De Grey.
As yet thy mistress knows not of the letter
Sent by Maclean, announcing his design
Of paying to the earl this sudden visit—
This mockery of condolence?

Rosa.
No; the earl
Forbade me to inform her.

De Grey.
This is well;
Her mind must be prepared. Meantime I go,
And thou art here to comfort and attend her:
O do it gently, Rosa! do it wisely!

Rosa.
You need not doubt my will.—Go ye so soon;
And to Northumberland?

De Grey.
So I intended.
And so Argyll and John of Lorne believe:
But since this messenger from Mull arrived,
Another thought has struck me.—Saidst thou not
The child—thy lady's child, ta'en from the castle,
Is to the keeping of Lochtarish' mother
Committed, whose lone house is on the shore?

Rosa.
Yes, whilst in prison pent, so did I hear
My keeper say, and much it troubled me.

De Grey.
Canst thou to some good islander commend me,
Within whose house I might upon the watch
Conceal'd remain?—It is to Mull I go,
And not to England. While Maclean is here,
Attended by his vassals, the occasion
I'll seize to save the infant.

Rosa.
Bless thee for it!
Heaven bless thee for the thought!—I know a man—
An aged fisherman, who will receive you;
Uncle to Morton: and if he himself
Still in the island be, there will you find him,
Most willing to assist you.

De Grey.
Hush, I pray
I hear thy lady's steps.

Rosa.
Near to the castle gate, ere you depart,
I'll be in waiting to inform you farther
Of what may aid your purpose.

De Grey.
Do, good Rosa,
And make me much thy debtor. But be secret.

Rosa.
You need not doubt me.

Enter Helen, and De Grey goes up to her as if he would speak, but the words falter on his lips, and he is silent.
Helen.
Alas! I see it is thy parting visit;
Thou com'st to say “farewell!”

De Grey.
Yes, Helen: I am come to leave with thee
A friend's dear benison—a parting wish—
A last—rest ev'ry blessing on thy head!
Be this permitted to me:
[Kissing her hand with profound respect.
Fare thee well!
Heaven aid and comfort thee! Farewell! farewell!

[Is about to retire hastily, whilst Helen follows to prevent him.
Helen.
O go not from me with that mournful look!
Alas! thy gen'rous heart, depress'd and sunk,
Looks on my state too sadly.—
I am not, as thou thinkst, a thing so lost
In woe and wretchedness.—Believe not so!
All whom misfortune with her rudest blasts
Hath buffeted, to gloomy wretchedness
Are not therefore abandon'd. Many souls
From cloister'd cells, from hermits' caves, from holds
Of lonely banishment, and from the dark
And dreary prison-house, do raise their thoughts
With humble cheerfulness to heaven, and feel
A hallow'd quiet, almost akin to joy;
And may not I, by heaven's kind mercy aided,
Weak as I am, with some good courage bear
What is appointed for me?—O be cheer'd!
And let not sad and mournful thoughts of me
Depress thee thus.—When thou art far away,
Thou'lt hear, the while, that in my father's house
I spend my peaceful days, and let it cheer thee.
I too shall ev'ry southern stranger question,
Whom chance may to these regions bring, and learn
Thy fame and prosperous state.

De Grey.
My fame and prosperous state, while thou art thus!
If thou in calm retirement liv'st contented,
Lifting thy soul to heaven, what lack I more?
My sword and spear, changed to a pilgrim's staff,
Will be a prosperous state; and for my fame,—
A feeble sound that after death remains,
The echo of an unrepeated stroke
That fades away to silence,—surely this
Thou dost not covet for me.

Helen.
Ah, I do!
Yet, granting here I err, didst thou not promise
To seek in wedded love and active duties
Thy share of cheerful weal?—and dost thou now
Shrink from thy gen'rous promise?—No, thou shalt not.
I hold thee bound—I claim it of thee boldly.
It is my right. If thou, in sad seclusion,
A lonely wanderer art, thou dost extinguish
The ray that should have cheer'd my gloom: thou makest
What else had been a calm and temper'd sorrow,
A state of wretchedness.—O no! thou wilt not!
Take to thy gen'rous heart some virtuous maid,
And doubt not thou a kindred heart wilt find.
The cheerful tenderness of woman's nature
To thine is suited, and when join'd to thee,
Will grow in virtue:—Take thou then this ring,
If thou wilt honour so my humble gift,
And put it on her hand; and be assured
She who shall wear it,—she whose happy fate
Is link'd with thine, will prove a noble mate.

De Grey.
O there I am assured! she whose fate
Is link'd with mine, if fix'd be such decree,
Most rich in every soft and noble trait
Of female virtue is: in this full well
Assured I am.—I would—I thought—forgive—
I speak but raving words:—a hasty spark,
Blown and extinguish'd, makes me waver thus.
Permit me then again.
[Kissing her hand.
High heaven protect thee!
Farewell!

Helen.
Farewell! and heaven's good charge be thou!

[They part, and both turn away to opposite sides of the stage, when Sir Hubert, looking round just as he is about to go off, and seeing Helen also looking after him sorrowfully, eagerly returns.
De Grey.
Ah! are those looks—
[Going to kneel at her feet, but immediately checking himself with much embarrassment.
Alas! why come I back?
Something there was—thou gavest me a ring;
I have not dropp'd it?

Rosa
(coming forward).
No, 'tis on your finger.

De Grey.
Ay, true, good Rosa; but my wits are wilder'd;
I knew not what I sought.—
Farewell! farewell!

[Exit De Grey hastily, while Helen and Rosa go off by the opposite side.