 | The Rightful Heir |  |
Scene 1.
St. Kinian's Cliff. A year is supposed to have passed since the date of Act IV.Enter Sir Grey de Malpas.
Sir G.
A year—and Wrecklyffe still is mute and absent,
Even as Vyvyan is! Most clear! He saw,
And haply shared, the murderous deed of Beaufort;
And Beaufort's wealth hath bribed him to desert
Penury and me. That Clarence slew his brother
I cannot doubt. He shuts me from his presence;
But I have watched him, wandering, lone, yet haunted—
Marked the white lip and glassy eyes of one
For whom the grave has ghosts, and silence, horror.
His mother, on vague pretext of mistrust
That I did sell her first-born to the pirate,
Excludes me from her sight, but sends me alms
Lest the world cry, “See, her poor cousin starves!”
Can she guess Beaufort's guilt? Nay! For she lives!
I know that deed, which, told unto the world,
Would make me heir of Montreville. O, mockery!
For how proceed?—no proof! How charge?—no witness!
How cry, “Lo! murder!” yet produce no corpse!
Enter Alton.
Alton.
Sir Grey de Malpas! I was on my way
To your own house.
Sir G.
Good Alton—can I serve you?
Alton.
The boy I took from thee, returned a man
Twelve months ago: mine oath absolved.
Sir G.
'Tis true.
Alton.
Here did I hail the rightful lord of Montreville,
And from these arms he rushed to claim his birthright.
Sir G.
(aside)
She never told me this.
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That night, his war-ship
Sailed to our fleet. I deemed him with the battle.
Time went; Heaven's breath had scattered the Armada.
I sate at my porch to welcome him—he came not.
I said, “His mother has abjured her offspring,
And law detains him while he arms for justice.”
Hope sustained patience till to-day.
Sir G.
To-day?
Alton.
The very friend who had led me to his breast
Returns, and—
Sir G.
(soothingly.)
Well?
Alton.
He fought not with his country.
Sir G.
And this cold friend lets question sleep a year?
Alton.
His bark too rashly chased the flying foe;
Was wrecked on hostile shores; and he a prisoner.
Sir G.
Lean on my arm, thou'rt faint.
Alton.
Oh, Grey de Malpas,
Can men so vanish—save in murderous graves?
You turn away.
Sir G.
What murder without motive?
And who had motive here?
Alton.
Unnatural kindred.
Sir G.
Kindred! Ensnare me not! Mine, too, that kindred.
Old man, beware how thou asperse Lord Beaufort!
Alton.
Beaufort! Oh, horror! How the instinctive truth
Starts from thy lips!
Sir G.
From mine—priest!
Alton.
Not of man
Ask pardon, if accomplice—
Sir G.
I accomplice!
Nay, since 'tis my good name thou sulliest now—
This is mine answer: Probe; examine; search;
And call on justice to belie thy slander.
Go, seek the aid of stout Sir Godfrey Seymour;
A dauntless magistrate; strict, upright, honest:
(Aside.)
At heart a Puritan, and hates a Lord,
With other slides that fit into my grooves.
Alton.
He bears with all the righteous name thou giv'st him,
Thy zeal acquits thyself.
Sir G.
And charges none.
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Heaven reads the heart. Man can but track the deed.
My task is stern.
[Exit Alton.
Sir G.
Scent lies—suspicion dogs—
And with hot breath pants on the flight of conscience.
Ah! who comes here? Sharp wit, round all occasion!
Enter Falkner with Sailors.
Falk.
Learn all you can—when latest seen, and where—
Meanwhile I seek yon towers.
[Exeunt Sailors.
Sir G.
Doubtless, fair sir,—
I speak to Vyvyan's friend. My name is Malpas—
Can it be true, as Alton doth inform me,
That you suspect your comrade died by murder?
Falk.
Murder?
Sir G.
And by a rival's hand? Amazed!
Yet surely so I did conceive the priest.
Falk.
Murder!—a rival!—true, he loved a maiden!
Sir G.
In yonder halls!
Falk.
Despair! Am I too late
For all but vengeance! Speak, sir—who this rival?
Sir G.
Vengeance!—fie—seek those towers, and learn compassion.
Sad change indeed, since here, at silent night,
Your Vyvyan met the challenge of Lord Beaufort.
Falk.
A challenge?—here?—at night?
Sir G.
Yes, this the place.
How sheer the edge! crag, cave, and chasm below!
If the foot slipped,—nay, let us think slipped heedless,—
Or some weak wounded man were headlong plunged,
What burial place more secret?
Falk.
Hither, look!
Look where, far down the horrible descent,
Through some fresh cleft rush subterranean waves,
How wheel and circle ghastly swooping wings!
Sir G.
The sea-gulls ere a storm,
Falk.
No! Heaven is clear!
The storm they tell, speeds lightning towards the guilty.
So have I seen the foul birds in lone creeks
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Guide me, ye spectral harbingers!
[Descends the cliff.
Sir G.
From bough
To bough he swings—from peak to slippery peak
I see him dwindling down;—the loose stones rattle;
He falls—he falls—but 'lights on yonder ledge,
And from the glaring sun turns stedfast eyes
Where still the sea-gulls wheel; now crawls, now leaps;
Crags close around him—not a glimpse nor sound!
O, diver for the dead,—bring up but bones,
And round the skull I'll wreathe my coronet.
[Scene closes on Sir Grey seated.
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