University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The same apartment.
Editha sleeping.—Martha sitting by her.
Edi.
(awaking)
Martha! dear Martha! are you watching there?
Have I slept long?

Mar.
Aye, dearest! long and sweetly—
Two hours, and more; and here, I've brought you now
Your jelly and some fruit. Will you sit up?

Edi.
How strange this weakness is, when I've no pain,
And am so nearly well! You have resumed
Your former office—the kind cares, dear Martha,
With which you nursed me up, when I was left
A motherless infant to your faithful love.
You lift me now as easily, methinks,
(I'm sure as tenderly,) as you did then.
But I'll get well, and pay you with such love!
And Edmund!—don't you long to see him, Martha?

Mar.
With all my heart, God bless him!—next yourself,
I never loved a child like Master Edmund.
He was the noblest boy!—he had a spirit
As brave as a young lion! yet as mild
And patient as a lamb;—and I could trust him,
To nurse and fondle you for hours together,
When he was scarcely higher than my knee,
And you, a little babe.

Edi.
My dear, kind cousin!
How gentle, and how patient, he was with me;
And yet I teased him so! and hurt him once.
Do you remember, Martha! when I struck him
In sudden passion with the little rake,
And the sharp teeth went deep into his hand
And made it bleed? I never shall forget
The agony, the horror of remorse
That wrung me, when I saw the blood start out,
And his pale face. But he concealed the pain,
And soothed me, kissed me, wiped away my tears,
As if himself had been th' offending one,
And I the injured. What o'clock is't Martha?

Mar.
Past three—a quarter past: you've slept since once.

Edi.
Oh! I forgot to tell you of my dream—
The thought of Edmund put it from my mind,
Yet 'twas a strange one—hardly like a dream,
There was such method in it.—Well, methought
My mother, (just as you've described her to me,)
With her meek eyes, and tender, pensive smile,
Came gliding like a moon-beam, (whence I know not,)
And stood beside my bed. I knew directly
It was my mother's spirit I beheld,
And yet I looked up in her face as calmly
As I now look in yours—without surprise
Or fearful awe; and when she beckoned me,
I rose and followed, borne along, methought,
With a sweet pleasant motion—not compulsive,
And yet without exertion of my own
Of foot or limb—skimming along the ground
As noiseless as a shadow—we went down
Into the garden, up the lime-tree walk,
And out into the lane, that leads, you know,
Straight to the church-yard:—it was night, methought,
And the moon shone so bright! and on the grass
The tomb-stones flung such long, black shadows down!
Yet, as the spirit glided on before me,
The moon-beams glimmered thro' its vap'ry form—
The church-door opened when we came to it,
And we went in, and up the northern aisle,
To the flat stone that marks our burial vault—
The stone half-raised, disclosed a narrow stair,
That led below And when the spirit stopt
At the pit's mouth, and looking back, made sign
I should precede her, down the dark descent;
Without a feeling of reluctant horror,
I stooped, and entered in:—she followed me,
And then I heard the heavy stone fall down
Into its place—and all was dark a moment—
Only a moment, for a pale white light,
A hazy lightness, dawned through the thick gloom,
And soon distinctly shewed the dismal chamber,
And all within it. There were many coffins;
Some all decayed, and with the lids sunk in,
And dropping into dust; and other some,
Of fresher date, but the brass nails and plates
Were green with damp. On one of these I read
The name of “Julia Melmoth”—my dear mother's!
My sister Jane's was graven on a second;
And on a third, my little brother Henry's;
And then I saw a fourth beside these three,
An empty, new-made coffin, with the lid
Lying half off. I had forgotten then
(Such inconsistent wildness have our dreams)
How I came there, by whom accompanied:
But when I raised my eyes, just opposite
The spirit stood; its mild, maternal gaze
Fixed on my face;—then first I heard its voice—
'Twas like the dying off of a faint breeze
On an Æolian harp. I rather felt
Than heard the words it uttered—they were these—
“Lie down, my child!” and to the empty coffin
The thin white finger pointed. I obeyed,
And stepping in, compos'd myself to rest
In that cold crib, as calmly as a child
Lays its soft cheek upon the cradle-pillow.
Then, stooping down, the spirit touch'd my forehead
With its pale lips. Oh! that strange kiss—it felt
Like the cold earthy damp that breathes upon one
From a fresh-opened vault. My heart shrunk up
As if a spear of ice had touched its core;
And then, the darkness of the coffin lid
Fell on me, and, like sparks quenched one by one,
My thoughts went out—perception died away,
And I dissolved into forgetfulness:—
And so I lay, (a sweet untroubled sleep
It was in fact, that ended thus my dream,)
Till, on awaking, I beheld you there
Sitting beside me. Martha! my dear Martha!
Your eyes are full of tears—you look upon me
As sorrowful as if I were indeed
Laid in the coffin. Sure you don't believe
Indreams and omens?—lying fancies all.
Why are you sad, dear Martha?

Mar.
Not for that;
But I was thinking of your blessed mother—
You know I nursed her, dearest! till she died.

Edi.
Ah! I do know it;—and you've ever been
To all of us a very faithful friend.
Dear Martha! was my mother's illness long?
She died of a consumption, did she not?

Mar.
Oh! very, very long:—but, darling child!
It is not good to let your mind run all
On such sad thoughts.—Come, talk of something else.

Edi.
Oh! but I love to talk about my mother—
I'm like her too—my father often says so.

Mar.
Aye, that you are—your very step is hers!
It makes me start sometimes—your hand is shaped
Exactly like your mother's—you've her way
Of raising it up—so—to shade your eyes
When you are thinking, and your upper lip,
Just catches up as hers did, when she smiled,
Showing the two front teeth.

Edi.
My sister Jane
And little Henry caught that fatal illness
From my poor mother, and I've heard indeed
It runs in families. Martha! do you know
But for your tender watchfulness, I think,
It might have fixed on me, when I received
That sudden chill from being wet last winter;
But your good nursing frightened off the foe;
And now I'm getting well, so fast! so fast!
You'll see, when Edmund has been here a week,
I shall be strong enough to walk with him
To Urs'la's cottage:—that's two miles, you know:
How glad she'll be to see me there again!

Mar.
Look at that madcap, Flora, in the garden.

Edi.
Why, how she's bounding like an antelope
Over the flow'r beds, and across the green!
And see, she flings away in her wild haste
Basket and flowers—what can she see?—Oh, Martha!

Mar.
A butterfly, perhaps—that's quite enough,
To set her off.—Your father coming home—
Aye, that's the thing, she has caught sight of him
Returning up the lane.

Edi.
Most like 'tis that,
But if the wind whisks by an idle straw
It startles me of late. Hark!—listen, Martha!

Mar.
'Tis only Zoe's bark, set on by Flora,
Fit playfellows those two! a well matched pair!

Edi.
I hear my father's step: how slow he comes,
And stops, as if—speaking perhaps to Flora.

[The door opens.—Mr. Melmoth comes round the screen towards Editha.—Edmund is just seen looking anxiously in at the half-open door.]
Mr. M.
How fares it now with my beloved child?

Edi.
Well, dearest father! I've been so revived
By two hours of the sweetest sleep! Where's Flora?
How eagerly she ran just now to meet you!
It was to meet you, was it not?

Mr. M.
Yes, love!
One of the lab'rers told her I was coming,
And that—and that there was a stranger with me.

Edi.
A stranger! and she ran with that wild glee
To meet a stranger! Father! tell me all.

Mr. M.
Well, my dear child—'twas one with letters—news
Of—

Edi.
Edmund! Edmund! then the fleet's arrived!
But letters!—news! he would be here himself—
He is here—Father! tell it me at once.

Mr. M.
Will you be calm, composed, my precious child!

Edi.
I will, I shall be, when I know—oh, Father!
Tell me at once,—at once.—

Edmund (coming hastily forward, and catching her in his arms)
[The scene closes.