University of Virginia Library

Scene.—A path by the side of a river. Henry in the foreground; Mrs. Neville and Alice under some trees at the side.
Henry.
This is the spot so loved, so long unseen!
The very spot! the brimming Loddon here,
Winding through grassy fields, gives back the blue
And dappled sky so brightly, that it seems
Part of another Heaven. There is the mill,
Thwarting its course—the old and rustic mill,
With its white low-browed cot, and wooden bridge
That seems, yet is not, dangerous; there the church
With its square tower; and nearer that vast pile
Whose pointed roofs and porch and pinnacles
And carved and massive windows give a date
Prouder than the huge oaks which overtop
The clustered chimneys—cold and cheerless now!
No wreathing smoke bids welcome to the old
Ancestral hall, vacant and desolate,
But beautiful—how beautiful! The shrubs
Grown into trees and blossoming profuse,
As in those flowery forests where they live
Seen but of Heaven.—Ah! beneath the trees—
'Tis they! It must be they! That slender woman,
Bending her fair and patient cheek o'er work
Scarce whiter than her hands—the widow's cap—
The close grey gown—the undying loveliness—
It is herself! And that young graceful girl,
Nor child nor woman, who in colourless
And sculptural beauty stands, severely pure,
Pale as a water-lily—that is Alice!
Her eyes—would I could see her eyes!—are sealed
On that unconscious book.—I'll speak to them.
(Advancing to Mrs. Neville and Alice).
Madam, I pray you pardon me!—This path,
So green and overgrown—doth this path lead
To Cleveland Hall?

Mrs. Neville.
It doth—alas! it did.
The hall is silent now and tenantless;
None treads the moss-grown road.

Henry.
What, is there none
Within the inhospitable walls, to cheer
The poor man's heart? Not one to ope the gate
To curious strangers, or the humbler wants
Of the sick way-worn traveller? What, none?
Not even a servant?

Mrs. Neville.
None. You lean your head
Against the trees, as sick or weary too.
Oh, rest you here awhile! Find such a seat
As mine, midst these old roots; and if you need
Refreshment—

Henry.
Stir not, Madam! my weak words
May ill express strong gratitude. To sit
Here is the perfectest repose; amid
Such shade, such freshness, where the greenness falls
Like dew upon the burning eyes; such smells
Swinging from the lime blossom, and the breath
Of flaunting woodbines; and such coil of bees
Gathering their harvest. It is worth a life
Of that dull common joy which men call bliss,
So to be weary, and to find such rest.

Mrs. Neville.
You come from far?

Henry.
From Oxford here, to meet
The heir of yon fair hall.

Alice.
Ah! he knows him!

Henry
(aside).
Now those stars shine upon me!

Alice.
You know him!
Mother, he knows Lord Claremont.

Mrs. Neville.
Oh, the book
Is closed, which this long morning hath absorbed
Thy every sense—thou hast not seen thy young
And dear companions, when they wooed thee forth
To the gay hay-field; hast not heard my voice—
Not though that voice called Alice.

Alice.
Not heard thee!
Mother, not thee!—Oh fie upon thy charm,
Sweet poesy!—Not hear thy voice!

Henry.
What lay
Hath such enchanting power?
(She gives him the book).
The Faërie Queen!
Oh gentle poet of the summer sky,
The fresh air, the green earth! how suited thou
To this wild pastoral scene, and this young hand
Trembling with modesty!

Mrs. Neville.
She'll hang all day
Over that tale of Una.

Henry.
But this shower
Of snowy rose-leaves—sure it was her mark!—
Dropt from that tenderest page, where Britomart,
Pining for love, heartsick and desolate,
Is by her old nurse comforted and cheered,
And hushed to sleep like an o'erweary babe.
Euripides himself, in the famed scene
Of Phædra—no, nor Shakspeare, when he melts
The very soul with Juliet's tender woe—
Touched not more truly the witch-notes of love
Than that old simpleness.

Mrs. Neville.
Yet Britomart—
Alice, it was a silly maid that loved
A picture.

Alice.
Mother, no! Oh no! She loved
The high idea, the bright imagining
Of her own soul. Gentleness, valour, truth,
And lofty faith, and noble thought—'twas these
She loved; the magic image did but clothe,
But lend a form to the diviner mind
Which her pure fancy moulded.

Henry
(aside).
Now she stoops
To kiss her mother's hand!—Sweet artifice
Of maiden shame, to hide the crimson glow
Her ardent speech hath brought upon the cheek
That was all lily! (aloud)
Go not!

[Exit Alice.
Mrs. Neville.
She is gone
To join her youthful comrades.

Henry.
Ay, she moves
Towards them with a gentle dignity,
As yonder cygnet glides along the stream.
Look! what a picture 'tis to see her pause
Under the brow of that lone summer-house
Which overhangs the water, overhung
With ivy and wild woodbine, backed with firs
So old and vast and shadowy, that they lend
A blackness to the deep rank grass; and crowned
With poplars of such growth, such spiral height—
The stately columns of eternal Rome
Matched not the pair of living monuments
That shoot their tapering heads into the sky.
She pauses there, the beautiful!—amidst
That beauty, lifting her fair hand to shade
The light from those blue eyes—she passes now
Beneath the firs—she disappears. Yon scene—
Hath she not left a track of brightness there,
That living sunbeam?—Yon fair scene is made
For happiness.—You sigh.

Mrs. Neville.
Oh, once it was!
Once—but that beauty now strikes to my soul
A shivering chillness—Oh, it smiles upon me,
As the cold moon upon the colder grave.
Thou know'st Lord Claremont—that fair hall once owned
Another master. Hast thou never heard
The tale of shame and sorrow?

Henry.
I have heard,
Darkly, mysteriously, enough to wake
Deep pity. Would'st thou—Stranger as I am
I dare not ask—

Mrs. Neville.
Stranger although thou be,
There is a pity in thy voice, thine eyes,
Thy smile, that looks like comfort: thou art born
To listen to sad stories. Didst thou ever
Hear of Sir Edward Mortimer?

Henry.
The grandsire
Of this young Lord? the master of yon grand
And reverend pile? Often.

Mrs. Neville.
He was a man
Of that free spirit, which doth scatter bliss
As winds the summer blossom. In his eye
Dwelt mirth, and kindness in his speech, and love
In his warm heart—love of all human kind.
Something men spake of wildness in his youth;
But when, after long travel, he brought home
A lovely lady and two cherub babes,
Seemed not a wiser or a better man.

Henry.
And she?

Mrs. Neville.
She was a thing of life and light
And beauty. Such a vision as erst filled
The dreamy soul of Guido, when he drew
His bright Aurora. Such a brilliant flush
Of health, and joy, and youth—eternal youth!
Year after year rolled on, and stole no charm
No smile from that fair woman. Strangers saw her
Propped on her son's supporting arm, or throwing
Her white hand round her daughter's waist, and deemed
She was their younger sister. Oh, how proud
That noble son was of her peerless grace!
With what a sweet and tender flattery
He spake, and with what smiling blushes she
Would listen! 'Twas a house of love. The daughter—

Henry.
Was she not like thy Alice?

Mrs. Neville.
Ay, as like
As two white roses. Thou canst scarce have seen
The Lady Claremont? Thou art all too young.

Henry.
I've seen her portrait, where young purity
Is pictured to the life. She sits upon
A rock by the sea-shore, her starry eyes
Fixed on the gloomy sky, as if to wait
The raging of the storm.

Mrs. Neville.
It came! It came!
Poor Mary Mortimer! almost a child,
Lord Claremont saw and loved her; she loved him;
And they were wedded. After a brief year
Of perfect bliss he died, and she returned
To the paternal home, with one fair boy,
To see her father die.

Henry.
Alas! alas!

Mrs. Neville.
Sigh not for them that died—Sigh not for them—
They were the happy. Years had passed away,
And grief was gone, another Edward ruled
Within the old hereditary hall—
Another kinder, dearer—all built up
Of dignity and honour. He had wooed
And wedded a young maiden, only rich
In love. The gentle countess and her boy
Dwelt with them, and his mother with her looks
Of beauty, her glad voice, her step of youth.
Oh, how the days flew then, when I—for I
Am that most wretched wife that was most blest!
Oh, how the days flew by, whilst Alice clung
Around my knee, half jealous when she saw
My William at my breast; or tottered round
Those giant trees; or on the velvet lawn
Rolled in her joy, lisping her half-learnt words
To the dear cousin, whose sweet serious eyes
Pursued her every motion! kind and frank,
And noble boy! I seem to see him now,
With his bright face peeping among the boughs
Of yonder sweet briar, whilst my fairy girl
Sought her dear playmate, and the summer sun
Declining, streamed a glory round her form;
And I stood watching them almost with tears—
So the deep gladness stirred me—when across
Her lovely childish voice, and the gay laugh
Of the hidden boy, came quick shrill piercing cries
Of sudden woe; and rushing to the house,
I saw that beauteous mother on the floor,
Pale, speechless, prostrate, writhing; whilst her son
With folded arms, and withering eyes, looked on;
And her distracted daughter shrieked in gusts
Of helpless agony. Why shak'st thou thus?

Henry.
Man is not made of stone. Be brief. Even now
I hear her screaming! Oh, be brief!

Mrs. Neville.
The boy
Had followed me; and trembling with the new
Strange sense of misery, seized my husband's hand,
And looked up in his face. Then, then he burst
From dreadful silence to more dreadful speech,
Cursing the mother at his feet, the child
Within his hand, the blessed light of day,
And life, and love! Darkly the tale of woe
Came from him. That fair, panting, crouching thing,
Quivering beneath her shame, she had confessed
Her frailty. Not till after Edward's birth
Did his dead father wed her—he had been
An innocent usurper. At one word
We lost our name, our wealth, our very home.
Delay had maddened him: before the sun
Was set, we and our children had passed forth
From this fair heritage, poor wanderers
Upon the earth. The gentle heiress staid,
Death-struck with the disgrace that seemed to stain
Even her white purity. In one short month
Her passing-bell had knolled.

Henry.
Poor—poor—But she.
The wretchedest, the mother?

Mrs. Neville.
Ere she rose
From off the ground where she had plunged her shame,
Her brown hair turned to white. She died not: youth
And joy and beauty died; but she lives on
In penitence.

Henry.
And he?

Mrs. Neville.
Oh what a slow
And weary death is grief when it contends
With manhood's healthful prime! We wandered on
Through many lands. He could not bear the sight
Or sound of aught familiar—his own name
Was as a dagger to him; every smile
Of his unconscious son a deeper stab:
Only my gentle Alice—her he loved—
Her only! till at last his heart grew strong
As his frame weakened, and he longed once more
To see the hall—'Twas speedy then—He lies
Under yon yew tree. I have never left—
I cannot leave—

Re-enter Alice.
Alice.
Mother!—Doth she not weep?—
Ah me! that tears should sadden such an hour!—
Mother! oh, smile upon me! I bring news
Of joy.—He comes to-day—this very day—
It is his birthday. I am come for flowers—
Doth not Lord Claremont love them?

Henry.
Yes: but most
The pure white rose.

Alice.
Look how it blossoms here
Amid the flaunting briar—the purest rose.
We shall soon fill the basket.

Mrs. Neville.
Claremont comes,
The heir, to take his state, to fill the hall
With revelry; and William—my poor boy!—
Thou art Lord Claremont's friend—canst thou forgive
A mother's tenderness?

Henry.
Madam, each word
Each patient tear of thine drew answering drops
From my sad heart. I knew, as Claremont knew,
Imperfectly, the story of his race.
Oh! it has made the grief of his young life,
His splendid orphanage, to bear the weight
Of wealth which should be yours—to feel your woe,
To fear your hatred.

Alice.
Hatred! what, to him?
The kindest, noblest, best! Hatred to him!
And from my mother! And 'tis thou his friend
That talk'st so! Chide him mother. But thou know'st not
Thou canst not know, how exquisitely one
Claremont and goodness are. We were so poor
Till Claremont succoured us; a stripling then,
And under a stern guardian's tutelage,
He gave up every costly gaud of youth
For us. Nay, that were little. He sought out
Poor William in his distant school; he wrote
To me with such a graciousness; he sent
Gifts such as brothers to their sisters send—
Books, music, flowers: this pretty basket—see
How like a bee-hive the bright straw is wrought—
This basket came from him. And thou canst talk
Of hatred!

Henry.
Happiest! happiest!

Mrs. Neville.
She is right;
The passing pang is o'er: I cannot grieve
To see the noblest of a noble race
Even in my husband's seat.

Alice.
Would he were here!
Mother, shall we not know him? I remember,
Do I not mother, his dark curling hair,
And his mild serious eyes and rosy cheeks,
And how I used to love him!

Mrs. Neville.
Wilt thou tell him
All this?

Alice.
Why should I not? and yet sometimes
I have a fluttering at my heart—an awe—
A sinking.—Is it fear?—'Twere wrong to fear
Such goodness: yet, in sooth, I tremble, mother;
I know not why. If he were gentle—like—
If he would take my hand, and only say,
Alice!

Henry
(taking her hand).
My cousin Alice! Fly me not,
Alice!

Alice.
Lord Claremont!

Henry.
Nay, thy Henry, sweet one.
It was the first word that thou spakest, Alice;
Do not forget it now.—Forgive me, Madam,
That I thus stole upon ye! Oh, forgive
My deeper but unwilling guilt! At length
I can be just. The old ancestral hall,
The wide demesne, are thine. Within an hour
Thy gentle William will be there to fill
His father's seat—the heir. Oh, thank me not:
I am still rich in my paternal wealth—
A beggar still in love. I have no mother—
Be thou one to me: let thy William call
Me brother.

Alice.
And poor Alice?

Henry.
'Tis through her
That I would claim that title.

Mrs. Neville.
My dear son!