University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

An oratory opening into Elinor's chamber. A missal spread upon the altar, before a crucifix: over it a large picture of the Virgin. Elinor kneeling, and singing to her harp.
El.
(As the sound of her harp ceases, the picture slides, discovering Percy, wrapped in a cloak, with a lamp. She starts.)

Per.
Fear not, lady; angel guardians
Surround by night the bower of Innocence.

(Springs down.)
El.
What apparition?—

Per.
(throwing off his cloak.)
Pardon, gentle lady!
Bold as may seem—

El.
Ha! do I wake?—What dost thou here, audacious?
At midnight!—Hence, rash youth! with speed, begone!
Hence! or I wake the house. How darest thou, slave,
Steal on the secrets of my worship?—Fly!
Thy very life may answer such an outrage.

Per.
Sweet lady, hear me.

El.
Quit this place.

Per.
One word—

El.
Heavens! is the Neville's daughter so abased
That grooms dispute her chamber?—Ho!

Per.
Nay then—
But, by my soul's eternal hope, I swear
In gratitude, in honor, but to say
Farewell, I came.

El.
How?

Per.
No matter:—when we meet again,—above,
Thou 'lt better know me. God be with you, lady.

(Takes his lamp, going.)
El.
Nay, now, I know not what thou meanest.

Per.
Sweet saint,
I would have told thee.

El.
Goest thou from our service?

Per.
Thus to interpret!—Sooner would I dare
Insult a glowing Cherub, perish in his glance,
Than sully, but in thought, thy purity.

El.
If I have done injustice—

Per.
Speak; I pause.

El.
What canst thou have to say?

Per.
Thanks, thanks unnumbered,
Blessings unspeakable for all thy favors.
Shrined here,—while life beats,—worshipped, they will dwell,
Although thy beauty I behold no more.

El.
No more!

Per.
My heart is full,—yet scarce—
Thou know'st, when I became an inmate here,
I called myself an orphan; desolate;
In the wide earth alone. So far, thou heard'st
A mournful truth; yet I deceived you.

El.
Ha!
Deceived us, Arthur?

Per.
Arthur 's not my name:
Nor am I what I seem.

El.
Shield us! Who art thou?

Per.
Though in your halls a vassal, Arthur boasts
Blood older than these towers, or any oak
Leafless with age on yonder hoary hills.
Thou seest me fallen; but my Fathers stood
Their country's bulwark. Kings have quaked to hear
The rumors of their march: their rushing host
This sea-throned Isle has to her centre shook.

El.
What next, I prithee?

Per.
Alas!
What shall I say then? What will vouch my truth?—
Durst I my name reveal—

El.
O, Sir, forbear:
A name so potent might unseat our towers.

Per.
Hast thou, before, found cause my faith to question?
Ever, before this night?—In justice—

El.
No.

Per.
Believest thou, in this solemn parting hour,
Lips that dare imprecate Heaven's wrath on falsehood,
Avenging thunders, hell, and penal judgment,
My lips,—can frame a lie? Believest thou this?

El.
I would not—cannot think it; but this tale—

Per.
A moment, lady, counsel with your heart.—
Have you not something seen, or fancied, in me,
That seemed ill coupled with this outward baseness?
Arguing a mind above the hireling's pitch,
A nobler nature,—as in some mewed eagle
That creeps, degraded, round a peasant's croft,
Proving the native of the princely eyry?

El.
Suppose I have.

Per.
Recall the time
When first thou saw'st my face;—the tale I told.
Glance back to many a trivial circumstance
That still belied me; startled thee, so oft,
And made thee gaze with wildered eyes. O, think,
Think of that night when righteous Providence
Rescued your honor:—when the moon beheld
Your deathlike face, and loose locks on my breast;—
When my roused spirit spoke,—all else forgot,—
High as her bent, and tender as the hour!
Thou own'st, feel'st truth in this. Mark! do I, now,
Fashion my speech in phrase of servitude?
Would the carle's tuneless tongue prove false the boast
That courts have been my home; my walk with princes;
My toil the Antique Sages' lore; my sport,
Penning the roundelay for ladies' lyres,
Who paid me with the radiance of their eyes?

El.
Pray leave me.

Per.
One brief moment ere we part.—
I go—I go—where Destiny conducts me:—
To be myself;—or cast disguise, and life,
Together, off. In rank thine equal, peer
To England's proudest, powerful as thy sire,
And crowned with old hereditary laurels,
Arthur returns, or never more. Ah! say,
If Fate should smile,—wilt thou smile too?—canst thou,
O, canst thou bid me rise—to life, to love,
To paradise with thee?

El.
My heart,—I mean,—
I'm giddy: all my senses seem bewildered.

Per.
Ah! may I construe silence?—Tongues
More used to ecstasy might talk of mine!

El.
But whither goest thou?—on what quest?

Per.
I cannot answer thee.

El.
But is there danger?

Per.
Question me not, for chains are on my tongue.

El.
O! choose some more propitious season.

Per.
No;
One mystic hour the characters of fate
Mark for the enterprise, that must not pass me.

El.
What dreadful meaning lurks beneath your words?
I fear—I fear—

Per.
For Arthur?

El.
Methinks I dream; so strange, so wildering seems
This tale. When ends the mystery? saidst thou when?

Per.
My fortunes touch upon a speedy issue.
Nor had thy sympathy been vainly waked,
Could I have torn my trembling heart away,
That clung and would not leave thee,—leave thee here,
Unconscious of my love,—a rival's prize,—
Never to be remembered more; or deemed
Senseless of virtues dearer to my soul
Than breath can utter. Falling, I could now
Greet death with smiles: the rapturous thought thou know'st
My heart's dear hope, and wilt remember me,
Brightens the dark hour like a glimpse of Eden.—
Farewell!—the matin star grows dim.—O, heed!
If this be not a dream of ecstasy,
A moment comes, is now upon the wing,
When, unexpected, I may rise to claim—
To sue—Ah! then shrink not to confess me!—

(Presses her hand hastily to his lips; ascends. The picture closes after him.)
El.
(in a wild tone.)
He 's gone!—to bleed! to perish!—Woe is me!
What will become of me—

Enter Florence, from the bedchamber, in her night mantle, and clasps Elinor in her arms.
Flor.
Nay, start not, love;
Waked by your voices, breathless I o'erheard
Your wondrous interview. Sure he is noble,
And merits worth like thine.

El.
(hiding her face in Florence's bosom.)
But he is gone!—
O Florence, Florence!—gone for ever,—O!
That he should perish,—just upon the verge
Of all his hopes!

Flor.
Not so;—he spake not so despairing. Hope,
Methought, gave lively courage to his accents.

El.
O, dost thou think— (Stops abruptly.)


Flor.
Indeed I do,—I'm sure
His voice, his face, his mien, his modesty,
His valor, every graceful word and act
Proclaim him noble.

El.
Ah! whoe'er he be,
In such an issue,—had he asked it of me,—
I would have strengthened him from Neville's power.
Now, friendless, he is gone, and never more
Shall I behold him.

Flor.
Dear Elinor, you will,—
But hark!—hark! as I live, the morning cock!
Come in;—come,—on our pillows we will talk it.

El.
First let me pray.

Flor.
Not now:—to-morrow.

El.
Oh!
I hear sweet sounds.

Flor.
Nay, nay,—repose is needful.

(Leads her in.)