University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

—Hall of the Castle.
Enter Wingfield, followed by a Warder.
Ward.
'Tis scarcely day.

Wing.
I must now see her; there is my warrant.

Ward.
You'd better wait an hour or two.

Wing.
No, not a second more; I do command—
[Exit Warder.
Now let me think how I may best ensnare
This peerless piece of royalty. I must,
If I obey my mistress's command, I must,
By every hardship, goad her on to treasons,
That, if the priest should fail, the judge may strike.
But then she is so Christianly meek,
She'll clothe herself in Resignation's stole:—
I'll meet her there, I'll laugh her faith to scorn;
That will, if any thing, incense her.

Enter Mary and Adelaide.
Mary.
Who asks for me at this untimely hour?

Wing.
I bear the Queen's commission, which commands me
To see your Grace the instant I arrived.

Mary.
Your business might have waited.

Wing.
Nay, 'tis your business most.
I've orders to redress your wrongs: What are they?

Mary.
Am I at liberty?

[Holding up her arms.
Wing.
No.

Mary.
Why am I not?

Wing.
The safety of the Queen requires this seeming harshness.

Mary.
Why are my friends forbid to visit me?

Wing.
It is the order of her Majesty.

Mary.
The word of God has said, Visit the prisoner;
And who says no? a woman!—
A curse will blast the power, that would arrest
The prisoner's sigh floating to friendship's ear;
That intercepts the beam of friendship's eye
From lighting up the prison's dreary gloom:
A curse will shrivel up the impious hand,
That, with its sacrilegious signature,
Arrests the joy-winged light, and tells
The eye, which, with a grateful glance,
Takes in the cope of heaven, to be content
With the faint ray that, glimmering, struggles through
The iron lattice of the hopeless man.—
O God forgive me! May thy will be done.

Wing.
That is a pious wish. But who, or where
Is God? If there be one, then thou art guilty;
For why should innocence be doomed to suffer?

Mary.
And art thou sent to steal me from my faith?
I rest on this:
[Pressing a Psalter to her Breast.
These are the words of life.

Wing.
Some foolish fables.

Mary.
This is the pillow of disease and age;
On this the captive rests his weary head,
And dreams of heaven. O blessed, blessed words!
The bitterest tear that drops on you is sweet.
These are the only words that comfort speak
To broken hearts like mine. This little book
The widowed mother presses to her breast,
And gives it to her orphan child to kiss.
The man bowed down by sorrow, who has laid
The last of all his children in the grave,
Returning to his lonely house, first finds
Some solace here. Even to the death-doomed wretch,
Who cannot read the blessed words of life,
This volume makes his loaded arms feel light;
Yea, even at the suffering hour, disarms
The dreadful apparatus of its horrors.
Perhaps to me that hour is in reserve,—
When on a stage, with sable scenes hung round,
Poor Mary Stewart shall lay down her life.
Let that hour come! On this I lay my hand;
Unclasping this, heaven opens to my view.

Wing.
Delusion all!

Mary.
I see, I see thee, proselyting fiend!
The wretch who, tainted with the pestilence,
Would breathe infection on the sleeping infant,
Is not more devilish than is he who, 'reft
Of hope himself, makes converts to despair.

Wing.
A God! [Smiling.]
—What proof? That which you call his word,
Is but the word of man.

Mary.
Canst thou blot out the stars? There do I read
The Deity, there face to face behold him.

Wing.
Well, well, I did but jest; and, as a proof,
I will o'erstep the bounds of my commission,
And send a priest of your own faith
To comfort you:
Besides, I'll order that the castle-chapel
Be given up to him, with liberty
There to perform all rites of holy church.

Mary.
Heaven reward you!

Adel.
Amen.

Wing.
I'll on the instant go; 'tis now broad day;
I'll rouse again the lazy Spaniard.

[Exit.
Adel.
I do not like that man;
His smile is still more hideous than his frown.

Enter Warder.
Ward.
An please your Highness, there is come a fortune-teller;
A cunning player on the harp besides.
Say, would your Highness wish to see the man?

Mary.
I'm sure he cannot tell us any good;
I wish not now to see him.

Ward.
Hark, he plays.

[The “Flowers of the Forest” heard without. Mary and Adelaide appear astonished. Mary recovers herself.
Mary.
Yes, let him come; I think his touch is soft.
[Exit Warden.
It is the very hand of Douglas, and the tune
He knows I took delight to hear him play.

Adel.
Ah, no!
That tune, though Scottish, comes so near the heart,
That 'tis a favourite with our enemies,
And oftentimes draws tears from English eyes:
There's many an English minstrel knows it well.

Mary.
But, hark!—the voice—'tis he.

Adel.
'Tis Douglas!

Mary.
Be calm; there is some hidden purpose here:
Study his looks, and if he seem to wish
Not to be recognised, beware! Assume,
Though fluttering be your heart to fly to him,
Assume a cold indifference in your look.

Adel.
Can I look cold on Douglas?—and yet I will attempt.

Enter Douglas, disguised in a Gypsy habit, followed by the Warder.
Doug.
God save your Grace! God bless thee, lady!

Mary.
Come forward, friend; why have you left your harp?

Doug.
I only play some few old things; the art
Which I profess is one of higher dignity.

Mary.
And canst thou now, by looking at the lines
Upon the hands, say when these shackled arms
Shall once again be free?

Doug.
I think I can; but first I must inclose
Your Highness, and your fair companion too,
Within a certain circle of great virtue.

Mary.
I fear not such imprisonment as that.

Doug.
Well then, good warder, stand a little back
While thus I draw my line;—a little farther—
Aye, that will do.
“Thrice times three athwart the line
“I've warped through each heavenly sign,
“Thrice times three,
“Thrice times three, three, three, three.”—
An' please your Highness now to reach your hand.—
[Douglas, kneeling, surveys her hand.
Aye, there's a lucky line.—
This night, according as occasion offers,
[Speaking low.
Perhaps the next, or next again,
Expect a trusty band, sworn to your rescue.
Three days ago they'd leave Caerlavrock shore,
In a stout bark, well trimmed and fitted out,
Like those that sail to fish St George's sea.
At dead of night they'll land, set fire at once
To different places of the town, and—

Mary.
That must not be; how many sleeping infants—

Doug.
Be ruled by those who risk their lives to serve you.—
Amid the noise, and hurry, and alarm,
We win our way, by force or guile, to you,
Bear off the prize, and straight embark for France.
I pray you be prepared.—
And you, sweet maid, come reach to me your palm:
'Tis a fair hand, that many gallants sue for.
Come, let me see—I see, formed by these lines,
A labyrinth from which thou'lt soon be free:
The Queen of England is merciful as just.—
Let me look nearer still. It is too soft;
I fear it will too easily be won.
But let me see again:
These lines are branches of a full blown thorn,
And that black mole, what is it but an ousel,
Which 'mid the boughs so fair hath built its nest;
A mystery right easy to be read:
In brief, fair damsel, you do love a man,
Who is so far from handsome, that his face
Would scarcely be a foil to one like mine,
[She seems for a moment displeased.
Of Ethiopian tint: But, what is more,
You'll win this sable gentleman; for if
I know aught of my art or of myself,
He loves you full as well as you love him.

Adel.
Now fair befal thee; tell me what's thy fee?

Doug.
Nor gold nor silver will I take of thine;
One kiss of that sweet mouth is all I ask.

Mary.
Why hesitate to grant the spaeman's boon?

Doug.
A trick, a trick; that was thy cheek.

Adel.
Well, well, an that it must be so.—

Ward.
In sooth, a very gallant fortune-teller.
Now, by Saint Peter's keys, I never saw,
Since first I learned the trade of turning locks,
One of thy tribe so bold, and yet withal
So little given to greed.

Adel.
When wilt thou play again?

Doug.
Perhaps this night at sunset.

Ward.
Haste, friend, I must away; walk, trudge.

Adel.
At sunset.

[Exeunt Douglas and Warder.
Mary.
I fear this too will fail.—Lead to my chamber,
It is my home: Come, I would rest in it.
I'm sick of disappointed hopes;—come, come.

Adel.
No, let us stay; none will disturb us here.
That massive door is close; and here we see
The furrowed field, from which spring all our hopes.—
Look, yonder is a sail; and far beyond,
As if suspended in the haze that joins
The sea and sky, I think I can discern
What seems another sail.

Mary.
I cannot see; my eyes ay fill with tears
Whene'er I look upon the watery way,
That brought me from the tranquil shores of France.
But let me try; I'll look, though dim my sight.—
Alas, thy hopes are bent to be deceived!
That, nearest, is a gallant ship, deep-fraught,
Whose well-stowed hull the shouldering waves
Scarce heave; sail bulging above sail, she seems
An airy castle turreted with clouds.
Our friends! they voyage in some sooty buss,
Hung round with lines, and nets, and pitchy ropes,
And such like implements of fishers' gear.

Adel.
Well, well, they'll come; no matter in what plight.
Look, see yon beauteous rainbow; you will grant,
It is a happy omen.

Mary.
No, 'tis a broken vault; and, see, it fades,
The fragments melting on the distant hills;
And now 'tis gone, quite gone—so fade my hopes.

Adel.
I see you are determined to despond.

Mary.
Ah, no! I only dread to cherish hope,
Because heaven breathes an anathema deep
On all my hopes, and turns them to despair:
I hoped to have a son—the infant's smile
Was for a season mine; but now he smiles
Upon his hopeless mother's bitterest foes.
I never more shall see his face again!—
O, I shall ne'er forget that hated day,
(Hated! and yet I love to brood on it,—
To speak of it,) when forced to leave my child.
I asked but for the respite of one day;
No, not a breath! the ruthless lips replied.
Just till my infant wake,—I kneeling prayed;
Well, well, you may;—such was the harsh response
Made to a Queen. Then o'er my babe I knelt,
And dreaded to behold, what oft my heart
With inexpressible delight had thrilled,—
The opening of his eyes, my parting doom.
Thus rivetted I gazed, and longer still
Had been allowed to gaze upon my child,
But that a shower of tears fell from my eyes,
And broke his placid slumber.—Woe, woe is me!

Adel.
O look not round upon the storm that's past.
Look forward to the little azure plat
Expanding in the clouds; 'twill soon extend
Till full upon us shines the heavenly beam.

Mary.
I fear that this attempt,—lead me to my cell,—
Like all the rest, will end in deeper woe.

Adel.
Keep up your hopes; success will never come
Without attempts to win it.

[Exeunt.