University of Virginia Library

EDITHA:

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

CHARACTERS.

• Mr. Melmoth.
• Edmund.
• Physician.
• Editha, daughter to Mr. Melmoth.
• Flora.
• Martha, an old servant.

SCENE I.

A parlour in Mr. Melmoth's house.
Time—morning.
[Mr. Melmoth alone. Walks about the room in great agitation, stopping every now and then as if to listen.]
[Mr. M.]
How long he stays!—And yet, I fear, I fear
His coming will but crush the last fond hope
I weakly cling to—feeble, faint indeed,
But still—'tis hope!—Hark!—'twas her chamber-door
That opened then—I hear a step—'tis his—

Enter Physician.
Mr. M.
Well, Doctor! well, my friend! you're come at last!
You've seen your patient?—I expect to hear
Good tidings of her.—You shall tell them me
In a few moments—now, you look fatigued
With your long walk—you found her better, though?
But you shall tell me presently.—I'll ring
For some refreshment.

Phy.
None, my friend, for me—
I am not weary, but—

Mr. M.
This sultry day
Oppresses you—She feels it dreadfully!
But so do I and ev'ry one—I think—
If she can bear the voyage.—

Phy.
She cannot bear it—
Rest and quiet now.

Mr. M.
You're of opinion, then,
Twere best defer it till—

Phy.
Alas, my friend!—
Your child will never—What a task is mine!

Mr. M.
(After a pause.)
Why, speak it out—for I have felt it long—
Have known and felt it—yet—this old weak heart!
And must I lay my darling in the grave?
My last surviving child!—God's will be done.

Phy.
May He sustain you, my unhappy friend,
Through this great trial—her, He takes away
By such a merciful summons!—'tis, in truth,
A Father's loving call to a dear child—
So mild! so gentle!

Mr. M.
I can bear it now—
I can bear all the truth—I pray you, therefore,
Tell me as near as you can calculate—
With a friend's frankness, I beseech you, tell me,)
How long my Editha has yet to live.

Phy.
'Tis hard to say—her malady is such—
So ling'ring, so illusive, it defies
All human calculation to assign
The probable period of its fatal triumph—
These sultry days, and more oppressive nights
Try her severely—should these heats continue.—
But she is strong—the principle of life
Is strong within her yet—if she survive
The falling leaf, she may—'tis like she will
Live thro' the winter: but when Spring returns—

Mr. M.
Aye, she was born in Spring, the 10th of April:
Therefore, of all the year, I've ever loved
That season, and that month, that gave her to me:
My dutiful, affectionate, good child!
And I shall lay my blossom in the earth
When the first flowers—her own sweet fav'rite flowers,
Wake from their wintry death.—Poor Edmund Wilmot!
Thou art returning full of joy and hope
To claim thy bride

Phy.
Indeed! do you expect him?

Mr. M.
With the next India ships, and ev'ry day
The fleet is looked for—the next hour perhaps
May bring him here. You must remember Edmund;
My sister's orphan boy? I took him home,
After his parent's death, and reared him up
With my own children, till the eldest two
Fell victims to this fatal malady,
Following, within three years, their mother's path
To the same grave. My little Editha
Became my only earthly comfort then,
With this dear boy.—She was his darling too,
His charge, his plaything—he watched over her
With all an elder brother's tender care,
Oft calling her, in sport, his little wife.
No wonder as she grew to womanhood,
That their young hearts were woven into one,
And the boy's jesting claims assumed, e'er long,
The pleading earnestness of serious hope.
He knew my heart, he knew its warmest wish
Was to behold my Editha his wife;
But she was portionless, and he too poor
To think of marriage for some years at least.
A good appointment offered in the East,
And full of hope, and full of his return
With golden fruits of a few bustling years,
Edmund accepted it, and parted from us.
More than fulfilled his sanguine hopes have been;
And he returns at last to claim his bride,
Whose image has been with him (so he writes)
In all his sad and solitary hours,
In times of disappointment and distress,
Peril and sickness; like a smiling angel,
Cheering his heart, with looks of peace and love.
He comes, poor youth! with all these flushing hopes,
And I must tell him—Oh! my friend, 'tis hard
To stab with such a welcome the young heart
That meets one in the glow of expectation.

Phy.
'Tis hard, indeed! too painfully I've learnt
From sad experience, how to feel for you.
Will you walk with me on my homeward way?
My time is portioned.

Mr. M.
The more readily
That I'm expecting ev'ry hour and minute
Th' approach of Edmund by that very road,
And I would meet the trial, that must come.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A lady's dressing-room, with windows opening down to a small lawn.—A large Indian screen drawn before the door.—Editha lying on a couch. —Flora working at a table near her.
Edi.
Come, little cousin! leave that moping work,
And this close room, for the fresh open air,
And that sweet garden where I long to be.
There! Zoe's bark invites you to a race—
See! where she waits upon the gravel walk.

Flo.
And she must wait awhile, dear Editha!
Look! I've but half a leaf t' embroider now,
And this whole sprig is finished. Let me see—
One, two, three, four.

Edi.
What! counting them again?
Well, Flora! has the number much decreased
Since yesterday?

Flo.
Now, cousin Editha!
You know how I do long to get the gown
Finished in time—and 'twill be wanted soon—
Aye, cousin Edith! you may shake your head.
But you smile, tho', and I know well enough
It will be wanted, very, very soon;
And I should break my heart I do believe
If this were not be your wedding gown.—
Remember! I'm to be your bridesmaid, cousin.

Edi.
But where's the bridegroom, Flora?—We must wait,
Must we not, little Coz, till Edmund comes?

Flo.
He'll soon be here—I know the fleet's expected—
He may be here to-day—this very day!
And tho' you look so sly, you think so too;
For ev'ry time the sound of wheels is heard,
Or horses' hoofs, I see you tremble, Coz,
And the bright colour of your cheek spreads out
Over your face and neck. Oh! and besides,
I know what Ursula said yesterday,
When Martha asked her questions about you.

Edi.
What, silly child! you don't believe I hope
In fortune-telling stories?

Flo.
N—o—not quite—:
But Urs'la is a very cunning woman,
And often guesses right.—You'll own that.—

Edi.
Well,
What said the cunning woman about me,
And what did Martha ask?

Flo.
She spoke so low,
I could not hear her question, but I guessed it
By Ursula's reply.—I heard that plain—
She said we soon should follow you to church.

Edi.
To church! is that your cunning woman's guess?
Why, Flora! is it only to be married,
Only for weddings, people go to church?
The dead are carried there.

Flo.
Aye, so they are,
And little babies to be christened too,
And we all go on Sundays.—But you know,
Ah! you know well enough, what Urs'la meant.
Cousin! do you remember Amy Lee?

Edi.
Oh! very well:—that delicate, fair girl,
She who was married,—last July, I think,—
To the young sailor.

Flo.
Flora sings.

Edi.
Well, well, you little cunning harmonist!
I can apply the words of Amy's ballad,
And you shall teach it me, some day or other,
When I can sing again. I'll promise, too,
When Edmund comes, and Flora's gown is finished,
I'll wear no other on my wedding day.
Now get you gone, my merry little nurse!
I'm faint with talking, and if Martha comes,
She'll scold us both. My eyes are heavy, too,
And I shall sleep perhaps.

Flo.
Farewell, dear Coz!
I'll bring you flowers, a large, sweet basket full.

[Exit Flora.
Edi.
I am a happy creature! none I'm sure
Had ever friends so loving and so kind
As I am blest with;—but of all, methinks,
The prattle of that dear light-hearted child
I most delight in—'tis so full of hope,
And joyous certainty.—All eyes but hers
Look on me with a sort of tender pity,
As if some dark cloud of impending woe
Were hanging over me. This morning only,
My father sat there, reading to himself,
(Seeming to read,) but all the while his eyes,
Not on the book, but on my face were fixed,
And they were full of tears:—a sudden fear
Of some disastrous tidings stopt my breath,
And I could hardly utter Edmund's name—
But 'twas a groundless fear—allayed as soon
By my dear father's calm assurances—
He must come soon—“he may be here to-day”—
So Flora said. This restless expectation
It is that keeps me from regaining strength,
I feel I shall be well, when he is come.
Sleep! thou hast fled my pillow many a night,
Come, visit me, sweet sleep! with happy dreams.

[Scene closes.

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.

SCENE IV.

The next day.—Morning.—The garden.

Mr. Melmoth.

Edmund.

Mr. M.
Oh, Edmund! I have hoped till hope was madness!

Edm.
It is not madness. You despair too soon,
Dear sir! That man is not infallible.
How dares he set a term upon her life,
Her precious life! But you'll have more advice.
Others may think of something—“Live till Spring!”
Did he not say that she might live till Spring?
Oh, God!—and I have toil'd five years for this!

Mr. M.
And I, my son! have toil'd thro' this hard world
Sixty-five years. I had a wife, three children,
Three beautiful children! the mother and her babes
(Our first-born two) were gathered to the grave
Within three years:—but I had still one left,
One precious lamb, to cherish in my bosom,
And be to me, wife! daughter! every thing!
I reared it up with fearful tenderness,
With love that never slumber'd, night or day.
It grew and flourished; and I thought at last
The thunder-cloud had spent its deadly bolts:
But just as I began to feel secure
The trial came. God sends to claim my lamb.
And shall I answer—“Lord! the lamb is mine,
I will not part with it.”—Or shall I say,
“Lord! wherefore didst thou give the lamb to me,
If 'tis thy pleasure now to take it back?”
Shall I say thus, my son?

Edm.
My more than father!
My Editha's father! I should comfort you.
And the meek patience of your sacred sorrow
Upbraids my wild, ungovernable grief:
And yet, my father, yet, I think—I hope—
While there is life, there's hope!—

Mr. M.
There is, my son
And ev'ry thing is possible to God—
He may be gracious to the humble hope
That questions not his justice in the issue.
She bore the meeting yesterday much better
Than I had dared to hope.

Edm.
And Martha says,
There was less fev'rish restlessness about her
Last night than there has been for many nights:
And she's so well this morning! and so cheerful!
She sent me for this rose to her own garden.
Oh! that thou wert the rose of eastern fable,
Whose perfumed breath restores the sick to health!

[Exit Edmund.
Mr. M.
(slowly following him)
Youth! sanguine youth!—how many floods of tears
Must fall before thy ardent hopes are quenched!

[Exit.

SCENE V.

Editha's dressing room.—Evening.
[Editha on the couch.—Edmund laying down a book, from which he had been reading to her.
Edm.
Shall I leave off, my Editha?—You're tired—
The book has wearied your attention, love!

Edi.
No, Edmund! but my mind had wandered from it
To you, and to myself—to many things.—
I heard the words you uttered—not their sense—
Dear Edmund! I'm too happy for attention—
My heart's too full—full of the past and present.

Edm.
And of the future, love! the happier future!
Is there no room for that, my Editha?

Edi.
Oh! yes—there has been, and will be again;
But now, I'm almost sick with happiness;
I feel as if I could not bear the weight
Of half another grain.—And you are here!
And have been here since yesterday at noon!
Have slept again under this very roof!
Have sat at meals in your old place again!
Have walked in our own garden—yours and mine—
Have brought me flowers from thence—this very rose!
Your old accustomed tribute.—You are here
And will be here to-morrow, and to-morrow,
And all this happiness is not a dream!

Edm.
A blest reality, beloved creature!
That time will stamp with still increasing bliss
Oh, Editha! how much I have to tell you—
How much to hear, when you are well enough
To stroll once more in our old fav'rite haunts,
Your arm within my arm! till then, dear love,
I will not enter them. Is the old tree,
The oak-tree, standing yet, whose hollow trunk
We used to call our house, when we were children?

Edi.
Standing, and well—but the wild honeysuckle
You taught to climb its branches is quite dead;
Yet not for want of care, but we believed
The lightning struck it. Do you remember, Edmund,
That little mountain-ash you planted for me
The day of your departure?

Edm.
Oh, yes! yes!
I set it by the meadow-brook, and bade you,
If the tree grew and prospered, look upon it
As a good omen of the wand'rer's fate.

Edi.
And it has grown and prospered; it is now
A stately tree, casting its chequered shadow
To the opposite margin of the meadow brook;
Hung ev'ry autumn with such beautiful tassels
Of scarlet berries! I grudged them to the birds.

Edm.
Not to our robin?—but he must be dead!

Edi.
I found him dead last winter in the greenhouse,
In the hard frost. Look, Edmund! oh, look there!
The moon's at full to-night, and she is rising;
Help me to reach the sofa by the window,
That I may gaze on the full moon once more.

Edm.
“Once more,” my life!—shall we not often thus
Together look upon the lovely moon?

Edi.

Edm.
My dearest! you exhaust yourself—
I must not let you talk so much.—Come, come,
Martha has charged me to take absolute rule,
As in old times, over my little cousin.

Edi.
She makes me keep good hours—I go to bed
At nine o'clock, so if I'm tir'd to-night
I shall but sleep the sounder. What's the hour?

Edm.
The church clock answers you: 'tis striking nine.

Edi.
See! the bright moon is just withdrawing there
Behind the steeple. Now—how dark it is!

Edm.
Still light as day, love! tho' the moon is hid.

Edi.
No, very dark—pitch dark. Where are you, Edmund?
Don't let me go—don't leave me—
Edmund!—

[Dies.