 | The Confession |  |
ACT I.
Scene, a Grove of Trees, under which Sir Walter Scroop is discovered sitting and reading. Lady Scroop enters, and after observing him some little time, approaches and addresses him.Lady S.
Aye! there he sits—a melancholy
man, feeding on what consumes him—I'll accost
him—Sir Walter Scroop, Sir Walter Scroop, what
are you about?
Sir W.
Reading my offices.
Lady S.
I would you were performing them.
All, all is lost, and you sit reading—what will
that do for you?
Sir W.
Teach me to bear my loss—but that
is a lesson you won't let me learn—so farewell
to my book! Now, Lady Scroop, what would
you have me do?
Lady S.
Go to your castle, and convoke your
people, to make a thorough search amongst the
ruins. Good chance but something may be yet
recover'd; and though 'twere little, where so
much is lost that little will be welcome.
Sir W.
What can be lost when Adela is sav'd?
Lady S.
And whom have we to thank for that?
Sir W.
Heaven's providence.
Well, that is first of all; who can
deny it? But when you are so thankful for her
safety, can you forget the gallant youth, who
risk'd his life to snatch her from the flames?
Sir W.
No! I do not forget that Adela was
sav'd by Reginald.
Lady S.
Then why not give him what he sav'd?
Sir W.
Away! you are mad.
Lady S.
Give him but what his courage has
preserv'd, his virtues merit, and his heart adores;
and that is Adela.
Sir W.
And who is Adela? and who am I, to
give the daughter of the Earl of Leicester to
Reginald, an unknown, nameless foundling? my
Lady Scroop, my Lady Scroop, let me hear no
more of this, as you respect my honour, conscience,
and my peace of mind.
Lady S.
Well! I have done.
Sir W.
See that you have; and never let that
wish or pass your lips, or harbour in your heart,
whilst you have life.
Lady S.
We'll drop the subject. Only be
content. I do not wish to press into your secrets.
Sir W.
You know that Adela is Leicester's
daughter; you know that nothing more is known
of Reginald, but as the child of parents, who
through shame or poverty expos'd him as a
foundling, and threw him on my pity for support.
What is there else to know? what other
secrets have I conceal'd?
Lady S.
That is for you to answer, not for me.
What secrets you entrust to me I keep, what
you withhold I do not seek to know—Let that
suffice—but look! here comes the good father
Ambrose. I'll leave you with him. May his
holy comfort lighten your heavy heart!
[Exit Lady S.
Sir W.
Hail, father!
Amb.
Peace be with you!—Sir Walter Scroop,
here is a holy man upon his pilgrimage, and late
from France, who brings you tidings of the Earl
of Leicester—He would be private with you.
Sir W.
Let him come. I am alone: no one
shall interrupt us.
Sir Walter Scroop alone.
Tidings of Leicester! Ah, ill-fated Earl,
Why, why art thou not here to save thy daughter,
Whose heart unconscious feeds a hapless passion
For Reginald—Oh horror—for the son
Of her own mother. Heaven avert the crime
Hateful to God and man! Ungrateful Queen,
'Tis in your cause the noble Leicester suffers;
Oh, Richard, Cœur-de-lion truly nam'd,
Why do you not restore your exil'd friend?
But see, the pilgrim comes—Heaven's grace defend me,
He comes in likeness of the Earl himself;
His air, his step—'Tis he! my honour'd lord!—
Enter of Leicester enters habited like a Pilgrim.
Earl of L.
Hah! is it so, my old and valued friend,
Am I so little chang'd by ten years exile,
That, soon as seen, I'm known, ev'n in this garb?
Well, be it so! Justice at length relents,
And Leicester soon will be himself again.
But more of this hereafter—My fond heart,
A father's heart, yearns to embrace my child.
You'll find her fair and good as she is lovely.
Earl of L.
I met her on my way. I found her fair,
Blooming, and full of grace. I could not speak
And she, who knew me only as a pilgrim,
Turn'd, bow'd, and bade God bless me as I pass'd.
The reverend father stood in mute amaze
To see my bosom labour, and the tears
Gush from my eyes, yet modestly forbore
Enquiry of the cause; so on we pass'd
To this umbrageous grove, where the cool breeze
Hath fann'd my fainting spirits into life.
Sir W.
You met the Lady Adela, my lord?
'Twas not with my connivance she went forth.
Was she alone, or how was she attended?
Earl of L.
Of her own sex attendant she had none;
A youth, who on his mantle wore the cross,
Walk'd by her side—
Sir W.
Oh, my thrice honour'd lord,
For Heaven's sweet sake, command her to avoid
That dangerous youth, ere love ensnares her heart;
Chaste as the unsunn'd snow your daughter is,
But Leicester's heiress must not so descend
From her high privilege, to waste a thought
On him, whose unknown parent, when she dropt
Her infant at my door, gave him indeed
The name of Reginald, but left his birth
A secret wrapt in mystery and darkness.
Earl of L.
What you relate of this mysterious youth
Is not entirely new; much I have heard,
That does you honour, for the noble breeding
Which you have giv'n him. I have heard withal
That at the seige of Tours, this Reginald,
The desperate breach; for which heroic act
Prince Richard knighted him upon the field.
Sir W.
Upon the very breach—
Earl of L.
And this brave Knight,
Belov'd by Adela, by you approv'd,
And for his valour honour'd by his King,
Is your own son—Avow him, and receive
My child, the dearest object of my love,
And the best gift my friendship can bestow.
Sir W.
Not for ten thousand worlds—Forbid it, Heaven!
Conscience, and truth, and nature, cry against it.
By every blessed saint in Heav'n I swear
He's not my son; if I should say he were,
'Twould be a perjury as deep as hell.
Brave though he be and virtuous, (for I scorn
To set him forth for other than he is)
Sooner than give my sanction to that crime,
This hand should lodge this dagger in my heart.
Earl of L.
Patience, good friend! you are by much too warm.
Sir W.
Can friendship be too warm? Till it be known
What parents gave this nameless foundling birth,
The Earl of Leicester cannot call him son.
The kingly sword may with a touch confer
A title on the merest son of earth,
But true nobility is of itself,
And holds its honours, not by grace or sufferance,
But by inherent property and right.
Earl of L.
True, an appeal like this, when calmly urg'd,
Weighs more with me than vehemence of words.
Now, if you guess where these young lovers haunt,
Conduct me thither.
Sir W.
This way we shall meet them.
[Exeunt.
And.
Come hither, Peter; did you note that
stranger, who pass'd us but this minute with Sir
Walter?
Peter.
Yes, he is a pilgrim.
And.
No more a pilgrim than yourself. I've
said it.
Peter.
He is dress'd like a pilgrim.
And.
Pooh, how you babble! hold your tongue
and listen. Which is the fitter person, do you
think, to treat of matters secret and profound, I,
or your silly self?
Peter.
You, master Andrew, you. Talk on,
I pray you; I dearly love to hear you talk.
And.
Humph! I don't much dislike to hear
myself. You must perceive there is a certain
thing, which I possess in reasonable abundance,
and you stand much in need of—I mean wisdom.
Now there are three ways of acquiring wisdom:
experience is the first—you have none of that:
books are the next—but them you cannot read:
the third and last, and best of all the three, is
genius; of that, friend Peter, you have not one
grain. How lucky then for you that I am here,
to drop a little sense into your noddle!
Peter.
Pray, master Andrew, hav'nt you just
now a drop or two in your own?
And.
No matter. Open both your ears, and
edify. I told you that the stranger was no pilgrim;
and why? because I knew him for the
Earl of Leicester. Now there's a secret; see
you keep it close.
Peter.
And why is it a secret?
And.
Hav'nt I said enough? Must I explain
to you, that old King Henry banish'd the Earl
Richard, for no cause at all, unless it be to pillage
his estates, keeps him in banishment? Now
there you have it; and what are you the wiser
for all this?
Peter.
Not much, in troth. 'Tis no concern
of mine.
And.
There you are out. It is concern of
your's, for you shall find the Earl will make short
work with your Sir Reginald, and drive him out
to those same holy wars, of which thou can'st
discuss the why and wherefore, about as learnedly
as thou can'st calculate eclipses, or chop logic.
Peter.
Well; I can fight; will not that
serve?
And.
Yes, it will serve to prove thou art a
dolt, to run thy head against a Saracen, and ask
him civilly to knock thy brains out.
Peter.
But how if I knock his?
And.
He'll thank you for it; for then you waft
him in a whiff to Paradise; you give him black-eyed
girls, and beds of roses, where he quaffs
coffee, that flows by in rivers, under the branches
of pistachio trees.
Peter.
Ah, master, you're too eloquent for
me; but this I know, if my young master, brave
Sir Reginald, is to be turn'd adrift, there will be
water shed by some bright eyes, that shall be
nameless.
And.
Torrents of tears, and hurricanes of sighs:
You may quote me for that. Bad times are
coming on; sorrowful times.
Peter.
Oh lud, how I hate sorrow! 'Tis so
dull; I never could abide it.
And.
No, nor will ever feel it. Now I hate
sorrow too; but what do I? Ev'n what a
wise man should—comfort myself, as you perceive,
comfort others.
Peter.
Aye, you find all your comfort in the
cellar.
And.
Well, and a blessing on his heart who
built it! he must have known the worth of wine,
who rear'd such sturdy arches to protect his liquor.
Peter.
You was there all the time the castle
was on fire.
And.
Where could I be so well? I quench'd
my thirst, and others burnt their fingers—Hold!
who comes here?
Sir Hugh de Lacy enters.
Sir H.
The good-day to you, worthy gentlemen!
if you have knowledge of a certain knight,
Sir Walter Scroop by name, I shall esteem it an
act of courtesy to bring me to him.
And.
Puissant sir, I am the man to serve you,
being familiar with the knightly person of Sir
Walter Scroop, whereas this honest soldier only
waits upon his horse.
Sir H.
Adjust your own precedencies, only
be pleas'd to give me quick dispatch, as bearing
from the Queen commands of no small moment.
And.
I am her highness's obsequious slave,
and will incontinently give dispatch to you,
being a man as loyally dispos'd, though I say it
of myself, as any subject in the realm of England.
Sir, I perceive you're for the holy wars; truly
a most praise-worthy enterprize, for which his
holiness the Pope will bless you, being a mortal
foe to Mahomet, although himself a preacher up
of peace.
Sir H.
At present, with your leave, we'll quit
the Pope, and go in search of Sir Walter.
This way, so please you. The grove is
intricate; I'll be your guide.—Peter, you know
your place.
[Exeunt.
Scene changes and discovers the Castle of Sir Walter Scroop in ruins, by fire. Adela is standing in a pensive posture, contemplating the ruins. The Earl of Leicester, preceded by Sir Walter Scroop, enters, and upon seeing his daughter stops short.
Sir W.
Lo, where your daughter stands.
Earl of L.
Hush, hush, be still.
Adela advances towards the Castle, and kneels.
Lady A.
All gracious Providence, whose
mercy sav'd me from these devouring flames,
which, but for thy vouchsafement, and the
courage of my deliverer, had amidst these ruins
mingled my ashes, deign to accept my praises!
and oh! whilst here thy rescued creature, kneeling,
calls to mind the horrors of that moment,
may I not, without offence, put up a prayer for
him, who was thy timely messenger to save me?
And, as it was the hand of Reginald that snatch'd
me from these fires, so shall no other hand but
his e'er lead me to thy sacred altar—
Sir W.
[advancing.]
Stop!—
Lady A.
[rises and turns to Sir Walter.]
Why
should I stop? To him, and him alone, I plight
my faith, and call on Heaven to register my vow.
Sir W.
Recall it! Supplicate to be absolv'd
from that rash vow, and fall upon your knees
once more to Heaven, or you are lost for ever.
Lady A.
I had been lost, inevitably lost,
And left my reliques in that flaming mass,
Had not the generous Reginald preserv'd me.
Your conscience witnesses. What is my crime?
If chaste affection, purity of heart,
And the full sense of honour, be no crimes,
How am I lost?
Sir W.
'Tis not to me alone
You vent these warm effusions. Be advis'd:
Look round, examine before whom you speak,
Ere you speak that, of which you may repent.
Lady A.
Your warning comes too late; you brought this stranger,
A pilgrim, as it seems, unseen of me,
To steal upon my privacy, and catch
The secret aspirations of my soul,
Whilst I pour'd forth my conscious vows to him,
With whom alone its inmost thoughts repose.
Was that fair dealing? Though disastrous times
Made me your charge, and threw me on your care,
I am the daughter of the Earl of Leicester:
My noble father would not treat me thus.
Sir W.
You are the daughter of the Earl of Leicester—
That is confest; but what is Reginald?
Lady A.
What is he? By his virtues more ennobled
Than all, who, in themselves obscure and mean,
Have nothing but an ancestry to boast of.
He on the splendour of his own achievements
Erects his title, in despight of birth;
They wear their lazy honours by descent.
Earl of L.
Urge her no more—I know your father well,
His thoughts are open to me as my own.
Would you persist in what you now have vow'd,
If he were present?
'Tis a strong appeal
To one, who would not grieve his wounded heart
For the world's worth; yet could I not depart
From what I've pledg'd in hearing of high Heaven,
Though his thrice-honour'd person stood before me.
Earl of L.
Do you retain no memory of his person?
Lady A.
Alas, alas! when fortune tore him from me,
So young was I, that in my mind I kept
No register of forms, however dear.
My father, from his country long estrang'd,
Is lost to my remembrance.
Earl of L.
This will help it.
[Produces a picture.
Here is his portraiture—Not as he was,
When in his happier days, but as he is;
An exile, and a pilgrim, like to me.
Take it; compare it!
Lady A.
Like to you—Oh Heaven!—
If this be Leicester's likeness, you—oh you
Are Leicester's self—You are my long-lost father—
[She sinks gradually on her knee, as she speaks.
Let me not kneel in error—Oh declare!
Are you indeed my father?
Earl of L.
To my heart,
My throbbing heart, I press thee; oh my child!
I am, I am thy father—
Sir W.
Cease, my lord;
Break off!—We are observ'd.
[Sir Hugh de Lacy appears at the side scene, brought in by Andrew. They speak apart.
And.
There is Sir Wlater Scroop; you can't
pilgrim; he is the banish'd Earl of Leicester; I
tell you that, so it remains a secret. The lady is
Adela de Bellamont, his daughter, a piece of rare
humanity, worthy your notice—farewell!
[Exit.
Sir Hugh de Lacy advances.
Sir H.
Sir Walter Scroop, the Queen, our gracious regent,
Sends you kind greeting; and whereas she holds
Your faithful services in high regard,
In her free bounty to repair the loss
Of this fair castle, she bestows upon you
Her house of Feversham to hold in fee,
With all that it contains.
Sir W.
A princely boon,
For which I do remain her humble beadsman,
To the last hour of life.
Sir H.
I have besides,
News not less welcome to your friendly ear
For the brave Earl of Leicester—a full pardon,
With restitution of his manors, rents,
Castles, and royalties; to the extent
Of all that he enjoy'd, when, in defence
Of the attainted honour of the Queen,
Enrag'd he drew his sword: for which the King,
Our second Henry, banish'd and despoil'd him.
If now he hears me, and in doubt conceals
His noble person in the homely garb
Of a poor pilgrim, he will cast it off,
And let an old true friend, who shares his joy,
Enfold him in his arms.
Earl of L.
Come to my heart!
Thus, thus enfolded, Leicester lives again.
Brave Knight, throughout all Christendom acknowledg'd
At thy command, these pilgrim weeds away;
And to my queen, the gracious Eleanor,
Devote myself her ever-bounden knight:
Again to draw my sword in her defence,
If slander calls it forth, in her good cause
Content to suffer banishment or death.
Sir H.
Then buckle on your armour, gallant lord,
And join your peers at Vergelay, where France
Holds friendly congress with our English king.
There you shall find us; thither we are bound,
And good Sir Walter Scroop must be content
To part from Reginald.
Sir W.
Heav'n knows how gladly:
Now, now I live again.
[Aside.
Sir H.
His king expects
The youthful hero, whom, from helm to spur
All bath'd in gore, he knighted on the breach.
The gallant Richard in the blood, that flow'd
From his gash'd cuirass, dipt his sword, and drew
Across his buckler thrice the streaming blade;
Then bade him rise, Sir Reginald de Tours,
And gave him licence evermore to wear
That brave device emblazon'd on his shield.
Lady A.
Do you note that, my father?
Sir H.
Now to you,
Most fair and noble lady, I am charg'd
With a commission from our gracious Queen—
A broider'd scarf, by her own fingers wrought,
She sends by me, commanding you to invest
With that her princely gift your own true knight;
Who, when the savage flames embay'd you round,
Bravely to save your life expos'd his own,
As did your father his, when evil tongues,
Lady A.
To the commands of my benignant Queen,
Her humble handmaid, I profoundly bow.
But if, when summon'd to invest her knight,
My quivering nerves disgrace the awful task,
Let this reflection mitigate my fault—
The hands will tremble when the heart dissolves.
Sir W.
Enough!—and hark, the convent bell proclaims
An hour past noon— [A distant clock strikes one.]
Whilst, issuing from the gate,
An armed warrior this way bends his steps.
Sir H.
'Tis he; 'tis Reginald!—he turns aside;
My soul's in arms to greet him—Let us follow!
[Exeunt.
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