University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

A Cloister belonging to the Convent.
Sir Walter and Lady Scroop.
Sir W.
I'll not be follow'd. Leave me.

Lady S.
Oh, for mercy
Hear me, direct me, save me from despair.
This dreadful secret weighs my nature down;
My soul sinks under it.

Sir W.
You wrung it from me;
In an unguarded moment you surpriz'd me.
Sorrow had seal'd my bosom, till the news
Of Reginald's departure burst upon me
In one short gleam of joy; then, then it was
You sooth'd me into folly, and betray'd me.

Lady S.
You do me wrong. Your secret is secure.
I've had the poor devoted victims with me;
Witness'd their fond endearments, seen their transports,
Heard them announce their now-impending doom,
And not betray'd you.

Sir W.
That avails me nothing:
Whilst I forbore to speak, I had my choice
Still to be dumb, but when I let you share
My secrets, I compell'd you to partake
The horrors of concealment, and embark'd
Your conscience in like peril with my own.
Single in guilt, perhaps I had preferr'd
Remorse to ruin, splendid misery
To honourable death. But now 'tis done;
All shall come out. I will not sink your soul
To save my wretched life: therefore away!
I wait for Leicester here: I stand to guard
This passage to the altar, and present
My bosom to De Lacy's fierce assault.

Lady S.
What do you tell me? oh, too much, too much!
Or fly your danger, or let me partake it.

Sir W.
No; I've already done the fatal deed,
That draws inevitable ruin on us.
Farewell to all our honours, all our hopes!
To the stern dictates of imperious conscience
I sacrifice the world and all its joys.

Lady S.
I will not, cannot leave you thus distress'd.

Sir W.
This last, this fond embrace, and then—no more.
I have now strung my spirit to the pitch,
And will not suffer weakness to approach me
In the soft form of woman. Fare thee well!
Begone at once, for by my soul I swear,
If you persist, 'twill be to see me fall
By my own sword.

Lady S.
Heaven's mercy be your guard!

[Exit.
Sir Walter Scroop
alone.
Nature, religion, laws divine and human,
Cry out on incest, and denounce these nuptials.
What then, what then? They know not their offence;
And where there is no consciousness of guilt,
No punishment can follow the commission.
There's hope for them; but hope includes not me.
Man cannot penetrate the thoughts of man,
But there is one, to whom all thoughts are known,
And in whose sight all secrets stand confest.
He, ere pollution shall approach his altar,
Can call the self-accusing spirit up,
Give insubstantial air a shadowy form,
And rescue nature from the impending curse.
Rise then, dead Adela, awake from sleep,
Thou, that art here entomb'd, ascend to sight,
Shade of a conscious mother—
Lady Scroop appears.
Hah! begone!
Have I not warn'd you hence? why do you come
To fright imagination, and enhance
The terror of my thoughts?

Lady S.
Be not amaz'd.
I come not to alarm you, but to guard;
To give your spirit time for recollection,
And wake you from your trance—Leicester approaches.
[Exit Lady S.

Sir Walter Scroop.
Now then, my heart, be firm! vain terrors, hence!
And thou, my evil genius, that art busy
With thy accurst temptations to seduce
My conscience from its properties, avaunt!
Yes, thou unsparing monitor, thou just
But merciless remembrancer, I know
Not all the world can bribe thee to withdraw
Thine arrows from my bosom, and allow
Sweet sleep to enter, till I have fulfill'd
Thy strict commandment; nor can I acquit
My account with Heaven till I am clear with thee.
Now, Leicester, I am ready—Lo, he comes—

Earl of Leicester enters.
Earl of L.
You're happily encounter'd, good Sir Walter.
I've much desir'd this meeting—Ah, my friend,
Give me your hand—All is not well, I fear;
You are not chearful as you wont to be.
When every face is lighted up with smiles,
You damp our joys with sullenness and sorrow.

Sir W.
It is not that I've lost the sense of joy,
Or ceas'd to sympathize in what concerns you,
If I am sad: not so, my honour'd lord;
Your happiness is dear to me as ever;
Believe me on my word. But above all,
Let not De Lacy, or the Monk, persuade you
That I have lost possession of my mind,
And gone astray from reason. They will tell you
That I am mad; it is themselves are mad,
When they would tempt you to this fatal act.

Earl of L.
Though I could well conjecture what you mean
By fatal act, yet, if you mean me well,
Deal fairly with me. I am sick of hints;
I abhor mystery. Honesty disclaims it.

Sir W.
Then arm yourself with patience; good my lord,
As I am mov'd by friendship, when I tell you
You must adjourn these inauspicious nuptials
To future time, and some far-distant chance,
That never shall take place.

Earl of L.
Away! you're mad.

Sir W.
Unless 'tis madness for your sake to suffer
These pangs, with which you wring confession from me,
And sacrifice my peace of mind to yours,
I am not mad. I know I must abide
De Lacy's vengeance, Eleanor's displeasure,
With loss of all my hopes, my friends, my fortune,
Perhaps my life itself; and yet I swear
You must not, shall not wed your Adela
To Reginald de Tours.

Earl of L.
Is he not worthy;
Is he not virtuous, brave? did not the sword
Of Richard knight him in the breach at Tours?
Doth not the Queen array him with her scarf?
Do not De Lacy, Ambrose, press the nuptials?
Though of mysterious birth, does he not carry
The mark of true nobility upon him?

Sir W.
All, all, that can compose and build him up
To human excellence, he does contain
And centre in himself. Virtuous and brave
He surely is; and nobly born withal,
Alas, too nobly—There the sorrow lurks,
There the deep secret lies, which to uproot
Unseats my very heart. 'Twas in the year,
When you were on your embassy to Rome,
That Reginald was born.

Earl of L.
Go on: proceed!

Sir W.
The Queen, our regent, then was in disgrace;
And Henry, who was moving for divorce,
Kept her imprison'd here at Feversham.

Earl of L.
'Tis fresh in my remembrance. Pass that over!

Sir W.
The Lady Leicester, your departed wife,
Shar'd her confinement, chear'd her solitude,
And liv'd an inmate with her in the castle.

Earl of L.
They were the truest, dearest friends on earth;
It seem'd as if one heart inspir'd them both.
Eighteen long months my Adela remain'd
In solitude, and led a widow'd life,
Whilst at the sovereign Pontiff's court I plied
My long depending inauspicious suit.

Sir W.
'Twas then that Reginald first saw the light.
In the mid-hour of night I was awaken'd,
And secretly conducted to the palace.
A female, whom I knew not, led me on
By various turnings to a lady's chamber:
She held her new-born infant in her arms,
And fervently implor'd me to protect him.
I took him, rear'd him, lov'd him as my own;
'Twas Reginald, 'twas this unconscious son
Of a mysterious mother—

Earl of L.
Stop! 'Tis she,
In whose defence, on my anointed King
Furious I drew my sacrilegious sword.
Oh my prophetic soul, it is confirm'd!
What need of words? For tell-tale nature speaks,
And in a mother's fondness finds the source
Of all the multitude of honours shower'd
On this descendant from a race of kings.
No more—These vaulted cloisters shall not catch
The echo of a name, that should be sacred.

Sir W.
No, you must seek a name more sacred still,
More hard for me to speak, and you to hear.
Think only what your horror would have been,
Had you permitted them to join their hands,
And found one common mother of them both.

Earl of L.
Why that is she that lies in holy earth;
That is dead Adela—

Sir W.
Oh fatal truth!
She was the mother—

Earl of L.
I will have conviction.
Tear up the pavement; drag her from her coffin,
And let me see her heart. I will be satisfied.
Where is the wretch, the villain that seduc'd her?

Sir W.
My lord, my lord, these transports will unfit you
For that immediate duty, which demands
Your instant presence to forbid the nuptials.

Earl of L.
Are they not married? That impatient monk,
Hath he not solemniz'd th' incestuous rites?

Sir W.
No, be assur'd. Let us not waste the time,
But haste, and save them.

Earl of L.
Oh, my heart, my heart!

[Exeunt.
Scene draws off, and discovers the Abbey Church of the Convent.
Sir Hugh de Lacy and Reginald.
Sir H.
Here, whilst our brave companions of the cross
Dispose themselves in march, I must arrest
Your fond impatience for a few short minutes,
And call your best attention to the matter,
Which I shall now unfold.

Sir R.
I have an ear
For ever open to your sage advice,
A heart for ever ready to obey you.

Sir H.
You see these knights, the noblest in the realm,
What honours they intend you. 'Tis the Queen
That prompts them to this service; 'tis for her
They deign to move in a dependent sphere,
Like satellites around your splendid orb.
Was ever knight so graced as you will be,
When, by the hands of love and beauty deck'd,
Upon your mailed cuirass you display
In glittering folds the favours of a queen?

Sir R.
I'm lost in wonder, nor can trace a cause
Why all these bounties should descend on me,
But that our gracious Queen is mov'd with pity
For a deserted creature.

Sir H.
Let your reason
Resolve these questions, ere you talk of pity—
Why are you now permitted to espouse
The wealthiest heiress in the realm of England?
Why, but because the Queen protects your suit?
Leicester's recall'd from exile, all his honours
Restor'd, his fines and forfeitures revers'd,
What are they but the price for his consent?
The princely largess she bestows on Scroop,
And Ambrose from an humble monk become
A mitred abbot—can you fail to find
The source of all these bounties in yourself?
How can affection speak in plainer terms,
And what more can the fondest mother do
For a beloved son?

Sir R.
What can I say?
I will not talk of gratitude; I feel it.

Sir H.
There is yet more—Scroop will oppose your marriage;
But Scroop's deceiv'd, and does not know your parents.
She, that impos'd you on him for her son,
Is long since dead; but she, that bore you, lives,
And will avow you.

Sir R.
Oh, reveal her to me,
And be my more than father!

Sir H.
Were I less,
Or other than by nature what I am,
I should be much unworthy such a son.

Sir R.
Sir!—I must hope you cannot mean to mock me.
How must I understand those awful words?

Sir H.
I am your father, but you must reserve
Your knees for her, who has the better claim:
Stand not as one amaz'd; but hear me further—
Dear to my soul thou art, and whilst these arms
Enfold and press thee to a father's bosom,
Oh! recollect 'twas virtue made thee great.
Keep her, my son, for ever in thy sight!—
When fortune in full splendour bursts upon thee,
Undazzled by the blaze, recal to mind,
When first adventuring forth into the world,
There was a path to lazy pride unknown,
A path, which none but virtuous heroes trod,
That led thee up to fame.

Sir R.
Oh, guard me still!
And, if the false lights of a treacherous world
Mislead and puzzle my uncertain course,
Then, then come forth, recal my devious steps,
And put me in the glorious track again!

Sir H.
Be sure of that, my son; and, as this arm,
Whilst at thy side I fought, hath thrown my shield
Before thy gallant breast, and on its orb
Receiv'd the javelin, that was hurl'd at thee,
So to temptation's shafts will I oppose
My counsel, and protect thee from disgrace.

Sir R.
I feel my danger. When I was obscure,
A thing whom no one own'd, I was as proud
As conscience would allow of, and aspir'd
To make myself a station with the best.
But now, when brought from darkness into light,
I see that fame is no inheritance,
That honour can't descend, but must be earn'd;
And in proportion as the name you give
Is loftier far than any I could gain,
So is my task the harder to deserve it.

Sir H.
Break off, my son. Behold where Leicester comes.

Leicester followed by Scroop.
Earl of L.
Where is my daughter? I forbid the nuptials:
They are profane, unnatural, and accurst.
Avoid the altar; fly!—What dost thou here?
Begone, thou son of an adulterous mother;
Begone, and never let me see thee more!

Sir H.
Leicester, forbear! You know not what you say.
You are deceiv'd. Scroop is himself deceiv'd.
Both are in error. With a single word
I could convince you—but the monk approaches—
Ambrose enters, and after him Lady Scroop with Adela follow.
Father, deliver what you have in charge
From the Queen-mother to the Earl of Leicester,
And let her speak—

[Ambrose delivers a seal'd paper to Leicester. Leicester opens and reads.
Earl of L.
Oh Heaven and earth!
This paper superscribed, The Confession
Of the unhappy, guilty Eleanor—
Brings with it peace to me and all.
Attend, whilst I unfold the important scroll.
“Let none persuade you to suspect your wife:
“She is a saint in bliss. I am the mother
“Of Reginald de Tours—Lacy the father.
“The wrongs I suffer'd from the faithless King,
“If judg'd with candour, might extenuate,
“But Heaven alone can pardon my offence.”
Oh! bless'd confession! which gives happiness
To those whose virtues merit the heav'n-born gift!
Join, join your hands, ye consecrated pair!
Father and son, thrice welcome to my arms.
O, Scroop, when now all mystery is dispell'd,
Let all mistakes be buried in oblivion.
From deepest sorrow I emerge to joy:
Darkness is banish'd, and a glorious light
Beams from the throne on this illustrious youth

Amb.
Joy to my Reginald! We've seen him rise
To honours nobly earn'd, and ere he knew
The greatness he was born to, make himself,
By his own virtues great, till he became
The founder of his own nobility.

Sir W.
O Reginald, what bliss will now be mine,
When at the nuptial altar I behold
That happy union, which I blindly strove,
In conscience, though in error, to prevent.

Sir R.
So many are my blessings, and so vast
My debt of gratitude, I must entreat
That you will judge me not by my professions,
But by the test of actions, and believe me
In words alone defective, not in heart.
Here is my guardian angel; whilst I keep
And merit this protection, I am safe.

Lady S.
Oh, my beloved Adela, to tell
What agonies have rent this tortur'd heart
For your dear sake, exceeds the power of words
But all is past; the sorrows that bedew'd
Those beauteous eyes with tears, are now dispers'd
Like clouds, that flit before the uprising sun,
When Nature bursts in all her charms upon us.

Lady A.
That you, so gentle and so full of pity,
Have not to witness and bewail my fate,
I am most happy: much it glads me also,
That now my noble father will confess
His daughter is not humbled by her choice:
But it was Reginald, obscure, unknown,
The virtuous hero, whom I lov'd and honour'd
For merits all his own. Crowns could not add
One atom to the stature of his fame,
One feather to his weight in my esteem.
Had he been conscious of his high descent,
He might have been less humble, I less fond,
And each o'erlook'd by each, had never met.

Earl of L.
Enough, my friends! for now the altar waits;
Its holy ministers prepare to chant
Their choral strains, as chivalry directs.
That ceremony past, the Knight, array'd
In all his royal honours, shall from me
Receive his blooming bride, and whilst the priest
His nuptial benediction shall pronounce,
The attendant warriors shall attest that none
But hand so brave should join with hand so fair.