University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A magnificent Apartment, where the Countess, the Marquis, the Count of Colmar, and Matilda, appear conversing.
COUNTESS.
I love to hear these tales of former days,
Which move the mind to useful retrospection,
And seem to give it new and longer being.—
Your rev'rence for my Albert's noble father,
Delights my soul.—Your zeal proclaims his worth.

COUNT OF COLMAR.
It was transcendent! For his noble mind,
Gen'rous as kind, to all around diffus'd
Unnumber'd blessings!—To the rich, and poor,
His gates and hand and heart were ever open,
With courteous dignity, and temper'd state;
That mix'd with liberal plenty, wise expence;
Invited ease, and yet inspir'd respect;
Allur'd to mirth, yet banish'd noisy riot.
He was, what great men shou'd be; what, alas!
I knew, but never hope to know again!—

COUNTESS.
I wonder, Montval, with the nat'ral pride
A son shou'd feel, offspring of such a father!—
I wonder that his tongue shou'd not be lavish
On such a theme!—If I am not mistaken,
He lost his noble mother when a child.

COUNT.
He did: and great the loss! for ne'er was beauty
Inform'd with clearer sense, or sweeter temper,
Or deck'd and dignified by higher virtue.

COUNTESS.
I shou'd not grieve that she has long been dead:
My poor deserts wou'd but have been a foil
To her endowments.

COLMAR.
O that she had liv'd,
She and the count, to see their only son
Mated, with beauty, fortune, virtue, birth,
Beyond their highest hopes!

COUNTESS.
You overrate,
With the warm impulse of a noble mind,
My humble merits: but inform me, count,
—For in his absence he must be my theme—
Did never any difference arise,
—Such as, too oft' has ris'n 'twixt youth, and age—
Between my Albert, and his noble father?

COLMAR.
Nothing of moment:—nought, I trust, that left
Rankling rememb'rance.—Strict, himself, of morals,—
Tho' liberal, not profuse—perhaps he thought
His son's first burst of manhood rather wild,
And his expence beyond the bounds of prudence:
This, lady, I have heard, but this was all;
For never doating parent felt more pride
In a son's talents, and his manly grace,
Than felt the count in your accomplish'd lord's.

COUNTESS.
Thanks, noble sir, for gratifying thus
The fond enquiries of a curious woman;
Curious to ev'ry, ev'n the least concern,
Of him she loves.—Marquis, you also know
My Albert's father?

MARQUIS.
Late, tho' long enough
To see, and feel his worth. Some six years since,
Upon a visit to a noble kinsman,
I often found admittance in this castle,
And learnt to love, and to revere its lord.

MATILDA.
But, my dear countess, you forget your purpose
To visit the fair terrace, whence the view
Of Alps on Alps, shining with all their snows,
O'er the dark forest of the tow'ring pines,
At once delights and elevates the soul.—

COUNTESS.
'Tis well remember'd; and the western sun
Must, at this moment, pour a golden blaze
On their white summits, and their lofty rocks.
Dear count, your arm.—Marquis, you'll shew the way,
And lead Matilda to her favorite seat.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The great Hall, where enter Blaise and Teresa.
TERESA.
You tell me wonders, I can hardly credit!
Can you believe the chambers you have mention'd
Are really haunted?—

BLAISE.
'Tis a serious truth.—
Certain it is, that ere my present lord
Forbade access to those, and other rooms,
Certain it is, strange noises oft' were heard
At dead of night: deep groans, and creaking doors;
And hurrying steps, and hollow murmurings.—

TERESA.
O! let me never pass within the view
Of those apartments!—I should die with fear
If I but heard the groans!—Hark!—What was that?
That rustling sound, along the vaulted roof?

BLAISE.
Nought but your fancy; or the rushing wind
Against the gothic casements of the hall.

TERESA.
Are the apartments very far from hence?

BLAISE.
Quite at th'other extremity of the castle:
The old count lov'd them for their privacy.

TERESA.
Thank Heav'n! or I shou'd tremble at my shadow.
But now the troubled spirit is at rest?
No midnight noises now?

BLAISE.
Yes, still, by night,
At times I've heard the sound of passing feet
And creaking hinges:—But the groans have long,
Long ceas'd.

TERESA.
The spirit, then, has not appear'd?

BLAISE.
Never:—nor since my master kept the keys
Of those apartments, have the groans been heard:
For when the rumour once had reach'd his ear,
Of midnight noises and a walking ghost,
He gave strict charge that no domestic more,
Or passing guest, should sleep within that wing;
Then shut it up, and keeps it from all notice.—

TERESA.
Think you my lord believes the rooms are haunted?

BLAISE.
I know not that; but vast as is the mansion,
He never felt the want of those apartments,
And did not like report should circulate
The wond'rous story of his haunted castle;
To frighten some, to move the jest of others,
And draw a curious gaping crowd around,
To watch for spirits, and disturb his peace.
And who can blame him for the wise precaution?

TERESA.
What wou'd my noble lady give to see
Those haunted rooms!—I've often heard her talk
Of dreadful things, and supernatural beings!
She thinks such may appear, but fears them not.
I never knew a lady of such courage!—

BLAISE.
Without the keys she cannot enter them.—
Nor has my master ever shewn them since.—
Nothing wou'd more offend him than to mention
So strange a tale.

TERESA.
Well, Blaise, another time
You'll tell me more; I now must seek my lady.—
(As she passes by the table sees and takes up the keys, left by the Count.)
What keys are these?

BLAISE.
Three large ones, and a less!
I know the larger lead to those apartments
I told you of. The lesser one I know not:
The count, in haste to go, has left them here.

TERESA.
I'm glad his caution has been once asleep;
I will convey them to my noble mistress,
And tell her all the marvels they secure.—
Adieu! good Blaise.

BLAISE.
My dear Teresa stay!—
Trust them to me!—It would displease my lord
If any hint of what I've told were giv'n.
The countess ought from him to hear the story,
When he shall judge it proper to entrust her.
It is not fit for us to interfere
Insuch concerns as these!

TERESA.
Nay, nay, good friend,
If he has hitherto ne'er trusted you
To keep these keys, 'tis odds but he wou'd rather
My lady guarded them till his return.

BLAISE.
If not to me, entrust them to Lapont;
The count in him has perfect confidence.

TERESA.
Think you Lapont is trusted like my lady!
To her the doating count has still reveal'd
His inmost thoughts.—He loves her with such passion,
And finds his tenderness so well return'd,
That were his life and honor both at stake,
To her, with free and fearless confidence,
Wou'd both be trusted.—Rest assur'd of this.

BLAISE.
Enough: you ought to know their humours best.
But yet my heart misgives me that some trouble
Will surely spring from these forgotten keys.

TERESA.
Fear nothing! I will save you free from blame.

BLAISE.
I was to blame for tattling thus about them.

[Exit one way, and Blaise the other, who passes Lapont hurrying back.
Enter Lapont in great Agitation.
LAPONT.
Where are these villanous keys? He left them here—
He surely did!—accursed be my haste
Not to secure them, ere I followed him!
Perhaps old Blaise has found them.—If 'tis so,
I'll watch and sound him well, but I will have 'em.
Yet still, Lapont, beware of anxious questions.—
Such wou'd betray an earnestness about them,
Might lead to curious search, and that to ruin.
But yet some prudent means must be contriv'd
To get them back—'Tis of the last importance
To me, the count, and to our mutual safety!
This haughty beauty, overaws my soul.
I dare not face the ardors of her eye;
It looks a scorn I cannot brook, nor bear.
I dread her empire o'er her doating husband;
And if I cannot shake it, soon will seize
Some lucky moment to secure my fortune,
Then leave this castle, and its hated owners.

[Exit.
Enter the Marquis, and Matilda.
MARQUIS.
Repose yourself! these fervent western rays
Have overpower'd you with oppressive heat.

MATILDA.
Thanks to your kindness! I am much reliev'd,
And always most delighted to receive,
—For prudish forms were idle with me now,—
Repeated proofs of your unvarying love.

“MARQUIS.
“Generous Matilda! Cou'd my passion cool,
“This noble candor wou'd awake its warmth.

“MATILDA.
“Thus—with this pure, with this ingenuous ardor—
“Thus let us ever act, and ever love!”—
But I am pleas'd the countess did not mark,
—Held in close converse by her noble guest,—
Our quick retreat.—“I know she's never weary
“Exploring such rare scenes as nature here,
“Exulting, offers the enchanted eye:
“Sublime, as various; beautiful, as wild!”

MARQUIS.
She is a lovely, and a noble creature!
“I never saw such spirit, and such softness,
“So high a mind, with so much courtesy;
“Such lofty manners, with such winning grace!”
I trust the count will merit the rare blessing
Which fortune has bestow'd, in such a wife.
How did he win her?—For she came upon us
Before you told me half I wish'd to know
Of such a woman, and your chosen friend?

MATILDA.
In a few words; by ardent perseverance,
His various talents, and his manly grace.
Yet, charming as he is, methinks the countess
Eclipses him, with her superior lustre.

MARQUIS.
Her rank and fortune, too, as I have heard,
Surpass'd his own.—But absent, long, from France,
And late return'd to peace and joy and love,
From all the dangers of the distant war,
I know but little of events at home.

MATILDA.
Sole heiress of the house of duke Pontac,
Her riches, birth, and wond'rous excellence,
Made her a match for many a sov'reign prince.
Such woo'd her; but magnanimous of soul,
“Unsway'd by interest, or by vanity,”
She wou'd not marry, whom she cou'd not love.

MARQUIS.
Her house is of the noblest France con boast,
Which makes me wonder,—tho' the count himself
Bears a fair name, and owns an ample fortune,—
That her proud father wou'd consent her hand
Shou'd honour any, but of princely blood!—

MATILDA.
You know not how he doats upon his daughter:
When she assur'd him,—for her gen'rous soul,
Knows no disguise,—that to Montval alone
Her heart cou'd be presented with her hand,
Tho' somewhat loth, he gave his slow consent,
Sanction'd her passion, and approv'd her choice.
And as she never knows a lukewarm feeling,
Never was man more ardently belov'd.—

MARQUIS.
Fortunate count! O! may his soul catch fire
At her bright flame, and emulate her virtue!

MATILDA.
You seem to speak as somewhat doubtful of him!
Have you heard aught that might impeach his worth!

MARQUIS.
I trust he is reform'd; but well remember
When closely link'd with the gay profligates
Which are at once, the scourge, and shame of Paris,
He plung'd, with them, in all the wild excess,
And all the follies of that splendid city.—

MATILDA.
I hope his riper years have seen the error.

MARQUIS.
I hope they have; for graver manners mark'd
His public conduct, ere he knew the countess,
And better maxims seem'd to take the lead
Of senseless squand'ring, and destructive vice.

MATILDA.
I grieve to hear he was their votary?
Ah! never! never! may his noble bride
Know that his reputation suffer'd blemish
From vice, and follies, which her spotless heart
Wou'd mourn cou'd taint the object of its love.

MARQUIS.
Be not disquieted! for once renounc'd,
Vice shews too hateful to allure us back,
And too repulsive, to seduce us more!—
But the day wanes.—The countess soon will join us;
Then let us enter, and await her presence,—

[Exeunt.
Enter Lapont, and Blaise.
LAPONT.
So honest Blaise, you think your master's choice,
—That lofty countess, with her lofty scorn—
Does honour to his wisdom, and his taste?

BLAISE.
Who can think otherwise, that sees her charms,
And knows my lady's virtue, wealth, and birth?

LAPONT.
Well, I confess all this: but then her spirit,
Her spirit Blaise, may try thy master's temper!
She looks as if enamour'd of disdain,
And shews a distance to his old dependents,
—Most feelingly I speak!—as if she scorn'd
To notice any, but of noblest blood,—
I wou'd not such a spirit in wife!

BLAISE.
To me she shews no symptom of disdain;
But is most gentle, kind, and condescending.

LAPONT.
That's mere caprice; for thou shalt feel, ere long,
Her haughty temper, and imperious scorn.
But now I think on't, hast thou found some keys
The count, forgetful, left upon his table?
He bade me seek them, as in friendly talk,
He held me to his coach.

BLAISE.
I have them not.

LAPONT.
Nay! nay! this sounds so like equivocation!
Know you who has? or, did you see them here?

BLAISE.
I need not tell you all I see and know.—

LAPONT.
Granted my friend. But yet methinks this answer,
Night vex the count.—You know his hasty temper,
And know his value for the keys in question,
Which he has only trusted to my care.
It matters not to me.

BLAISE.
To speak the truth,
My lady's favou'rite woman found them here,
And said she'd, straightway, give them to her mistress.

LAPONT
(agitated.)
Give them the countess!—run and stop her Blaise!
But—yet—no matter (aside)
“for she knows them not,
“Nor dreams of what importance”—'tis no matter.—
The keys are little worth; altho' the count,
For reasons thou hast heard, of ghosts, and groans,
And such ridiculous, and idle tales,
Chuses to have them in his own possession.

BLAISE.
And so I told Teresa.

LAPONT
(agitated.)
So you told her!
Can nothing ever stop thy busy tongue!
How dare you thus reveal!—But never mind,
What care's thy master for the silly rumours.
Yet, wou'd thou had'st been silent!—Go and call
Young Ambrose hither.—I've a message for him
Sent from the count, which I had near forgotten.
[Exit. Blaise.
I must be quick! Destruction seize them all!
[Takes pen, ink, and paper out of his pocket, and writes.
So—So—'tis well—this, sure must call him back
With eager haste—
(Ambrose enters.)
Come hither my good lad;
Clap on thy spurs: saddle the fleetest horse
Thy master owns, and gallop after him
With thy best speed.—It shall be well rewarded!
Waking or sleeping say thou com'st from me,
And give this letter to his hand alone.—

AMBROSE.
“Your pleasure shall be done. I know the road,
“And can o'ertake the Count ere one o'clock.

[Exit Ambrose.
LAPONT.
Ah! might he meet my wish, he now were here?
I'll strive to watch the countess, till he comes,
And counteract the misery I dread,—
Cou'd I invent some pretext might induce her
To follow her lov'd lord!—Yes,—that were well.
Curse on his tenderness!—had I been by,
Or had I once suspected her proud nature,
I wou'd have interfer'd to spoil their marraige.
But cou'd I meet Teresa ere she enters,
Much trouble and much terror might be spar'd.
Curse on those keys?—guarded with so much care,
Recover'd once, they ne'er shall scape me more;
Or if they shou'd, they shall not then betray me.—

[Exit.