University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE.—A Gothic Hall of an Abbey, the whole much dilapidated.
Enter Madame Lamotte, followed by Peter.
Madame.
Seek not to fill me with these terrors, Peter:
Here are no signs of any late inhabitants,
The fugitive fears nothing but discovery.
While we are safe from all pursuit, no vain
Or superstitious fancies shall disturb me.

Peter.
This is a horrid place, I scarce dare crawl
Through its low grates and narrow passages;
And the wind's gust that whistles in the turrets,
Is as the groan of some one near his end.
Heaven send my Master back! On my old knees
I begg'd him not explore that dismal wood;
He comforted me then, but scorn'd my fears.

Madame.
Woud'st have us perish here for want? Have comfort,
Nor let thy Mistress teach thee fortitude.

Peter.
Nay, dearest Madam, do not think your old,
But faithful, servant backward to defend you!
From an attack but mortal, against odds
Chearful I'd risk this crazy tenement;
But here my fear is not of human harm.

Madame.
May there no greater danger press than your's,
The place will then yield us the needful shelter,
Your master will be safe, and I be happy.
But night is far advanc'd—his absence pains me.

Peter.
He went at dusk; by the same token then
The owl shriek'd from the porch—He started back;
But recollected, smote his forehead, and advanc'd;
He struck into the left hand dingle soon:
I clos'd the Abbey gate, which grated sadly.

Madame.
Hark! his signal! How! a stranger with him!

[A knocking against the pannel.
Enter Lamotte supporting Adeline.
Lamotte.
Receive this fair unfortunate with kindness.
How she was forc'd to share our wretched fate,
You'll know anon! Peter, go make a fire;
The rain has drench'd our garments through the leaves.
Prepare the supper; our new guest must need
Refreshment.

Madame.
Lady, take my arm to assist you.

Adeline.
Gratefully.—I was born to trouble others.

Lamotte.
Her spirits are violently agitated;
But kindness will restore her mind its tone.

Madame.
Scarce did I ever see a face so beauteous!

Lamotte.
The remark is womanish; I never knew
Distress more poignant—the best reason, wife,
To give our kind assistance and our love.
Bear her in gently—so, now close the doors.

Exeunt Madame, Adeline, and Peter.
Manet Lamotte.
Lamotte.
Misfortunes thicken on me; sorely pinch'd
By poverty already, I have brought
Another now, to drain away our life-means.
Never admitted to my confidence,
My wife suspects not our decaying store.—
I have reach'd that climax of our wretched being,
When the heart builds no more on heavenly aid.
Despair has laid his callous hand upon me,
And fitted me for deeds, from which I once
Had shrunk with horror—I have no resource
But robbery—The degradation! What!
To nourish guilty life turn common stabber!
Lurk in a hedge, and like an adder sting
The unguarded passenger! Well, and what then?
There's courage in this theft comparatively—
The sharper, routed from the loaded dice,
With which he damns fame, fortune, honour, man,
Rises in morals when he takes the road.

Enter Madame.
Madame.
Lamotte! He seems disturb'd! My dearest life!

Lamotte.
O, is it you? Reflection on the past
So busied me, I heard not your approach.
How fares the stranger?

Madame.
Sunk to startled sleep,
In broken sentences she prays for mercy.
I listen'd while she shriek'd, “Save me! That ruffian!
“My father, fly me not!—If I must die,
“Do you dispatch me;—send away that villain.”

Lamotte.
'Tis horrible and strange! Her father, then,
It was, who forc'd her on me—Listen where.
The evening being calm, I took my walk
To ruminate at full—wrapt up in thought,
Night stole upon me—Through the pathless wild
No signs could I discover that might lead
My erring steps back to this Abbey's towers—
The storm came sudden on, a little while
The shading trees protected me—At length,
A distant taper threw its trembling light
Across the alley where I stood; I ran,
So guided, till I reach'd a paltry cottage.

Madame.
'Twas rash and unadvis'd to venture thus.

Lamotte.
I knock'd aloud for shelter; from within
One ask'd with surly voice my name and business.
I said, a traveller, missing of the road,
And drench'd with rain, begg'd house-room for a while.
The man within replied—“Welcome, come in.”
I enter'd and advanc'd, when he, in haste,
Clapt to the door and lockt it—Stay, he cried,
I shall return anon! Then from above
Shrieks issued in a female voice—
At length the crazy stairs
Creak'd to the tread of feet, and ent'ring fierce,
A ruffian by the hair dragg'd in a lady;
She seem'd expiring. Stern he bad me swear
To take her from his sight, and ne'er return;
For, if I did, my life should be the forfeit.
I promis'd what he claim'd, and then I told him,
If he would bring us to Fontainville Abbey,
I knew the way from thence—He hid our eyes,
And led us to this gate.

Madame.
Why should a father thus drive out his child
To want and wretchedness, or why believe
She will not name him in recover'd reason,
And make the law her refuge? By her dress
She seems to have been taken from some convent,
A holy sister, but not yet profess'd.

Lamotte.
Of this no more; inscrutable to us
The mystery; with her returning sense
We may know all that now perplexes us.
Certain he look'd as little like her father,
As his deeds spoke him—But this well I know,
There is a state of mind, when anguish keen
For vices past, works on the heart of man,
And wrings it sore, till rising desperation
Bemonsters quite his nature—then, he spurns
The ties of blood, cancels all obligation
In which his Maker bound him to his kind,
And is the image of the fiend that tempts him.

Madame.
Heaven ever shield our hearts from such despair!
And yet, Lamotte, I own you wound my soul.
Dark looks, that seek the memory's inward scrolls,
While the whole outward sense is lost, oft mark
Your self-reproach—If I, by chance, arouse
And chace you from your mood, your temper flames
In causeless anger, which you check with shame,
And wrap you straight in silence.

Lamotte.
O, Hortensia,
I have not liv'd a life can brook distress;
He who is clear within may smile at storms,
And dread no reckoning shou'd they chance to whelm him:
My crimes press heavy on me: strong compunction,
For miseries entail'd beyond myself,
Is festering here, and when I look on you,
Outcast for my offences, moody madness
Weighs on my brain, and tells my shuddering soul,
That I am only mark'd out for perdition.
But see, an angel comes, to whisper peace,
And soothe me with one act of kindness render'd!

Enter Adeline.
Adeline.
My honour'd Sir and Madam, I thus press
From short repose, by anguish forc'd upon me,
To pay the thanks your generous pity claims;
For which my heart, in endless gratitude,
Shall daily heave to heav'n, and blessing beg
Upon your heads more bounteous than my own.

Lamotte.
Fair Saint, a common benefit like this
Your grateful mind o'erpays. My lovely daughter,
Chance throws you on a rude and churlish soil,
That cannot yield much medicinal balm,
To heal the wound a parent's hand has dealt you.

Madame.
But be of comfort, Lady; as we are,
We live to serve you, while ourselves are safe.
At some fit season of recover'd spirits,
We shall request the story from your lips,
Of what thus orphans you.

Adeline.
With willingness,
As far as I have knowledge; but my tale
Is easy told, nor do I know myself,
Why thus I fell under a father's hate.

Lamotte.
Of that anon! Now our refreshment calls.
Please you to enter.

Adeline.
I have but slender wish
For aught, save rest.—The conflict I have pass'd
Beats at my heart, and fevers every sense.
This friendly solitude, your generous pains,
Will lull the throbbing smart of my affliction,
And give me power to obey you.

Lamotte.
Ever yours.

[Exeunt.
SCENE—Without the Abbey.
Enter from the Gates. (Morning dawns.)
Lamotte.
Thus, like the savage lion from his lair,
I wake to prowl for prey. My busy brain
Riots in varied schemes of wickedness,
And drives me from my bed, before the bird,
Whose comfort springs from the return of day.
Light shews me no relief! The morn is fresh;
And hark! the distant hills ring with the sound
Of the glad horn! The hunters are abroad:
I'll dog their chace, and haply seize my prey,
Man, the destroyer, Man, and force the aid,
That misery expects not from his pity.

[Exit.
SCENE—A Wood.
Marquis and two Attendants.
Marquis.
The chace fatigues—I'll rest myself awhile—
You to your sport again.—Anon, I'll join you.
[Exeunt Attendants.
If we could trust to our presentiments,
I had not ventur'd on the chace to-day.
A tremulous reluctance to the last
Flutter'd about my heart, and now I feel
As if some dreadful certainty of evil
Had led me on to meet impending fate.
Ha! what art thou?

[Lamotte rushes in, wild and dishevell'd.
Lamotte.
A wretch, a very wretch,
Mad with despair, and fell from biting poverty.
Give me the means of life, or take thy death.

Marquis.
Thou'st caught me unawares, I'm in thy power.

Lamotte.
Off, off your jewels! Come, your purse—dispatch!
Stir not! your life will answer! Followers!
Surprised! Then only speed can save me.

[Runs off.
Re-enter Attendants.
1st Attendant.
How's this, my Lord, you look aghast with fear?
What wretch was that who fled at our approach?

Marquis.
A robber: Somewhere in these forest caves
Most probably he lurks: Command my train,
That there they make strict search to-morrow early.

1st Attendant.
Will you know the villain's face again, my Lord?

Marquis.
Certain! He look'd not like a common ruffian,
One shrunk from splendour rather—hunted hard
By justice he had fled, and doom'd to wrest
His chance support from the lone passenger,
Whom, otherways, he harms not—for my life,
Unlike our robbers, he attempted not.

2d Attendant.
He shall be found, my Lord, e're morrow night,
If here he lurk.—Shall we support you hence?

Marquis.
Alarm has quite enfeebled me—Lead on—
Give up the chace to-day.

Attendants.
This way, my Lord.

[Exeunt.
SCENE.—Another part of the Wood.
Enter Lamotte.
Lamotte.
Despair has lent me wings! I've burst my way
Through brake and briar!—Terror has steel'd my frame!—
I 'scap'd unhurt.—Unhurt! O memory,
I'm all one wound, while I yet live to think!
O dearly purchas'd wealth, won by the loss
Of future peace! Up, damning baubles, up!
Close to the heart, which you have wrung from comfort!
Hence, Monster, hence, nor blot the beauteous day!
Hail, cavern'd glooms, to your deep shade I fly,
Darkness myself, to give you living horror.

[Exit.