University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE—An Apartment.
Madame Lamotte. followed by Adeline.
Madame.
A Youth appearing much concern'd and eager?

Adeline.
He said he sought in haste a banish'd friend,
Whom his conjecture fancied to shroud here.
Fear made me little note his lineaments,
But he seem'd tall and comely.

Madame.
Where's my Lord?
Went he not forth with you this morning early?

Adeline.
Madame, with me! In sooth I have not seen him.

Madame.
Indeed! that's strange. I thought he might have lur'd
Your contemplation thro' these dreary ruins:
Or giv'n advice, so needful, in the wood,
Apt for concealment.

Adeline.
Dearest lady, hear me!
Forgive me, if I meet your hard suspicion,
And earnest in my vindication, own
I feel at what it points.

Madame.
Nay, pass it by;
For quick interpretation rather shews
A mind that's arm'd by apprehension keen,
And trembling for its mystery, than one
Of conscious purity, which never guides
Suspicion's dart unto its destin'd aim.

Adeline.
O Madam, I beseech you, hear your servant!
If my poor heart harbour a thought of ill,
Or, were it offer'd, would not scorn to wrong you,
May heav'n devote me to the ruffian's steel,
From which so late its providence reliev'd me!
My sex's pride would arm my breast with anger,
And disdain meet suspicion undeserv'd;—
But I'm a friendless orphan, thrown, alas!
Upon your pity, soften'd and subdu'd
By misery unequall'd.—By your peace,
Your sacred honour! I conjure you, Madam,
Dismiss th' unworthy doubts you entertain!
O, be a mother to my tender years,
And form the heart, that's open as the day!

Madame.
My lovely child, I cannot but believe you,
And take shame on me, that I wrong'd such candour.

Adeline.
No more of this—oppress me not by goodness. (Embracing.)


Madame.
But I am yet to learn, my Adeline,
How you have pass'd your youth estranged thus
From all parental fondness.—If not painful,
Beseech you satisfy me with the tale.

Adeline.
My mother early dying, I was plac'd
Within a neighbour-convent—From my father
Oft I heard, kindly, 'till maturing years
Ask'd for disposal; I was then giv'n to know
His choice assign'd for me the virgin veil,
And banish'd me for ever from the world.

Madame.
The wish was not uncommon; but you found
Objections insurmountable to yielding.

Adeline.
O most weighty were they! I had seen
The sad condition of our sisterhood,
And all their holy spells were lost upon me;
Drawn the so-seeming veil of happiness
From faces, solitude saw wrung with anguish!
A convent is the scene of hopeless tears,
Of heart-struck melancholly, dumb despair,
Of visionary guilt and vain repentance,
Incessant horrors, poor dissimulation.
My heart revolted from it.

Madame.
But your father!
How bore he this refusal?

Adeline.
With displeasure.
At length he fix'd a day to take me thence.
A day, long wish'd for!—but it rose at length
O, day of terrors.—To that house they led me
A destin'd sacrifice—I pray'd, implor'd
In vain!—my senses fled me—on recovery
I was deliver'd to a stranger's care,
Who bore me here, to give my youth a parent.

Madame.
My dearest daughter, you shall find a mother;
And what my fondness can suggest, or yield,
To aid or comfort you, depend on safely.

Enter Lamotte.
Lamotte.
Is all here safe? On entering just now,
The outer porch, I saw a human figure,
Gliding mysteriously along the hall—
He heard the noise I made; and led thereby,
He follow'd me in haste; I clos'd the trap,
And left him pacing 'cross the gallery
To find the door, by which I 'scap'd his search.

Madame.
He, then, it was accosted Adeline,
Without the abbey, in the morning early.

Lamotte.
How look'd he?

Adeline.
Little like an emissary
Bent to entrap us, but some friendly Quest,
Eager to bring us comfort.

Lamotte.
Sure my son!

Louis.
(without.)
Lamotte! Lamotte!

Lamotte.

Hush! hark! O senses, mock me
not!

Enter Louis.
My son! my son! (embracing him.)


Louis.
My dear, dear father, found
Against all likelihood! My mother too,
My joy o'erpowers me quite! Forgive me, Lady, (To Adeline.)

The alarm I must have caus'd you, and command
My utmost services.

Adeline.
To see you thus
Repaid your pious labour, fills my breast
With rapturous feelings never known before.

Madame.
My darling son, own an adopted sister,
By providence directed to our arms,
To soothe and to console our lonely life!
Her story you shall hear, and weep, at leisure.

Louis.
I bind her to my heart with dearest interest.

Enter Peter (hastily.)
Lamotte.
Now what has chanc'd?

Peter.
Sir, since your entrance here,
I hied me to the turret, to observe
If any danger menac'd; at some distance
I saw a troop of horsemen shape their course
Toward the abbey—Be prepar'd, beseech you!
My dear young master too! (kisses his hand.)


Louis.
My worthy friend!
Haste, Peter, to your post again; observe
All vigilantly.

Peter.
I am gone, dear master.

[Exit.
Adeline.
Who can they be; Twere best you hide awhile.

Lamotte.
O there's no need: you find they've turn'd aside;
Travellers, no doubt, who rode up but to gaze
Upon a ruin so magnificent.
But tell me, son, saw you our friend Nemours?

Louis.
He charg'd me, if my search shou'd find your course,
That you'd communicate your views to him,
And let him always know where to address you.

Lamotte.
And I will, Louis, for Nemours, I think,
Is singularly honest.

Louis.
He's sincere, and plain,
Clear and decisive; knavery alone
Would darken justice! and the pleader's heart
Should be as open as his face is close,
To aid indeed the client he would serve. (Violent knocking.)


Lamotte.
Distraction, I am lost, what's to be done?

Adeline.
May I advise, conceal yourself below;
We will remain as seeming dwellers here,
And thus disarm suspicion.

Louis.
Hence, dear father.

[Exit Lamotte.
Footsteps heard. Enter the Marquis, who advances. His attendants fill the stage behind.
Marquis.
Amazement! Village-rumour, then, I see,
Fell short of our new tenants. In me, Lady,
You view the owner of this ruin'd abbey;
Happy, most happy, if, to you or yours,
It have been serviceable;—but instruct me,
How so much seeming worth cou'd need such shelter?
Sirs, you may wait without until I call.

[Exeunt Attendants.
(Particularly attentive to Adeline.)
Madame.
My Lord, the tale at full were wearisome,
And long it were to tell;—but briefly this,
My husband and myself, our son and daughter,
Compell'd from Paris by misfortune, sought
A shelter from pursuit in this drear spot.

Louis.
The inveteracy of our enemies, my Lord,
We hope, ere long, to soften; if meanwhile
Your goodness shall allow this sanctuary,
You bind us ever to your generous pity.

Marquis.
Take freely that request—but where's your husband?

A Sliding Pannel opens, Lamotte advances.
Lamotte.
At hand, my Lord, with tears, to thank your bounty— (Seeing the Marquis)
—Ha! swallow me, earth!

[Starts. Madame runs to support him, the Marquis puts his hand to his sword, and after a few moments turns off as to summon his attendants.]
Adeline.
Beseech you, stay, my Lord!
Lamotte would speak!—my father would explain!

Lamotte.
Return! return! My Lord, vouchsafe one word
In private! (frantically)


Marquis.
You best know whether 'tis prudent
To grant this, after what has past betwixt us.
You can have nought to say, but what with me
Your family may share.

Lamotte.
By my despair,
I vow these lips shall keep eternal silence,
Ere to another I reveal the tale,
That's due to you alone.

Marquis.
You have your wish.

Lamotte.
First then, my Lord, take this to banish doubt; (Gives his sword.)

My life will thus be in your power—But hear me!
I'll lead you to some privacy.

Marquis.
I follow.

[Exeunt ambo.
Manent Madame, Adeline, Louis.
Madame.
What can this mean? Louis, know you the stranger?

Louis.
No; but 'tis probable he may be one
Incens'd against my father from some loss,
Incurr'd by play, and now seeks restitution.

Enter Peter.
Peter.
My Lord's attendants waiting in the hall,
I ask'd them who their master was? They told me
The Marquis of Montault—he has a castle
Hard by here, and these, our apartments now,
Were long since furnish'd as a hunting lodge,
To accommodate the present Lord's late brother.

Adeline.
Madam, let me beseech you to retire,
Their difference I doubt not is compos'd.

Madame.
I'm lost in wonder at it—O my husband!

[Exeunt.
SCENE—A remote Apartment.
Enter Lamotte—Marquis.
Marquis.
This place has privacy to suit your purpose.
Speak, I am all attention.

Lamotte.
O my Lord,
Pity the agonies you see me suffer!
Have mercy on a wretch, whose poverty
Stung him to madness! At your feet I fall
Submissive to your sentence—Spare my life!
And think my crime atton'd by these deep horrors!
O save a family that never wrong'd you!
All, all shall be restor'd—If worlds could buy
That peace of mind with which I enter'd here,
I'd silence my compunction by the gift.

Marquis.
Rise, Sir, take back your sword, and hear my answer.
You may be worth my clemency, and I
Incline to spare you—but at least some test
Should prove your deep repentance of the crime.

Lamotte.
If my whole life, with zeal devoted to you,
Can but atone, expose it to all hazards,
None will I shrink from you may point me to,—
So you but add your silence to forgiveness.

Marquis.
Extravagant professions I regard not.
The first test I exact from you is truth.
Who is that lovely maid I saw but now?
Is she your daughter?

Lamotte.
No, my Lord, she is not.
Chance threw her on my care; an orphan friendless,
And, but for me, devoted by a ruffian,
To savage slaughter.

Marquis.
Well, Lamotte, this fair one
May heal the breach between us—She has beauty
That struck me at first sight—I'll see her shortly.
Excuse my prompt departure to your wife,
And lead her to expect my frequent visits.
Our discord may be stil'd mistake, explain'd
At length, and settled into friendship.—For
'Tis with yourself, to fix, or loose the bands.
Lamotte, good night.

Lamotte.
I rest your grateful servant.

[Exeunt.
SCENE.—Another Apartment.
Madame Lamotte.
Madame.
How painful this suspense! How strange the cause!
I've lost myself in crude and wild conjecture,
And find no clue to dreadful certainty.
One thing indeed seems likely—this late shock,
And his past melancholy, spring alike
From one, one fatal source. My husband comes!
O how this interval has wrung my soul!
Enter Lamotte.
Where is the Marquis?

Lamotte.
Gone—Now to prepare
For interrogatories, springing all
From raging curiosity, that fever,
Which dries up all the virtue of your sex!

Madame.
I pardon a reproach I feel unmerited.
Nor would I urge you to unwilling converse.
For I would soothe your mind, not irritate
Its secret wounds—but answer me this question,
Did your late terror spring from the same cause
As all before it?

Lamotte.
Woman, forbear your questions!
I have no temper, or to hear, or answer.
Have I not long forbidden you to mention,
Or hint even at this subject?

Madame.
Hint at what?

Lamotte.
O, true. I thought you had mentioned it before.

Madame.
Nay then, I must suspect my notion grounded.

Lamotte.
Suspect not, nor enquire; for 'twill be fruitless.
Whate'er the cause of my late wild emotions,
I will not now disclose it. Time may come
Concealment will no more be necessary.

Madame.
A needless caution tow'ards your fond Hortensia;
But do your pleasure.

Lamotte.
In the mean time, this—
Note not to any aught uncommon in me;
Bury suspicion deep in your own breast,
As you'd avoid our ruin and my curses.

[Exeunt.
SCENE.—An Apartment.
Adeline alone.
Adeline.
I've heard of fix'd antipathies in minds,
And mortal loathing to peculiar objects!
No cause to be assign'd but shudd'ring nature!
I feel it is so: for my very soul
Sicken'd at yonder Marquis—Yet he look'd
Dispos'd to do me kindness, much observant;
Hated civility, observance painful!
'Tis like we see him often, while his pity
Continues to Lamotte this place of shelter.
Well, what of that? Improvident alarm!
I can retire then to my chamber—How!
[Knock.
One knocks.

Enter Louis.
Louis.
My Adeline, may I intrude
To tell you what hath chanc'd since you retir'd?

Adeline.
Most welcome.

Louis.
Then, the Marquis is set off,
In seeming kindness, and my father now
Withdrawn to his Apartment much disturb'd.

Adeline.
Where is my gracious lady, your dear mother?

Louis.
Also retir'd—At his return, in sorrow,
She question'd on the cause of his late horror,
And I o'erheard him loudly chide her love.

Adeline.
Alas, dear lady, how my heart bleeds for her!
I never knew the comfort of a mother
Until her kindness rous'd the filial fondness.

Louis.
O think, sweet, tender saint, my feelings for her!
When home return'd from the alarms of war,
Mine from my earliest youth, I found that home
Seiz'd on by legal harpies, while its lord,
A fugitive, had stol'n away by night
From the dread ills of passion unrestrain'd.
Think of these stigmas on a soldier's pride,
Flush'd with the darling same of victory!

Adeline.
Yes, I can feel the disappointing anguish.
But let not this reproof decrease our love:
My brother, I'm so much indebted there,
That life can yield no means of recompence
To the preserver of this injur'd being.

Louis.
Would only I had been so blest, to prove
The saviour of distressed Adeline!

Adeline.
And let me say, were I again to need one,
I know not any friend to whom my heart
Would with more pleasure pay its gratitude.

Louis.
Transporting sounds! O let me not be thought
Presuming, if I thus discard the mask,
Which ill conceals the love that is my glory!
My soul is yours.

Adeline.
‘For your esteem I thank you,
‘Deeply, believe me;—but your own good sense
‘Will teach you how improper the pursuit
‘Of one like me, with passion so ill-judg'd.—
‘You see I throw away all coy reserve,
‘And do not ev'n affect to miss your meaning.

Louis.
‘My heart is bounden to your generous candour;
‘Yet how can I forbear to speak of that,
‘Which flows thro' and informs my very being?

Adeline.
Your pardon—here I end this conference—
I beg I may be spar'd—I would not hear
Aught that may shake my best opinion of you.

Louis.
Farewell, my Adeline; may spirits of peace
Settle upon that bosom in repose,
And fancy, if she stirs beneath their wings,
Present my love obedient to your will.

[Exit.
Adeline.
(after a pause.)
The night is rough, and through these shatter'd casements,
The wind in shrilling blasts sweeps the old hangings.
Whether the place alone puts such thoughts in me,
I know not; but asleep, or waking, still
Conviction haunts me, that some mystery
Is wrapt within these chambers, which my fate
Will have me penetrate.—The falling gust
With feeble tone expires like dying sighs—
The tap'stry yonder shakes, as tho' some door
Open'd behind it (takes her lamp)
Ha! 'tis so; the bolt,
Tho' rusty, yields unto my hand; I'll see
To what it leads.—How, if I sink with fear?
And so benumb'd, life freeze away in horror?
No matter, powerful impulse drives me onward,
And my soul rises to the coming terror.

[Exit.
SCENE—changes to a melancholy Apartment. The Windows beyond reach, and grated.—An old Canopy in the distance, with a torn Set of Hanging-Tapestry.
Enter Adeline.
Adeline.
I must be cautious, lest the sudden blast
Extinguish my faint guide. ‘I'll place the lamp
‘Behind this sheltering bulk.’—What's this I tread on?
A dagger, all corroded by the rust!
Prophetic soul! Yes, murder has been busy!
A chilly faintness creeps across my heart,
And checks the blood that strives in vain to follow.
[Pause, sits down.
I feel recover'd, and new strength is giv'n me!
'Tis destiny compels,—On to my task.
Yon tatter'd ruin yawns to tempt enquiry.
[Touches it, all falls down.
What scroll thus meets me in the falling lumber?
Let me examine it: blurr'd all by damps;
Mouldy, in parts illegible. I'll hence now:
The waning light warns me to gain my chamber.
Inspire me, great Avenger! Angels guard me!

[Exit.