 | Fontainville Forest |  |
27
ACT III.
SCENE.—An Apartment.Enter Adeline.
Adeline.
I must conceal yon parchment till I see
What it contains.—Madame Lamotte approaches.
The terrors that have hover'd o'er my slumbers,
May well alone account for my disturbance.
Enter Madame Lamotte.
Madame.
Good morrow, dearest daughter—but how's this?
You look, my love, in a disorder'd state,
As though alarm had ruffled your repose.
Adeline.
‘'Tis likely, Madam,—for the night has pass'd
‘In visions so bewildering, and dreadful,
‘That Nature shudders under their impression.’
O my lov'd mother, I have firm conviction,
That some attrocious act has stain'd this place,
In which my fate will have me interested.
Madame.
But tell, what thus leads you to infer so?
‘What were those visions?’
Adeline.
I had scarcely sunk
In slumber, when my fancy's busy range
Produc'd before me these connected horrors.
28
A dying Cavalier, weltering in blood,
Lay stretch'd upon the floor.—By name he call'd me,
A deadly paleness spread o'er all his features;
Yet look'd he most benign, with mingled love,
And majesty. While thus I gaz'd upon him,
His face seem'd struck with death; the chilly dews
And shuddering agonies came on.—I started—
He seized me with convulsive violence—
Striving to disengage my hand, once more
I caught his eye, it brighten'd into glory!
He gaz'd on me with fondness—his lips mov'd,
As they would speak—but then the opening ground
Gave him swift way, and shut him from my sight.
Madame.
‘My dear, dear child, the Abbey's constant gloom,
‘Or the rude terrors of the day gone by,
‘Doubtless impress'd these fancies on your mind.
Adeline.
‘O but they ceas'd not there.—Mark the coherence.
‘Again I dreamt—I thought before me pass'd
‘One cloth'd in black, as for some funeral rite.
‘He beckon'd me—I follow'd till he came
‘Unto a bier, upon the which lay dead
‘The person seen before.—As I approach'd,
‘A stream of blood well'd from his wounded side,
‘And fill'd the chamber—groans then smote my ear;
29
‘Grasp'd me so strongly, that I sudden wak'd,
‘Nor could convince myself that I had dream'd,
‘The agonizing vision did so shake me.’
Madame.
I would not have you yield to such illusions;
They do usurp the pow'rs, that make life happy,
And thickly cloud the sunshine of the mind.
Think no more of them. But, my Adeline,
Know you what late hath pass'd? My Lord, the Marquis,
Is now so fast our friend, that he bestows
Not merely this concealment, but his interest
On our behalf, and means to see us often.
Adeline.
Believe me, I rejoice at aught may add
To your content, ev'n should it marr my own.
Madame.
Lamotte reports, my Adeline, such praise
Express'd of your appearance by the Marquis,
As led him to believe the warmth of love
Inspir'd the proud eulogium.
Adeline.
Compliment,
Mere compliment, I doubt not; for the Marquis
Is of the stamp of fashion, current oft
With fair profession of dissembled worth.
Madame.
Nay, I should chide these prepossessions, love;
The Marquis now is our approved friend.
Adeline.
I know it—But if I might be indulg'd
In absence when he visits here, my heart,
And yet I know not why, would feel the lighter.
30
Louis.
Madam, the Marquis just arriv'd below,
In converse with my father, begs the honour
To pay in person his respects.—He hopes
The lovely Adeline will there attend you.
Madame.
We come immediately.—My dear, go down—
I'll join you instantly—Louis, a word.
[Exit with Louis.
Adeline.
I go: Be still, ye busy apprehensions!
Now to conceal lurking antipathy
Beneath the guize of lowly gratitude;
O when will clear integrity be mine,
That safely may disdain to look a falsehood?
[Exit.
SCENE—Another Apartment.
Enter Marquis and Lamotte.
Marquis.
In short, Lamotte, persuade her to compliance;
You may acquaint her too, that her fierce father,
Repenting that he spar'd her, claims his child,
And that my power alone protects her from him.
Be firm my advocate, and I consent
To wave resentment for my injuries.
Lamotte.
In this and all things I obey with zeal.—
She's coming down—I'll leave you soon together;
Coyness is stronger made by company.
31
Now mark me, Adeline—You know our sum
Of obligation to this generous Lord;
He honours you with sentiments of love;
Hear them attentively, and so determine,
As best becomes your prudence, our condition.
[Exit.
Marquis.
My charming Adeline, at length my fortune
Indulges me with opportunity,
To pour the tenderest passion out before you,
And thus declare the conquest you have made.
Adeline.
So little known, my Lord, I take no pride
In the distinction, for it tells me plainly
'Twas but a worthless outside has procur'd it.
Marquis.
Nay, wrong me not, for from the exterior shew
Of all perfection, should we not infer
The purity within, that gives the whole
Its harmony and grace?
Adeline.
O, what a world
Were this, how excellently fair and perfect,
Did through its beauteous mass, no canker creep,
To infect, unseen, the loveliness of nature!
Marquis.
Why seek to dim the lustre of those eyes,
Why throw a slur upon Creation's pride,
The matchless treasure of her bounty, now
Lock'd in the winning form of Adeline?
32
In flattery, the so be-praised maid
Ne'er found one charm to lift her self-esteem:
Hear me ingenuously, while I lay
The simple dictates of my heart before you.
Marquis.
‘Nay, now at least, I may in turn object
‘Precipitation, since you know not yet
‘The grounds on which your wisdom should decide.’
Adeline.
For your attention I am grateful, Sir,
But I should wrong the truth, myself and candour,
If, confident that I can never change,
I did not now decline the good you mean me.
Marquis.
This is the language of your inexperience.
Consider well your situation here,
Expos'd to share the perils that surround
A banish'd man—With me you will partake
The elegance of life, and all the joys
That base and sordid penury repines at.
‘No wish that e'er can rise within the heart
‘Of still desiring woman, but my care
‘Shall strive to anticipate, 'ere words be giv'n it.’
Adeline.
My Lord, you tempt me not by phrase like this.
Such as myself, season'd within the school
Of poverty, nor covet, nor regard
A splendour, commonly the foe to virtue.
‘What most I wish for, is to be allow'd
‘Th' indulgence of this solitude awhile,
‘To heal the wounds so deep inflicted here.’
33
This lonely place will rather fix a gloom
For ever on your youth, that should be led
To happier scenes of gay, voluptuous love.
Adeline.
I thank you, Sir, for thus at once displaying
The glaring infamy design'd for me!
An honourable purpose had received
At least my gratitude ev'n in rejection;
But this, for its mean insult, has my scorn.
[Exit.
Marquis.
Stay, I conjure you! Hear me Adeline!
She's gone, and plainly understood my purpose.
Well, well, my saucy virtue, we shall find
Decoys may lure this soaring bird to stoop;
And snatch at offer'd marriage—Now, Lamotte!
Enter Lamotte.
Lamotte.
How's this, my Lord; went she in anger from you?
Marquis.
Even but now—She's better fortified
Than I expected: young and beautiful,
I look'd that raptures would have caught her taste;
But she's of cold and prudish temperature,
And feigns to hate the ardour she solicits.
Lamotte.
I fear you spoke too plainly; Adeline
Is convent-bred, to be approach'd by slow,
And seeming pure devotion—nor, until
The holy ritual sanctifies embrace,
Will she e'er sink the saint in willing woman.
34
'Tis plain; she hinted marriage: be it so.
When next I meet her, we must wear a face
Of soberer meaning. Do you lead her think
What pass'd was but the froth of gallantry—
Harmless, tho' warm, the language of the world.
Lamotte.
Only, my Lord, be cautious of Hortensia!
Once in her breast the flame of jealousy
Was kindled on this girl's account; but now
She loves her so entirely, that her rashness
Would frustrate all.
Marquis.
That should indeed be heeded:
For, in despite of all this swelling anger,
She must be mine by kindness, or by force.
[Exeunt.
SCENE—An Apartment.
Enter Louis and Peter.
Louis.
How say'st thou, Peter—one brought here by night,
And close confin'd?
Peter.
The neighbours say so closely,
That no one ever saw him afterward;
This did I learn here hard by, at Auboine:
And they do add, that here he sure was murder'd,
And no one since has slept within the abbey.
Louis.
Did any guess who the deceased was?
Peter.
No—none cou'd e'er conjecture aught about him.
Louis.
When did this happen?
35
Why, about the time
The present Marquis came to his estates,
On the demise of the late Lord, his brother.
Louis.
Where then did he die?
Peter.
O, abroad they say;
Slain in the field—but for the man confin'd,
By slow degrees the rumour died away,
And all enquiry ceas'd.
Louis.
A strange adventure!
Peter.
My dear young master, if I not mistake,
Nought that respects the lovely Adeline
To you will be indifferent—Of late
I have o'erheard my master and yon Marquis
In deep cabal, and she the subject of it:
Much do my fears inform me, out of hints
And broken sentences, that harm is meant her.
Louis.
My worthy friend, I thank thee. Yes, indeed,
Deep is the interest I feel for her;
But sure my father never would consent
To aught of violent means—I know the Marquis
Follows with eyes of love, her sweet perfections,
And hopes his rank and splendour may allure her.
Peter.
But she endures him not—This very morn
She left him discompos'd, her lovely cheek
Flush'd with the anger of insulted virtue.
Louis.
You must be vigilant—You know the pow'r
And danger too that wait about this Lord.
Peter.
O fear me not. The sense of apprehension
Is quicken'd by the body's feebleness—
36
Were my last throb of life to flit away
In the dear cause of innocence oppress'd,
How could my death have better preparation?
Louis.
No more of this just now. I'll to the Marquis,
For I must seem attentive while he stays;
And sure this stormy night will here detain him.
Peter.
I'll bring you what intelligence I glean
From his domestics to your honour's chamber.
[Exit.
Louis.
Farewell, then, and be trusty, my good fellow.
Enter Lamotte.
Lamotte.
Now, Sir, what tale of folly have you glean'd
From yonder babbler?
Louis.
Nothing I regard much.
He was recounting the credulity
Of the near hamlet, touching this our dwelling.
Lamotte.
All fabulous, I doubt not. Some one murder'd,
And that stale lie, a spirit following it.
Louis.
Some what indeed of that kind was the story;
You know it to be idle by experience,
Longer at least than mine.
Lamotte.
O idle all!
Louis.
And yet they could not well have been mistaken
In one so brought here!
37
No, not well, I think.
Louis.
'Tis likeliest they removed him hence by night.
Lamotte.
Most likely.
Louis.
For we should not rashly credit
A rumour might throw scandal on a friend.
Lamotte.
No, by no means. That mouldering chest I saw—
Louis.
How!
Lamotte.
Did I say I saw it? I mistook, boy;
'Tis said, contains a body, which still lies
Unburied in the secret chamber.
Louis.
Still!
Have you then seen the relics of the man,
Said to have perished here?
Lamotte.
Who, I, my son?
Not I—I say again, 'tis the report.
Louis.
My father is unwell.
Lamotte.
Much indispos'd!
Somewhat now raps me, and my busy brain
Is cross'd with incoherency unusual.
Say, have you lately look'd abroad, my son?
Louis.
But now. The gathering gloom is deep'ning round,
And every sign foretells a dreadful shock
Of elemental war—Our noble guest
Stays in the abbey, I presume, to-night?
Lamotte.
He does. O, Louis—'twere good that you endeavour'd
To chace that fev'rish tale from Peter's brain;
If he should e'er possess the women with it,
38
Louis.
To-morrow, with your leave, I shall set out
For Paris on affairs concern us nearly.
Lamotte.
I had forgot. Nemours I'll write to. then—
You shall bear my letter. No, the Marquis
Must not, in thought, be tainted by these rumours! (Aside.)
Attend me to my chamber—Mystery all! (Aside.)
[Exeunt.
SCENE—The secret Apartment, gloomy and rude, only clear'd of the Lumber formerly there.
Adeline alone.
Adeline.
At last I am alone! And now may venture
To look at the contents of this old manuscript.
A general horror creeps thro' all my limbs,
And almost stifles curiosity. (Reads.)
“The wretched Philip, Marquis of Montault,
“Bequeaths his sorrows to avenging time.
“O you, whate'er ye are of human kind,
“To whom this sad relation of my woes
“Shall come, afford your pity to a being,
“Shut from the light of day, and doom'd to perish.”—
O Heav'n, the dagger! Yes, my fears were founded.
“They seiz'd me as I reach'd the neighbour wood,
39
“The place, the accurs'd design, and their employer,
“Yet, O my brother, I had never wrong'd you.”
His brother! What, yon Marquis?
Phantom.
Even he. (heard within the chamber.)
Adeline.
Hark! Sure I heard a voice! No, 'tis the thunder
That rolls its murmurs thro' this yawning pile.
“They told me I should not survive three days,
“And bade me choose, or poison, or the sword;
“O God, the horrors of each bitter moment!
“The ling'ring hours of day, the sleepless night!
“Eternal terrors in a span of life!
Poor, wretched sufferer! Accept the tears
Of one, like thee, pursued by fortune's frown,
Yet less unhappy!
Phantom.
O, Adeline! (faintly visible.)
Adeline.
Ha! sure I'm call'd! No, all are now at rest.
How powerful is fancy! I'll proceed.
“At length I can renew this narrative.
“To leave no means untempted of escape,
“I climb'd these grated windows, but I fell
“Stunn'd and much bruis'd, insensate to the ground.
“The day allotted dawns! Ye boding terrors,
“I feel to-morrow I shall be as nothing!
40
To aid thee? Then he perish'd—
Phantom.
Perish'd here.
Adeline.
My sense does not deceive me! awful sounds!
'Twas here he fell!
[The phantom here glides across the dark part of the Chamber, Adeline shrieks, and falls back. The Scene closes upon her.
THE END OF THE THIRD ACT.
| Fontainville Forest | |