University of Virginia Library

Eleanor and Mordaunt entering.
Eleanor.
Sir Francis Mordaunt, to a mournful house
I bid you welcome! But you bring us comfort—
His truest friend, his dearest! only you
Would he rejoice to see. When I first heard
Your late return from Italy, there rushed
Over my heart a gladness, a strange feeling,
That glowed like hope.

Mordaunt.
This is a sad, sweet welcome.
He is no better, then?

Eleanor.
Oh, no!

Mordaunt.
And what
Is his disease?

Eleanor.
A settled melancholy,
That doth consume his body; a decay
Even at the noble heart.

Mordaunt.
The cause?

Eleanor.
I know not.

Mordaunt.
Oh, it must be some rooted malady
That works thus in him! Never can I join
Sadness and Henry Talbot. When we parted,
One little year ago, I gazed on him
As he stood on the sea beach, in all the pride
Of youth and manly beauty, his bright glance
Pursuing the swift vessel, and I thought,
If ever happiness find rest on earth,
She dwells in that fine form. High birth, high fortune,
High talent, high pursuit, the general praise,
The general love,—for his sweet graciousness
Commanded hearts,—and, better still than this,
Domestic bliss, affection, friendship, love,
And such a power to feel and give delight;
Such deep humanity, such a fine sense
Of beauty and of virtue! Set aside
His one infirmity of sudden anger,
As suddenly forgotten and redeemed
By instant penitence and generous shame,
And he might be the ideal of a man,
The standard all look up to.

Eleanor.
Such he was:
You paint him to the life. How proud was I—
Too proud—of that dear brother! You will find
A sadly altered man.

Mordaunt.
He used to be
The very model of true cheerfulness;
A gay and open spirit, which did feed
Upon its own pure thoughts. All mirth, all smiles!

Eleanor.
He hath forgot to smile.

Mordaunt.
Withal so kind—
So exquisitely kind!

Eleanor.
That he is still;
Kindness and he are so incorporate,
That death alone can part them. My dear brother!

Mordaunt.
Such love as thine would once have soothed all ills.
How long hath this change been.

Eleanor.
Oh, many months!
Ever since that summer evening on the Thames—
That fatal August evening,—when their boat
Upset, and Lionel Grey, his foster-brother,
Was most unhappily drown'd. My brother, too,
Striving in vain to save him, almost lost
His life. He dived for the corse, and with the corse
Was brought out motionless. A fever follow'd—
A fever on the brain:—Oh the black horrors
Of that long dream! Those horrors passed away!
But a dark cloud remains.

Mordaunt.
The consequence
Of a long fever. He must change the scene;
Must woo the sweet breath of the south; must go
To lovely Italy. I will return
With him, with you.

Eleanor.
Nought can persuade him hence;
And surely—(it is terrible to say,
To think, to feel!)—too surely this disease
Is of the mind, the heart. Something doth weigh—
Thou art my brother's friend, and I to thee
Speak as a brother—something—oh, it breaks
My heart to think of it!

Mordaunt.
I'd stake my life
That he is blameless.

Eleanor.
Just so have I felt
A thousand times. But then he speaks wild words,
And my wild fear—oh, free me from that fear,
And I will worship thee! And comfort him,
I do beseech thee, comfort him, whate'er—
Do not desert him, even—I cannot speak:
But love him! Comfort him! Forsake him not!

Mordaunt.
Never. But his best comforters must be
His sister—and one other. Dare I ask,
Was there not one still dearer, whose true love,
Whose faith, whose sympathy—I mean his ward,
The lovely orphan, his bethrothed bride.

Eleanor.
Poor, poor Louisa! Yes, she still is here.
Poor, poor Louisa!

Mordaunt.
Eighteen months have passed
Since I last saw her. Never did I see
A maid so sweet, so fair, so delicate,
Or so devoted—living in his smiles,
As the butterfly in the sunbeam. And so young,
So made for peace and rest and happiness,
As if she were herself some airy creature,
Whom the first storm would shatter. Through this grief
What hath sustained her?

Eleanor.
The deceiver. hope.
She watches Henry's cheek, and if a flush
Of the bright treacherous hectic chance to cross it,
Then is she happy; hangs upon his words;
And if one flash burst from the clouded spirit—
One tone of the old love—poor, poor Louisa!
Would that she were afraid! When it does come,
The stroke will kill her.

Mordaunt.
Have you then no hope?

Eleanor.
Hark! That's his step. Nay, do not rush to meet him;
He cannot bear surprise.—Hark to that step,
So slow, so feeble! He is pausing now
For breath. Alas! alas! is not that step
The very knell of hope?
Enter Talbot.
Here is our friend,
Brother!

Mordaunt.
Dear Talbot!

Talbot.
Mordaunt, this is kind—
Too kind!

Eleanor.
First let us place you on your couch;
Then will we join to thank this kindest friend
For his kind visit. Henry, he is come
To nurse you, to usurp my office, Henry.

Mordaunt.
Rather to share it with you. Dearest Talbot,
You must be well.

Talbot.
Oh this is kind, too kind!
I am not worthy, I was never worthy
Of such a friend. And now—oh go! go! go!
Fly me!

Mordaunt.
And wherefore?

Talbot.
Why, to have thee stay
Would be a joy—and joy is not for me.
Forgive me, Mordaunt; I am sick and wayward—
Sick at my soul—but it will soon be o'er.

Eleanor.
I will not have thee talk so; good my brother,
This is no gentle welcome—
(Advancing towards the window with Mordaunt, and speaking to him apart.)
For a while
Seem not to observe him. This strong passion then
Will pass away.

Mordaunt.
Is't frequent?

Eleanor.
Yes. (aloud)
Sir Francis,
Your coming is well timed. Do you remember,
When you last honor'd us, 'twas at the close
Of a most glorious autumn. Our beech woods
Own'd every tint of gold, from deepest red
To palest yellow. Often would you praise
Their woodland beauty, and as often I
With a proud boastful spirit bade you come
And gaze on them in May, and see the sunbeams
Wandering across them, with such wondrous charm
Of light and shadow, bringing into life
The unspeakable beauty of their fresh green tops.
This is the very height and prime of May:—
Said the proud boaster sooth? Go to yon window—
Look on the distant woods.

Mordaunt.
To me this view
Is always lovely; loveliest as it is,
Whate'er the season. This smooth sloping lawn,
Sprinkled with odorous shrubs, suddenly sinking
Into a steepness so abrupt; the hills
Sweeping away so finely; and between,
Deep in the bottom, the gay pretty town,
Mingled with trees and gardens; the church spire
Lifting its white and taper head amidst
The woody heights that bound the various scene;
And underneath those woods, round that fair town,
Between those hills, the ever-winding Thames—

Talbot.
Ah!

Mordaunt.
Glides, like a glittering snake,—

Talbot.
Oh true! true! true!

Mordaunt.
Coyly, by snatches, at rare intervals
Seen, but diffusing a perpetual sense
Of his bright presence—prince of streams!

Talbot.
Oh fatal!

Mordaunt
(to Eleanor).
Alas! is that the grief?

Talbot.
Oh fatal! fatal!
Fatal as man's wild passions, as the worm
That never dies! The mirror where black thoughts
And blacker deeds—What have I said?

Eleanor.
My Henry,
Art thou in pain? Did'st call me? Would'st thou aught?
No, did'st thou say? Well, I will leave thee, Henry!
(Apart to Mordaunt.)
Approach him not:—alone he will o'ermaster
The pang that shakes him. Make as though you heard
Nought that he says. Talk on.

Mordaunt.
My heart is full.

Eleanor.
And mine—Oh God! But I have learnt this sad
Hypocrisy, this necessary hardness.
See, he is calmer! I beseech you, talk—
He listens— (Aloud)
. Then you grant that May is fair
Even as October in our prospect here?

Mordaunt.
The picture is as bright. And yet I miss
The autumnal beauty of this arching roof
Of trellis, richly hung with clustering vines,
Tendrils and leaves and fruit, a gorgeous frame
For the fair picture. Sweet it was to gaze—
And sweet it is. You look down on the world
From this calm seat, as from her lofty nest
The ring dove.

Talbot.
Ay, it is an apt resemblance,
My own sweet sister bird.

Eleanor.
Nay, dearest brother,
My nest should be more lowly; I would build
On the ground, and look still upward. There's a farm
Close by—oh we must show it you, Sir Francis—
Which is almost my envy. And it is
The prettiest walk! Through a beech-wood the path,
A wild, rude copse-road, winds, beneath the light
And feathery stems of the young trees, so fresh
In their new delicate green, and so contrasting
With their slim, flexile forms, that almost seem
To bend as the wind passes, with the firm
Deep-rooted vigor of those older trees,
And nobler,—those grey giants of the woods,
That stir not at the tempest. Oh! that path
Is pleasant, with its beds of richest moss,
And tufts of fairest flowers, fragrant woodroof
So silver white, wood-sorrel elegant,
Or light anemone. A pleasant path
Is that; with such a sense of freshness round us,
Of cool and lovely light; the very air
Has the hue of the young leaves. Downward the road
Winds till beneath a beech, whose slender stem
Seems toss'd across the path, all suddenly
The close wood ceases, and a steep descent
Leads to a valley, whose opposing side
Is crown'd with answering woods; a narrow valley
Of richest meadow land, which creeps half up
The opposite hill; and in the midst a farm,
With its old ample orchard, now one flush
Of fragrant bloom; and just beneath the wood,
Close by the house, a rude deserted chalk-pit,
Half full of rank and creeping plants, with briars
And pendent roots of trees half covered o'er,
Like some wild shaggy ruin. Beautiful
To me is that lone farm. There is a peace,
A deep repose, a silent harmony
Of nature and of man. The circling woods
Shut out all human eyes; and the gay orchard
Spreads its sweet world of blossoms, all unseen,
Save by the smiling sky. That were a spot
To live and die in.

Mordaunt.
Beautiful it must be;
But fancy makes the charms she tells, as the sunbeams,
Tenderly wandering o'er those distant woods,
Bring out their exquisite tints.

Eleanor.
Nay, if you doubt—
Brother, the sun and air to-day are join'd
In a rare compact; 'tis the warmth of June,
With April's balmy breath. Come forth, dear Henry!
We'll put my poney in the garden-chair,
And soon convert this unbeliever. Come!
It will revive you. Let us lead him thither.
You will enjoy this air.

Talbot.
I am not worthy
To breathe it, Eleanor. That innocent joy
Belongs to the innocent.

Eleanor.
Nay, you must come.
I'll call Louisa, and prepare the chaise.
You will not fail us, Henry?
[Exit Eleanor.

Mordaunt.
Beautiful
Is sisterly love; divinely beautiful
In yonder noble maid. How firm, how gentle,
How like the purity of some old marble
Is she in form and mind! Even her young beauty,
The very language of her lofty brow,
Is queen-like, till she bends to speak to thee,
With such affectionate softness, and a look
So touchingly sweet. Alas! I have no sister.
How blest ye are together!

Talbot.
Blest we were;
But now—the word is mockery; yet we were
Once blest. You know that we were twins and orphans
Alone in the wide world, and all the world
To one another. I so proud of her!
And she so fond of me!

Mordaunt.
You still so proud;
She still so fond.

Talbot.
Ay; but the joy is gone,
Once we were call'd alike: look on me now,
And look on her. A red and withering hand
Hath past over my youth, and turn'd my blood
To fire. Her care, her grief, her misery,
Am I. 'Twill soon be past.

Mordaunt.
Nay, you must live
For that twin sister's sake; to pay her care;
To bless her love.

Talbot.
I have no right to love;
I am infected. That which was my bliss
Is now my punishment. I have no right
To kindness, hers or yours; or that of one
Whose deeper tenderness doth pierce my heart
As with a dagger. One so patiently,
So exquisitely true; so trusting, yet
So fearful; all made up of the fond hope
That trembling sits and smiles. What agony
To look upon that smile, and watch that hope,
And know how false, how hollow! I've deserved
Even that bitterest drop.

Mordaunt.
This is, indeed,
A sickness of the soul. Henry, we two
Have been, from boy to youth, from youth to man,
Friends; not of such as borrow friendship's name
To gild the flimsy band that knits gay striplings
In light companionship, or the politic league
Of subtle selfish man; but friends of the old
Heroic cast, such as forbear, and bear,
And serve, and love, and die, and trust their lives
To the proved faith of friendship.

Talbot.
Such we were,
And if a spirit so fallen—

Mordaunt.
Such we are;
And being such, I do conjure thee, Henry,
By that old friendship, by the gushing tears
Which fill'd our eyes at meeting, by the love
Which even now is working in our breasts,
Confide in me. Disclose the fatal secret
Which weighs upon your soul.

Talbot.
What! cast the shade
Of guilt on thy white honour? Tell to thee,
To thee that deadly—Never! never! never!
Here let it die!—Here! here! Even though it swell
My heart to bursting.

Mordaunt.
Henry, you are ill;
And your sick fancy in the wayward mood,
Turns error into crime. A purer mind,
A nobler heart, and, set aside the rare
And momentary flash of sudden wrath,
A kinder temper—

Talbot.
Momentary! Ay,
So is the thunderbolt.

Mordaunt.
I do implore,
Even as I would sue for present life,
Brood not upon this tale. Or tell it me,
Or chase it from thy memory.

Talbot.
Listen, then,
Since thou wilt share the load,—since thou wilt wrest
The murderer's story, listen!

Mordaunt.
Murderer!

Talbot.
Why, I have said it. Didst thou think that I
Was dying for some trivial larceny—
Some poor man's common crime? Sir, thou shalt find
I am a braver villain!

Mordaunt.
Talk not thus.
I pray you, talk not thus. Be calm! Be calm!

Talbot.
And he would still a breaking heart with words,
As Canute talk'd—He weeps! Forgive me, friend!
Truest and best, and dearest, pardon me!
For I am near bestraught with misery,
And know not what I say. Forgive me, Mordaunt,
And listen. Didst thou e'er—First reach that water,
And sit down here by me; for I must speak
Names that will shake my very soul, and then
The voice may falter. Interrupt me not;
For I have now a passing hour of strength,
A gleam of parting light, and I would fain
Pour into thy kind bosom my remorse,
My agony. So! Did you ever see
Lionel Grey?

Mordaunt.
Never.

Talbot.
Nor his dear mother,
The widow Grey?

Mordaunt.
Your nurse? That kindest woman!
Often.

Talbot.
She was, indeed, the kindest woman,
The simplest, gentlest, sweetest-spirited woman
That ever trod the earth;—my foster-mother,
Who look'd around on all her little world
With the indulgent softness that she felt
For the infant at her breast; for me, whom most
She loved; for me, who most loved her; my refuge
In every childish grief, the joyful sharer
Of every childish joy! Oh how I loved
That dear and smiling face, made beautiful
By the warm heart, and the soft pleasant voice
That never spake but true and gentle words!
That never—She is dead! And I—nay, fear not—
This pang will pass away. She had a son,
An only child;—the milk which nourish'd me
Was stolen from him.—Poor Lionel! so soon
Did I—He was a lovely youth; most richly
Deck'd with all lighter graces, music, painting,
And poesy; and, as he grew to manhood,
His talent grew finer and stronger. Proud
Was his dear mother of his pretty songs,
When Ellen Talbot sang them.

Mordaunt.
I have heard her.
A queen might have been proud had such lips sung
The lays of her king-son.

Talbot.
Poor Lionel
Was with us long and often. In our house
And in our hearts he held a brother's place,
Till he at length forgot the unequal rank
Which we would not remember. Rash and vain,
And most presumptuous in his love!—Alas!
And dare I blame him?—I!—My sister saw
His passion for Louisa, and she strove
To check his hopes; but I saw nought, till all
Fatally—fatally—It was a day
Of sultry August, Lionel and I
At sunset sought the river, and embarked
Alone upon the waters. Oh how calm,
How beautiful they were! How made for peace!
The golden clouds shone into them, and there
The soft and bright blue sky, fringed in by trees.
My soul was lapp'd in the calm loveliness,
The balmy silence. When, all suddenly,
Lionel, heated as I think by wine,
Demanded my Louisa's hand. Louisa!
Mine own affianced bride! I told him this
Calmly and soothingly; and he replied
That I might force her hand, but that her heart
Was his. Then the strong frenzy mastered me,
And with the oar I dashed him overboard,
Stunn'd, stupefied! I too stood motionless,
Stunn'd, stupefied, till I saw the drowning wretch
Rise on the waters. Then the sense returned;
The fear, the hope, the breathless agony,
The desperate struggle. How I toiled to save
Whom I had murdered! How I rowed and swam,
And dived, and all but died! We were drawn out
Together; he a breathless corse, and I
A wretch that could not die, doomed to live on,
With the new, aching, gnawing consciousness
Of deadly crime here at my heart—here! here!
Now, am I not a murderer?

Mordaunt.
Surely, no.
It was a frenzied impulse; an unhappy,
But unintended homicide. Thy will
Was innocent of the deed.

Talbot.
Oft have I tried
To think so; but I recollect too well
I had a murderer's feelings when I raised—
Seek not to palliate.

Mordaunt.
Yet be comforted.
Whate'er the crime, surely the penalty
May expiate; thy bitter sufferings,
Thy deep and true repentance!

Talbot.
Oh, if tears
Could wash out blood, no day hath passed but I
Have thus embalmed his memory! Grievously
Have I been punished; here, in my heart's core;
In undeserved respect; in praise; in love;
In poor Louisa; in my noble sister;
In all the tears I cause. All lovely things
Combine to punish me; the golden evening,
The sunny waters, and the calm blue sky,
They are my scourges! Oh the agony
That I have felt at kindness! Most at hers,
The mother's. After that most wretched night,
My mind and body sank, alike subdued,
For many weeks. A merciful pause it was
Of misery! I woke again to suffer,
And the first person by my couch was she
In her deep mourning habit; her pale face
Covered with tears, yet trying for a smile;
And that voice, once so pleasant, low and hoarse,
Yet striving still, in sweet and gentle words,
To speak of love, and care, and gratitude
To me—Great God! to me!—for all I dared
To save her son! She thanked me, and she blessed me!
She blessed me! Never curse struck to the soul
Like that kind woman's blessing!

Mordaunt.
And she died?

Talbot.
She died. For Many weeks I watched her bed,
And then I closed her eyes, and followed her,
And saw her laid by him! That was my death-stroke.
Then, when the earth fell cold on both my victims,
My doom was sealed.

Mordaunt.
Oh say not so, dear Henry!
Live for us all. For poor Louisa, live!—
For thy own Eleanor!—for me!

Talbot.
My heart
Is lighter. When I die, if Eleanor
Should grieve, as well I think she will, oh! tell her
My story; she will then be comforted
That I am in my grave. Poor, poor Louisa!
When the oak falls, the ivy dies with it;
And she—But I am better, lighter, easier
In body and in soul. There is no balm
So healing as a good man's pity.

Mordaunt.
Say
His love, his deep respect. Thou hast well practised
The painfullest and noblest of all virtues—
Repentance. Comfort thee! Look forward, onward:
Think in thy being how much happiness
Is lapt.

Talbot.
Oh, my true friend! Hark! She comes here!
I know her tread afar,—her nymph-like tread,
So light and quick. The graceful greyhound scarce
Can match her graceful speed.

Enter Eleanor and Lousia.
Louisa.
Sir Francis, welcome!
This is indeed a happiness.—How well
He looks! How much revived!

Eleanor.
His face is flushed;
But that—

Louisa.
Look at his eye! and see! see! see!
He smiles again! Oh blessings on his head
Whose coming caused that smile!

Mordaunt.
Why such a blessing
Might draw a man from Afric.

Louisa.
I could chide him
That he did not come sooner, the dear friend,
Bringer of health and comfort.

Talbot.
My Louisa,
I do begin to hope.

Louisa.
Oh blessed sound!

Talbot.
When shall we forth into the woods, fair Ellen?

Eleanor.
First, dearest brother, rest awhile. The sun
Is overcast. Wait till the clouds disperse.
Rest thee. Ay, so. Now, shall I read to thee?

Talbot.
No. All this day, an old and favourite strain
Hath echoed in mine ear. Wilt thou not sing it
For me, Louisa?

Louisa.
Yes! oh yes!

Eleanor.
But listening
To her sweet voice is not repose.

Mordaunt.
What then?

Eleanor.
Pleasure, exciting, searching, rapturous pleasure!
Yet sing to him, Louisa! See how pale,
How shivering—Henry, thou art ill again?

Talbot.
No; 'twill pass off. Dearest and kindest sister,
Believe, 'twill pass away. Now sing.

Louisa.
What song?

Talbot.
That which is ringing in mine ears. The strain,
Which, by the old tradition of our house,
Was wont to usher in the nuptial morn
Of all the Talbots—which I used to call
Our bridal song, Louisa. I would fain
Hear that song once again.

Louisa.
Not that! not that!

Eleanor.
Yes. 'Tis a pleasant and a ringing air,
And suits thee well; thy springy form, thy voice,
Young, lively, clear, thy blushing smile. Thou seem'st
At once the quaint musician, the light nymph,
Strewer of flowers, and the fair bride. Sing! Sing!
Let's hear that pleasant strain.—Still paler!—Sing!

Louisa
sings.
Forth the lovely bride ye bring:
Gayest flowers before her fling,
From your high-piled baskets spread,
Maidens of the fairy tread!
Strew them far, and wide, and high
A rosy shower 'twixt earth and sky!
Strew about! Strew about !
Bright jonquil, in golden pride,
Fair carnation, freak'd and dyed,
Strew about! Strew about!
Dark-eyed pinks, with fringes light,
Rich geraniums, clustering bright,
Strew about! Strew about!
Flaunting pea, and harebell blue,
And damask-rose of deepest hue,
And purest lilies, maidens, strew!
Strew about! Strew about!
Home the lovely bride ye bring:
Choicest flowers before her fling,
Till dizzying steams of rich perfume
Fill the lofty banquet-room!
Strew the tender citron there,
The crushed magnolia proud and rare,
Strew about! Strew about!
Orange blossoms, newly dropp'd,
Chains from high acacia cropp'd,
Strew about! Strew about!
Pale musk-rose, so light and fine,
Cloves, and stars of jessamine,
Strew about! Strew about!
Tops of myrtle, wet with dew,
Nipp'd where the leaflets sprout anew,
Fragrant bay-leaves, maidens, strew!
Strew about!—

Eleanor.
Oh help! he faints! Help! help! His breath is gone.

Mordaunt.
Alas! alas! he ne'er—I cannot find
A pulse—alas! he's dead!

Louisa.
Dead! dare not say it!
'Tis but a swoon. He's better. He'll be well.
Did he not say so,—he whose voice was truth?
And dost thou dare—Oh rouse thee, my own Henry,
And I will sing to thee—

Eleanor.
Oh hush! hush! hush!

Louisa.
(Sings)

Eleanor.
Cease! cease! Oh this is horrible! Weep! Weep!
Weep for thy Henry! He is gone! the kindest,
The tenderest, the best!—Her brain is wandering.

Louisa
(sings).
Home the lovely bride ye bring—
I cannot sing. I have no breath. I tremble
At my own voice. And he—he listens not.
Henry! He hears me not. He's dead! he's dead!
Eleanor, he is dead!

Eleanor.
She, too, will die;
That other dearest thing! And I alone,
And desolate—

Mordaunt.
No Ellen, not alone!

Eleanor.
Oh tell me, thou his friend, what load of grief—

Mordaunt.
He died a penitent.

Eleanor.
For that, thank Heaven!
All else may be endured. My kindest brother!
My tenderest! my best! Farewell! Farewell!