University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Quarters of Glenlyon.
Enter Glenlyon and Lindsay.
GLENLYON.
Are you not weary of your quarters, Lindsay?

LINDSAY.
Not I;—I care but little where I lodge.

GLENLYON.
These fifteen days among the snows will nerve
Our soldiers to encounter a campaign
In coldest winter. Do they bear it bravely?

LINDSAY.
Bear it? The rogues exult in it! Rude plenty
And loosen'd discipline make rich amends
For rations duly meted, and warm shelter,
The garrison affords. Our savage hosts
Have open'd their rock-cellar'd stores of ale,
And of the luscious juice from honey press'd,
Which the wild bee from scanty heather wins
To make us jocund; laughter and the dance
Have shaken many a hovel. May I ask
If we are destined long to dally thus?

GLENLYON.
I know not, Lindsay; what our mission was
You heard:—I scarcely dare remember it;
I, who have ever held my conduct true
To orders, as my pistol to my touch,
And feel these fastnesses are unsubdued
While a fierce clan like this retains its show
Of unity and ancient right, recoil
From that which we may execute. But thus
We must not loiter; every social cup—
Each pressure of the hand, will make our work
Harder and darker. I will send at once
To Duncanson; perchance Mac Ian's oath
Accepted by the Sheriff, though so late,
May save him. There's a mournful courtesy
In this old chief, crest-fall'n but self-sustain'd,
Which softens me to wish it.

LINDSAY.
He is crafty,
But yet most daring: never will the Highlands
Know peace while he infests them.

GLENLYON
(writing).
Wound not him
With the sharp tongue on whom your sword may deal;
I will despatch Macdonald: can you tell
Where I may find him?

LINDSAY.
No: but I am sure
He's pleasantly engaged; for I have met him
Often, since we have lodged here, with a lady
Gracing his arm, whom a slight glance approves
Of rarest beauty. But he comes to make
His own report.

Enter Henry Macdonald.
GLENLYON.
'Tis well, sir, you have come;
You have but seldom sought my orders here;
And but that I am told you have fair plea
For such remissness, I might censure it.
At present, I require to know the name
And station of the damsel who has drawn
So true an officer from duty.

HENRY.
Sir,
My home was in this glen, and I live here
Beneath my brother's roof.

GLENLYON.
Nay, no evasion;
Tell me at once to whom I owe your absence,
Or hope no favour.

HENRY.
If I had not fear'd
The old estrangement which the father caused
Might touch the daughter, I had long ere this
Sought for her your protection. She is the child
Of your slain brother, from your love so long
Unhappily divided.

GLENLYON.
I knew not
That he had left a daughter.

HENRY.
When he died,
You were abroad; and she, an infant, found
A sire in mine.

GLENLYON.
Poor girl, to find her here
At such a moment!—but she shall be cared for.

HENRY.
Cared for!

GLENLYON.
Yes—cared for;—said I something strange?
Is't strange that I should care for her? To business:—
You are swift of foot, and know the jagged paths
Among these hills.
[Gives a letter.
Bear this to Duncanson,
And bring his answer with your best despatch:
When you return, we'll talk of my fair niece,
The partner of your rambles. I'll find means
To honour and reward you. Lindsay, come.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Room in Halbert's Tower.
Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen.
LADY MACDONALD.
Helen, how grave you are! While winter stretch'd
Its dull eventless length, your ready mirth
Streak'd the dark hours with gaiety, which else
Had been unvaried gloom. Now that our snows
Glitter with dancing feathers and bright plaids,
Our echoes learn to laugh, and our rough paths
Are cheer'd by tales of love, you droop and sigh!
Does any secret grief afflict my child?

HELEN.
Grief, madam! 'Tis the pensiveness of joy,
Too deep for language, too serene for mirth,
Makes me seem sad. To meet in manhood's bloom
The gentle playmate of my childhood; propp'd
On the same arm to tread the same wild paths;
And in sweet fellowship of memories, feel
Hour after hour of long-forgotten pleasure
Start forth in sunny vividness to break
The mist of heavy years,—is joy so hearted,
That it can find no colour in the range
Of gladness to express it;—so accepts
A solemn hue from grief.

LADY MACDONALD.
Have you then felt
Those years so heavy, you have help'd to make
So light to me? Your lodging has been bleak,
Your entertainment scanty; yet your youth
Has been so furnish'd with rich thoughts, so raised
To lofty contemplations, that my pride
In the bright valour of my younger son
Cannot prevent my wonder that the hours
In which my Halbert with delighted care
Has minister'd to your soul's noblest thirsts,
Should be thus soon forgotten.

HELEN.
Not forgotten,
Nor have the years been heavy: when I said so,
I was most thankless. Pardon me, sweet lady,
But when with Henry, I recal old times,
I look across the intervening years
As a low vale in which fair pastures lie
Unseen, to gaze upon a sunlit bank
On which my childhood sported, and which grows
Near as I watch it. If his nature seems
Unsoften'd by reflexion,—like a rock
Which draws no nurture from the rains, nor drinks
The sunbeam in that lights it, yet sustains
A plume of heather,—it is crown'd with grace
Which wins the heart it shelters.

LADY MACDONALD.
My dear Halbert,
How will you bear this!

HELEN.
Can it be, you fear
My joy in Henry's presence should afflict
A soul so great as Halbert's?

LADY MACDONALD.
I do fear it;—
I know it; shudder at it: can you doubt
That Halbert loves you?

HELEN.
Do not think it, madam,
For mercy's sake, if you intend by love
Something beyond a brother's fondest care
For a lone sister! You are silent; turn
Your face away; your bosom throbs as grief
Or terror shook it. Am I grown a curse
To you—to him? O whither shall I fly?
Where seek for counsel? Dearest lady, save me!

[Helen throws herself on Lady Macdonald's neck.
LADY MACDONALD.
Rest there, beloved fair one; I will try
To temper this to Halbert;—yet I fear—
He's bending towards us.

HELEN.
Hide me from his sight,
I cannot bear it now.

LADY MACDONALD
(leading Helen to the side).
That way; I'll break
This sorrow to him, if I can;—be calm.

[Exit Helen.
Enter Halbert from the opposite side.
HALBERT.
Was not that Helen? Wherefore should she fly
Upon my coming? But her absence serves
My purpose now. I came to talk of her.

LADY MACDONALD.
Of her? Sit down; you look fatigued and ill:
I'll fetch a draught of wine.

HALBERT.
Fatigued and ill!
My looks belie me, then; I scarce have felt
So fresh in spirit since I was a boy,
And the sweet theme I come to speak of needs
No wine to make it joyous. It is marriage.

LADY MACDONALD.
My son!

HALBERT.
Why, you look pale; I thought my wish
Was also yours. I know a common mother,
Who, having lost her husband in her prime,
Seeks from a grateful son some slight return
For love that watch'd his infancy, may feel
Her fortune cruel, when a new regard,
With all the greediness of passion, fills
The bosom where till then affection reign'd,
Which answer'd, though it could not rival, hers:
But we have lived so long as equal friends
With love absorbing duty, that I thought,
And I still think, increase of joy to me
Must bring delight to you. I could have lived
Content, as we have lived, and still prolong
The lingering ecstacy of fearless hope,
But that the licence of the time, which brings
A band of loose companions to our glen,
Requires that I should claim a husband's right
To shield its lovely orphan.

LADY MACDONALD.
You mean—Helen?

HALBERT.
Whom else could I intend? If you have been
Perplex'd by fear that I might mean to seek
Another's hand, no wonder you grew pale.
But still you tremble;—what is this?

LADY MACDONALD.
My son,
Are you assured she loves you?

HALBERT.
As assured
As of my love for her. In both, one wish,
As she has glided into womanhood,
Has grown with equal progress.

LADY MACDONALD.
Have you sought
Of her, if she esteems it thus?

HALBERT.
By words?
No; for I never doubted it: as soon
Should I have ask'd you if a mother's love
Watch'd o'er my nature's frailties. If sweet hopes
Dawning at once on each; if gentle strifes
To be the yielder of each little joy
Which chance provided; if her looks upraised
In tearful thankfulness for each small boon
Which, nothing to the giver, seem'd excess
To her; if poverty endured for years
Together in this valley,—do not breathe
Of mutual love, I have no stronger proofs
To warrant my assurance. Mother, speak!
Do you know anything which shows all this
A baseless dream?

LADY MACDONALD.
My Halbert, you have quell'd
Fierce passion by strong virtue; use your strength—
Nay, do not start thus; I do not affirm
With certainty you are deceived, but tremble
Lest the expressions of a thankful heart
And gracious disposition should assume
A colour they possess not, to an eye
Bent fondly over them.

HALBERT.
It cannot be;
A thousand, and a thousand times, I've read
Her inmost soul; and you that rack me thus
With doubt have read it with me. Before Heaven,
I summon you to witness! In the gloom
Of winter's dismal evening, while I strove
To melt the icy burthen of the hours
By knightly stories, and rehearsed the fate
Of some high maiden's passion, self-sustain'd
Through years of solitary hope, or crown'd
In death with triumph, have you not observed,
As fading embers threw a sudden gleam
Upon her beauty, that its gaze was fix'd
On the rapt speaker, with a force that told
How she could lavish such a love on him?

LADY MACDONALD.
I have; and then I fancied that she loved you.

HALBERT.
Fancied! Good mother, is that emptiest sound
The comfort that you offer? Is my heart
Fit sport for fancy? Fancied!—'twas as clear
As it were written in the book of God
By a celestial penman. Answer me,
Once more! when hurricanes have rock'd these walls,
And dash'd upon our wondering ears the roar
Of the far sea, exulting that its wastes
Were populous with agonies; with loves
Strongest in death; with memories of long years
Grey phantom of an instant;—as my arms
Enfolding each, grew tighter with the sense
Of feebleness to save;—have you not known
Her looks, beyond the power of language, speak
In resolute content, how sweet it were
To die so link'd together?

LADY MACDONALD.
I have mark'd it.

HALBERT.
Then wherefore do you torture me with doubt?
What can you know, what guess, that you can weigh
Against these proofs?

LADY MACDONALD.
Be firm; she loves another.

HALBERT.
'Tis false!—and yet, great Heaven! your quivering lips
Attest it. And you knew this? You partook
Her counsels—His?—Yes, His!—you know the name
Which I must curse—of him I must pursue
Through deserts and through cities till I search
His bosom with my sword. Tell me the name—
Now—now—delay not.

LADY MACDONALD
(laying her hand on his arm).
Halbert, pause, and look
Into your mother's face, and then reply
To her:—does she deserve this of her son?

HALBERT.
I am a wretch indeed to use command
Where I should humbly sue.—Sit, sit, dear mother,
Assume your old authority.
[Wildly places her in a chair and falls on his knees beside it.
I kneel
There—meekly as you taught me—when you raised
For the first time my little hands to God;
A child, obedient and infirm as then,
I do implore you, tell your wretched son
What he must suffer.

LADY MACDONALD.
Are you arm'd to bear it?

HALBERT.
For all things.

LADY MACDONALD.
Henry—

HALBERT.
[Starting up.
My own brother! Now
I see it clear;—remember how she gazed
With fondness on him, when he came array'd
In a slave's tinsel; how she seized his hand
When I had dash'd the insulting weapon from it,
Aim'd at my life. Would I had slain him there!

LADY MACDONALD.
What fearful vision crosses you? Slay Henry—
Him whom you moulded! From unthinking youth
Strike him to bloody senselessness, and bid
Your twice-stabb'd mother gaze upon her sons—
The murder'd and the guilty!

HALBERT.
Guilty?—yes!
I am—I thought it—felt as if my arm
Could act it;—utter'd it. Look not upon me!
Earth hide me!—cover me!

[Sinks into a seat and covers his face with his hands.
LADY MACDONALD.
I fear'd this outbreak
Of fire subdued, not quench'd. My noble son,
As you have wrestled with the fiends, and quell'd them,
Be victor now!

HALBERT
(rising).
Are you assured she loves him?
It may be but a girlish dream,—her eye
Enchanted for a moment by the grace
Of youth—her fancy dazzled by the show
Of military prowess,—while her soul
In its serene and inmost temple waits
Untouch'd and true. 'Tis so.

LADY MACDONALD.
Would that it were!

HALBERT.
I will awake her spirit from its trance;
I'll meet her face to face, and soul to soul,
And so be satisfied.

LADY MACDONALD.
You shall do so,
If you will rule your passion.

HALBERT.
I am calm,
Docile as infancy; I'll seek her now.

LADY MACDONALD.
No;—I will bring her on the instant. Think
That she has not a refuge in the world
Except in our protecting care, and feel
How gently she should be entreated! Rage
From you would kill her.

HALBERT.
Rage—to her? All weak
In passion as I am, you need not fear it.

LADY MACDONALD.
I'll trust you.
[Exit Lady Macdonald.

HALBERT
(alone).
She will come with her sweet voice
To charm away this mist. Alas! I'm rude
And moody; he is gay, and quick of spirit,
And light of heart. Why did I let them roam
So often? Yet it cannot be; her heart
Could not be caught by gauds;—so pure; so arm'd—
So true!

Enter Henry Macdonald.
HENRY.
What, musing! Let me not disturb
Deep meditations. Is my mother near,
Or Helen?

HALBERT.
Helen!

HENRY.
I have scarce a word
To spend with either; though I would not pass
Your tower unvisited, I'm bound to speed,
For I am bearer of an urgent letter
To Duncanson.

HALBERT.
To Duncanson? The foe
Most bitter to our clan;—and you dare bring it
Here;—to your father's hall—where you were train'd
To clansman's duty;—which you left in scorn,
And now revisit in a lackey's guise
To boast a cursed mission; yield it to me,
Traitor and slave! or I will tear it from you.

HENRY.
Stand off!—what frenzy rules you? Let me pass.

HALBERT.
There's treachery in it—and in you.

Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen.
LADY MACDONALD.
Your word!

[Halbert, at sight of Helen, pauses and shrinks back.
HALBERT
(to Henry).
Forgive me; I am ill at ease, and scarce
Know what I utter.

HENRY.
I shall think of this
But as brain-sickness which your studies bring;
Heaven keep me from them! I must not delay
A moment more:—farewell;—I shall return
This way to-morrow, and shall hope to find
Your grave philosopher in reason's mood.
[Exit Henry.

LADY MACDONALD.
I leave you; recollect your word.

HALBERT.
I will.

[Exit Lady Macdonald.
HALBERT.
Be not alarm'd, sweet Helen; if your looks,
Turn'd gently on me, had not power to still
The tempest my frail nature has endured,
The issue of this moment would command
All passion to deep silence, while I ask—
If my scathed life enrich'd by yours may spread
Its branches in the sunshine, or shrink up
In withering solitude, a sapless thing,
Till welcome death shall break it?

HELEN.
Do not think
Your noble nature can require a reed
So weak as mine to prop it: virtue's power,
Which shields it as a breastplate, will not yield
To transient sorrow which a thankless girl
Can hurl against it.

HALBERT.
Little do you guess
The heart you praise: 'tis true, among the rocks
I sought for constancy, and day by day
It grew; but then within its hardening frame
One exquisite affection took its root,
And strengthen'd in its marble;—if you tear
That living plant, with thousand fibres, thence,
You break up all;—my struggles are in vain,
And I am ruin!

HELEN.
What a lot of mine!
I, who would rather perish than requite
Long years of kindness with one throb of pain,
Must make that soul a wreck!

HALBERT.
No, Helen, no—
It is a dream; your heart is mine; mine only,—
I'll read it here:—you have not pledged its faith
To—any other?

HELEN.
No;—not yet.

HALBERT.
Thank God!—
Then you are mine; we have been betrothed for years.

HELEN.
Would it had been so!

HALBERT.
You desire it?

HELEN.
Yes;
I then had kept such watch upon my soul,
As had not let the shadow of a thought
Fall on your image there; but not a word
Of courtship pass'd between us.

HALBERT.
Not a word.
Words are for lighter loves, that spread their films
Of glossy threads, which while the air's serene
Hang gracefully, and sparkle in the sun
Of fortune, or reflect the fainter beams
Which moonlight fancy sheds; but ours—yes, OURS!—
Was woven with the toughest yarn of life,
For it was blended with the noblest things
We lived for; with the majesties of old,
The sable train of mighty griefs o'erarch'd
By Time's deep shadows; with the fate of kings,—
A glorious dynasty—for ever crush'd
With the great sentiments which made them strong
In the affections of mankind;—with grief
For rock-enthronèd Scotland; with poor fortune
Shared cheerfully; with high resolves; with thoughts
Of death; and with the hopes that cannot die.

HELEN.
Hold! If you rend oblivion's slender veil
Thus fearfully, and spectres of the past
Glide o'er my startled spirit, it will fail
In reason.

HALBERT.
No;—it shall cast off this cloud,
And retain no impression save of things
Which last for ever;—for to such our love
Has been allied. How often have we stood,
Clasp'd on yon terrace by columnar rocks,
Upon whose jagged orifice the sky
With its few stars seem'd pillar'd, and have felt
Our earthly fortunes, bounded like the gorge
That held us, had an avenue beyond,
Like that we gazed on; and when summer eve
Has tempted us to wander on the bank
Of glory-tinged Loch-Leven, till the sea
Open'd beyond the mountains, and the thoughts
Of limitless expanse were render'd sweet
By crowding memories of delicious hours
Sooth'd by its murmur, we have own'd and bless'd
The Presence of Eternity and Home!

HELEN.
What shall I do?

HALBERT.
Hear me while I invoke
The spirit of one moment to attest,
In the great eye of love-approving Heaven,
We are each other's. When a fragile bark
Convey'd our little household to partake
The blessing that yet lingers o'er the shrine
Of desolate Iona, the faint breath
Of evening wafted us through cluster'd piles
Of gently-moulded columns, which the sea—
Softening from tenderest green to foam more white
Than snow-wreaths on a marble ridge—illumed
As 'twould dissolve and win them;—till a cave,
The glorious work of angel architects
Sent on commission to the sacred isle,
From which, as from a fountain, God's own light
Stream'd o'er dark Europe—in its fretted span
Embraced us.—Pedestals of glistening black
Rose, as if waiting for the airy tread
Of some enraptured seraph who might pause
To see blue Ocean through the sculptured ribs
Of the tall arch-way's curve, delight to lend
His vastness to the lovely. We were charm'd,
Not awe-struck;—for The Beautiful was there
Triumphant in its palace. As we gazed
Rapt and enamour'd, our small vessel struck
The cavern's side, and by a shock which seem'd
The last that we should suffer, you were thrown
Upon my neck—You clasp'd me then;—and shared
One thought of love and heaven!

HELEN.
Am I indeed
Faithless, yet knew it not? my soul's perplex'd;—
Distracted. Whither shall it turn?—To you!—
Be you its arbiter. Of you I ask,
In your own clear simplicity of heart,
Did you believe me yours?

HALBERT.
Yes; and you are.
With this sweet token I assure you mine,
[Places a ring on her finger.
In sight of angels. Bless you!

HELEN.
It is done
I dare not, cannot, tear this ring away.

HALBERT.
It but denotes what Heaven has register'd;
We must not pause: when will you that this pledge
Shall be redeem'd? To-morrow?

HELEN.
Give me time
To speak with—to call in my scatter'd thoughts.

HALBERT.
The next day, then?

HELEN.
Direct it as you please;
Would I were worthy!—pray you leave me now.

HALBERT.
I go to share my blessedness with her
Whose love you share with me;—our mother, Helen.
[Exit Halbert.

HELEN.
Where am I?—can I wake from this strange dream?
[Observes the ring.
No—'tis all real—the good and brave alone
Have power upon the spirits of the guiltless
To raise or mar them. O that I had met
All evil things—oppression—slander—hate—
How would I have defied them!

Enter Lady Macdonald.
LADY MACDONALD.
Is it true
You have consented to wed Halbert?

HELEN.
Yes.

LADY MACDONALD.
My child, come to my heart. How's this? You are pale
And cold as marble.

HELEN.
You may well regard
My purpose with distrust;—but when I take
The noble Halbert's hand, I bid adieu
To every recollection which might touch
My duty to him. I shall never muse
On childhood's pleasures, innocent no more
For me;—shall never tread the shelter'd paths
Which I have lately linger'd in; nor think
Upon a soldier's glories; nor repeat
One name—O never!—I am very weak,
I did not know how weak. The Virgin aid me!

LADY MACDONALD.
She will, my lovely one.

HELEN.
I'll seek the chapel,
If these poor limbs will bear me.—On your bosom
I must seek strength first, mother.

LADY MACDONALD.
Weep there, child,
And may Heaven's arms encircle you as mine!

[Exeunt.