University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene.—A Cottage in the Forest.
Enter Beatrice and Martyn.
Beatrice.

Strangers! good Martyn, and come this way?
They miss their road, unless they seek my Lord, or some
of us. How were they clad? How seem'd they?
Gentle, or of low demeanour?

Mart.

Good dame! I cannot say as to their words,
for I took not on me to speak to them: but methought
both their countenances betoken'd grief and weariness.
I heard the woman sigh deeply as they past, but word
they neither spake. She lean'd on his arm.

Beat.

How clad? aged or youthful?

Mart.

In truth I think they both are young; but the
lad still greatly younger than the dame; for scarcely
seem'd he fledg'd, yet mainly stout and manly, as though
he were fit for the wars.

Beat.

In Heaven's good time I hope the wars are over.
Cruel wars! where brothers fought 'gainst brothers,

and sons against their sires. Too well I remember them.
But bloody Richard hath been slain. All will now be
peace. Thou hast not said how they were clad?

Mart.

I think she wears a Pilgrim's habit; for on the
garment, well contriv'd in folds to suit her sex, the cockle
shell is wrought at equal distances. In her hand she
holds the Cross; and her hair hangs loosely on her neck.
You change colour, good Beatrice, and tremble.

Beat.

Good Heaven! If this should be!—'Tis sixteen
years since she was born—This is the hoping of a
foolish old woman. And prithee, good Martyn, was
the youth a Pilgrim likewise?

Mart.

He has upon his shoulders a wrapper of the
same that girts his fair companion; but in his hat a jewel
sparkles, and his large plumes wave proudly. He also
hath a cross; but the staff is thick, and fitter for a warrior
than peaceful Pilgrim: its lower end was iron pointed.

Beat.

Why did'st not speak to them? Thou should'st
have ask'd what cheer, and whither bent? Did'st heed
the woman's face?

Mart.

I did, and truly 'tis a comely one.

Beat.

Fair?

Mart.

Ay, but the Sun hath touch'd it.

Beat.

Tall or short?

Mart.

Tall, but bending as she lean'd on the young
man's arm.

Beat.

It would be wonderful indeed! and the work
of some good saint. Where, where is Mark? I must
go seek him. Good even Martyn.

Mart.

Good even to thee, Beatrice! and God be
with thee.

(Exeunt severally.
Scene.—The Forest.
Enter Edward and Lucretia.
Edw.
Oh! how enchanting is this scene! while here
Treading this mountain side, beyond the vale
Yon plumed wood, upon our neighbour hill,
Appears in striking majesty array'd
With Summer's thickest robe, in gentle curve
Descending leftwards: while the Orb of day,
Declining, skirts with gold the fleecy top,
Seeming to rest upon th' enliven'd edge.
See! how he darts his flame-abated glory,
That with unpunish'd eye we now may view,
Its ardent fulgence, cool'd to mortal organ
By the intervening foliage. Below,
How beautiful! how grateful to the sight
Those pastures rich, still further to the left,
Where graze the cattle and the fleecy tribe:
And the fine inequalities and mounds
The Sun, falling beyond the plumed mountain,
Marks out, with varied light and shade delightful.
My eye is charm'd, and chains me to the spot.
That rustic building near, whose Eastern scite,
Lofty and prominent, receives embrown'd
The parting day, leads on to trace the landscape,
And with delighted eye to pour along
The distant country, as it spreads adorn'd
With fainter woods, and lessening edifices,
By Art upon the front of Nature set:
Bounded afar with curving mountains blue
Of undistinguishable wood: Serene,
All glowing with the mild and evening tint.
Nor less serene that yonder rising cloud
Spreads his broad shade upon the distant scene.
Ah! while I speak, beneath the dark-green wood
The Sun is sunk; the rays refulgent gone.
Oh! for a Painter's hand well skill'd in lore
Of Nature, and romantic Art divine,
To have caught the fleeting glory ere it fled,
And staid it to this scene forever.—How fair'st?

Luc.
(sighs).
Ah me!—These are Orlando's fair domains.
My gentle youth! how many a mournful mile
Hither have we travell'd, side by side!
And thou hast help'd me much upon the way,
For not alone my weary feet thy arm
Hath eas'd, thy sweet discourse my sorrows.

Edw.
If sorrows end not here, they will above.

Luc.
Sure Heaven hath heard, and interceding Saints
Have brought down mercy on this sinful head.
Oh! I have sinn'd, but, Edward, well thou know'st
I've also suffer'd much. Indeed I have.

Edw.
Still hold this arm.

Luc.
That arm! Is it not wearied?
Is't not quite numb'd? Kind hath it been to me:
But I've impos'd upon its strength enough,
And will not now; for weary though I am,
I have been wearier much.

Edw.
A little numb'd;
But dropt it from its socket in thy service,
I would not grieve. Dear Lady, use it still.

Luc.
Alas! I'm very weak: but rest awhile;
Nor am I so fatigued to suffer Self
To throw its load on such benevolence

Edw.
Do not thus mar the joy to me it gives.
By Heaven I swear, the pain I so endure
Brings me such pleasure I forget all pain.
For since I met thee first beyond the Alps,
Where blessed Saints convey'd me to thy aid,
My heart hath been so bound to thee,
There is no load I would not bear to serve thee.
I would call thee Sister, make our blood akin,
Together beat our path through the vain world,
Discourse the weariness of time away,
Pity the sorrows of this earthly life,
And talk in raptures of Eternity.

Luc.
Dear youth! I love thee too, with such pure love.
So brave, so good, so gentle, and so young!
With what fair seeds have thy first years been sown!
Thy father must have been a worthy man.

Edw.
As ever saw the light: pious and brave,
Learned, charitable, belov'd of all;
And for his love of me—Oh! 'twas excessive!
He was my greatest friend on earth. Alas!
In battle slain—would I had died that day!
Young as I was he led me to the field,
Close by his side I stood in hottest danger,
We Volunteers with troops that fought the cause
Of Naples' king against young Charles of France.
Would he had staid at home! ah! fatal powder!
Invention of the Devil!—my father fell—
A mortal arm had strove in vain to throw him—
I rais'd him in my arms, and bore him speechless
To his tent.

Luc.
Bless thee for the pious deed!

Edw.
There for awhile he was restor'd to life;
His speech return'd, and ne'er shall I forget
The last sad sounds he utter'd: my son, he said,
And with a voice that chill'd my blood he spoke,
Kiss this bright cross, and lay it to thy heart,
Then swear that thou wilt punctually perform
The last behest of thy fond father; swear—
So may Alonzo's curse or blessing speed thee!—
Alonzo was my father's name—I swore—
Then from his bosom forth he drew a paper,
And as the blood ran purpling from his wound,
Into the precious stream immerg'd the charge:
All-dripping with the life from which I sprung
Beneath my vest, and next my heart, he plac'd it.

Luc.
Oh dreadful!

Edw.
Then the awful scene he clos'd
With these mysterious words—To Britain go,
And when thou art arriv'd on Cornish land,
But not before, there read, reflect, perform.

Luc.
Alas! Is Cornwall then the source of woe?

Edw.
Curse on the place whence'er thy sorrows spring!

Luc.
Oh! curse not place; but rather let thy curses
Fall on the wicked, and their crimes.

Edw.
Thou can'st not be so sinful as thou say'st.
No, Lucretia, I cannot think thee wicked,
Truly wicked, but for some fancied crime
By Superstition doom'd to this hard penance.

Luc.
I had a naughty heart. Ah Mortimer!

Edw.
And sure thy Mortimer is now appeas'd.
To me indeed thou seemest all perfection.

Luc.
Then am not what I seem, but all corruption:
A devil stalking on the earth.

Edw.
An angel,
Dropt from heaven.

Luc.
A vile adultress that forsook the true
And genial couch of wedded innocence.
How wilt thou hate me, Edward, for my crimes!

Edw.
I scarce can credit e'en thy own avowal,
For where could Pureness better dwell than there?
I rather could believe thee made of ice.

Luc.
Oh! Mortimer! his name was Edward too.
Edward! so was our first born likewise call'd.
They went away—'Twas I that went away;
'Twas I that broke my husband's heart; 'twas I
That kill'd my husband and my child: Oh Monster!

Edw.
These are indeed the darkest blots of life:
But thou hast wash'd them well with saltest tears.

Luc.
Fond youth! thou know'st not half the pangs that prey
Upon the heart of her thou fain would'st comfort:
But comfort lies with Heaven. Perhaps my prayers,
My sighs, my tears, have reach'd the throne of Grace.

Edw.
They have, they have; take comfort.

Luc.
Edward, I left my Mortimer for misery;
For one who nothing knew of what is love:
A wretch, a serpent, that betray'd my heart
With mad ambition, woman's constant curse.
Blind that I was to see no further on!
Contempt, derision, from the chaste and true:
And not to know the lowly daisy pure
Stands far superior to the rotted rose.
But, ah! Derision was my easiest woe.
My tempter, how unlike my Mortimer!
Knew not to heal the wound he gave my peace:
Impetuous, self-will'd, and proud, he strove,
But strove in vain: and though when Edward died
He led me to the altar black in crime,
My heart was sicker for't; and at the altar
Sure Heav'n sent down the curse that hath pursu'd me.

Edw.
Great pow'rs above! Why seek'st thou then again
The hateful cause of all thy misery?
Oh! rather fly to the remotest end
Of this sad globe. My unknown duty sped,
Thy steps I'll lead, and in thy service die.

Luc.
Listen good youth! I'll tell thee all my sorrow:
Where more secure can confidence repose
Than in the bosom of such good affection?
Orlando is my husband; and I've sworn
The tenor of my future days shall be
Most exemplary: for let come what may,
Edward, I ne'er again will quit the path
Of pure and steady duty. Ah! what ills
For ever spring from faithless deviation!
Remitless vengeance! Pity me, oh Edward!
From year to year, for three successive years,
The sweetest infants smil'd their thanks for life;
From year to year the unremitted curse
Tore from my arms the heav'nly babes, nor did
The mother's joys reward the mother's pangs.
Oh Henry, Laura, Caroline! Oh! Oh!

Edw.
Prithee have patience. How thou rend'st my heart!

Luc.
Dear Edward! they but liv'd to smile and die.
They smil'd benign, as 'twere to raise my hope,
Then sudden frown'd a curse, and died.

Edw.
In mercy drop the piteous recollection,
And wave awhile the bitter tale.

Luc.
They died.
And yet—Oh! that's a thought I've done my utmost
To discourage. No, no, I will not hope,
Lest disappointment turn my feeble brain,
And madness tip my tongue with blasphemy.
I have no daughter—no, I have no child,
For she is dead—alas! she must be dead:
Eternal Justice will have rul'd it so.

Edw.
What mean'st thou Lady?

Luc.
Nay, I know not what—
But that perhaps I have a daughter still.
Full sixteen years are past since I resolv'd
To expiate, if expiate I could;
And vow'd in favour of an Infant's life
To leave the suckling e'er it press'd my bosom,
And by a Pilgrimage atone my crimes.
I never told Orlando of the child,
For he had drawn the curses on our heads,
But left his Castle in the dead of night,
And hid me for awhile beneath the shed
Of Mark, a trusty Vassal, and his wife.
With them I left my little Magdeline,
And, by a solemn awful sacrament
A lasting silence on their lips I seal'd,
On no pretext, however urgent 'twere,
To own her noble birth, 'till I return'd,
Or she had reach'd her eighteenth year;
But as their own to rear my hapless babe.

Edw.
See, yonder hies a merry company;
Haply the inmates of your Castle, Lady:
And one dismounts who bears a portly mien.

Luc.
Where? 'Tis most likely—but make nought of me,
For I must reach the cottage on my feet;
Few are miles: by dark we shall be there:
Then Beatrice will tell me all my fate—
If she's alive!—

Edw.
And once thy penance o'er,
My fate I'll likewise seek; mysterious fate,
Seal'd with a dying Father's hallow'd blood.

Enter Orlando.
Orl.
They seem to shun my steps. This wand'ring tribe
Assume the face and garb of piety
Merely to give their idleness a cloak.

Re-enter Edward.
Edw.
As thou art noble quit the path we tread,
And onward hasten, or return thy steps:
My fair companion would not here be seen.
Perchance ere long, Sir, thou may'st know her better.

Orl.
And who art thou?

Edw.
Alas! one, who in life
Holdeth no consequence to talk of: who
Now treadeth British ground, unknowing why,
And step by step advances to a deed
Conceal'd, yet terrible.

Orl.
Out from my sight!
Thou vagrant! nor bring thy magic here,
To scare the unprepar'd with mystery
And show—Avaunt!

Edw.
Though young, I long have learnt, thou blusterer,
The barking cur is not the dog that bites.

Orl.
Hah! Death shall follow thy presumption.

(Handles a dagger.
Lucretia runs forward.
Luc.
Turn, turn, Orlando, to thy long lost wife.

(Orlando starts.
Edw.
(aside).
Orlando's self!

Luc.
Wilt thou not speak, Orlando?
Not cheer me by a word, a kind embrace?
Hast thou forgot me? Look again: indeed
I am Lucretia, indeed I am.—Thou seem'st
O'erpower'd with amazement.

Orl.
Thou'rt a spirit.

Edw.
(aside).
How doth the guilty soul appal herself!

Orl.
I do conjure thee, waft her back from where
Thy magic art hath rais'd her up.—Away!
What would'st thou?—Will not sixteen years
Suffice? Dost rise at this long date to claim
Further fidelity to the cold tomb?
Why hast thou left thy grave?

Luc.
I am thy wife!

Orl.
Thou art not flesh and blood, but merely vapour.

Luc.
He thinks me dead, and takes me for a spirit—
Stretch forth thy hand and be convinc'd:—there—there.

Orl.
Thou feel'st of substance; but my harrow'd soul
Hath so disorder'd all corporeal sense,
I scarce can credit what I see or touch.
Art thou indeed alive?

Luc.
Alive! Oh Life!
I've dragg'd it wearily a length of way,
And brought it back but just in time, I fear,
To throw it down before thee.—Yes, I live—
In Heav'n's good time I shall be dead.

Edw.
(aside).
Alas!
'Tis but a frigid welcome for thee, Lady.

Luc.
What ails thee, my Orlando? Why dost muse?

Orl.
(aside).
Oh coward heart!

Luc.
Orlando!

Orl.
(aside).
Ay, Mark knew it—
But he shall rue this artful silence yet,
And blast his tongue that could not break an oath.

Luc.
Wilt thou not speak to me? Is this my welcome?

Orl.
Forgive, Lucretia, this my mortal frailty.
Amazement hath enchain'd my faculties:
I long have thought thee dead—Come to my arms,
And hush thy sorrows to eternal rest.

Luc.
Joy! Joy! And wilt thou love me still, Orlando?
But hold awhile—I must not yet encroach
Upon my almost ended Pilgrimage:
A penance dure, and, which, but for this youth,
Had long since found a hapless period.

Orl.
I'm proud of nature, Sir; You will excuse
The roughness of't.

Edw.
Of humblest nature I:
Yet want not mind to turn aside the foot
That strives to spurn me:—prompt to forgive;
For calm acknowledgement, though ne'er so slight,
Conquers at once my peaceful heart, and gains
An easy reconcilement.

Luc.
Now, my Lord,
Awhile depart, and leave me to my penance:
Thou had'st not seen me till my task was o'er,
But for the purpose of preventing anger.—
Now go, and have the Castle well prepar'd—
I have a thousand, thousand things to tell—
It will be late ere we arrive, and these
Few hours will seem almost as long as all.

Orl.
(aside).
Most fortunate! (to Luc.)
Indeed, I must not go—

Luc.
In this be rul'd by me? this once be rul'd.

Orl.
Well! to prepare thee a most kind reception—
For this I do esteem my bridal night.

Luc.
How gratefully my heart doth thank thee for it:—
Yet ere you go, my Lord, I fain would hear,
Fond woman! what to hear perhaps is death—
Hath Beatrice a child alive?—a Daughter?

Orl.
Ha! where hast thou heard it? 'tis false I say.—

Luc.
Alas! I thought it must be so—yet Justice
Might have been apppeas'd—Oh Magdeline!

Orl.
(aside)
So the old sycophant hath been before me.

Luc.
I'll bear it well—yet, yet I'll see it out,
Nor leave the tyrant Pow'rs one ray of mercy.—
Mark then told you when she died—told all.

Orl.
Mark told me when she died!—her brain is phrensied—
What means my Love? The child of Mark still lives,
A blooming lovely rustic.

Luc.
Ha! doth she live? is Magdeline alive?

Orl.
(aside).
I know not what to think: she either knows,
Or she suspects me faithless. (to Luc.)
Prithee why
Such question and concern for Magdeline?

Luc.
Thou must not taste it now: no, that shall be
A feast at night, when we have reach'd the Castle.
Oh! we've abundant joy in store, my Lord.
Away!

Orl.
So thou wilt have it for a while:
We part to meet at night.— (aside)
Reason hath lost her poise.

(Exit Orlando.
Luc.
She lives! Edward, she lives! my infant lives!
Infant!—why she is near as old as thou:
A comely beauteous maid.—I told thee, Edward,
How interceding Saints had gain'd me mercy.

Edw.
My heart, still true, participates thy joy:
Oh may'st thou never feel a sorrow more!

Luc.
Now let us bend our steps towards the Castle—
The twilight wanes apace, and soon will fail us—
Still must I hold thy arm, thou worthy youth!
But Magdeline shall thank her Mother's friend.

(Exeunt.