 | Faith's Fraud |  |
201
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Chamber in the Priory.Ellen and Prioress.
PRIORESS.
The fruit is newly plucked, and we have bread.
Let both appear officious when he comes.
Place the wine this side, daughter: 'tis our best—
His thirst may not discern how far from good.
ELLEN.
He promised what was asked of him?
PRIORESS.
At once,
And will disperse his followers through the isle.
Such patience grieves me for my thoughts of late.
“This house is yours; I come a guest”—he said,
“And will not stain its sanctity with blood.
There shall be no strife here.”
ELLEN.
Speak tenderly—
His heart is softer than it was.
PRIORESS.
The change
From pride to penitence were blessed of late,
Till this new shame rekindled what was quenched.
ELLEN.
I would approach his holier thoughts, thus veiled
Till I may show myself.
PRIORESS.
Be careful then!
I must yield what was promised, yet I fear.
Our brother's wisdom walks twixt scorn and hate,
Whose sole assuagement is the dread to lose thee.
Let us not mar these labours.
ELLEN.
I have asked
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Again my mother's voice is in mine ear—
I shall not fail.
PRIORESS.
Beware!
(Enter Weilenberg.)
WEILENBERG.
The crowd is gone;
A portion scattered in the search of bread.
We cannot aid the lost—and for myself,
I stand where none like these may interpose.—
A burden on your charity so long,
My thoughts are how to ease it.
PRIORESS.
Our chief shame
Is that we look so sparing of our duties,
And cold in hospitality to-night:
Like thankless children of the world shut out,
We seem to learn ingratitude betimes—
Obsequious only when we cannot profit:
It makes me blush to deal by measure now!
The servants of my lord must bide elsewhere:
Our rule gives refuge but to life pursued.
WEILENBERG.
I may crave entrance for my messengers?
If any from the castle knock to-night,
They shall come in?
PRIORESS.
It is directed so,
And what we can, provided.
WEILENBERG.
Then adieu!
PRIORESS.
Let me beseech my lord to take good heed—
We stand behind the altar where we are:
A grate divides us from the sanctuary
Pannelled with this before it.
(She opens a pannel in the waintscot.)
God forbid
That violence come thus near to sacrilege!
If so, a step will place beyond its reach.
I pray remember this, my lord.
WEILENBERG.
I will.
PRIORESS.
Daughter, stay thou till I come back again.
203
A novice of the house, herself unhappy,
Has learned to grieve with misery, though so young.
Her patience shames our haste. The Saint deceased
Loved her the best of all our younger sort:
She found similitude in growth and voice
To her we tremble for; but this poor child
Is almost friendless now.
WEILENBERG.
Her own is quite—
In this they differ.
PRIORESS.
Past eleven o'clock!
The midnight service leaves me scarce an hour.
[Exit.
WEILENBERG.
So young, and so unhappy, as she says?
May God forbid!
ELLEN.
The Prioress leaves me here
That I may learn to suffer.
WEILENBERG.
She forgets
That grief speeds best and easiest out of sight.
Ours cannot help each other.
ELLEN.
Then farewell:
Your Lordship's thoughts are far too high for mine:
Greatness may gain by scorn, what such as I
Must ask with tears.
WEILENBERG.
What may it gain?
ELLEN.
Endurance.
WEILENBERG.
Thy means are safest, child. I have no tears.
I that have caused them daily—for whose sake
They fell so fast, have none. What else we learn,
Is what I taught—a task of twenty years—
To bear and hold my peace. I am hard-hearted—
The Prioress tells the truth.
ELLEN.
She says not so.
WEILENBERG.
Being good, she may forbear to say so now:
But yet she loved her friend and patroness.
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Not more than I.
WEILENBERG.
Too proud for such endurance?
Who was it told thee so, if she did not?
ELLEN.
I said too high, my lord.
WEILENBERG.
Couldst love so much,
Yet spare to pity? Or didst see that face—
Pale as the marble saints around it now—
And not discern its tears?
ELLEN.
I pitied too.
WEILENBERG.
Pitied and loved?—dost know who grieved and killed her?
Who brought her where she is—who murdered her?
She did not trust thee, or she told thee that—
Who broke her heart? Heaven bless your charity!
A gracious office this of tendering comfort!
Old curses are too swift for such young prayers.
Behold the tyrant in his cage at last!
He has not one on earth who loves or pities—
The last that did, has left it. Why shouldst weep?
I have no wife to grieve and persecute—
No child to shame and frighten. God is just—
The roof above my head is not mine own;
And she who hides me here, would hiss me out,
But spares her breath awhile through charity!—
Dost love my daughter too?
ELLEN.
Myself no more.
WEILENBERG.
She is as young, and now as miserable.
Weep for them both—not me.
ELLEN.
O, peace!
WEILENBERG.
Those tears
Should make us friends for her sake. Canst believe
That, cruel as I am, I loved her too?
We talked of patience, art alone like her?
ELLEN.
The same, my lord.
WEILENBERG.
Not helpless as she is?
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Some pity me—
There is none left to help me—they are lost
Who loved me best. I have no friend but you.
WEILENBERG.
But me?
ELLEN.
You said my tears should make us friends.
My father is as I.
WEILENBERG.
Thou hast one then?
ELLEN.
And so has she.
WEILENBERG.
The more her grief in having!
ELLEN.
Mine is so poor, he has no home for either.
WEILENBERG.
'Twas wiser quit the world, than stay to hate it.
ELLEN.
They say that we should hate it—yet till now
I knew not why we should. To me it seemed
Like Him who made it, holy. I loved its flowers—
Its living creatures were my pleasant friends:
The streams were fair, the mountains beautiful—
Nor knew I better than the birds in spring
How to despise its gifts and be unhappy.
They too have some who chase and persecute!
Even what is ill, I knew not how to hate.
WEILENBERG.
Thou hast lived long in little time, and yet
Been gently nursed, it seems?
ELLEN.
Alas, too gently!
Met by fond smiles and open hands stretched out;
Praised, watched for, waited on. I live to see
How merciless is one who said he loved me.
Let me confess so much—I love the cruel—
My father's misery is through me.
WEILENBERG.
Alas!
—Be patient, and he may forgive thee yet.
The hard-hearted love their children.
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What forgive?
WEILENBERG.
That shame.
ELLEN.
It is not his—sorrow I bring him,
But ignorantly, not shame. Did I say shame?
WEILENBERG.
Methought you did. This swoon bewilders me—
The traitor's hand is hard upon my throat:
The bell which brought us here, tolls farther off:
My daughter's voice is on thy lips!—All sounds
Abuse me thus.—Thou lovest this father still?
ELLEN.
So does your daughter you, my lord.
WEILENBERG.
Art sure?
ELLEN.
Why not?
WEILENBERG.
Be sure of nothing!—ask no more.
He has been always good?
ELLEN.
To me he has.
WEILENBERG.
Thou didst not tremble when his steps drew near;
Nor think which way to hide thee? Why dost weep?
He did not kill thy mother?
ELLEN.
Pray forbear!
WEILENBERG.
Why dost thou weep? I, that have been all this,
And done all this, cannot!
Enter Prioress.
PRIORESS.
Be gone, child—quick!
There is a messenger whose haste knocks hard—
But neither of the two we waited for—
Your lordship's kinsman.
WEILENBERG.
Rudestein? I forget,
But surely some one told me he was dead.
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His arm is bandaged, and he speaks with pain.
Go, hide thee, daughter—that way—by the grate.
Remember where it leads.
ELLEN.
I shall stay there;
And may be called, if needed.
PRIORESS.
Get thee gone!
Exeunt Ellen and Prioress, different ways. Enter Rudestein.
WEILENBERG.
A double treason in one night? They lied
Who said that death had shortened infamy:
Both hope and faith die first.
RUDESTEIN.
And charity!
I have outlived all three of them! Ah me,
The greatest was but small!
WEILENBERG.
What price art sold for?
RUDESTEIN.
I stand upon my bargain with the Count,
The payment follows when the work is done.
I have earned nothing from him yet.
WEILENBERG.
For what?
RUDESTEIN.
For treachery—I come hither to that end.
Nothing is done—through lack of means to do it.
There was no trust, and therefore none betrayed.
I gain but cuffs which laid my wits asleep,
With here and there a hole beside. The same
Who told that I was dead, believed his eyes:
I thought so too.
WEILENBERG.
Count Albert sent thee hither?
RUDESTEIN.
He did.
WEILENBERG.
For what?
RUDESTEIN.
For treachery, as I said.
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He heals the wounds he gave me. Twice this week
My life was in his hands. I shall have gold—
A large and careless rental—what I please.
Beside that all ingratitude is sin,
There be some vanities, as wine, dice, women,
Which my good lord of yesterday eschews,
But free to him and me.
WEILENBERG.
What should these purchase?
RUDESTEIN.
Treachery, once more—I say the third time, treachery.
My mission hither is with line and hook.
I shall be trusted now as one that hates him—
Been baffled by him, beaten, wounded, laughed at
This second time, and all within a week.
Behold the ambassador! I come for peace.
The Father Philip preaches it up yonder.
WEILENBERG.
Peace suits his temper quite as well as thine.
RUDESTEIN.
It is from his suggestion. He is wise:
Yet darkly sees the things which profit here—
Calls silver dross—and when he needs must lie,
Looks down ashamed. This dross is dear to me:
Your lordship's son-in-law will furnish it.
Concluding thus, he trusts me.
WEILENBERG.
What to do?
RUDESTEIN.
To catch and cage my cousin. The Count is thrifty!
He will not squander more of his good name
Than buys the equivalent—a maid through love,
A barony through ambition. He would keep
Possession in the Castle by consent:
And silence cavils with your lordship's leave.
The time for gathering eye-brows has passed by—
His choice is ours—we choose by him as proxy.
It is provided that you go with me.
So stipulate that sorrow have its dues—
Rebuke impatience, put the wedding off,
Provide the nuptial covenants ere the feast,
Then fill a corner near the Christmas fire:
Let loose authority, as weary of it.
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No doubt you shall be waited on.
WEILENBERG.
He says so?
RUDESTEIN.
This tarrying here is scandal to us all!
WEILENBERG.
What said he to the message by his page?
RUDESTEIN.
He hangs his mirth upon the challenge-bearers—
Is pleasant in comparisons between you:
Shall be your son-in-law instead, he says:
Proposes peace, which granted or refused,
He makes alliance with you.
WEILENBERG.
Is this all?
RUDESTEIN.
No—for I have from Ellen a deal beside.
You must go home—be housed, and clothed, and tended—
Be comforted, and reconciled, and pleased,
Whether you will or no. She would be grieved
To see her father, head and heels across,
Strapped on his saddle, like a butcher's calf—
In this guise carried home to Rolandseck.
WEILENBERG.
She will not see it.
RUDESTEIN.
Philip fills the time
Till I go back, with reasonings on his office.
He chides them both, and bravely lays about him:
Calls Screitch an owl for letting mischief in—
He does indeed!
WEILENBERG.
Then Screitch did let it in?
RUDESTEIN.
He did not keep it out—so much appears.
Our seneschal is honest, and he is
In this like me, that I am like an ass.
Screitch sent his porters to replace the guests—
They feasted, while he watched with Barbara;
And she sent him to speak of both the Plinies.
The gate and bridge were as my cousin had left them.
Wisely Screitch talked as comforter within,
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Must summon Cupid for his damages;
The girls did what he taught.
WEILENBERG.
Did Barbara?
RUDESTEIN.
Ay, truly did she—Barbara, Ursula, Ellen.
Who wars with Love, will have the maids against him.
Poor souls, they meant no harm.
WEILENBERG.
My daughter too?
RUDESTEIN.
Yea, though she be your daughter—he has teazed,
Ere now, the daughter of as great a man.
WEILENBERG.
They sold the child, and lie of her.
RUDESTEIN.
Perhaps so:
The privilege of their calling is to lie,
And lover's gold its fairest perquisite.
My cousin is young and guileless—both excuse her.
Bab owns her share outright, while Ursula weeps.
WEILENBERG.
The blessèd sacrament between their teeth,
I would not credit either.
RUDESTEIN.
No!—why so?
They reckoned not on doing aught of ill.
It was Love's wile. The Count had been pushed out,
Adieus prohibited, old forms cut short,
No parting sighs allowed on either side,
No tokens of celibacy for aye—
No, not a tear. They thought to mend all this;
Looked for the Count who should come in to weep,
And so depart again. He came and laughs,
Nor will he quit. They shall be sharply chidden.
Why, what dost groan and break thine heart about?
A scullery porringer is burst to sherds—
Who cares, or frowns upon the penny-waster?
Your crystal chalice is let fall—the knave
Must suffer stripes proportioned to its cost.
But is this just?
WEILENBERG.
Get home again—begone!
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My fairy-footed cousin is in love—
She must forswear, she will forswear her dear:
But face to face, by rule and precedent.
Could she foretell his lack of modesty?
And now this love is so profuse of tears!
She is so vehement in his chastisement!
Good sooth! my little play-fellow!
WEILENBERG.
False, false!
RUDESTEIN.
Our tempest will abate its spite at last—
The skies grow calm again—therefore be merry—
Fight not with Cupid, or take better heed—
You quite forget his wings.
(Weilenberg sits down and covers his face.)
WEILENBERG.
Could she deceive me?
RUDESTEIN.
Not for the sun and moon, in aught but love.
Hast lived so long to trust, when maids eschew him?
Ah! my good lord's philosophy! he strives
To dam the current of five thousand years,
And change all nature since the flood!
WEILENBERG.
So soon?
Her mother's burial too!
RUDESTEIN.
Why, then or never.
'Tis pitiful to see her, how she weeps—
How passionate she is against the Count—
Nay, faith, imperious and disdainful too.
She spares him not a whit—My pretty cousin!—
He shall not thrust her father out of doors;
He shall not do so longer than is needed.
WEILENBERG.
Does she say this?—I know that it is needed—
But would not have her say so.
RUDESTEIN.
What is that?
A cry! a sob!—there must be listeners here.
Hark, yet! Methought so.—Well, I will go back.
Beware this Count, who laughs at all of us,
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The greater hangman's scrub and deputy—
Unnatural like himself—a slip-shod villain,
But worse and readier. He may cuff me thus,
Disarm me, wound me, laugh at me, forgive me,
And hire me when he wants me, after all.
I have been partial toward myself sometimes—
Silver I love and need:—but still, to tie
My garter round thy neck, and hale thee home,
'Twixt kicks and kisses!—see thee forced to give
This speckled tiger-cat thy blessing too!—
Set down to rock the cradle of young master,
Then pensioned out as troublesome and peevish!
To trap and tame thee!—this were much indeed—
Too much for his behoof! If this miscarry,
To drug thy drink, and poison thee outright—
Thus ease his grace from all incumbrances,
And spare the arithmetic of fresh accounts!
Good sooth, not I, sir, truly.
WEILENBERG.
Poison me?
RUDESTEIN.
If obstinate in restiveness, not else.
Look how this scandal must breed worse than noise!
The Count at Rolandseck, thyself down here.—
Two lords, two claimants—such a cry abroad!
Ten thousand tongues against him! What is this?
(Takes the cup from the table.)
These careful sisters placed it here? Is it wine?
Fruit, bread, and what beside?
WEILENBERG.
I have not tasted.
RUDESTEIN.
With leave, I will taste first then. Verjuice brewed
'Twixt crabs and sourest Rhine-grapes mixed with Rhine.
I need not call for drink as sick and feeble—
So far the means are furnished me. Now mark
The sleight he taught so like a mountebank.
I trifle with the cup—sip carelessly—
Replace, resume, employ thine ears and eyes,
Hiding the phial in my palm the while—
Thou shouldst have watched me better, coz.
WEILENBERG.
For what?
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The artifice he taught me.
WEILENBERG.
What hast done?
RUDESTEIN.
Have drugged the wine.
WEILENBERG.
Poisoned!—it is not poisoned?
RUDESTEIN.
Taste, then, and try, coz.—it is strongly poisoned!
The mightiest fiends must turn him out of doors
As he does us! He changed the dice, I know!
His hand is easy—he has practised this!
The physic might have come without a label,
Therefore I came myself. 'Tis mightiest poison!
Now will I cast it out, and cleanse the cup.
Beware his messengers, with what they bring thee;
Or yield at once! I will not leave it here—
Sorrow is careless.
WEILENBERG.
Let the cup stand! be gone!
Dost think I trust thee?
RUDESTEIN.
It would kill a score!
Whether or no, I will not leave it here—
It shall not bide behind me!
WEILENBERG.
Get thee hence—
RUDESTEIN.
Forbear to press my arm!—Well—gently—so—
[Exit.
Ellen advances from the gate.
ELLEN.
Is the cup poisoned?
WEILENBERG.
What—and if it be?
ELLEN.
Poisoned!
WEILENBERG.
He says it is. Go thou to bed!
ELLEN.
Think where we are.
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I do so heedfully—
And feel content to tarry where I am.
I need no nursing—if I did, there is
Provision for it in my daughter's house.
Go thou to bed!
ELLEN.
That cup has poison in it?
WEILENBERG.
Thou art not asked to drink with me—be gone!
Who taught to hide and listen?
ELLEN.
I meant no wrong;
But thought my lord allowed of it.
WEILENBERG.
Hast heard
What that man said? There are degrees of misery—
Rest thou content with thine.
ELLEN.
Do you believe him?
If so, be patient by the rule you give me—
There still is greater misery.
WEILENBERG.
Whose is so?
ELLEN.
Your daughter's—she is judged, and yet is guiltless!
A father's curse is only less than God's:
And you, who judge, will curse her! Trust her still—
For her sake, and her mother's sake, forbear!
O do not curse her, if she have done wrong!
You two may meet no more.
WEILENBERG.
I judge and curse!
Why thou fantastic fool—who thought to curse her?
Whatever she may do, I never will!
One innocent spirit has fled the tyranny—
The other changes in its just defence.
This child was good—I taught her to betray me.
Even yet she pities me, and takes my part:
She will not punish farther than is needed—
Her doors shall still be opened if I knock:
I am shut out to humble me: she sees
Her mother's tears.
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Would God you might see hers!
WEILENBERG.
Shouldst thou not wish me humbled?
ELLEN.
Not by her.
WEILENBERG.
By him through her. The worst, if others did it,
Were light to what she does—therefore through her.
ELLEN.
She has not done it.
WEILENBERG.
Then she should have done.
But this she shall not do, whatever else;
She shall not nurse me, pity me, forgive me—
Receive me as an outcast home again—
Stand forth for intercession with the Count;
Or chide his servants when they mock and brave me.
I have been thought a man till late to-night:
That traitor was the first who saw my tears—
She works as nature teaches her—it is
For retribution that she plagues me thus—
I killed her mother.
ELLEN.
You believe this kinsman?
I dare not speak my thoughts, since that were sin.
Your child must pray for those who wound to death—
And so will I—May God forgive his treachery!
But still methought your lordship showed distrust?
WEILENBERG.
He is too vile for charity.
ELLEN.
Yet he is
So much less wicked than this daughter is,
That you believe in him?
WEILENBERG.
I am constrained
To trust the aptitude of what he says,
Not him. The gates might stand unwatched—they might
By possibility at such a time—
But who forewarned the Count to find them so?
His entrance was no venture unprepared—
He did not come till looked for.
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What—by her?
Her mother's burial chosen for a fraud!
A night to break her vows in! To betray
Her promise then! The accuser knows 'tis false.
Give me that cup—I ask it on my knees—
For her sake who was blameless!
WEILENBERG.
Get thee hence!
I thought thee wiser.
ELLEN.
Wait till Philip come!
WEILENBERG.
What art thou muttering of—“forbear!—be patient!”
Go, sleep these dreams away, and cease to tremble:
What is that cup to thee?—Behold, I fright thee!
ELLEN.
Almost to death! Have pity!
WEILENBERG.
Leave me, then.
ELLEN.
If I may cast the poison from that cup,
Or take it hence, I will.
WEILENBERG.
If thou do either
I never will forgive thee—when it goes
My curse goes with it. What afflicts thee thus?
ELLEN.
Because you change so soon from gentleness.
WEILENBERG.
Did I not tell thee so? Dost credit now?
I said that I was cruel to the kind.
The mother taught it to her child, and she,
Who would have loved me, could not.
ELLEN.
Yet I know
Her mother trusted to her love.
WEILENBERG.
I would trust too!
It was my latest promise to them both!
Thou pitiest her—I that have watched her sleep
To earn the kiss she woke with—that still hear
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She planted yesterday, and when to feed
The birds she tamed and nourished—dost believe
I leave her carelessly or love her less?
I will retract injurious thoughts:—it is
The cruel who makes the unfaithful. Thou wilt see her—
Say that I asked, not that I sent, forgiveness:
Carry my blessing with thee—let her think
That needful grief has shamed and done me good.
ELLEN.
The wretch belies her!
WEILENBERG.
Hush, child! what is this?
(Music is heard from the chapel.)
ELLEN.
The midnight service for the dead begins—
I pray let both partake in it.
WEILENBERG.
Ay—here.
Its chaunt will reach me where I am. Wouldst teach
To creep before the altar from these knaves—
Seek refuge in the sanctuary?
ELLEN.
Why not?
WEILENBERG.
The murderer would be found beside his work—
The dead lies there. Go thou, and pray for both.
ELLEN.
I dare not leave the cup—have patience with me—
O father!—father of that wretch, forbear!
WEILENBERG.
The drink is not my choice: 'twas sent, not asked for.
Who gives it, will afford none else but shame:
Shame first, and shortly both—a shameful death.
Away! I will not touch it till he come.
Behold, so far is promised thee. (Exit Ellen.)
Poor child!
The best-beloved, because so like our own!
This gentle creature is unhappy too;
Our pride it is which makes our hearts so hard.
I might have learnt to pity from the meek;
Grief has been daily near enough! This chaunt,
It wearies me; I have not slept of late.
[Weilenberg sleeps.
Enter Ellen.
218
I am not needed, and I dare not stay.
Asleep? or is this death? he has drunk, then!
[She raises her veil.
My father has deceived me!—yet he breathes!
The cup seems still untasted. Change his heart,
And O, be gracious, Thou that pitiest all!
Now may I take it hence.
[She removes, and then replaces the cup.
His curse goes with it.
Alas, his wrath pursues me if I do!
He never will forgive me! yet to leave it!
His curse, he said, goes with it! So to die!—
Die cursed! I dare not take it hence! faint, sick!
The table reels, or else my sight deceives me.
(Ellen supports herself by leaning against the chair of her father, and sleeps. While the Priory clock loudly strikes twelve, the chaunt gradually dies away into music and voices more aërial.)
Yield to sleep—for sleep ye must—
Neither counts that bell again.
Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
The spirit takes its flight from pain.
Three called, and one called thrice!—Prayer well has striven—
Dread penitence at last prevailed.
Come both with us—approved, beloved, forgiven—
Tear-cleansed Remorse, and Faith unveiled.
(The music is interrupted by loud knocking and voices—the Prioress enters—Weilenberg and Ellen start from sleep— her veil drops.)
WEILENBERG.
O, tarry yet a moment!—bring them back!—
Escaped!—art with us here?—they all were here!
ELLEN.
My mother, help me!
WEILENBERG.
Child, we will go too.
PRIORESS
to Ellen.
What now? Ah, fie upon thee!—hush—thine oath!
WEILENBERG.
I heard my daughter's voice—she called her mother.
PRIORESS.
Ay, my good lord, they always call me so.
What ails thee, babbler? this way—by the grate.
[Pushes Ellen out.
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My daughter stood unveiled—the rest around her!
PRIORESS.
We lack the time to speak of visions now.
I pray take refuge till we see who knocks!
WEILENBERG.
No matter who it is—he cannot harm us.
They all were here! I heard my daughter's cry—
She stood beside me, and took hence the cup:
I saw her tears.
PRIORESS.
It is that kinsman's voice.
WEILENBERG.
Then open to him—let him in. A dream!
[Exit Prioress.
It was no dream, (he sees the cup)
and yet the cup stands here!
Enter Rudestein and Barbara.
RUDESTEIN.
Wilt fight or hide?—this Count is at our heels.
Then buckle well the cloak about thy neck—
Beware the river's fog, and catching cold!
Late as it is, my cousin may sup at home.
Nay, do thy message, simple one—come in!
[He drags Barbara forward.
What will avail this hanging of the head?
My lady portress should have shut the gate—
Kept the Count out!
BARBARA.
If he deceived us all,
Was the fault mine?—Am I as old as Ursula?
RUDESTEIN.
But who deceived the seneschal? Speak truth!
My cousin's waiting maid beseeches grace:
I met her where I landed from the boat,
Augmenting Rhine with tears. Her mistress sends her
Before the Count.
WEILENBERG.
What dost thou bring me from her?
BARBARA.
She prays remission, if she did amiss—
For her your lordship's love, and for the Count
More charitable thoughts than those of late—
Release from blame for both. But first she asks
That what is ill may not be cried abroad;
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Preventing what is threatened.
WEILENBERG.
What is that?
BARBARA.
Count Albert will be here the while I speak!
I scarce outran him by the river's breadth.
My lord shall sleep at home to night, he says—
He swears it while he tarries for the boat!
We have no time for choice of purer words;
I speak my lady's sense in them.
WEILENBERG.
The rest
Were near enough my wishes—but those words—
I would not understand their sense!—Their sound
And that drugged cup awake me! Get thee back:
I will not live a guest in mine own house—
Tell thou thy mistress so. She turned me out
To make me humbler—so far has been done.
Now will I tarry where I am—here rest
Her mother, brothers, and, with them, myself.
Yet would I live to see her once again;
If but one moment, see her what she was,
Or seemed to be, so late as yesterday—
Believe her good, and think that still she loves me!
RUDESTEIN.
Now, by my soul, this house has hiding caves—
Pit-falls and passages beneath the floor!
I heard the same a second time—sobs, cries—
Groans half-suppressed, yet audible! Look round;
Behind the panel or beneath! What now?
(A sudden tumult; loud voices heard, threats, and blows.)
COUNT ALBERT,
outside.
I will come in.
PRIORESS
calls.
My lord, the sanctuary!
BARBARA.
It is Count Albert!
RUDESTEIN.
He is come too soon!
A breath too soon! Now what wilt do?—be quick!
Hold the door hard, Bab.
WEILENBERG.
Let the Count come in.
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Drink first, or yield thyself: the bolts are burst!
COUNT
heard.
Strike with the maces! break the panels in!
RUDESTEIN.
May everlasting curses light upon him!
He ruins all! A coward!—dost fear to die? (to Weilenberg.)
Drink! drink! wouldst live a spectacle? the cup!
WEILENBERG.
Away, thou traitor! let the Count come in.
(While Weilenberg forces Rudestein and Barbara from the door, Ellen advances through the grate, takes the cup, drinks twice, the second time deliberately; then replaces it on the table, and sits in the chair which had been occupied by her father. Enter Count Albert, Philip, Hubert, Ursula, Prioress, and attendants.)
WEILENBERG.
I fain would see Count Albert face to face;
He arms me 'gainst himself.
[Weilenberg takes the empty cup, and gazes on Ellen.
Hast thou done this?
ELLEN.
I neither took it hence, nor cast it out.
Forbear to curse!
WEILENBERG.
What hast thou done?
ELLEN.
I drank
That you might not drink.
COUNT.
Ursula, is this she?
RUDESTEIN.
A curse upon her meddling whosoe'er!
'Twas poison, fool.
ELLEN.
I know it.
RUDESTEIN.
Then let us see
How well thy drink agrees with thee.
[He snatches away the veil.
WEILENBERG.
My child!
COUNT.
What has she done?
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My daughter!
PRIORESS.
Poisoned! how?
ELLEN.
Father, I am not faithless—love me still!
You prayed to see me once again—I knew
No way but this. Ask Philip what I swore—
The altar and the grave were witnesses:
I did not dare to draw that veil aside.
All night I have been with thee.
COUNT.
Poison! whence?
ELLEN.
The same you sent my father.
COUNT.
Poison! I!
ELLEN.
Let there be peace—I am no hindrance now.
COUNT.
Who brought it hither?
RUDESTEIN.
I did, sir—I brought it;
But warned my cousin that it came from you:
Constrained I brought it. Help for Rolandseck!
BARBARA.
Help! rescue! help!
(Rudestein draws, and attacks Count Albert, but is thrown down and disarmed by Hubert.)
COUNT.
Lay hold upon her too!
PRIORESS
to Weilenberg.
My lord, I pray go hence.
PHILIP.
He hears thee not.
His eyes are on that face which fades to death.
I and mine oath have slain her!
PRIORESS.
Look, she smiles!
WEILENBERG.
Speak! canst not speak to me?
URSULA.
The dread of shame—
They forced the secret from me.
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Go not hence—
I do not see thee, Ursula; who is this?
COUNT.
Is there no help?—look up.
PRIORESS.
Her sight is lost!
ELLEN.
My father, trust me—that I always loved you.
I am not faithless—Philip, speak for me.
WEILENBERG.
She says she loved me—yet one kiss, my child:
Stand from her—let her die.
URSULA.
Her breast is still:
She breathes no more.
PHILIP.
Look, blood upon his lips!
It floods and chokes him; help me, lest he fall.
Murderer, not thou—stand off! (to the Count.)
Move farther back!
He would behold his daughter while he dies: [Weilenberg dies.
His heart is burst.
COUNT.
I shall do one thing well—
Better than better men might dare to do.
Vengeance is justice here, if great enough.
RUDESTEIN.
The lord of Rolandseck defies thee still!
I am myself such now.
COUNT.
The last thou shalt be.
Place fetters on him, Hubert!—bind them both.
This baron has a chamber built on high—
Its windows both one way, with briars beneath them,
Where the rock mingles with the masonry.
They shall lodge there locked in, the casements open.
I will myself be chamberlain to-night,
And walk before this Baron to his bed.
Bear torches, Gregory—let the rest find wood,
And drive the dwellers of the castle out.
Set it on fire!
[Exeunt Count, Rudestein, Barbara, and attendants.
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These two shall grieve no more!
The sun will rise on roofless walls to-day!
Terror has overcome me! Guileless lips
Taught Faith its innocent Fraud—but mine the vow
Stronger than love or death! Their race is ended!
THE END OF FAITH'S FRAUD.
| Faith's Fraud | |