University of Virginia Library

Act 3.

Scene 1.

House of the Sisterhood at Oxford. Near the Church of St. Philip and St. James, on the Woodstock Road. Garden of the Nunnery.—Beatrice in nun's attire, walking in it, in close conversation with two other nuns, Mary and Dorothea.
Bea.
—Six years have passed. I have not seen him yet.
Long, long ago they seem—those burning days
Of August, when the sunstruck Eastern plains
Of France were bright with blossoms tinged with blood.
Long, long ago it seems, that weary tale
That I have told you—Mary, Dorothea,
That you have listened to with gentle ears,
Giving me hope and comfort as is meet.
I trust that I have conquered earthly love!
That all the base alloy of earth is purged,
Yea, truly purged from me—that now my hope
Is fixed alone on righteous deeds and heaven.
You know my story, girls, my sister nuns—
My soft, good-hearted sisters; it was strange,
Now was it not, in this cool, quiet garden,
To hear of deeds so desperate—passion mad
And fierce and bitter; of the loss of love,
And utter ruin of all hope on earth?
But now there is a higher crown awaiting
My earnest toils and prayers, than any crown,
Be it ne'er so bright, never so sweet, of love.
That crown awaits me, and I am content.
[She pauses.
Yet think not, think not that I have forgotten
My joy, my hope, my early spirit's love:
Be patient, love—yea, glorious love of loves—
So said I, in a wild, delicious dream
To him, one night—to him, to him, to him.
Be patient, love of loves, eternal love.
Be patient, crown of crowns—and we shall meet.

Mary.
—You dream of him, then, Beatrice?

Bea.
—Is that right?
You would go on to say—yea, right it is;
Or rather 'tis not right, but something more—
Far more—far more than any paltry right
Of earth—it is the holiness of heaven.
The priests, who would disparage love to us,
Flinging their epithets of “carnal,” “base,”
Around it, hiding it as in a veil
Of common coarseness, woven by themselves
At their imagination's vicious loom,
They are the base, the carnal—love is pure.
Yea, love is pure as is the peerless sun
Above us, or the solemn stars by night,
Pure as the round orb of the sacred moon
That floats amid the azure depths supreme,
Pure as these lilies in the garden here;
These buds of pinks, these roses; sweet and pure,
Oh flower—sweet, flower—pure maidens, as yourselves.
Never let any fool disparage love.
Love is the strengthener of earthly life,
And the bright herald at the heavenly gates
To guide with triumph towards fair lands unseen.
I give up love in this life: many do,
But 'tis because I will not give up love.
It is because I hold the gift of love
So high, so sacred, kingly and supreme,
That, rather than by over-hasty touch
And avaricious snatching premature
Break the bright crystal bowl of passion, we
Would wait that sweet gift for ten thousand years!
So sweet the perfect perfume of the rose
Of passion is, that here it cannot be
With full fruition perfectly enjoyed.
I give up love to win love—to obtain
In fullest bloom the very flower I yield;
To win the crown fools think I would destroy.

Dorothea.
—But lady, if your love came again,
Yea, rode with clatter of his sword and spurs,
Right by our walls, along the Woodstock road,
How would it fare with dreams of heavenly love?
Would heavenly love abide his coming long?
Would he not slay those sad dreams with his sword,
This gallant soldier you have told us of?
And carry you off to Woodstock—build a bower
For his, perhaps, far fairer Rosamond there,
And leave us poor nuns to inherit heaven?

Mary.
—Oh, Dorothea, Dorothea, love,
How can you talk so wildly. Beatrice
Is shocked, I see it in her tender face!

Bea.
—Nay, darling, not shocked, hardly shocked at all.
But pained a little, startled at the thought
For I had given him up. I never dreamed
That here in life I should behold again
The nodding plume—the sword—the clinking spurs;
[Her face shows that her mind has gone back strongly to the past.
The noble, honest and trustworthy face;
Nor will it be in earth-life, as I think.
Besides the wars are over—ne'er again
Through all the terrors of the years to come,
At which the seers tremble as they glance,
Never again—never—never again,
Will Edward Raynor bare the glittering sword,
To dye it in the blood of foes of France.

[She grows fierce and impassioned, and her face lightens.
Ma.
—Oh, Beatrice.
[She looks down at Mary half tenderly, half pityingly.
The old fire came upon me—Mary, love,
Forgive me—child, I must have frightened you.

Ma.
—You darted out your hand as though in thought
To strike.

Bea.
—To strike an enemy! Old dreams
Were present with me—in that bitter war
I killed a man once.
[Ma. and Do. are full of horror.
Killed him right clean dead.
He was no soldier, either French or German,
No honest soldier, but a wandering thief,
A scavenger of the army—a foul knave—
A would-be pillager of maidens' honours.
He found me in the garden of the château,
One day alone—all help was far away.
He leapt across the low and useless hedge,
And came across the flower-beds: even now—
Now that I stand in Oxford—even now—
With you two gentle, timid souls, beside,
I see with horror of great startled eyes
One splendid scarlet tulip that he crushed.
He came towards me—quite defenceless there,
I saw his purpose—fell, and black, and foul—
I saw his shameful purpose in his face,
And drew a knife. I always wore one then,
For due protection in those wild, wild days—
I drew a knife, and kept it out of sight,
And when he drew quite near, and put his hand,
His great coarse hand, upon me with a grin,
Why then—why then—I stabbed him to the heart.
And all the red bright blood—the one pure thing
He carried yet about him—splashed the tulips.

Dorothea and Mary
(together)
—Sweet saints defend us.

Bea.
—Surely then the saints
Defended me, or I had never dared
Unmaidenly to imbrue my maiden hand
E'en in defence of maidenhood, in blood.
But come my children, let me calm your hearts,
That flutter now—I know it—like the wings
Of two poor startled, palpitating doves—
Let me divert the current of your thoughts
By singing you this little, gentle song
I made the other day: 'tis of my love—
I sang his song about the dark-brown hair,
“Dying for ever loving”—you remember?
I sang his song—now I will sing you mine.
[She sings. When the same chorus comes again in the second verse the nuns look at one another, and by mutual consent, as it were, join in it.

[They rise—flushed, but happily and quietly—
Bea.-
And now let us retire; there sounds the bell
We sisters of sweet mercy know so well.

Ma.
—(solemnly)—
The time is come for silence and for prayer.
White blossoms now let love, awe-stricken, wear.

Do.
—(mischievously and archly, and half aside)—
Yet those white blossoms shall be changed to red,
If he but comes—her love is no more dead
Than some coy maiden's, yestermorning wed.

Scene 2.

Mountain Scene in Switzerland. Square in front of Mountain Inn.—Mountaineers and Peasants.
[Enter Edward Raynor, hot and dusty, attired plainly as a Traveller. He soliloquises—

Innkeeper.

—Monsieur James Wilson? yes,
sir. He is out, however; he has
gone on an excursion up the mountain
towards the Black Pass. He will be
back, doubtless, this night. Can I
give any message for Monsieur?

Ray.
(hesitates).

—A message!—no thank you;
I think not. Which way do you say
he went—when did he start?

Inn.

—He started early this morning to go
round by the Valley of Passy, past
Montrey, and back by the Black Pass.

Ray.

—And when will he reach the Black
Pass?

Inn.

—About three o'clock this afternoon.

Ray.

—And how far is it from here?

Inn.

—Some six or seven miles, Monsieur.

Ray.

—Thank you, my good friend (putting money into the Innkeeper's hand);

I
will start at once, and meet him on
his way home.

Inn.

—But it is a lonely and desolate place,
Monsieur, and a long way, Monsieur;
and the snow, they say, is very dangerous,
just now. Will not Monsieur
have a conveyance? Will not Monsieur,
at least, take something to eat and
drink before starting? We have here
some most excellent cheese of Gruyère,
and the best red wine in the country.
Will not Monsieur honour us by partaking?
The lady my wife is within;
she will be saddened if Monsieur
departs uncherished.

Ray.

—Thank you, no, my friend. (Aside.)

Red wine—yes—but it shall be bright
as blood!

[Exit Raynor.

Inn.
(looks at the money and chuckles).

—Holy Mary! preserve these Englishmen
—with their pink cheeks and legs
of iron—and send us plenty of them.
They pay well, always walk, and eat
nothing—except now and then—and
then, when they do eat—Sacré!—they
eat your whole houseful of food at one
sitting, and swear if you don't give
them more. Sacré!

[He enters the Inn.

Scene 3.

The Black Pass in the Mountains.—Enter Raynor from one side. Snow is seen all round, and rocks and precipices. The spot is most desolate. In the distance a winding path is seen for many miles.
He speaks.
—A lonely spot, and fit to freeze the vengeance
Right out o' the heart of man; it is so cold.
It shall not freeze the vengeance out of mine;
Not if yon snowy mass that totters there
Should tremble and descend and bury me
And all those rocks in multitudinous ruin—
Not even so would I forego revenge.
There is a fire within me that would melt
The deepest masses of opposing snow.
The face of Beatrice would pierce the dark,
'Twould blossom—a red rose amid the white
Piled scentless heaps, and urge me on to—Fury!
Hell! thunder! there he is; am I mistaken?
Surely I know the figure like my own,
That rides along the winding mountain-path,
As I once rode—in figure like to him—
Towards Beatrice. I'll wait him here, for when
He turns that rugged corner, he will see me.
[A pause.
He sees me—knows me—leaves his horse and comes
Towards me on foot. He, too, is anxious, perhaps,
To dye the steel-blue of his blade in vengeance.
He is not all a coward—never was.
Our father's blood flows in no coward's veins,
Cowards we never are—not even if traitors.
Now he will reach me. Beatrice, “I die,
For ever loving,” should pale death be nigh!

[Enter Wilson.
Ray.
—Scoundrel! At last!

Wil.
—I, too, have been waiting.

Ray.
—Not so—you have been flying.

Wil.
—I didn't want to kill you.

Ray.
—The time has come—you know the lives you've ruined
Through your strange pestilent, malicious hatred.
The time has come to pay off every score.
You are my brother. My own father's blood
Flows in your veins. A fratricidal act
It is to kill you; but I mean to kill you.

Wil.

Ray.
—Oh! wretch!
What stays me now from killing you in the speech?
Only the thought of your sad mother perhaps,
A revelation new to me—the thought
That, as the rumours told you, you are mad!
But peace between us now there cannot be;
No peace till one at least of us is dead.
Swords—pistols—Wilson; which is it to be?
[Offering both.
Choose quickly for (looking round hastily and uneasily)
a storm is in the air.

[Thunder and wind. The sky darkens.
Wil.

[He departs towards the village.—Scene closes.

Scene 4.

A room in the Convent at Oxford.
Mary, Dorothea, Beatrice.
[When the curtain rises they are all three singing together—
Chorus—
Chorus—
Chorus—
Chorus—

Dor.
(Jumping up quickly, and running to the window).

—What a beautiful morning
it is though. Too bright for singing.
Oh, Beatrice! do you know there are
soldiers in the town—officers, too—
such beauties! I saw them yesterday
—Cavalry. They are passing
through to new quarters. Such beauties.
Red and gold and blue. And
such long spurs.

Mar.

—Long swords, you mean.

Dor.

—No; long spurs; and the loveliest
moustaches. There was one in particular
—a fair man, with bright eyes
—he looked up here in passing, and I
waved my hand to him. I fancy he
likes nuns. I hope so.

Bea.

—Oh, Dorothea! you are utterly incorrigible.
You should go out into the
world, my dear, and take your fill of
flirting, dancing, &c. You were never
meant for a nun.

Dor.

—I am none so foolish, dear; am I?
Well, we are only in on trial—on approval
—“on sale or return,” so to
speak. Our novitiate will be soon
over, and then—then—

Mary.
(From the window).

—Here they come.

[Beatrice and Dorothea move to the window.
Dor.

—Oh, the beauties—what lovely horses
and men. They are leaving Oxford
this morning, I fancy. Probably they
are on their way to Woodstock. If
so, they will pass under our window.
Yes, now they are coming.

Mary.

—I don't like them much. They look
so bitter and bloodthirsty, with those
long, swinging swords.

Dor.

—Stuff!—mere goose-talk, my child.
You were evidently made to pass your
life as a sequestered nun—hidden, like
fair Rosamond, in some pleasing solitude

—only with the love and the
lover left out; or only a beetle-browed
priest for a lover, and the
dullest possible hymn-tunes—

Mary.

—Oh, Dorothea, remember what we
have been singing.

Dor.

—I do, child, remember it all too well,
and that is just why I speak. As I
was going to say—with the dullest
possible hymn-tunes for songs and
love-sonnets. However— (shrugs her shoulders contemptuously).

Mary.

—But, Dorothea, those hymns are
lovely.

Dor.

—Lovely, child! Perhaps they are—to
you. But then, you know nothing
about love. And love is the only
lovely thing—to a true woman. You
are not a woman yet—you are a mere
nun. You will not be a woman till
you have loved—and, perhaps, suffered.
(She sighs gently; and a deeper expression than usual flits across her face).

For my part, I think that the
true use of those slow hymn-tunes is
to make one appreciate better the
swift love-tunes—when they come
dancing and throbbing through the
air, and setting all one's heart on fire.
Oh—delightful.

[They have been occupied together, and have not noticed Beatrice. They now hear

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81

a smothered shriek—and at the same time the clanking of the soldiers riding past outside.
[Beatrice sinks into a chair, ejaculating—

Ah, my God!

[Mary and Dorothea attend to her.
Mary.

—What is it—what is it? (To Dorothea)

What can it be?

[Dorothea runs to the window and looks out hastily at the troops.

Nothing, nothing, dear—only she has seen
somebody. I understand it all. Go
and get some water, and call for help
—quick, quick!

[Beatrice has fainted quite away. Dorothea attends to her. Mary goes and returns, bringing assistance. She gradually comes to. Clamour at the door. Heavy steps on the stairs. Servants and nuns enter. More nuns and servants below. They bring in upon a litter an officer in the uniform of an English cavalry regiment, just thrown from his horse, and evidently dying.
[Mary and Dorothea rush to the door, and try to prevent them. It is obviously too late.
Do.
(to servants)

—Don't bring him in here for
heaven's sake! Is he dead—wounded
—ill—what? Has there been an
accident?

1st Ser.

—He has been thrown from his

horse, ma'am—it took fright at a
great awkward hay-waggon, a little
way down the road there, and he
seems to be dying, I fear.

2nd Ser.

—Yes, ma'am—yes, ma'am—it is a
most dreadfullest thing, to be sure;
and him such an 'ansome young man,
too, and full of spirit. If it had
only been one of those great ugly
serjeants, now, or the clumsy driver
of the cart!

3rd Ser.

—We can't bring him to any other
part of the house, Miss, the other
rooms are occupied. Our orders were
to bring him in here. It's not for long,
I fancy.

[The above sentences must be spoken swiftly and confusedly by the servants, as in great perturbation. Beatrice, who has recovered and has listened intently to the servants without turning round, now rises majestically and approaches the litter, her eyes fixed upon the dying man. The others instinctively recede.
Dying, is that so? Then our hour has come.
We shall be separated soon, to meet.
Edward!
[He raises his head languidly.
Ah! ah!—My love!
[She approaches and kisses him on the forehead.
I thought it would be in another world,
But God is gracious, and he gives us this.
He gives us this stray perfumed flower to pluck,

Bea.
—E'en in the fields of earth.

Ray.
(speaking with difficulty).
—He's dead.

Bea.-
Not by,
Not by your hand, my loved one—oh, God grant it!

Ray.
—Not by my hand, but by the hand of God.
I sought him fiercely, sought him for long years,
Bitter in vengeance, armed with furious wrath,
And at the last I found him: in the snow,
The cold white snow he died, but not by me.
These papers, Beatrice (taking papers from his bosom and giving them to her)
will tell you all.
I am too weak to tell the story now;
But all revenge has long since died away,
Leaving the pure sweet spirit of love alone.

Bea.
—Thank God for that—oh! blessed be God for that!
My prayer was answered—on one dismal day
I had a strong foreboding you would meet,
You and my husband; well I knew your natures;
And what fierce manner of contest would ensue,
And then I prayed—prayed as I never prayed
Before, that God would in His mercy keep
My lover from blood-guiltiness, and turn
The wild heart of my husband to Himself.
That prayer was answered—for you met without
The red sad stain imbruing either hand.

Ray.
—That prayer was answered—now we meet without
The pangs of foul remorse to mar our joy.
Yet I am dying—dying; dying, Beatrice;
I had hoped for time wherein to comfort thee;
Time to plant flowers upon the soil of pain—
Time to rejoice—to laugh perhaps—to be glad.
And now I am dying—yet I die beholding
The one face which through life, since first I saw it,
Has reigned as perfect empress o'er my heart.

Bea.
—And my true heart, oh, lover, has been thine,
Thine as thou knowest from the very first.
A foolish whim compelled me to dissemble
In Paris, when I drove you to the field;
But if you had known, oh, Edward, if you had known
The agony of her who drove you forth—
My pangs of bitterest grief, the deed being done,
You would not only have forgiven me,
But granted me some pity of soul besides.
And then in that wild meeting at the Château
I yearned—I longed—what can a woman do?
[She sobs.
But this is the true marriage—yea, the second.
This is our perfect union, for our souls
Were knit in holy passion from the first,
And death, which seems to separate, unites.
Now we are man and wife before high God—
Death is the priest, most sacred of the train,
Who brings our hands together; our strong souls
Were passionately wedded years ago.

Ray.
—Weaker I grow—they have not brought a doctor?

Bea.
—They have gone for one; he shortly will be here;
But—

Ray.
—I am far beyond a doctor's help—
Are those the words, my lady, you would say?
[Looking up in her face, and half smiling.
It matters little; I am well content.

Bea.
—And I am well content, because I am sure
That not for long shall I be left behind.

Ray.
—There is yet one thing; the gift—you would not give;
The gift of love, that cruel love denied;
I am dying Beatrice, may I have it now?

Bea.
—Surely, my lord.

[She stoops and kisses him tenderly on the lips.
Ray.
—Oh, maiden, holy kiss—
Death is worth having, for he brings me this—
This sacred, glorious gift so long denied,
This holy guerdon of a perfect bride.
Now, as the body aside with pangs is rent,
First is my spirit unutterably content;
Sing to me Beatrice, chant some fair song,
That I may die thy sweet love-thoughts among!

[She sends out all except Mary and Dorothea, and beckons those two to the couch. Then she goes to the window, and gathers a large red rose from a cluster just outside. This she brings to Raynor, gives it to him, and whispers,—
[Bea.]
It is I—take it!

He takes it, falls back on his pillow, and a glorified expression slowly begins to overspread his features and render them radiant. Beatrice whispers to Mary and Dorothea, and they begin to sing very softly—
[Mary., Dor.]

[He dies.
[Mary and Dorothea sob wildly. But Beatrice flings back her long dark hair which had become loosened, and speaks.
Death when it joins two loving hearts in one,
Is not the dark-winged death that mortals shun,
Rather a garden filled with perfect bloom
Of flowers that shall outshine, outdare the tomb—
Rather a joyous meeting-place—a height
Whereon the sad and lost ones may unite—
I have found my lover; heaven shall out of sorrow
Prepare the dawning of a bright to-morrow—
Love doth not vanish—'tis the one thing sure.
The one thing certain—no death can obscure
That love high agony hath rendered pure
And endless—Godlike—worthy to endure.