University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber in Lord Raymond's Castle.
Enter Lord Raymond, R. D.
Lord R.
Since threats avail not with the stubborn girl,
I'll try severer measures. What, ho! Francis!

Enter Old Francis, R. D
Fra.
(R.)
I am here, my gracious lord.

Lord R.
(L.)

Tell me the exact amount of Walter's
debt.

Fra.

Five hundred and five-and-twenty crowns, my
lord; neither more nor less: and he declares he'll pay
it honestly, which I firmly believe, as soon as prospects
brighten with him a little. Alack-a-day! troubles will
overtake the best of men sometimes—this is a fickle
world: the wheel of fortune is always going round—
sometimes we are at the top, and sometimes at the bottom
of it.

Lord. R.
Psha! cease thy idle prate, and hear my orders:
I'll not have Walter longer for a tenant—
Go thou, distrain his goods, and turn him out.

Fra.

What, my lord! turn out a worthy tenant, who
has honestly paid rent to your lordship's father and
yourself for upwards of thirty years! Turn him out,
indeed! now that misfortunes have overtaken him!
You never can be so cruel, my lord! no, no!

Lord R.
Peace, graybeard! and obey me; for, by heavens!
I'll not be trifled with! My blood is boiling,
And I will have revenge! Go, turn the dotard out;
Send him adrift: ay, and his daughter, too!
E'en to the dogs with 'em, for aught I care.

Fra.
[After a short pause.]

Do it yourself, my lord; I'll
not be the instrument of such cruelty. No, not if you
were to cast me into the deepest dungeon of your castle,
and keep me there until I die, without a bit of straw at
the bottom of it.

Lord R.
You dare dispute my orders!
[Seizing him.
Know'st thou not, hoary fool, this arm could crush thee?

Fra.

Yes; and a noble action it would be of you to
strain your vigorous nerves to harm a poor old man, and
offer insult to gray hairs. Oh, fie on't! shame! shame!

Lord R.

Tutor me not, but go and do my bidding.

Fra.

My lord, I will not stir an inch to do an act
which conscience cannot justify; and I repeat, if honest
Walter must be turned out of his cottage, do it yourself,
my lord.

Lord R.
Send Rupert hither; he is not so squeamish.

Fra.

Nay, good my lord; I pray you be merciful:

yet, if you still insist on the instant payment of honest
Walter's debt, the money shall be forthcoming.

Lord R.

Where should the pauper get so large a sum?

Fra.

From a good friend, my lord; and I am that friend.
During the forty years that I have had the honour to
serve in this castle, I have laid me by some hundreds
of good and lawful coin; ay, and it delights mine eyes to
see the shining gold, because I know that poverty is
grievous in old age; yet 'twill delight my heart much
more to part with it, if I can save an honest man from
sinking. I will pay Walter's debt—he shall not go to
prison! Thanks to my frugality, I've got a good long
purse, and to assist a friend in distress—I don't care
how soon I get at the bottom of it.

Lord R.
What! wouldst thou throw away the staff of age?
Be lavish of thy substance unto those
Who would not even give thee in return
A crust of bread, if thou shouldst come to want it?
Go to! thou art again in leading-strings!
[Crosses to R.
I will bethink me how to treat this Walter.

Fra.
(L.)

That's right, my lord, do so—consider better
of it—reflection is to passion what water is to fire. [Aside in going.]

Turn out an honest tenant into the wide
world! Shame! shame! If ever I am guilty of so base
an action, I wish I may go to a certain place when I die,
and have a precious warm berth at the very bottom of it.

[Exit, L D.
Lord R.
I loathe the very name of man, and would
I were some savage beast, that I might glut
Myself with blood, not fearing an hereafter!
Psha! that's an idle phantasy! a dream!
Were the assassin, Hardolf, now but here,
He should set fire to old Walter's cottage;
And fortune, then, not I, might bear the blame
Of the fool's sufferings.—I'll do't myself!
'Tis shameful, whispers honour—what care I?
Revenge and passion prompt me to the deed—
I'll execute it, e'en though hearts should bleed.

[Exit, R. S. E.

SCENE II.

—Walter's Cottage.
Enter Amy and Village Maidens, R. U. E.
Amy.
(R.)

Oh, I'm so rejoiced! I've just heard that
the wars are over, and the yeomanry on their march

home again. Ah! yonder comes neighbour Buckram—
now we shall hear the news.

Enter Buckram, L., splashed with dirt.
Buc.
(L.)

Thanks to my invincible legs, here I am once
more, after all my hardships, safe and sound, at home.

Amy.
(R.)

Welcome from the wars, neighbour; what
news?

Buc.

Bad enough, my dear: there has been terrible
work. Never saw such cutting up and cabbaging in all
my life before. Scarcely a remnant left of half the brave
fellows who marched with me into the field of glory.

Amy.

Mercy on me! I hope no harm has happened
to my dear Edwin?

Buc.

Oh, no; not much, my dear: he has only been
run through the body with a pike nine feet long, just
here, under the short ribs—such a button-hole!

Amy.
[Nearly overcome.]

Heavens! what, dead?

Buc.

Can't say, indeed, my sweet little daffidown-dilly,
whether the wound proved mortal or not, for I left
head-quarters rather suddenly, having been sent off with
despatches—I look like a courier, don't I? But as to
your sweetheart, I don't think you stand the least chance
of ever beholding him again; for, from the desperate
nature of his wound, just under the short rib, I'd bet—

A golden Henry to a base brass button,
That Edwin, long ere this, is dead as mutton.

Amy.
Oh, dear! oh, dear! I shall cry my eyes out!
I'm sure I shall.

Buc.

Nay, don't do that, my sweet little bit of velveteen;
if one sweetheart is dead, you can easily get
another, you know. What say you to me? I'm a
devilish clever fellow—how do you like me?

Amy.

Not at all, sir, I thank you. [Sobs.]
And, if my
dear Edwin is no more, I'm resolved to die a spinster.

[Crosses to L.
Buc.
(R.)

More fool you, I say; and, trust me, you'll
repent your rash refusal of my generous offer, for, let
me tell you, 'tis no small honour to get a handsome
young man like me for a husband, and one who has
been bravely fighting in the wars for his queen and
country, and now returns covered with dust and glory.
Hurrah! success to the brave! Now to deliver my despatches!

[Exit, R.
Amy.

Edwin dead! Oh dear, oh dear! what will
become of me?

[Exit in tears, with Villagers.
Enter Robinette from Walter's Cottage.
Rob.

Heigho! I am quite melancholy! Henry, they
say, is dead—poor sister Jane gone nobody knows whither
—and father is so cross, I'm almost afraid to speak
to him. [Looking up.]
What's that? Our little pigeon
coming home from the wars; but he's brought no letter. [The bird falls at the child's feet.]

Poor thing!—He's all
over blood, too— [She takes up the pigeon]
—but not quite
dead. I'll nurse him—perhaps he may recover. [Looking off, L.]

What man is that yonder in a long red
cloak? He looks very sly. I'll step aside, and watch
his motions.

[Retires behind a tree, R.
Enter Lord Raymond, L., in a long cloak, with a dark lantern and torch.
Lord R.
Now for the deed, which shall completely place
The maiden in my power. Should I expel them
For a mere debt, the world would cry out shame
Upon my conduct; but, if they be burn'd out,
As 'twere by accident, she must submit
To my conditions, or be doom'd to wander
A beggar through the world. Now to my task.
'Tis lucky no one's near.

[Lights the torch by the lantern, and fires the cottage.
Walter.
[Within.]
Help! help!—Fire!

Lord R.
The neighbours are alarmed—I must away.

[Exit, L., dropping his cloak.
Enter Walter in despair, from the burning cottage.
Wal.
(L.)
Robinette, my child, where art thou?

Rob.
(R.) [Running from her hiding-place.]
I am here, father.

[Walter embraces the child, kneeling—the neighbours run to his assistance from R. U. E.—they form an interesting picture, and the scene closes.

SCENE III.

—A Landscape.
Enter Henry, Edwin, and Yeomanry, with the Rebels chained together, L. S. E.
Hen.
(L.)
Thus far kind heaven hath sped us on our way
To home, dear home, again, and those we love!

Eth.
(C.)

You may rejoice, young man; for love
awaits you, while we have nothing to expect but death.

Edw.
(R.)

Poor fellows!—Who knows but her majesty
may take pity on you, considering you were brought
into this trouble by the cruel tyranny of Lord Raymond?

Enter Eugene with a paper, L. S. E.
Eug.

Success!—Good news! good news!

Edw.

What's it all about, eh? Are all the young
men and virgins going to get married?

Eug.

Not exactly that; but an officer has just joined
the army, with her majesty Queen Elizabeth's most gracious
pardon to the prisoners, and an order instantly to
release them; those only excepted who have wantonly
shed innocent blood.

Omnes.
Hurrah!—Long live the queen!

Hen.
It joys my heart to raise a suffering brother
To hope and happiness; and proud am I
To be the instrument of giving you
Both life and liberty.

[Directs Eugene to unbind the Rebels.
Edw.
[Pointing to Hardolf.]

All but one, Henry, if you
please.

Har.

And why not me, too? Have I shed innocent
blood?

Edw.

But you would, though, if I hadn't prevented
you; recollect that, if you please.

Hen.

Yet I forgive him.

Eug.

Pray, is not that fellow's name Hardolf?

Har.

That is one of my names, sure enough.

Eug.
[Looking over the paper.]

Then his name is expressly
included in the list of exceptions.

Har.

No matter—damned if I care! Many's the
brave fellow has been hanged before now.

Hen.
[Crosses to R.]
Now, brother soldiers all, without delay,
Sweet home be our watchword!—March away!

[Exeunt, R. S. E.

SCENE IV.

—A wild rocky Glen, overgrown with thorns and briars—a rude hut, L.—a tree, with a seat or bank of flowers under it.
Enter Jane, wildly, her hair in disorder, R. U. E.
Jane.
[Kisses the dove, replaces it in her bosom, and rises wildly.
AIR—Crazy Jane.

[Exit into hut, L.

SCENE V.

—A Chamber in Lord Raymond's Castle.
Enter Lady Jane, R. D., alarmed; she goes to the window, through which the conflagration of Walter's Cottage is visible.
Lady J.
Poor Walter's cottage burn'd! I do suspect
Some vile incendiary. His daughter, too,
The lovely Jane, distracted!
Good heavens! that misery should overtake
The virtuous in this world, while villany
Escapes the rod, and laughs at innocence!
Francis, come hither.

Enter Francis, L. D.
Fra.
(L.)
Did you call, my lady?

Lady J.
(R).

I did, good Francis. Take this purse
of gold, and hasten with it to relieve poor Walter.

Fra.

Ay, marry will I, my lady, in a moment; and
do you only look out at the window, if you please, and
see how nimbly I will run across the lawn. I am an
old man, 'tis true; yet, in a good cause, I can run as
fast as a grayhound. But I'm glad you've given over
all thoughts of the nunnery.

Lady J.

Lose not a moment, Francis, but begone.

Fra.

Ay, that I will, my lady. I'll run—I'll fly—I'll
—But you'll not forget to look out at the window,
and see me run along. I've got a tremendous long
flight of steps to go down before I reach the lawn; yet,
in a good cause, I shall very soon be at the bottom of it.

[Exit, running, L. D.
Enter Lord Raymond, in breathless haste, R. D.
Lord R.
The deed is done, and no one knows of it!

Lady J.
[Overhearing him, and coming forward, L.]
If you've done evil, brother, rest assur'd
That there is One, whose penetrating eye
Pierces the inmost secrets of the soul,
And sees where all besides himself are blind.

Lord R.
Sister, I'll not be school'd. Hence to thy chamber!

[Crosses to L.
Lady J.
(R.)
Yet say, what hast thou done, my dearest brother?

Lord R.
(L.)
A deed which hell devis'd, yet heaven look'd on,
And saw me execute; therefore, a deed of fate.

Lady J.
May heaven pardon thee, whate'er it be!
I have observ'd of late thy alter'd temper:
You were once mild, affectionate, and kind;
Now your eye rolls with passion's angry fire,
Filling your sister's soul with anguish. Say,
What troubles you, my brother? Speak, I pray.

Lord R.
[Affectionately taking her hand.]
Thou art a good girl, Jane; thy brother feels
Thy worth, and yet he never can disclose,
Not e'en to thee, the secret griefs that wring
His tortur'd breast, and goad him on to madness.
Men of strong passions are the toys of fate,—
The tools of hell! That I am what I am,
Lies in my blood; else why do flames rage here?
While other virtuous souls are cold as ice,
Why doth this eye speak such terrific language?
This aching heart teem with infernal thoughts?
Did I create myself? No—no!—'Tis fate!
Laugh, demons, if ye will! I, too, can laugh
At poor impotent man—Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Vice is a giant—Virtue a poor dwarf!
Else would she crush her daring adversary;
Not let him range, to damn, without control,
That precious jewel, man's immortal soul!

[Crosses to R.
Enter Old Francis, L. D.
Fra.
[To Lady Jane.]

My lady, I am sorry to say I
cannot find old Walter anywhere: his cottage has been
burned to the ground, and he has wandered thence distracted.

Lady J.
(C.)
Go, try again—make due inquiry;
Give him the money to relieve his wants.

Lord R.
Give Walter money!—Give him poison rather!
[Aside.]
Have I for this done such a ruthless deed,
To place him in my power? Give me the purse.

Fra.
[Quickly hiding it.]

I'll fetch it, my lord. [Aside.]

If I do, I wish I may tumble from the top of the staircase
to the bottom of it!

[Exit, L. D.
Lord R.

To be thus thwarted! Oh, malicious fate!

Lady J.

His look appals me. Heaven have mercy
on him!

[Exit, R. S. E.
Re-enter Old Francis in haste, L. D.
Fra.

My lord, the people are all in an uproar; they
cry, “Death to Lord Raymond!” Young Henry is returned
from the wars, and leads the noisy crew.

Lord R.

'Tis false, thou drivelling liar! Henry's
dead!

[Loud shouts without.
Fra.

There, I told you so!—Now you'll very soon get
at the bottom of it.

[Exit.
Lord R.
Henry alive! Then all is lost for ever!
Yet, why despair? Come forth, my sword! I'll meet
Barefac'd rebellion with determin'd front,—
Outdare the bully, and e'en death defy!
For undisturb'd I'll live, or bravely die!

[Exit, L. S. E.

SCENE VI.

—Wild Rocky Glen, as before.—Violent Storm, with Thunder and Lightning.
Enter Walter, R. U. E. led by little Robinette, with Lord Raymond's red cloak on her arm.
Wal.
(R.)
This tempest is an emblem of my fate.
Here let us rest, my child; my feeble limbs
Will carry me no further.

Rob.
(L.)

I wish the neighbours had been a little
quicker: then they might have seized the villain who
set fire to our cottage.

Wal.
Ruin'd, and by a vile incendiary!
Remorseless wretch! I never injur'd thee!
I injur'd no man. Art thou sure, my child?
Didst mark the villain well?

Rob.

I did not see his face; but, in making his escape,
he dropped this cloak, so that I hope he'll be discovered,
and brought to justice. However, my dear father,
the cloak will serve to shield you from the fury of
the tempest.

Wal.

We'll share it, love; else thou wilt be exposed
to the contending elements.

Rob.

Oh, I don't mind, so long as my poor old father
doesn't suffer.

Wal.

Thou art a dear good child; yet, who can tell?
When you grow older, you, too, may prove ungrateful.

Rob.

Never, with heaven's blessing! But you are
faint and weary. Come, father, sit you down awhile. [Crosses to R.]

I see a hut yonder—I'll knock and ask for
some refreshment for you. Who knows, perhaps its inhabitants
may be charitable.

[Walter sits down on a bank, L.
Wal.
A draught of water's all I crave, my child.

[Exit Robinette into a hut, R.
Wal.
I've read in history of old King Lear;
His two ungrateful daughters drove him mad.
Was it a wonder? I am nearly so,
That have but one. Thus to refuse Lord Raymond,
When her consent had sav'd her poor old father!
Oh, most unnatural child! Oh, cruel Jane!

[Sinks exhausted.
Enter Robinette from the hut, leading her sister Jane.
Jane.
(R.)
Water, my dear, for a poor weak old man?
What use is water? I will give him wine.
I love old men; for I've an aged father,
Whose heart is good, though he did curse his child.

Rob.
(L.)

Why, Jane, my dear sister! don't you know
me? What makes you live in this wild desolate place?
Have you forgotten your poor old father Walter, Henry,
Robinette, and all of us?

Jane.
[After a pause.]
Walter!—Henry!—Robinette! Those names
Were dearer once to this poor broken heart,
Than all the treasures of the golden east.
But Henry's dead!—and, were he still alive,
He'd be a lady's lord, not poor Jane's Henry!
Ah, me! we live in a vile wicked world!
Heaven mend it! There's no peace but in the grave!
Ay, there I'll rest amongst grim skeletons:
They'll not deceive me with an outward show
Of loveliness, while all is foul within.
No!—They are hideous to the sight, but honest!
[With a deep heart-rending sigh.
Kind Heaven have mercy on us all! Amen!

Rob.
Do, Jane, for pity's sake, help your poor father!

Jane.
Help!—Pity!—They are words devoid of sense.
Call on the howling tempest for compassion,—
Crave pity from the tiger of the desert,
But ask it not of man, unless he's mad.
Yet I am mad, and therefore I can pity.
Where is the poor old man? He shall have wine;
Yes, wine—wine—wine!

[She goes to a rocky spring, R., draws some water in a shell, and gives it to Robinette.
Rob.
Why, sister, this is water.

Jane.
'Tis nature's wine; pure, unadulterated!
There's no deception in't—I hate deception;
It has driven me mad! where is the poor old man?

Rob.
Yonder he sits, beneath that tree.

Jane.
[Goes to Walter.]
Here, sir, is some of nature's wine for you;
It will revive your spirits.

[Walter looks up, and is about to drink, when, recognising Jane, he dashes the shell to the ground.
Wal.
(L.)
Viper, begone!
Rather than wet these lips with aught
Thy hand hath touch'd, I'd die of burning thirst!
Hence, most ungrateful child! and may the fiends—

[Jane, with a dawning of reason, recognises her father, utters a loud scream, and drops on her knees.
Jane.
(R.)
Oh, curse me not again! I cannot bear it!
My brain is quite distracted—one more curse
Will make it burst asunder! Oh, my father!
[Gradually approaching him on her knees.
In mercy pity me! pity thy wretched Jane,
And curse her not!
She is thine own, thy poor distracted child!
Ah, now I see a tear—and now a smile,
In that beloved, venerable face!
Your heart relents—joy! joy! poor Jane is happy!

[Swoons at her father's feet.
Wal.
My child! my poor lost child! come to my heart!
Revive—look up, my love!

[Military march in the distance.
Enter Edwin and Yeomanry, R. U. E., and remain in the background.
Jane.
[Revives, but relapses into partial delirium.]
Hark!

Edw.
[Coming forward, L.]

Who says Henry's false-hearted?
What do I behold! Poor Jane, distracted!
What can this mean? Poor girl, how wildly she looks!
Don't you know me, Jane? I say Henry's true!

Jane.
(C.)
He was true once; but now—here are my proofs.
[Producing the picture and letter.]
He kept her picture, and return'd me mine—
Heaven pardon him!

Edw.

I say he was robbed of it; and Lord Raymond
took it from the robber again.

Wal.
(R.)

Good heavens! what villany!

Edw.

And as to this letter, [Opens it]
it certainly was
Henry who wrote it; but, as I live, it is directed to
Lady Jane instead of you; and in Lord Raymond's own
hand-writing, too—oh, the villain!

[Tumult without, with cries of “Death to Lord Raymond! down with him!
Enter Lord Raymond, L. U. E., followed by a disorderly Crowd, armed with clubs, &c.
Lord R.
(C.)
Tumultuous rabble! get you to your homes!
Or dread my vengeance!

Edw.

Your vengeance! [Snapping his finger at him.]
We
don't care that for your vengeance!

Enter Eugene, R. U. E.
Eug.
(L.)

No! for here is an order from her majesty
to arrest your person.

Lord R.

Conspiracy! Of what am I accused?

Eug.

Of having hired the assassin, Hardolf, to murder
young Henry Harford.

Jane.
[Aside to her father.]
Oh, horrid deed!

Wal.
[Aside to Jane.]
Be comforted, my child!

Lord R.
'Tis false!
The villain lies, to say I hired him!

Eug.

Our proof is this dagger, which you yourself
gave the assassin: see, it is your own.

Lord R.
[Seizing the dagger.]

Perdition!

Enter Lady Jane, followed by Francis, L. S. E.
Lady J.
(L. C.)

What dreadful tidings! Spare! oh
spare, his life!

Fra.
(L.)

Heyday! why, what is this? His lordship's
very best cloak lying on the ground—how came it here,
I wonder? I know it well, by this mark at the bottom
of it.

Rob.

Lord Raymond's cloak! then he's the man who
set fire to our cottage!

Eug.
What! an incendiary, too! seize the monster!

Lord R.
Stand back! he is a corpse who dares approach me!
What, die a felon on a public scaffold!
No, never! and, since fate will have it so,
Thus will I shun disgrace, and die a Raymond!
[Stabs himself—all gather round him.
'Twas a home thrust! I feel life ebbing fast;
And, ere I die, let me make some atonement.—
[To Lady Jane.
Give alms of all my substance to the poor—
I feel it is no easy thing to die, when conscience
Is in arms.—Oh, what a dreadful pang!
Jane, injur'd maid, come hither! fear me not!
I cannot harm thee now. Thy Henry
Was a most loyal lover—Walter, too!
Oh, speak forgiveness! that kind word will prove
Sweet music to my soul—refuse me not!

Wal.
My lord, seek heaven's peace; I do forgive you

Jane.
And I, too, from the bottom of my soul.

Hen.
[Without.]
What horrid tale is this? My Jane distracted!
Where is she? Let me fly into her arms!

Enter Henry, R. U. E.
Hen.
My Jane!

Jane.
My Henry!

[They embrace.
Lord R.
Henry! thy pardon, too, before I die!
[Delirious.
Hell drags me down! Avaunt, accursed fiends!
Ye shall not have my soul! See, where they come,
In legions, to rack these writhing limbs!
Oh, mercy! mercy!

[Dies.—The curtain slowly descends to a soft adagio.
DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN.
         

Villagers.		Yeomanry.		Villagers.
Eugene.	Jane.	Henry.	Lady Jane.	An Officer.
Edwin.	Amy.	Robinette.	Walter.	Francis.
		Dead Body of Lord Raymond.
R.]				[L.