 | Orra |  |
SCENE III.
A gloomy apartment. Enter Orra and Rudigere.Orra
(aside).
The room is darken'd: yesternight a lamp
Did shed its light around on roof and walls,
And made the dreary space appear less dismal.
Rud.
(overhearing her, and calling to a servant without).
Ho! more lights here!
[Servant enters with a light and exit.
Thou art obey'd: in aught
But in the company of human kind,
Thou shalt be gratified. Thy lofty mind
For higher superhuman fellowship,
If such there be, may now prepare its strength.
Orra.
Thou ruthless tyrant! They who have in battle
Fought valiantly, shrink like a helpless child
From any intercourse with things unearthly.
Art thou a man? And bearst thou in thy breast
The feelings of a man? It cannot be!
Rud.
Yes, madam; in my breast I bear too keenly
The feelings of a man—a man most wretched:
A scorn'd, rejected man.—Make me less miserable;
Nay rather should I say, make me most blest;
And then—
Attempting to take her hand, while she steps back from him, drawing herself up with an air stately and determined, and looking steadfastly in his face.
I too am firm. Thou knowst my fix'd resolve:
Give me thy solemn promise to be mine.
This is the price, thou haughty, scornful maid,
That will redeem thee from the hour of terror!
This is the price—
Orra.
Which never shall be paid.
[Walks from him to the further end of the apartment.
Rud.
(after a pause).
Thou art determin'd, then.
Be not so rash:
Bethink thee well what flesh and blood can bear:
The hour is near at hand.
[She, turning round, waves him with her hand to leave her.
Thou deignst no answer.
Well; reap the fruits of thine unconquer'd pride.
[Exit.
Manet Orra.
Orra.
I am alone: that closing door divides me
From every being owning nature's life.—
And shall I be constrain'd to hold communion
With that which owns it not?
[After pacing to and fro for a little while.
O that my mind
Could raise its thoughts in strong and steady fervour
To Him, the Lord of all existing things,
Who lives, and is where'er existence is;
Grasping its hold upon His skirted robe,
Beneath whose mighty rule angels and spirits,
Demons and nether powers, all living things,
Hosts of the earth, with the departed dead
In their dark state of mystery, alike
Subjected are!—And I will strongly do it.—
Ah! would I could! Some hidden powerful hindrance
Doth hold me back, and mars all thought.—
[After a pause, in which she stands fixed with her arms crossed on her breast.
Dread intercourse!
O! if it look on me with its dead eyes!
If it should move its lock'd and earthy lips,
And utt'rance give to the grave's hollow sounds!
If it stretch forth its cold and bony grasp—
O horror, horror!
[Sinking lower at every successive idea, as she repeats these four last lines, till she is quite upon her knees on the ground.
Would that beneath these planks of senseless matter
I could, until the dreadful hour is past,
As senseless be!
[Striking the floor with her hands.
O open and receive me,
Ye happy things of still and lifeless being,
That to the awful steps which tread upon ye
Unconscious are!
Enter Cathrina behind her.
Who's there? Is't any thing?
Cath.
'Tis I, my dearest lady; 'tis Cathrina.
Orra
(embracing her).
How kind! such blessed kindness keep thee by me;
I'll hold thee fast; an angel brought thee hither.
I needs must weep to think thou art so kind
In mine extremity.—Where wert thou hid?
Cath.
In that small closet, since the supper hour,
I've been conceal'd. For searching round the chamber,
I found its door and enter'd. Fear not now,
I will not leave thee till the break of day.
253
Heaven bless thee for it! Till the break of day!
The very thought of daybreak gives me life.
If but this night were past, I have good hope
That noble Theobald will soon be here
For my deliv'rance.
Cath.
Wherefore thinkst thou so?
Orra.
A stranger, when thou leftst me on the ramparts,
Gave me a letter, which I quickly open'd,
As soon as I, methought, had gain'd my room
In privacy; but close behind me came
That demon, Rudigere, and, snatching at it,
Forced me to cast it to the flames, from which,
I struggling with him still, he could not save it.
Cath.
You have not read it then?
Orra.
No; but the seal
Was Theobald's, and I could swear ere long
He will be here to free me from this thraldom.
Cath.
God grant he may!
Orra.
If but this night were past! How goes the time?
Has it not enter'd on the midnight watch?
Cath.
(pointing to a small slab at the corner of the stage on which is placed a sand-glass).
That Glass I've set to measure it. As soon
As all the sand is run, you are secure;
The midnight watch is past.
Orra
(running to the glass, and looking at it eagerly).
There is not much to run; O an't were finish'd!
But it so slowly runs!
Cath.
Yes; watching it,
It seemeth slow. But heed it not; the while,
I'll tell thee some old tale, and ere I've finish'd,
The midnight watch is gone. Sit down, I pray.
[They sit, Orra drawing her chair close to Cathrina.
What story shall I tell thee?
Orra.
Something, my friend, which thou thyself hast known,
Touching the awful intercourse which spirits
With mortal men have held at this dread hour.
Didst thou thyself e'er meet with one whose eyes
Had look'd upon the spectred dead—had seen
Forms from another world?
Cath.
Never but once.
Orra
(eagerly).
Once then thou didst. O tell it! tell it me!
Cath.
Well, since I needs must tell it, once I knew
A melancholy man, who did aver,
That journeying on a time o'er a wild waste,
By a fell storm o'erta'en, he was compell'd
To pass the night in a deserted tower,
Where a poor hind, the sole inhabitant
Of the sad place, prepared for him a bed:
And, as he told his tale, at dead of night,
By the pale lamp that in his chamber burn'd
As it might be an arm's-length from his bed—
Orra.
So close upon him?
Cath.
Yes.
Orra.
Go on; what saw he?
Cath.
An upright form, wound in a clotted shroud—
Clotted and stiff, like one swath'd up in haste
After a bloody death.
Orra.
O horrible!
Cath.
He started from his bed and gazed upon it.
Orra.
And did he speak to it?
Cath.
He could not speak.
Its visage was uncover'd, and at first
Seem'd fix'd and shrunk, like one in coffin'd sleep;
But, as he gaz'd, there came, he wist not how,
Into its beamless eyes a horrid glare,
And turning towards him, for it did move—
Why dost thou grasp me thus?
Orra.
Go on, go on!
Cath.
Nay, heaven forefend! Thy shrunk and sharpen'd features
Are of the corse's colour, and thine eyes
Are full of tears. How's this?
Orra.
I know not how.
A horrid sympathy jarr'd on my heart,
And forced into mine eyes these icy tears.
A fearful kindredship there is between
The living and the dead—an awful bond!
Woe's me! that we do shudder at ourselves—
At that which we must be!—A dismal thought!
Where dost thou run? thy story is not told.
[Seeing Cath. go towards the sand-glass.
Cath.
(showing the glass).
A better story I will tell thee now;
The midnight watch is past.
Orra.
Ha! let me see.
Cath.
There's not one sand to run.
Orra.
But it is barely past.
Cath.
'Tis more than past.
For I did set it later than the hour,
To be assur'dly sure.
Orra.
Then it is gone indeed. O heaven be praised!
The fearful gloom gone by!
[Holding up her hands in gratitude to heaven, and then looking round her with cheerful animation.
In truth, already
I feel as if I breath'd the morning air;
I'm marvellously lighten'd.
Cath.
Ne'ertheless,
Thou art forespent; I'll run to my apartment,
And fetch some cordial drops that will revive thee.
Orra.
Thou needst not go; I've ta'en thy drops already;
I'm bold and buoyant grown.
[Bounding lightly from the floor.
Cath.
I'll soon return;
Thou art not fearful now?
254
No; I breathe lightly;
Valour within me grows most powerfully,
Wouldst thou but stay to see it, gentle Cathrine!
Cath.
I will return to see it, ere thou canst
Three times repeat the letters of thy name.
[Exit hastily by the concealed door.
Orra.
(alone).
This burst of courage shrinks most shamefully.
I'll follow her.—
[Striving to open the door.
'Tis fast; it will not open.
I'll count my footsteps as I pace the floor
Till she return again.
[Paces up and down, muttering to herself, when a horn is heard without, pausing and sounding three times, each time louder than before.
[Orra runs again to the door.
Despair will give me strength; where is the door?
Mine eyes are dark, I cannot find it now.
O God! protect me in this awful pass!
[After a pause, in which she stands with her body bent in a cowering posture, with her hands locked together, and trembling violently, she starts up and looks wildly round her.
There's nothing, yet I felt a chilly hand
Upon my shoulder press'd. With open'd eyes
And ears intent I'll stand. Better it is
Thus to abide the awful visitation,
Than cower in blinded horror, strain'd intensely
With ev'ry beating of my goaded heart.
[Looking round her with a steady sternness, but shrinking again almost immediately.
I cannot do it: on this spot I'll hold me
In awful stillness.
[Bending her body as before; then, after a momentary pause, pressing both her hands upon her head.
The icy scalp of fear is on my head;
The life stirs in my hair; it is a sense
That tells the nearing of unearthly steps,
Albeit my ringing ears no sounds distinguish.
[Looking round, as if by irresistible impulse, to a great door at the bottom of the stage, which bursts open, and the form of a huntsman, clothed in black, with a horn in his hand, enters and advances towards her. She utters a loud shriek, and falls senseless on the ground.
Theo.
(running up to her, and raising her from the ground).
No semblance, but real agony of fear.
Orra, oh, Orra! knowst thou not my voice?
Thy knight, thy champion, the devoted Theobald?
Open thine eyes and look upon my face:
[Unmasking.
I am no fearful waker from the grave.
Dost thou not feel? 'Tis the warm touch of life.
Look up, and fear will vanish.—Words are vain!
What a pale countenance of ghastly strength
By horror chang'd! O idiot that I was
To hazard this—The villain hath deceiv'd me:
My letter she has ne'er receiv'd. O fool!
That I should trust to this!
[Beating his head distractedly.
Enter Franko, by the same door.
Franko.
What is the matter? what strange turn is this?
Theo.
O cursed sanguine fool! could I not think—
She moves, she moves!—rouse thee, my gentle Orra!
'Tis no strange voice that calls thee; 'tis thy friend.
Franko.
She opens now her eyes.
Theo.
But, oh, that look!
Franko.
She knows thee not, but gives a stifled groan,
And sinks again in stupor.
Make no more fruitless lamentation here,
But bear her hence: the cool and open air
May soon restore her. Let us, while we may,
Occasion seize, lest we should be surprised.
[Exeunt: Orra borne off in a state of insensibility.
| Orra | |