 | Rayner |  |
SCENE II.
A dungeon; Rayner discovered sitting at a table by the light of a lamp, with a book in his hand; the clock from a neighbouring steeple strikes three, and he, roused by the sound, lays down the book.Ray.
This bell speaks with a deep and sullen voice:
The time comes on apace with silent speed.
Is it indeed so late?
[Looking at his watch.
It is even so.
[Pausing, and looking still at the watch.
How soon time flies away! yet, as I watch it,
Methinks, by the slow progress of this hand,
I should have lived an age since yesterday,
And have an age to live. Still on it creeps,
Each little moment at another's heels,
Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up
Of such small parts as these, and men look back,
Worn and bewilder'd, wond'ring how it is.
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Which hath no bounding shore to mark its progress,
O Time! ere long I shall have done with thee.
When next thou leadest on thy nightly shades,
Though many a weary heart thy steps may count,
Thy midnight 'larum shall not waken me.
Then shall I be a thing, at thought of which
The roused soul swells boundless and sublime,
Or wheels in wildness of unfathom'd fears:
A thought; a consciousness; unbodied spirit.
Who but would shrink from this? It goes hard with thee,
Social connected man; it goes hard with thee
To be turn'd out into a state unknown,
From all thy kind, an individual being.
But wherefore shrink? came we not thus to earth?
And He who sent, prepared reception for us.
Ay, glorious are the things that are prepared,
As we believe!—yet, heaven pardon me!
I fain would skulk beneath my wonted cov'ring,
Mean as it is.
Ah, Time! when next thou fillst thy nightly term,
Where shall I be? Fy! fy upon thee still!
E'en where weak infancy, and tim'rous age,
And maiden fearfulness have gone before thee;
And where, as well as he of firmest soul,
The meanly-minded and the coward are.
Then trust thy nature, at th'approaching push,
The mind doth shape itself to its own wants,
And can bear all things.
[Rising from his seat, and walking several times backward and forward.
I know not how it is, I'm wondrous heavy;
Fain would I rest awhile. This weary frame
Has but a little more to do for me,
And yet it asks for rest. I'll lay me down:
It may be possible that I shall sleep,
After these weary tossings of the mind;
I feel as though I should.
[Goes to sleep, covering himself with a cloak.
Enter Ohio, creeping out from a hiding-place at the bottom of the stage, and going softly up to Rayner, looks for some time upon him with a malicious grin.
Ohio.
Thou hast loved negroes' blood, I warrant thee.
Dost sleep? ay, they will waken thee ere long,
And cut thy head off. They'll put thee to rest;
They'll close thine eyes for thee without thy leave;
They'll bloat thy white skin for thee, lily-face.
Come, less harm will I do thee than thy fellows:
My sides are cold: a dead man needs no cloak.
[Beginning gently to pull off Rayner's cloak, who starts from his sleep, and looks at him in amazement.
Ray.
Ha! what hole of the earth hath cast thee up?
What thing art thou? and what wouldst thou with me?
Ohio.
My sides are cold; a dead man needs no cloak.
Ray.
'Tis true indeed, but do not strip the living.
Where dost thou run to now? where wast thou hid?
Ohio
(after running to his hiding-place, and fetching out a stick, which he presents to Rayner).
Beat me thyself, but do not tell of me.
Ray.
I would not harm thee for a greater fault.
I'm sorry thou art cold; here is my cloak:
Thou hast said well; a dead man needs it not.
I know thee now; thou art the wretched negro
Who serves the prisoners; I have observ'd thee:
I'm sorry for thee; thou art bare enough,
And winter is at hand.
Ohio.
Ha! art thou sorry that the negro's cold?
Where wast thou born who art so pitiful?
I will not take thy cloak, but I will love thee.
They shall not cut thy head off.
Ray.
Go thy ways;
Go skulk within thy hiding-place again,
And, when the cell is open'd, save thyself.
Ohio.
They sha'n't cut off thy head.
Ray.
Now, pray thee go.
Ohio.
I'll kiss thy feet; I'll spend my blood for thee.
Ray.
I do beseech thee go! there's some one coming:
I hear them at the door.
[Pushes him hastily off.
Enter Hardibrand, advancing slowly to Rayner, his eyes cast upon the ground.
Ray.
Good morrow, general: where's thy friendly hand?
Why dost thou turn thine eyes aside, and fear
To look me in the face? Is there upon it
Aught that betrays the workings of the mind
Too strongly mark'd? I will confess to thee
I've struggled hard, I've felt the fears of nature;
But yet I have the spirit of a man
That will uphold me: therefore, my brave friend,
Do me the grace to look upon me boldly;
I'll not disgrace thee.
Har.
No, my valiant boy!
I know thou'lt not disgrace me, nor will I
Put shame on thee by wearing on this morn
A weeping face: I will be valiant too.
We will not, Rayner, though thou'rt thus—Oh! oh!
[Bursting into tears.
Ray.
My gen'rous friend, my second father, why
Wilt thou oppress me thus?
Har.
Bear with me, bear with me; I meant to brave it,
And I will brave it. But to thee, my son,
In thy distress, encompass'd as thou art,
My heart so strongly has enlink'd itself,
That to part from thee, boy, is—
[Falling on his neck, and bursting again into tears.
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Mar.
(after looking at them for some time, and in a solemn imposing tone of voice).
The strength of man sinks in the hour of trial;
But there doth live a pow'r that to the battle
Girdeth the weak: heaven's vivifying grace,
And strength, and holy confidence be thine,
Who art in mercy stricken!
[Holding up his right hand to heaven, whilst
Rayner, approaching with reverence, bows himself beneath it very low.
Ray.
Thanks to thee, father! these are words of power,
And I do feel their strength. Beneath that hand,
Which hath in mercy stricken me, I bow;
Yea bow, the nobler and the bolder grown
For such humility.—(Familiarly.)
How goes the time?
Does day begin to dawn?
Mar.
Grey light peeps faintly o'er the eastern towers.
Ray.
The time is then advanced; we'll husband it.
Come close to me, my friends.
[Taking Hardibrand and Mardonio each by the hand, and pressing them close to his breast.
Of worldly cares, upon my mind there rest
But only those which I have mention'd to you.
Yet, in this solemn hour, let me remind you:—
My poor Elizabeth—
Har.
(eagerly).
Thou'st said enough:
She is my child and heiress of my lands
To the last rood.—Ah! what avails it now!
Ray.
How shall a dying man find thanks for this,
Whose day is closed? I will attempt no thanks.
The other wish that closely presses on me:—
Mardonio, upon thee must hang this boon:—
That miserable man of whom I've told you;
Now living in the hell of his remorse,
Cut off from human intercourse; whose vision
Of midnight horrors saved this hand from blood:
I fain—
Har.
(again eagerly interrupting him).
Fear not! fear not! he shall be saved;
And shall with human beings yet consort
In blessed charity, if ghostly care
From holiest men procured, or off'rings made
To ev'ry sacred shrine on christian ground
Can give him peace.
Ray.
(smiling and pressing Hardibrand to his bosom).
With all the prompt and gen'rous profusion
Of eager youth dost thou, mine aged friend,
Take every thing upon thee. Be it so.
And good Mardonio with his sober counsel
Will aid thy bounty. Here I join your hands:
My worldly cares are closed.
Enter Elizabeth, followed by Richard and Bertram, who remain on the background whilst she comes slowly forward; Rayner turning round on hearing them enter.
Ah! who is this?
Alas! alas! it is Elizabeth.
[Holding out his hand to her.
Advance, my love; thou'rt ever welcome here.
How does it fare with thee?
Eliz.
It is all mist and darkness with me now;
I know not how it fares with me.
Ray.
Alas!
Thou gentle soul! a dark cloud o'er thee hangs,
But through the gloom the sun again will break,
And, in the soberness of calm remembrance,
Thou wilt look back upon misfortunes past
Like tempests that are laid. Thou dost not heed me:
Thou dost not speak to me. Alas! Alas!
What shall I say to thee?
I've loved thee well, and would have loved thee long,
Had it so been—but thou shalt be beloved!
Heav'n will take charge of thee when I'm at rest:
The kindly and the good shall be thy kindred,
[Putting her hand in Hardibrand's.
And ev'ry sorrowful and gentle heart
Shall knit itself to thee, and call thee sister.
[Elizabeth makes a motion with her hand as if she would speak, and he pauses, but she is silent.
What meant, my love, that motion of thy hand?
Mar.
She fain would speak to thee, but has no voice.
Ray.
I know it well, Elizabeth; no voice
Needst thou to tell me how thou'st dearly loved me,
And dearly do I prize it; 'tis my pride;
E'en humbled as I am, it is my pride.
Heav'n's dearest blessings rest upon thy head!—
And now, since we must part, do in thy love,
Do for me this last grace; bid me farewell,
And let my earthly sorrows now be closed.
Heav'n's blessing rest upon thee!
[He kisses her, and she turns to go away, Rayner looking after her as she goes, but presently returns again.
Ray.
Thou art return'd, my soul, what wouldst thou have?
Eliz.
(in a broken voice).
A thought—a wish did press upon my heart,
But it is gone.
Ray.
I thank thee for thy wish;
It is a good one, though thou canst not speak it,
And it will do me good. But leave me! leave me!
Thou wilt unfit me for a task of strength.
[Elizabeth again attempts to go away, but still returns.
Ah, wherefore still! wilt thou be cruel to me?
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O, no! O, no! I know not what I do:
It is all mist and darkness with me now:
I look upon thee, but I see thee not.
Let me once more but feel thy hand in mine
And send me where ye will: my being then
Is at an end.
[They embrace again, and she still continues to hang upon him.
Ray.
(to Bertram and Richard).
O, lead her hence, and have some mercy on me!
My father died i' the field a valiant death,
And shall his son upon the scaffold die
O'ercome and weak, reft of that decent firmness
Which e'en the base and vulgar there assume?
O lead her hence! in mercy lead her hence!
[Bertram and Richard tear her from him, and lead her away, whilst he turns his back, and hides his face with his hands.
Eliz.
(stopping short, and tossing up her arms distractedly as they are leading her out).
Reprieve, reprieve! I hear a voice i' the air!
I hear it yet again!
Ray.
(uncovering his face, and looking about eagerly, whilst Hardibrand rushes forward impetuously from the bottom of the stage, where he has been pacing backward and forward with hasty strides).
Is't any thing?
Mar.
Alas, no! all is silent: 'tis the fancy
Of fond distraction list'ning to itself.
Har.
Nay, it was something: Bertram, thou didst hear it?
Ber.
No, I heard nothing.
Har.
What, nor thou, good Richard?
Rich.
No, nothing.
Eliz.
(holding up her arm distractedly as Richard and Bertram lead her off).
And is it nothing? no redemption near!
[Exeunt Elizabeth, Richard, and Bertram, whilst Rayner, uttering a deep groan, hides his face, and Hardibrand returns with hasty strides to the bottom of the stage.
Ray.
(uncovering his face).
Is she gone now?
Mar.
She is.
Ray.
Thank God for it! Now to our task:
[Stepping forward with assumed firmness.
What of it now remains we shall o'er-master.
Pray thee how goes the time? But pardon me!
I have too oft inquired how goes the time:
It is my weakness.
Mar.
The morning now advances.
Ray.
So I reckon'd.
We too shall put ourselves in forwardness:
And so, good father, to your ghostly guidance
I do commend myself.
Enter Gaoler.
Gaoler.
The officers of justice are arrived,
And wait the presence of the prisoner.
Ray.
They come upon us sooner than we wist;
But 'tis so much the better. (To Mardonio, aside.)
Shall we have time allow'd us for retirement,
Before they lead me forth?
Mar.
'Tis ever so allow'd.
Ray.
Come then, I feel me stronger than I was:
'Twill soon be past; the work goes on apace.
[Taking hold of Hardibrand and Mardonio as he goes out.
Your arm, I pray:—I know not how it is;
My head feels dizzy, but my limbs are firm.
Good Hardibrand, thinkst thou I shall disgrace thee?
Har.
No, by the mass! I'll give them this old carcase
To hack for crow's meat if thou shrinkst one hair's breadth
From the comportment of a gallant soldier,
And of a brave man's son.
Ray.
(smiling with a gratified look).
I thank thee.
Methinks I tread now, as I onward move,
With more elastic and dilating step,
As if a spirit of pride within me stirr'd
Buoying me up on the swoln billow's ridge.
[Exeunt.
| Rayner | |