University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

A bed-chamber.
Enter Alice and Marian, with a Servant before them, carrying lights.
Marian.
You must be tired with all this noisy merriment
So closely following a lengthen'd journey.

Alice.
To be among the happy and the kind
Keeps weariness at bay; and yet I own
I shall be glad to rest.

Marian.
And may you find it, sound and undisturb'd!
There is among our household damsels here,
A humble friend of yours, the child of one
Who was your father's servant.

Alice.
Ha! little Jessie, once my playfellow,
And since well known to me, as the attendant
Of a relation, in whose house I found her,
Some two years past: a gentle, faithful creature.

Marian.
The same, she will attend upon you gladly,
And do what you require. See, here she is.

Enter Jessie.
Alice.
Jessie, my old acquaintance! I am glad
To find thee thus, domesticated happily
In such a home. I hope thou hast been well,
Since I last met with thee.

Jessie.
I thank you, madam;
I am right well; and, were I otherwise,
To see you here would make me well again,

Marian
(to Alice).
The greatest kindness I can show thee now
Is to retire, and leave thee to prepare
For what thou needst so much.
[Kissing her.
May sweet sound sleep refresh thee! Oh! it grieves me
To think that we must part with thee so soon;
And that ye are determined to return
To that infected city.

Alice.
Be not afraid for us. We shall pass through it,
And only tarry for an hour or two.
Good night, and thanks for all your gentle kindness!
Thanks, in few words, but from my inmost heart!
[Exit Marian.
And thou art here, good Jessie. I am glad,—
Right glad to see thee; but I'm tired and spent,
And (take it not unkindly) cannot speak
As I was wont to do.

[Throws herself into a chair, whilst Jessie begins to uncoil her hair, and take out the ornaments.
Jessie.
I will prepare you for your bed, dear madam,
As quickly as I can. To-morrow morning
Your strength and spirits too will be restored.

Alice.
Thou'rt a good creature. Dost thou still remember
The pretty songs thou used to sing so sweetly?

SONG.
Jessie
(singing gaily).

Alice.
I thank thee: that was once a favourite song.
I know not how it was; I liked it then
For the gay reckless spirit of the tune.
But there is one which I remember well,
One my poor aunt was wont to bid thee sing;
Let me have that, I pray thee.

SONG.

Alice.
Thou singest sweetly, ay, and sadly too,
Even as it should be sung. I thank thee, Jessie.

Jessie
(after having entirely undone her hair, and taken the fastenings from other parts of her dress).
Now, madam, let me fetch your gown and coif.

Alice.
I want no further service, my good Jessie,
I'll do the rest myself: and so, good night;
I shall be soon in bed. Good night, and thanks.

Jessie.
Not yet good night; I will return again,
And take away the light.

Alice.
Well; as thou wilt: but leave me for a while.
[Exit Jessie.
This day, with all its trials, is at length
Come to an end. My wrung and wrestling heart!
How is it with thee now? Thy fond delusions
Lie strew'd and broken round thee, like the wrecks
Of western clouds when the bright sun is set.
We look upon them glowing in his blaze,
And sloping wood, and purple promontory,
And castled rock distinctly charm the eye:
What now remains but a few streaky fragments
Of melting vapour, cold and colourless?
[After a thoughtful pause.
There's rest when hope is gone—there should be rest.
And when I think of her who is the cause,
Should I complain? To be preferr'd to her!
Preferr'd to Emma Graham, whom I myself
Cannot behold but with an admiration
That sinks into the heart, and in the fancy
Goes hand in hand with every gentle virtue
That woman may possess or man desire!—
The thought was childish imbecility.
Away, away! I will not weep for this.
Heaven granting me the grace for which I'll pray
Humbly and earnestly, I shall recover
From this sad state of weakness. If she love him,
She'll make him happier far than I could do;
And if she love him not, there is good cause
That I should pity him; not selfishly
On my own misery dwell.—Ay, this should be;
But will it be?—Oh, these rebellious tears!

[Covering her face with her hands, and throwing herself back in her chair, in a state of abandonment.
Enter, by the other end of the chamber, the phantom of a beautiful young woman, which advances a few paces, and then remains still.
Alice
(raising her face).
Who's there?—Is there true vision in mine eyes?
[Rising quickly, and going with open arms towards the phantom.
Dear Emma! dear, dear Emma! how is this,
That thou art here, unlook'd for at this hour,
So many miles from home? Alas! that face
Of ghastly paleness, and that alter'd look
Of sad solemnity!—Speak to me quickly;
I dare approach no nearer, till I hear
Words of thy natural voice. Art thou alive?

Phantom.
A term, short as the passing of a thought,
Hath brought me from the chamber where my friends
Are now lamenting round my lifeless body.

Alice.
And 'tis thy spirit which before mine eyes
Thy body's semblance wears: and thou art nothing
That mortal hands may touch or arms encircle!
O look not on me with that fixed look!
Thou lovest me still, else thou hadst not been here,
And yet I fear thee.

Phantom.
Fear me not, dear Alice!
I yearn'd to look upon thee ere I pass
That gulf which parts the living from the dead:
And I have words to utter which thine ear
Must listen to, thy mind retain distinctly.

Alice.
Say what thou wilt; thou art a blessed spirit.
And canst not do me harm.—
I know it well: but let thy words be few;
The fears of nature are increasing on me.
[Bending one knee to the ground.
O God! Lord of all beings, dead and living!
Strengthen and keep me in this awful hour!

Phantom.
And to thy fervent prayer I say, Amen.
Let this assure thee, that, though diff'rent natures
Invest us now, we are the children still
Of one great Parent; thou in mortal weeds
Of flesh and blood; I in a state inexplicable
To human comprehension.—Hear my words.

Alice.
I listen most intently.

Phantom.
The room in which I died, hath a recess
Conceal'd behind the arras, long disused
And now forgotten; in it stands a casket,
The clam shell of our house is traced upon it;
Open, and read the paper therein lodged.
When my poor body is to earth committed,
Do this without delay. And now, farewell!
I must depart.

Alice.
Ah! whither, dearest Emma? Will a moment
Transport thee to heaven's court of blessedness,
To ecstasy and glory?

Phantom.
These are presumptuous words. My place, appointed
In mercy to a weak and sinful creature,
I soon shall know. Farewell, till we shall meet,
From sin, and fear, and doubt, released for ever!

[Exit.
[Alice stands trembling and gazing, as the phantom disappears, and then falls on the ground in a swoon. Presently re-enter Jessie.
Jessie.
Mercy upon us! lying on the ground!
Life is not gone; God grant it be not so!
Lady, dear lady! No; she does not hear.

[Endeavours in vain to raise her, then runs off in great alarm, and is heard without, knocking and calling at the door of another chamber.
(Without.)
Open the door! Rise, Lady Achinmore.

Marian
(without).
I am not yet undress'd: what is the matter?

Jessie
(without).
Come to the lady's chamber: follow me.

Mal.
(without, opening the door of his apartment).
What has befallen? Is any one unwell?

Re-enter Jessie, followed by Marian, who both run to Alice, raising her from the floor, and one supporting her head, while the other chafes her temples and the palms of her hands, &c.
Marian.
Support her drooping head, while from my closet
I fetch some water, and restoring drugs,
Whose potent smell revives suspended life.

Mal.
(looking in upon them from the door).
O leave her not! I'll find whate'er is wanting.

[Exit.
Marian.
There is a little motion of her lip;
Her bosom heaves: thank God! life is not fled.
How long hadst thou been absent from the room?

Jessie.
Some little time; and thought, on my return,
To find her gone to bed.

Marian.
How was she when thou leftst her?

Jessie.
She was well then.

Marian.
It hath been very sudden.

Re-enter Malcolm, with phials, &c.
Mal.
(applying herbs to her nostrils, while Marian pours out essence from the phial, and rubs her temples and hands).
Life is returning; she is laid uneasily;
Let me support her on a stronger arm.
[Taking her from Marian, and supporting her.
There's motion on her lips, and on her eyelids.
Her eyes begin, through their soft raven lashes,
To peer like dew-drops from the harebell's core,
As the warm air of day by slow degrees
The closed leaves gently severs.—Yes; she moves.
How art thou now, sweet Alice?

Marian.
See, she looks up, and gazes on us too;
But, oh, how strangely!

Mal.
Why do her eyes thus wander round the chamber? (To Alice.)

Whom dost thou seek for, Alice?

Alice.
She's gone; I need not look; a mortal eye
Shall never, never look on her again.
[A peal of thunder heard.
Hear ye that sound? She is upon her way.

Marian.
What does she mean? It was a sultry night,
And threaten'd storm and lightning.

Mal.
(to Alice).
Thou'st been asleep, and scarcely yet art waking,
Thy fancy is still busied with its dream.

Alice
(raising herself more, and looking towards the place where the phantom disappeared).
It was no dream: upon that spot it stood;
I saw it,—saw it for a lengthen'd time,—
Saw it distinctively.

Mal.
Whom didst thou see?
No living creature could have enter'd here.

Alice.
O would that it had been a living creature!
Her beauty was the beauty of a corse
Newly composed in death; yet her dark eyes
Were open, gazing wistfully upon me.

Mal.
(hastily withdrawing his arms from her, and clasping his hands together in agony).
Thou hast seen Emma Graham!

Alice
(rousing herself).
Is Malcolm here? I am confused,—bewilder'd;
I know not what I've seen, or what I've said:
Perhaps it was a dream.

Mal.
It was no dream;
Or if it was, 'twas one of sad import.
Oh, if it be!—there is distraction in it.

[Tossing his arms, &c.
Marian.
Dear brother! such wild gestures of despair
For the mere shapings of a sleepy brain!

Mal.
It was not sleep from which we have revived her.

Marian.
And grant it were not, swooning, I've been told,
Will sometimes have its dream as well as sleep.

Alice.
I was not well; I have been long unwell;
Weakness and wretchedness disturb the brain;
Perhaps it was the vision of a swoon.
Be not so miserable, gentle Malcolm!
O that this vision did foretell my death,
If she were well and happy!

Mal.
Forgive me, dearest Alice! O, forgive me!
When paining thee, I'm hateful to myself.

[Taking both her hands, which he presses to his lips.
Marian.
Leave us, dear brother! go to thine apartment.

Mal.
I'll go where yearning nature urges me.
[Going, then returning again to Alice.
And didst thou hear her voice?

Enter Claude.
Claude.
Is Alice well? I heard a busy noise.
How art thou, sister?

Alice.
I have had a swoon,
But am recover'd from it. Go to rest.
[Aside to Marian and Malcolm.
Say nothing of the vision. O, be silent!

Mal.
(aside to himself, as he goes off).
Is he so much concern'd? No, no, he is not:
He does not,—cannot feel what tortures me.

Claude.
Dost thou avoid me, Malcolm? Dost thou think
That kindness to my sister can offend me?

Mal.
I've other thoughts, which do no wrong to thee,
And owe thee no account.

[Exit.
Claude
(aside).
He is offended. (Aloud to Marian.)

Thanks to you, dear madam!
For your kind care of Alice. Rest, I hope,
Will perfectly restore her. The fatigue
Of her long journey, and the evening pastime
Has been too much for one so delicate. (To Alice.)

Undress and go to bed, poor harass'd creature!
I trust to-morrow thou wilt wake refresh'd.

Alice.
I hope so too, dear Claude; and so good night.
Remain no longer here. (Exit Claude.)
I'm glad he's gone.
[A peal of thunder as before.
That awful sound again! she's on her way:
But storm or thunderbolt can do no harm
To disembodied spirits.

Marian.
I may not leave thee here, my gentle friend;
In my apartment thou shalt pass the night.
Come then with me: I dare not leave thee here,
Where, sleeping or awake, thou hast received
Some painful shock—Rise: lean upon my arm.

[Exeunt.