University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Abbey Garden at Sawley. Enter Lady Margaret and Lady Emma.
LADY MARGARET.
What a sweet place, my Emma! The high Moon
Plays on the rippling water—gilds the turrets
Of the fair Abbey—sheds a silvery light
Upon the moistened green leaves—and makes gems
Of the small dew-drops lying on the roses.

LADY EMMA.
It is the very moonlight of Romance!

LADY MARGARET.
It is so, Emma; and methinks this Craven
Is all romantic land. Its rocks and hills,
Wild and majestic, set in contrast bold
With vales of emerald softness, and lit up
By gorgeous summer suns, or moons like this—
Why, 'tis a land to dream about, as having
No real existence!

LADY EMMA.
So the Lady Margaret
Throws the rich colouring of her fancy o'er
Scenes not yet made familiar, and thence drawing
One half of their enchantment. For myself,
I would not give my own small brook of Wansbeck
For any stream that murmurs through this land;
I do esteem old Cheviot more majestic
Than yonder rugged eminences; and—

LADY MARGARET.
Nay, sweet but sworn Northumbrian! I will own
All you have said, and all you meant to say,
To be most true—if that you will not check
My present mood by these comparisons.
For, sooth to say, I love the pleasant land,
And, might one dare to own it, love its people.

LADY EMMA.
Of whom few specimens have met your eyes
Save the rude villagers that ran to gaze
As our procession passed.

LADY MARGARET.
One I have seen—
What think you of our Guide?

LADY EMMA.
As of a rude,
Uncultured, uninformed, ungracious Monk.

LADY MARGARET.
Upon my life, ungracious epithets!

LADY EMMA.
What, marked you not his gesture, when aside
He threw my noble Brother's hand, that proffered
A liberal guerdon for the monk's brief service?

LADY MARGARET.
'Twas but a fit of absence, dearest Emma,
For which he did apologise.

LADY EMMA.
Apologise!
He muttered something, but so sullenly,
It seemed as if his heart did curse his tongue
For making it.

LADY MARGARET.
I did not so interpret
His bearing. But my Emma, you must own
That he did paint each varied scene we passed
In terms of pure and natural eloquence?

LADY EMMA.
Like to some wandering Poet, whose costume
Is marvellously tattered and bepatched;
With whom each crag is rugged, every hill
Is picturesque, each brook a purling fountain,
And every cavern gloomy or romantic!
He prated in most nauseating terms.

LADY MARGARET.
You could not think so! Did you hear his voice?
Noted you that?

LADY EMMA.
I've sometimes heard a harsher.

LADY MARGARET.
O! 'tis a voice of amplest compass, Emma.
Of trumpet loudness to be heard in battle
By fighting thousands, it hath yet the tones
Of sweetest lute to melt in Beauty's bower!

LADY EMMA.
In neither of which places, good my lady,
'Tis like to have much practice.

LADY MARGARET.
They do err
Who say that Love is blind. The lynx hath not
So sharp an eye-sight. Maugre his disguise,
I knew him, Emma—knew the Stranger Knight
Who joined our stag-chase on the wilds of Cheviot—

LADY EMMA.
Amazement! Can it be?

LADY MARGARET.
Who saved my life
When human aid seemed hopeless—but who left
The life he saved without the heart he found,
For that he stole and keeps!

LADY EMMA.
'Twere too romantic
For this prosaic time! You may mistake.

LADY MARGARET.
No, Emma, no! The very traits you marked
As proofs of rudeness, but confirm, to me,
The truth of Love's discovery.

LADY EMMA.
I remember
That gallant Stranger well. His air was noble;
His manners such as one would thence infer
The breath of Courts was native to his lungs,
And Princes his first play-mates!—He assumes
An odd disguise to shroud his rank and name in.

LADY MARGARET.
Ah! that way lies a mist, which coldly falls
Upon my love, and checks it in the bud!
His rank he told not; and it makes me 'shamed
To speak of what I own not to myself,
Save in some tender moment when Pride sleeps,
And Fancy frames her visions.

LADY EMMA.
Splendid ones,
I doubt not, where most gorgeous castles rise
Like clouds of Summer's glowing atmosphere,
Based upon—nothing. Cruel man! to leave
Not e'en a name for love to feed upon.
Had he declared his name, though it might be
But simply Henry—

LADY MARGARET.
Do the fates inform,
And make thee, even in thy jest, prophetic?
I do believe that Henry is his name!

LADY EMMA.
Indeed! O, then the name will fairly sound
In a sad ballad chanting forth the loves,
The high, mysterious loves, and piteous fate
Of Henry and of Margaret, sung by—

LADY MARGARET.
Hold!
Thou endless jester. I am not just now
In mirthful mood.

LADY EMMA.
And rather would enjoy
The moonlight hour alone—to muse on Henry!
Well, be it so, I go.

[Going.
LADY MARGARET.
If go thou wilt,
Remember, dearest Emma, to be mute
On this discovery!

LADY EMMA.
Silent as the Moon,
That, like a prudent lady, hears all love-tales,
And tells none.

[Exit Lady Emma.
LADY MARGARET.
(solus).
Go, light-hearted maiden, go!
Thou lovest, and art loved again. Thy love
Is placed upon a known and noble object;
While I!—He comes!—My heart, resume the Percy!

[Enter Henry abruptly, who kneels and throws back his hood.
LADY MARGARET.
Arise! What art thou? Speak.

HENRY.
A hapless wretch,
If I shall have incurred thine anger, Lady,
By this intrusion; blest as the blest gods,
If I obtain thy pardon!

LADY MARGARET.
Strong and urgent
Must be thy reasons, if they justify
This freedom, taken by a man unnamed,
And, save as Guide, unknown.

HENRY.
(rising).
It was not thus
The Lady Margaret looked, at yon cascade
Among the Cheviots, when to this poor arm
'Twas owing that the bright Rose of the North
Was not against the sharp and pointed rocks
Dashed headlong—to exhale its fragrant life
Amid the roaring whirlpool!

LADY MARGARET.
No; nor thus
That her Deliverer looked! He stood that day
Honoured amongst the honoured. Now he stands
In strange and most inglorious contrast with
His former self. Go to, thou art not He!
The Youth I mean was honourable, was noble
In soul at least, and would have rather dashed him
On the sharp rocks thou speakest of, than take
This mean advantage of a casual deed,
Which Instinct would, without a spark of Nature,
Have prompted to a villain!

HENRY.
Now by Heaven!
That supposition wrongs me, Lady. I
Claim nothing on that happy deed's account—
Presume not e'en in thought upon it—take
No mean advantage thence.

LADY MARGARET.
What call'st thou then
This rude intrusion? What claim else hadst thou
On which to ground a fair excuse for it?
Then, too, this monkish dress. Disguise denotes
The man that wears it to be fool or villain,
Just as his aim is base or virtuous;
And which thine is—I ask not.

HENRY.
If correct
That argument, it were indeed not worth
The trouble of a question, Lady,—since,
On either supposition, I must seem
An object to be rid of.

LADY MARGARET.
Was the act
Of self-devotedness that saved my life,
A thing to be ashamed of? to be wrapped
In a Monk's garment, lest some eye should see,
And recognise, and praise? Or didst thou think
That I, the rescued, was so poor of soul,
That I should blush to own my rescuer?
Why, man, the meanest serf that ever toiled,
Had he achieved the deed, should have been welcomed
As Margaret's friend; should from my hand have ta'en
Such meed as Gratitude may give to Worth,
Though England's proudest stood beside and saw me!

HENRY.
Slight guerdon may requite a casual deed,
“Which Instinct would, without a spark of Nature,
Have prompted to a villain.”

LADY MARGARET.
Pardon me
That word, sir; it was said in haste, and rashly.
I am thy debtor—deeply—lastingly—
And would repay thee!

HENRY.
Percy's broad domains,
With their long list of hamlet, tower, and town,
Could not supply my guerdon.

LADY MARGARET.
No!

HENRY.
Unless
Thy lovely name did grace the inventory;
And that one item would compensate well
The absence of the others!—Frown not, Lady;
I am a man that, if I speak at all,
Must speak my thought—being an old man's son
Who taught me this from childhood.

LADY MARGARET.
'Tis a rule
Well worth th'observance, so the thought be such
As doth become the speaker and the hearer—
Which thine at present doth not. Who art thou,
That darest thus presume upon my goodness?

HENRY.
A madman! having all the signs developed
That mark a madman's malady—save this,
That I do know myself to be a madman.
Yes, Lady, he that fell in love with th'moon,
As classic fable tells, was sane as I,
Who kneel in adoration most devout
[Kneels.
To a fair being, shining in a sphere
Of hopeless height above me!

LADY MARGARET.
Is it so?
Then must I think my charms have made a conquest,
A glorious capture, doubtless, of a heart
Warmed with no vulgar tide! But since, fair sir,
I found thee in the garb of Chivalry,
And now behold thee in Religion's garb,
How may I style my lover—Monk, or Knight?

HENRY.
I do deserve that thou shouldst laugh at me;
Nor will thy mirth abate, when I shall tell
My parentage.

LADY MARGARET.
I know it all, untold.
Thy father in a lordly hall was bred,
Thy mother in a cloister; hence thou veerest
Betwixt the hood and helmet.

HENRY.
Hear the truth;
My sire was bred a Shepherd.

LADY MARGARET.
If his son
Possess a Shepherd's virtues, he outshines
A Baron's heir without them!

HENRY.
Hem!—My virtues,
Unlike my madness, have not yet developed
Themselves by signs. My vices—less obscure—
Are somewhat widely blazoned. Not a hearth
In Craven, from the castle to the cot,
That is not vocal with my deeds. My name
Will still the wayward child, when that of Barghest
Hath lost its spell.

LADY MARGARET
(alarmed).
Ha! Thou art then the Outlaw
Men talk of in these wilds!—Help! ho, there—help!

HENRY.
Fear nothing, Lady! The great Devil's self
Would dread a hotter hell for wronging thee!
Permit me to remove this—I am not—

LADY MARGARET.
Didst thou say fear? Man, I am of a race
That never knew the word. But I will be
Freed from the degradation of thy presence!
Thou dost, it seems to me, contaminate
The very air I breathe! Didst save my life
To sicken it with infamy? Away!

HENRY.
Now by a true man's soul! I leave thee not,
Till thou hast heard me out. My heart's as proud
As thine is, Lady; and—

[Enter Lord Fenwick.
LORD FENWICK.
Ha! what means this?
Wretch, hast thou ventured insult? Hast thou dared—

HENRY.
When I shall come to thy confessional,
I may esteem thy questions worth an answer;
Till then I deign none.

LORD FENWICK.
Then, my surly Monk,
Thy frock had need be changed to mailèd vest,
Thy cowl to cap of steel; for, by St Paul,
Unless thy body is betaken hence,
And instantly—thy Order shall not save thee!

HENRY
(tearing off his frock and hood).
I ask it not. Behold me, boastful Chief,
Armed to thy wish, and ready at thy word,
To prove I trust to nothing but my blade
For my protection!

[Both draw.
LADY MARGARET
(stepping between them).
Hold!— (to Fenwick)
My Lord, I beg
This matter may be left to me.—Whate'er
That man's design—scarce can I deem it evil—
For one good deed by him achieved erewhile,
I owe him much; and he is not my friend
Who seeketh now his injury.

LORD FENWICK.
Enough.— (to Henry).

Protected by this Lady's interference,
Unquestioned go; though one disguise thrown off
Leaves thee in mystery still.

HENRY.
When next we meet—
And meet we shall where none can interpose
Between us—thou mayst learn the mystery,
In the keen glimmer of encountering steel!

[Exeunt Henry at one side, and Lady Margaret and Lord Fenwick at the other.