University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Gordale—a tremendous mountain chasm. Enter Roddam and Cathleen.
CATHLEEN.
O Roddam! why so rash? Yet, yet return!
Some dread thing is about to happen! Stay—
Turn not that rock, but listen! Told I not
Of dell that narrowed, and at last closed in?
And told I not of thunder? Are you mad!
The dell is narrowed to a point; o'erhead,
The clouds have veiled the sun; and if these clouds
Bear not a storm within their lurid halls,
No sky will henceforth thunder! Let us back!

RODDAM.
And we were fools, my love, to turn us back
Upon such ground as the coincidence
Of a dark dingle with a maiden's dream.
On, my Cathleen; nor fear that harm can come
To Roddam or to thee. For thy sweet sake
Yon clouds shall pass away, and heaven be blue
As that fair eye of thine, where love—insphered—
Shines through its tear as shines, the western star
Through the fine dews of Eve!
[They enter the chasm.
Heavens! what a sight.

CATHLEEN.
O God! the very scenery of my dream!

RODDAM.
Why then thy dream was highly honoured, love;
For England hath no nobler scene than this.

[Enter Ladies Margaret and Emma, with Norton and part of the Procession, on foot. All gaze in silence.
NORTON.
Your silence moves no wonder. Gordale hath,
In its first burst of unexpected grandeur,
A spell to awe the soul, and chain the tongue.
How great its Maker then!

LADY MARGARET.
Now this repays
The toil of our long journey!—Emma, look!
Look, Cathleen, Roddam!—It might seem a tower
Whose architects were giants, did yon stream
Mar not the fancy.

RODDAM.
Or a cavern hewn
From out the solid rock by hand of genii!

LADY EMMA.
Or fairy palace, by enchantment raised,
To hold the elfin court in!

LADY MARGARET.
'Tis a scene
Too stern and gloomy for those gentle beings,
That love the green dell and the moonlight ring.
I like my first impression.—Whence the stones
That cumber the wide floor?

NORTON.
These scattered fragments
Have fallen, Lady, from the toppling cliffs,
Detached by slow decay—perchance by lightning—
And piled through silent ages. Fear not, gentles;
Beneath the bend of this far-slanting rock,
We stand exempt from peril—nothing less
Than some discourteous earthquake being able
To make the massive Giant fall and crush us.

LADY EMMA.
There is a peril, Friar, which, I fear,
Neither this Giant nor his friends can save from—
The peril of a thunder-storm.

CATHLEEN.
(to RODDAM).
O, hear!

LADY MARGARET.
It were a deadly sin 'gainst taste, so soon
To quit this scene of wild sublimity,
In dread of an imaginary danger.
My spirit rises while I gaze, to see
The shadows deepen, as the clouds o'ersweep
The almost-meeting crags above our head,
Until the cataract, that whitely falls
As if from heaven, becomes its only light,—
Seeming, indeed, a gush of moonshine poured
Through a rent cloud, when all beside is gloom!—
[Lightning,
That flash came not from water—Ha! again—

[A storm of thunder and lightning, during which

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the heads and weapons of the Outlaws are partly seen among the clefts.
NORTON
(aside to the Outlaws).
Await my signal.
[They retire.
(Aloud)
'Tis a fearful hour!
God! what a crash was that! Flash crowds on flash!
It lightens as if Satan sat i'th'clouds,
And fed their fires; while the redoubling crags,
With most terrific mimicry, send back
The rattle to the sky!—
(Aside)
By heaven! they quail.
These northern warriors, who would fearless charge
Thrice their own number in a Border feud,
Are worms before a danger which doth mock
The spear and mail of armèd bravery!
Now is my time—

[Whistles, and enter Outlaws.
NORTON
(with affected alarm).
The Outlaws!—All ye saints
Protect and save us!—Holy Mother, save
Thy servant!

AN OUTLAW.
Yield! Your purses or your lives!

NORTON.
Good friends, submit; else we shall never see
Another morning dawn!

RODDAM.
Monk, hold thy peace,
Else I will cleave thy head!
[To the Outlaws.
A bold demand,
And one that, numerous as ye are, will task
Your prowess to enforce it. (to Norton)
Old man, bid
The ladies keep the shadow of the rock
As they regard their safety. We will throw
A rampart of good steel before them. Form—
Quick—right and left behind me. Yarely!—Ten
Good men and true are match for fifty villains!
[A Battle.
Strike fast—and home! Each thrust, so sent, rids earth
Of so much crime!
[Fights. Thunder continues.
High omens are about us—
Heaven sends its lightnings to direct our blows,
It thunders for our triumph!

[Fights.
AN OUTLAW
(rushing upon RODDAM from behind).
Hell receive
Thy fiery soul!

[Stabs him.
RODDAM
(turning fiercely round).
O Villain! dastard! die!
[Stabs him.
That was a coward's trick. Fight, gallants, fight!
They waver.—On!—Cath—use her name I dare not,
Else should that name, heard o'er the tumult, make
The brave be braver!

[Fights.
[The Battle continues. The Borderers give way.
RODDAM.
Cowards! dastards! stand!
Rally again, or be disgraced for ever!
What will they say by Cheviot?
[Fights.
Vain! they leap
O'er crag and cataract like startled deer;
And I am left.—Curse on the coward blow
Of that expiring caitiff!
[Staggers.
[The Outlaws seize and bear off Ladies Margaret and Emma. Cathleen flies towards Roddam.
Villains! no—
Ye shall not do that outrage! (falls)
O Cathleen!

CATHLEEN.
'Tis done! 'tis done!—He would not hear me!—Roddam!
O speak to me!—He never will speak more!
Dead! dead!—O misery!
[To the Outlaws.
Here—complete your work
Of butchery! Stretch me in blood beside him,
And I will die with thanks upon my tongue!
[She raises him in part, places his head upon her knee, gazes upon him, and exclaims—
He breathes, he lives! Thank Heaven!

[The Scene shuts.

SCENE II.

Crags near Gordale. Enter an Outlaw.
OUTLAW
(almost breathless).
He must be near. Ho! Norton!

[Calling.
[Enter Norton.
NORTON.
Fiends pluck out
Thy foolish tongue! Why shouldst thou name me, ass?

OUTLAW.
I did not name you ass; but if you stay
Many hours longer in this vicinage,
You will have earned the name.

NORTON.
No insolence—
What meanest thou?

OUTLAW.
Henry—

NORTON.
Damnation! what?
Speak, what of him?

OUTLAW.
He met us—Bland and me—
As we were carrying off the Lady. Bland
At the first menace, dropped his sword, and begged
Forgiveness.

NORTON.
Base poltroon! And thou?

OUTLAW
(hesitating)
Why—I—
I did the same.

NORTON.
Two quailed to one! The slaves—
But at the least, ye did confess nought. He
Knows nothing of my part?

OUTLAW.
Bland told him all!
How you had trained us to oppose his will;
Had planned th'attack and capture of to-day;
And above all, had bound it on our souls,
To give the Lady Percy to believe
That he was author of whatever outrage
She might have suffered.

NORTON.
Thou didst contradict this?

OUTLAW.
I durst but sanction what my comrade said;
But took the earliest chance to steal away,
In hope to find you out, and give you warning
To 'scape the deep revenge the Chief hath vowed.

NORTON.
Thanks; but I fly not!—Desperate was the throw,
And the die turns up—Ruin; but to whom?
That waits decision.—Go. I would compose
My mind a little, were there a retreat.

OUTLAW.
The Cave.

NORTON.
The Cave! Thou'rt mad, or else a traitor!
That were the first explored.

OUTLAW.
Ay, such he deems
Thy thought to be, and therefore will not search it.

NORTON.
That notion seems a shrewd one.
[Puts off his disguise.
Take this garb;
I have no further use for it. Be true.

[Exit Norton.
OUTLAW
(solus).
He has no further use for't. So I think.
And I opine that, save by some good fortune,
Of which I dream not, the next suit he gets,
Will cost him nothing, and will last for ever!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Gennet's Cave and the Waterfall. Henry is discovered in the act of supporting Lady Margaret.
LADY MARGARET.
Where am I? Where is Emma? Where my friends?
Have they all perished in yon dreadful cavern?
Am I the singly saved? Speak, Monk! Speak, Outlaw!
My Evil Genius, speak!

HENRY.
The last, sweet Lady,
I wot not why you call me. True, I am
Most evil to myself; to one beside
I am most evil; but to thee!

LADY MARGARET.
Forgive me,
If in my terror I have done thee wrong.
But I will call thee aught—my Guardian Angel
Ever at hand to rescue and to save!
That I will call thee, and will add whate'er
My power may promise, or my purse afford,
If thou wilt tell me that my friends are safe!

HENRY.
Dear Lady, be composed. I have already
Assured thee all is well. My friend's report,
Which but thy swoon prevented thee from hearing,
Bore that some others of your northern train,
Not in the former company, had reached
The scene of conflict; that th'assailants then,
On this accession to their foes, had fled;
That Lady Emma, rescued by an archer,
Had joined her friends—

LADY MARGARET.
Thank God! And Roddam—
But that brave youth is slain!—

HENRY.
I know not that.

LADY MARGARET.
And I—why am I here? O! what have I
Or said, or done, to merit this unkindness?
Speak, why is Margaret the selected victim
Of him who saved her life?—But hear me, villain!
The stainless Daughter of a martial line
Cannot receive an insult unavenged!

HENRY
(kneeling).
If in my soul there ever lurked, or lurks,
One thought intending aught but good to thee,
May the next flash yon awful sky shall send,
Strike me to ashes!

LADY MARGARET.
Art thou not the author
Of this day's work?

HENRY.
So help me Heaven, no!

LADY MARGARET.
Nor knowest our assailants?

HENRY
(rising).
There I cannot
Plead innocence. Some guilt is justly mine;
For which I suffer penance—thy suspicion.
But I am foully wronged, as one shall know
[Thunder.
And pay for! Hark! more fiercely and more near
The thunder rolls. The lightning wraps the crags
In its most perilous flame. But we are nigh
The shelter of a cave—

LADY MARGARET.
Speak not of that!
Here stand I in the face of Heaven, whose darts
Fly not at random, but obey the hand
That makes them ministers to strike or spare;
Here is no danger save from One whose pity
Marks the poor sparrow fall. I will trust Him,
Although he seems in anger—but not thee!

HENRY.
Thy will be law. I did but mean to find thee
A shelter from the storm. But O! believe,
That cave were safe as Alnwick's princely bowers;
And let me add, those princely bowers may see
Fair youths of noble name and martial deed
Contending for thy smile, but shall not see,
Amid the crowd of suitors, one that loves thee
With love so true as mine!

LADY MARGARET.
Talk not of love!
Of that no more! If thus my foolish dream
Is over, let it end!—Thou hadst, poor youth,
A part in Margaret Percy's bosom once—
I shame me not to say it now, when I
Am wretched, and thine eyes do look their last
Upon me—but 'tis done. From this hour forth,
I cast thine image thence, and thought of thee
Shall never haunt me more!

HENRY.
To have been thus—
To have engrossed, though but a moment's space,
One thought of thine—shall be the cherished feeling,
The secret triumph, and the silent pride
Of this full heart, till its pulsations cease
In the calm grave! But since it hath been thus—
And that Earth's fairest lips have just avouched—
Why not be thus again?

LADY MARGARET.
Impossible.
Ask thy own life.

HENRY.
Lady, my life hath not
Been free from stain; yet are there greater villains,
If that must be the word.

LADY MARGARET.
That I would hope.
And yet connexion is confessed—alliance—
With men of blood!

HENRY.
A fitter time will come,
When all shall be explained.

LADY MARGARET.
It needeth not;
I have no interest in the knowledge. Yet
There is one question I should like to ask,
Ere we two part for ever. Know you aught
Of a poor girl named Ashton?

HENRY.
Said I, no,
I should say falsely.

LADY MARGARET.
That at least seems candid.—
Art thou the cause of that fair girl's distraction?

HENRY.
It was deep villany to be the cause;
But, being so, 'twere double villany
To say—I am not.

LADY MARGARET.
Then did blood of Kings
Flow in thy veins, I should esteem myself
Degraded by thy suit!—Away, and beg
Pardon of outraged Heaven!

HENRY.
Alas! my heart
Is not of adamant. I feel too late
The ruin I have wrought. Thou art too good
To know how passion in the heart of man,
With the swift out-break of a summer flood,
Bears in its course the meadow-blooms of virtue,
And leaves the banks a waste.—But I will not
Attempt the palliation of my guilt.
I am unworthy, Lady, to remain
In presence of thy virtue; and not long
Shall my taint-breathing infamy bedim
Its all-pure mirror. Having joined your friends,
Our paths will thenceforth separate; and if
Thine be but bright with sunshine, that reflection
Will form a rainbow on the lowering cloud
That now must darken mine!

LADY MARGARET.
Yet why—O! why
Should thine be dark? Thy manners and thy speech
No token bear of vulgar birth. Still less
Dost thou seem one that skulks by cave and brake,
Cheering his crew to most abhorred deeds,
At whose recital good men weep. Then why
Not quit the base career, and rise—ay, rise—
For well I ween the meanest state life hath—
The state of Bondman fettered to the soil,
And sold and bought with that—is high, is noble,
Compared with thine!

HENRY.
Ask the bruised wretch, convulsed
With agony, to re-ascend the rock,
Down which his madness or his fate hath dashed him.
Alas, his feeble limbs could ill keep stance
On ledge or jutting stone. The shoots by which
Uninjured sinews might attain the summit,
Spring greenly but to mock the sight of him
Doomed at the base to die!—But if my heart
Had power enough to scale the precipice,
And be what it hath been, how valueless
Were e'en success, when thou—the Vision bright
That on its top shed radiancy—art gone,
And all is dull and blank!—No, no; that light
No more on high, fame, name, and character
Are things not worth a thought!

LADY MARGARET.
Thou talk'st romance.
Now hear the truth. A Percy's daughter comes not
In contact with disgrace. Yet say I will—
If my poor smile can win thee from this mean
And guilty course, thou hast it!—O forgive—
Be all thou wast at Linhope's wild cascade,
When the North saw her Chivalry outshone
By the young Stranger Knight! Whose eye like mine
The change shall greet? Whose heart like mine rejoice?
And O! whose hand—but mine—reward the struggle
High—hard—and holy?

HENRY
(kneeling and taking her hand).
Noble maid 'tis done.
That word redeems the past, and saves the future!
Beloved by thee, I am not all degraded;
Beloved by thee, I shall not sink again
Beneath the proud height of thy love! That word
Hath torn the mystery—as a garment—from me,
And now I tell thee—
[Shouting is heard as of persons in search of some one, and calling to and answering one another.
We are interrupted.
It means not. Thou shalt learn all soon. But how?
Was it a dream? Or did I hear, in sooth,
That thou art the affianced Bride of Fenwick?

LADY MARGARET.
Indeed thou must have dreamt it, Henry.

HENRY.
What!
Is there, then, no alliance soon to be
Betwixt your Houses?

LADY MARGARET.
Yes. My Brother's troth
Is plighted to the Lady Emma.

HENRY.
Fool!
Madman!—But it is well no blood was shed.
The noble Fenwick!—As I live, 'tis he—

[Enter Lord Fenwick.
HENRY
(taking his hand).
My lord, I blush to meet you. I but learnt
This moment how insanely I have acted.
Can you forgive me?

LORD FENWICK.
Stranger, as a debtor
That lacks wherewith to pay—

HENRY.
No, no. Not long
Shall thou so designate me. To your care
Permit me to restore your lovely ward,
Honoured and safe as when at first exposed
To the rude rangers of these craggy glens.
Adieu to both. I follow soon.

[Exit.
LORD FENWICK and LADY MARGARET.
Adieu!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The Interior of Gennet's Cave. Norton discovered at the entrance sword in hand, and couched as if ready to spring upon some one. Fanny Ashton near him.
FANNY.
Norton, what watch you for?

NORTON.
A wild boar—hush!
(aside)
This mad fool will betray me, if I am not
Betrayed already by yon clown—He moves!
He turns away—returns—Damnation!—stay—

FANNY ASHTON.
This is the Fairy's cave. Hast seen her, Norton?
But she ne'er shows herself, except to eyes
That soon must close in death. Would I might see her!
It were so sweet to die, and dream no more.
Dost thou dream, Norton?

NORTON.
Peace I say.

FANNY.
I will;
Because thou art so surly—not like him.
He said I was a fairy; said my eyes,
With every sparkle, wove a spell around him,
That made me lovelier—dearer! Norton, this
Shall never more be styled the cave of Gennet.
'Tis mine! Here will I dwell; and when my brain
Burns, I will bathe it in yon gentle Fall
Whose waters light my cavern. Then at morn,
I'll sprinkle me with dew-drops from the rose;
And when the Moon looks o'er the fell, I'll mount
Her beams, and seek my love!
[Lightning.
[She throws her arms around Norton,—exclaiming
Save, save me, Norton!
That came for me!—I felt it suck my soul!—
But now I breathe again.—Yet hold me fast!

[Faints,
NORTON.
She spurned me, and for him. I little cared
For her sake: yet it galled me to reflect
That e'en in low amours he baffled me.

FANNY
(reviving).
Dearest! confess it now. Thou hast deceived
The trusting Fanny, Henry! and I must
Avail me of thy dagger. Hast forgot
How when we sat beneath yon mountain-ash,
When I was well, and never plagued with dreams,—
You showed it me, and told me that if ever
I found thee false, I was to stab thee with it?
Now give it me. Dost think I'd kill thee, love?
But I will see thy heart, and look on her
That takes my place thereon!—and I will stab her,
For there is triumph in her smile.—Take that!

[Thrusts as with a dagger.
NORTON.
I am not he you mean.

FANNY.
Not Henry? No—
Thou art not. Then, how dreamt I he was here?

NORTON.
He may be here anon. Just now he stood
With his new love beside the waterfall.
And if thou wouldst do what he bade thee, Fanny,
My dagger's at thy service.

FANNY
(eagerly).
Give it me!
[He gives it to her.
Now will I couch like thee; and when he comes,
Will spring upon him—thus.

[Places herself beside him.
NORTON
(aside).
The proverb says
Drowning men catch at straws. But now for me
Aught to expect from this girl's brain-sick whim,—
Why, 'twere to clutch a thread of gossamer
Waved by the summer wind from hawthorn bush
Across a headlong stream that bears me down!
Yet let him stand the risk. If fails her dagger,
My sword may follow with a surer blow!

[Henry, without, gives the signal whistle.
NORTON
(to FANNY).
Speak not! He thinks to find some comrades here—
[Enter Henry.
Now—quickly! spring!

[To Fanny.
[As he enters, Fanny springs forward, then pauses, and, shrieking, throws away the dagger. Norton aims a mortal blow at him, which Fanny Ashton—rushing between them—receives in her breast, and instantly falls.
HENRY
(drawing).
O damnèd villain! thou hast spilt a life
I would have given my best domain to save!
Miscreant! I might have pardoned thee again,
But for this deed. But this weighs down thy soul
To hot perdition!

NORTON.
Pardon! I despise
Thy mercy, as thy vengeance. Strike—

[They fight. Norton falls.
HENRY.
Thou hast it
At last, perfidious wretch!

NORTON.
My curse be on thee!
May woes, like vipers, writhe around thy heart,
Gnaw—gnawing it through life; and may your death
Be speedy—and as bloody—as my own!

[Dies.
HENRY
(kneeling and raising FANNY).
Live, Fanny, live!—Thou hast been deeply injured;
But live! and there is nothing thou canst ask
But I will gladly grant thee—

FANNY.
'Tis in vain!—
Dear Henry! I have been so ill, so fevered,
I thought my brain would turn; but I am now
Myself again. I feel me dying, Henry!
I have no wrongs to urge. I was in fault
To dream that one like you could ever stoop
To union with a peasant. But my parents—
Dear Henry, think of them. For my sake, be
To them what Fanny Ashton should have been,
Their stay in age. And O!—I would not have
A thought of me to mar thy happiness;
Yet if thou canst, some pensive moment, think
Of me without a sorrow,—then, my love!
Recall me to thy mind. Remember me—
Not as th'unkind upbraider of a wrong—
But as a meek, erring girl, who loved too well
Where love was hopeless; yet whose death was sweet,
Thus dying in thine arms, and knowing thou
Wilt close my eyes, whose image—ever dear—
Is dearest at this moment, and shall be
Their last impression ere they fix for ever!
I can no more—my Henry—O farewell!

[Dies.