University of Virginia Library

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.