 | The Borderers |  |
ACT IV.
Scene, A desolate prospect—a ridge of rocks—a Chapel on the summit of one—Moon behind the rocks—night stormy—irregular sound of a bell —Herbert enters exhausted.Her.
That Chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide me,
But now it mocks my steps; its fitful stroke
Can scarcely be the work of human hands.
Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such
There be who pray nightly before the Altar.
Oh that I had but strength to reach the place!
My Child—my Child—dark—dark—I faint—this wind—
These stifling blasts—God help me!
Enter Eldred.
Eld.
Though it were tottering over a man's head,
Than a tight case of dungeon walls for shelter
From such rough dealing.
Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here)
Send forth such noises—and that weary bell!
Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night
Is ringing it—'twould stop a Saint in prayer,
And that—what is it? never was sound so like
A human groan. Ha! what is here? Poor Man—
Murdered! alas! speak—speak, I am your friend:
No answer—hush—lost wretch, he lifts his hand
And lays it to his heart— (Kneels to him).
I pray you speak!
What has befallen you?
(feebly).
A stranger has done this,
And in the arms of a stranger I must die.
Eld.
Nay, think not so: come, let me raise you up:
[Raises him.
This is a dismal place—well—that is well—
I was too fearful—take me for your guide
And your support—my hut is not far off.
[Draws him gently off the stage.
Scene, a room in the Hostel—Marmaduke and Oswald.
Mar.
But for Idonea!—I have cause to think
That she is innocent.
Osw.
Leave that thought awhile,
As one of those beliefs which in their hearts
Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better
Than feathers clinging to their points of passion.
This day's event has laid on me the duty
Of opening out my story; you must hear it,
And without further preface.—In my youth,
Except for that abatement which is paid
By envy as a tribute to desert,
I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling
Of every tongue—as you are now. You've heard
That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage
Was hatched among the crew a foul Conspiracy
Against my honour, in the which our Captain
Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind fell;
We lay becalmed week after week, until
The water of the vessel was exhausted;
I felt a double fever in my veins,
Yet rage suppressed itself;—to a deep stillness
Did my pride tame my pride;—for many days,
On a dead sea under a burning sky,
I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted
By man and nature;—if a breeze had blown,
And I had been—no matter—do you mark me?
Mar.
Quick—to the point—if any untold crime
Doth haunt your memory.
Osw.
Patience, hear me further!—
One day in silence did we drift at noon
By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare;
No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade,
No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form
Inanimate large as the body of man,
Nor any living thing whose lot of life
Might stretch beyond the measure of one moon.
To dig for water on the spot, the Captain
Landed with a small troop, myself being one:
There I reproached him with his treachery.
Imperious at all times, his temper rose;
He struck me; and that instant had I killed him,
And put an end to his insolence, but my Comrades
Rushed in between us: then did I insist
(All hated him, and I was stung to madness)
That we should leave him there, alive!—we did so.
Mar.
And he was famished?
Osw.
Naked was the spot;
Methinks I see it now—how in the sun
Its stony surface glittered like a shield;
And in that miserable place we left him,
Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures
Not one of which could help him while alive,
Or mourn him dead.
Mar.
A man by men cast off,
Left without burial! nay, not dead nor dying,
But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms,
In all things like ourselves, but in the agony
With which he called for mercy; and—even so—
He was forsaken?
Osw.
There is a power in sounds:
The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat
That bore us through the water—
You returned
Upon that dismal hearing—did you not?
Osw.
Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery,
And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea
Did from some distant region echo us.
Mar.
We all are of one blood, our veins are filled
At the same poisonous fountain!
Osw.
'Twas an island
Only by sufferance of the winds and waves,
Which with their foam could cover it at will.
I know not how he perished; but the calm,
The same dead calm, continued many days.
Mar.
But his own crime had brought on him this doom,
His wickedness prepared it; these expedients
Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault.
Osw.
The man was famished, and was innocent!
Mar.
Impossible!
Osw.
The man had never wronged me.
Mar.
Banish the thought, crush it, and be at peace.
His guilt was marked—these things could never be
Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends,
Where ours are baffled.
Osw.
I had been deceived.
Mar.
And from that hour the miserable man
No more was heard of?
Osw.
I had been betrayed.
Mar.
And he found no deliverance!
Osw.
The Crew
Gave me a hearty welcome; they had laid
The plot to rid themselves, at any cost,
Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed.
So we pursued our voyage: when we landed,
The tale was spread abroad; my power at once
Shrunk from me; plans and schemes, and lofty hopes—
All vanished. I gave way—do you attend?
Mar.
The Crew deceived you?
Nay, command yourself.
Mar.
It is a dismal night—how the wind howls!
Osw.
I hid my head within a Convent, there
Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter.
That was no life for me—I was o'erthrown,
But not destroyed.
Mar.
The proofs—you ought to have seen
The guilt—have touched it—felt it at your heart—
As I have done.
Osw.
A fresh tide of Crusaders
Drove by the place of my retreat: three nights
Did constant meditation dry my blood;
Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on,
Through words and things, a dim and perilous way;
And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld
A slavery compared to which the dungeon
And clanking chains are perfect liberty.
You understand me—I was comforted;
I saw that every possible shape of action
Might lead to good—I saw it and burst forth
Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill
The earth for sure redemption of lost peace.
[Marking Marmaduke's countenance.
Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity
Subsided in a moment, like a wind
That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed.
And yet I had within me evermore
A salient spring of energy; I mounted
From action up to action with a mind
That never rested—without meat or drink
Have I lived many days—my sleep was bound
To purposes of reason—not a dream
But had a continuity and substance
That waking life had never power to give.
Mar.
O wretched Human-kind!—Until the mystery
Of all this world is solved, well may we envy
The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight
Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety.
Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors?
Osw.
Give not to them a thought. From Palestine
We marched to Syria: oft I left the Camp,
When all that multitude of hearts was still,
And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar,
Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams;
Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed
The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea:
In these my lonely wanderings I perceived
What mighty objects do impress their forms
To elevate our intellectual being;
And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse,
'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms
A thing so great to perish self-consumed.
—So much for my remorse!
Mar.
Unhappy Man!
Osw.
When from these forms I turned to contemplate
The World's opinions and her usages,
I seemed a Being who had passed alone
Into a region of futurity,
Whose natural element was freedom—
Mar.
Stop—
I may not, cannot, follow thee.
Osw.
You must.
I had been nourished by the sickly food
Of popular applause. I now perceived
That we are praised, only as men in us
Do recognise some image of themselves,
An abject counterpart of what they are,
Or the empty thing that they would wish to be.
I felt that merit has no surer test
Than obloquy; that, if we wish to serve
The world in substance, not deceive by show,
We must become obnoxious to its hate,
Or fear disguised in simulated scorn.
I pity, can forgive, you; but those wretches—
That monstrous perfidy!
Osw.
Keep down your wrath.
False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised,
Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found
Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way
Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests might spin
Their veil, but not for me—'twas in fit place
Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been,
And in that dream had left my native land,
One of Love's simple bondsmen—the soft chain
Was off for ever; and the men, from whom
This liberation came, you would destroy:
Join me in thanks for their blind services.
Mar.
'Tis a strange aching that, when we would curse
And cannot.—You have betrayed me—I have done—
I am content—I know that he is guiltless—
That both are guiltless, without spot or stain,
Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man!
And I had heart for this, because thou lovedst
Her who from very infancy had been
Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood!—Together
[Turning to Oswald.
We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both.
Osw.
Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant;
Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge
Man's intellectual empire. We subsist
In slavery; all is slavery; we receive
Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come;
We need an inward sting to goad us on.
Mar.
Have you betrayed me? Speak to that.
Osw.
The mask,
Which for a season I have stooped to wear,
Must be cast off.—Know then that I was urged,
(For other impulse let it pass) was driven,
In you a mirror of my youthful self;
I would have made us equal once again,
But that was a vain hope. You have struck home,
With a few drops of blood cut short the business;
Therein for ever you must yield to me.
But what is done will save you from the blank
Of living without knowledge that you live:
Now you are suffering—for the future day,
'Tis his who will command it.—Think of my story—
Herbert is innocent.
Mar.
(in a faint voice, and doubtingly).
You do but echo
My own wild words?
Osw.
Young Man, the seed must lie
Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest;
'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in darkness
I will avow before the face of day.
Herbert is innocent.
Mar.
What fiend could prompt
This action? Innocent!—oh, breaking heart!—
Alive or dead, I'll find him.
[Exit.
Osw.
Alive—perdition!
[Exit.
Scene, the inside of a poor Cottage.
Eleanor and Idonea seated.
Idon.
The storm beats hard—Mercy for poor or rich,
Whose heads are shelterless in such a night!
A Voice without.
Holla! to bed, good Folks, within!
Elea.
O save us!
Idon.
What can this mean?
Elea.
Alas, for my poor husband!—
We'll have a counting of our flocks to-morrow;
Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers
[The voices die away in the distance.
Returning from their Feast—my heart beats so—
A noise at midnight does so frighten me.
Idon.
Hush!
[Listening.
Elea.
They are gone. On such a night, my husband,
Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dungeon,
Where, hid from me, he counted many years,
A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs—
Not even in theirs—whose brutal violence
So dealt with him.
Idon.
I have a noble Friend
First among youths of knightly breeding, One
Who lives but to protect the weak or injured.
There again!
[Listening.
Elea.
'Tis my husband's foot. Good Eldred
Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment
Has made him fearful, and he'll never be
The man he was.
Idon.
I will retire;—good night!
[She goes within.
Enter Eldred, (hides a bundle).
Eld.
Not yet in bed, Eleanor!—there are stains
in that frock which must be washed out.
Elea.
What has befallen you?
Eld.
I am belated, and you must know the cause
—
(speaking low)
that is the blood of an unhappy
Man.
Elea.
Oh! we are undone for ever.
Eld.
Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand
against any man. Eleanor, I have shed tears tonight,
and it comforts me to think of it.
Elea.
Where, where is he?
Eld.
I have done him no harm, but—it will
be forgiven me; it would not have been so once.
You have not buried anything? You are
no richer than when you left me?
Eld.
Be at peace; I am innocent.
Elea.
Then God be thanked—
[A short pause; she falls upon his neck.
Eld.
To-night I met with an old Man lying
stretched upon the ground—a sad spectacle: I
raised him up with a hope that we might shelter
and restore him.
Elea.
(as if ready to run).
Where is he? You were not able to bring him all the way with you;
let us return, I can help you.
[Eldred shakes his head.
Eld.
He did not seem to wish for life: as I was
struggling on, by the light of the moon I saw the
stains of blood upon my clothes—he waved his
hand, as if it were all useless; and I let him sink
again to the ground.
Elea.
Oh that I had been by your side!
Eld.
I tell you his hands and his body were cold
—how could I disturb his last moments? he strove
to turn from me as if he wished to settle into sleep.
Elea.
But, for the stains of blood—
Eld.
He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head
was cut; but I think his malady was cold and
hunger.
Elea.
Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able to look
up at this roof in storm or fair but I shall tremble.
Eld.
Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept
me abroad to-night till this hour? I come home,
and this is my comfort!
Elea.
But did he say nothing which might have
set you at ease?
Eld.
I thought he grasped my hand while he
was muttering something about his Child—his
Daughter—
(starting as if he heard a noise).
What
is that?
Elea.
Eldred, you are a father.
God knows what was in my heart, and will
not curse my son for my sake.
Elea.
But you prayed by him? you waited the
hour of his release?
Eld.
The night was wasting fast; I have no
friend; I am spited by the world—his wound
terrified me—if I had brought him along with me,
and he had died in my arms!—I am sure I heard
something breathing—and this chair!
Elea.
Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. You will
have nobody to close your eyes—no hand to grasp
your dying hand—I shall be in my grave. A curse
will attend us all.
Eld.
Have you forgot your own troubles when I
was in the dungeon?
Elea.
And you left him alive?
Eld.
Alive!—the damps of death were upon him
—he could not have survived an hour.
Elea.
In the cold, cold night.
Eld.
(in a savage tone).
Ay, and his head was bare; I suppose you would have had me lend my
bonnet to cover it.—You will never rest till I am
brought to a felon's end.
Elea.
Is there nothing to be done? cannot we go
to the Convent?
Eld.
Ay, and say at once that I murdered him!
Elea.
Eldred, I know that ours is the only house
upon the Waste; let us take heart; this Man may
be rich; and could he be saved by our means, his
gratitude may reward us.
Eld.
'Tis all in vain.
Elea.
But let us make the attempt. This old
Man may have a wife, and he may have children
—let us return to the spot; we may restore him,
and his eyes may yet open upon those that love him.
Eld.
He will never open them more; even when
he spoke to me, he kept them firmly sealed as if he
had been blind.
(rushing out).
It is, it is, my Father—
Eld.
We are betrayed (looking at Idonea).
Elea.
His Daughter!—God have mercy! (turning to Idonea).
Idon.
(sinking down).
Oh! lift me up and carry me to the place.
You are safe; the whole world shall not harm you.
Elea.
This Lady is his Daughter.
Eld.
(moved).
I'll lead you to the spot.
Idon.
(springing up).
Alive!—you heard him breathe? quick, quick—
[Exeunt.
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