University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene, A wood on the edge of the Waste.
Enter Oswald and a Forester.
For.
He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen,
And down into the bottom cast his eye,
That fastened there, as it would check the current.

Osw.
He listened too; did you not say he listened?

For.
As if there came such moaning from the flood
As is heard often after stormy nights.

Osw.
But did he utter nothing?

For.
See him there!

Marmaduke appearing.
Mar.
Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters;
That is no substance which ye settle on!

For.
His senses play him false; and see, his arms
Outspread, as if to save himself from falling!—
Some terrible phantom I believe is now
Passing before him, such as God will not
Permit to visit any but a man
Who has been guilty of some horrid crime.

[Marmaduke disappears.
Osw.
The game is up!—

For.
If it be needful, Sir,
I will assist you to lay hands upon him.

Osw.
No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your business—
'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind,
Who has a trick of straying from his keepers;
We must be gentle. Leave him to my care.
[Exit Forester.
If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks
Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine;
The goal is reached. My Master shall become
A shadow of myself—made by myself.

Scene, the edge of the Moor.
Marmaduke and Eldred enter from opposite sides.
Mar.
(raising his eyes and perceiving Eldred).
In any corner of this savage Waste,
Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man?

Eld.
I heard—

Mar.
You heard him, where? when heard him?

Eld.
As you know,
The first hours of last night were rough with storm:
I had been out in search of a stray heifer;
Returning late, I heard a moaning sound;
Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me,
I hurried on, when straight a second moan,
A human voice distinct, struck on my ear.
So guided, distant a few steps, I found
An aged Man, and such as you described.

Mar.
You heard!—he called you to him? Of all men
The best and kindest!—but where is he? guide me,
That I may see him.

Eld.
On a ridge of rocks
A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now:
The bell is left, which no one dares remove;
And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak,
It rings, as if a human hand were there
To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it;
And it had led him towards the precipice,
To climb up to the spot whence the sound came;
But he had failed through weakness. From his hand
His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink
Of a small pool of water he was laid,
As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained
Without the strength to rise.

Mar.
Well, well, he lives,
And all is safe: what said he?

Eld.
But few words:
He only spake to me of a dear Daughter,
Who, so he feared, would never see him more;
And of a Stranger to him, One by whom
He had been sore misused; but he forgave
The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled—
Perhaps you are his son?

Mar.
The All-seeing knows,
I did not think he had a living Child.—
But whither did you carry him?

Eld.
He was torn,
His head was bruised, and there was blood about him—

Mar.
That was no work of mine.

Eld.
Nor was it mine.

Mar.
But had he strength to walk? I could have borne him
A thousand miles.

Eld.
I am in poverty,
And know how busy are the tongues of men;
My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one
Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light;
And, though it smote me more than words can tell,
I left him.

Mar.
I believe that there are phantoms,
That in the shape of man do cross our path
On evil instigation, to make sport
Of our distress—and thou art one of them!
But things substantial have so pressed on me—

Eld.
My wife and children came into my mind.

Mar.
Oh Monster! Monster! there are three of us,
And we shall howl together.
[After a pause and in a feeble voice.
I am deserted
At my worst need, my crimes have in a net
(Pointing to Eldred)
Entangled this poor man.—Where was it? where?

[Dragging him along.
Eld.
'Tis needless; spare your violence. His Daughter—

Mar.
Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge:
This old man had a Daughter.

Eld.
To the spot
I hurried back with her.—Oh save me, Sir,
From such a journey!—there was a black tree,
A single tree; she thought it was her Father.—
Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again
For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now—
Nay; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it—
As we approached, a solitary crow
Rose from the spot;—the Daughter clapped her hands,
And then I heard a shriek so terrible
[Marmaduke shrinks back.
The startled bird quivered upon the wing.

Mar.
Dead, dead!—

Eld.
(after a pause).
A dismal matter, Sir, for me,
And seems the like for you; if 'tis your wish,
I'll lead you to his Daughter; but 'twere best
That she should be prepared; I'll go before.

Mar.
There will be need of preparation.

[Eldred goes off.
Elea.
(enters).
Master!
Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you?

Mar.
(taking her arm).
Woman, I've lent my body to the service
Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid
That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion
With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was.

Elea.
Oh, why have I to do with things like these?

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to the door of Eldred's cottage—
Idonea seated—enter Eldred.
Eld.
Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand
Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me,
And you remember such was my report:
From what has just befallen me I have cause
To fear the very worst.

Idon.
My Father is dead;
Why dost thou come to me with words like these?

Eld.
A wicked Man should answer for his crimes.

Idon.
Thou seest me what I am.

Eld.
It was most heinous,
And doth call out for vengeance.

Idon.
Do not add,
I prith'ee, to the harm thou'st done already.

Eld.
Hereafter you will thank me for this service.
Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs
Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt,
Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were
You should prepare to meet him.

Idon.
I have nothing
To do with others; help me to my Father—
[She turns and sees Marmaduke leaning on Eleanor—throws herself upon his neck, and after some time,
In joy I met thee, but a few hours past;
And thus we meet again; one human stay
Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so.

Mar.
In such a wilderness—to see no thing,
No, not the pitying moon!

Idon.
And perish so.

Mar.
Without a dog to moan for him.

Idon.
Think not of it,
But enter there and see him how he sleeps,
Tranquil as he had died in his own bed.

Mar.
Tranquil—why not?

Idon.
Oh, peace!

Mar.
He is at peace;
His body is at rest: there was a plot;
A hideous plot, against the soul of man:
It took effect—and yet I baffled it,
In some degree.

Idon.
Between us stood, I thought,
A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven
For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence,
Alone partake of it?—Beloved Marmaduke!

Mar.
[Moving towards the cottage door.

Idon.
Alas, the thought of such a cruel death
Has overwhelmed him.—I must follow.

Eld.
Lady!
You will do well; (she goes)
unjust suspicion may
Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his entering,
The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side
Uplift his hand—that would be evidence.

Elea.
Shame! Eldred, shame!

Mar.
(both returning).
The dead have but one face. (To himself).

And such a Man—so meek and unoffending—
Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man,
By obvious signal to the world's protection,
Solemnly dedicated—to decoy him!—

Idon.
Oh, had you seen him living!—

Mar.
I (so filled
With horror is this world) am unto thee
The thing most precious, that it now contains:
Therefore through me alone must be revealed
By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea!
I have the proofs!—

Idon.
O miserable Father!
Thou didst command me to bless all mankind;
Nor to this moment, have I ever wished
Evil to any living thing; but hear me,
Hear me, ye Heavens!— (kneeling)
—may vengeance haunt the fiend
For this most cruel murder: let him live
And move in terror of the elements;
The thunder send him on his knees to prayer
In the open streets, and let him think he sees,
If e'er he entereth the house of God,
The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head;
And let him, when he would lie down at night,
Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow!

Mar.
My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee.

Idon.
(leaning on Marmaduke).
Left to the mercy of that savage Man!
How could he call upon his Child!—O Friend!
[Turns to Marmaduke.
My faithful true and only Comforter.

Mar.
Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses her.)
(To Eldred).

Yes, Varlet, look,
The devils at such sights do clap their hands.

[Eldred retires alarmed.
Idon.
Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale;
Hast thou pursued the monster?

Mar.
I have found him.—
Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the flames!

Idon.
Here art thou, then can I be desolate?—

Mar.
There was a time, when this protecting hand
Availed against the mighty; never more
Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine.

Idon.
Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan,
Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven;
And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope,
In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine
For closer care;—here, is no malady.

[Taking his arm.
Mar.
There, is a malady—
(Striking his heart and forehead).
And here, and here,
A mortal malady.—I am accurst:
All nature curses me, and in my heart
Thy curse is fixed; the truth must be laid bare.
It must be told, and borne. I am the man,
(Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not)
Presumptuous above all that ever breathed,
Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person
Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become
An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me,
Thy Father perished.

Idon.
Perished—by what mischance?

Mar.
Belovèd!—if I dared, so would I call thee—
Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart,
The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace.

[He gives her a letter.
Idon.
(reads)

‘Be not surprised if you hear that
some signal judgment has befallen the man who
calls himself your father; he is now with me, as
his signature will shew: abstain from conjecture
till you see me.
‘Herbert.
‘Marmaduke.’

The writing Oswald's; the signature my Father's:
(Looks steadily at the paper)
And here is yours,— or do my eyes deceive me?
You have then seen my Father?

Mar.
He has leaned
Upon this arm.

Idon.
You led him towards the Convent?

Mar.
That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither
We were his guides. I on that night resolved
That he should wait thy coming till the day
Of resurrection.

Idon.
Miserable Woman,
Too quickly moved, too easily giving way,
I put denial on thy suit, and hence,
With the disastrous issue of last night,
Thy perturbation, and these frantic words.
Be calm, I pray thee!

Mar.
Oswald—

Idon.
Name him not.

Enter female Beggar.
Beg.
And he is dead!—that Moor—how shall I cross it?
By night, by day, never shall I be able
To travel half a mile alone.—Good Lady!
Forgive me!—Saints forgive me. Had I thought
It would have come to this!—

Idon.
What brings you hither? speak!

Beg.
(pointing to Marmaduke).
This innocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens! I told him
Such tales of your dead Father!—God is my judge,
I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man,
He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce.
Mercy! I said I know not what—oh pity me—
I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter—
Pity me, I am haunted;—thrice this day
My conscience made me wish to be struck blind;
And then I would have prayed, and had no voice.

Idon.
(to Marmaduke).
Was it my Father?—no, no, no, for he
Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind,
Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life.
—But hear me. For one question, I have a heart
That will sustain me. Did you murder him?

Mar.
No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process:
Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt
Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt,
Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth
And innocence, embodied in his looks,
His words and tones and gestures, did but serve
With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped
Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded.
Then pity crossed the path of my resolve:
Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast,
Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal
Of the bleak Waste—left him—and so he died!—
[Idonea sinks senseless; Beggar, Eleanor, &c., crowd round, and bear her off.
Why may we speak these things, and do no more;
Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power,
And words that tell these things be heard in vain?
She is not dead. Why!—if I loved this Woman,
I would take care she never woke again;
But she will wake, and she will weep for me,
And say, no blame was mine—and so, poor fool,
Will waste her curses on another name.

[He walks about distractedly.
Enter Oswald.
Oswald
(to himself).

Mar.
[Drawing Oswald towards the Cottage—stops short at the door.

[Confused voices—several of the band enter— rush upon Oswald and seize him.
One of them.
I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell—

Osw.
Ha! is it so!—That vagrant Hag!—this comes
Of having left a thing like her alive!

[Aside.
Several voices.
Despatch him!

Osw.
If I pass beneath a rock
And shout, and, with the echo of my voice,
Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me,
I die without dishonour. Famished, starved,
A Fool and Coward blended to my wish!

[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at Marmaduke.
Wal.
'Tis done! (stabs him).


Another of the band.
The ruthless traitor!

Mar.
A rash deed!—
With that reproof I do resign a station
Of which I have been proud.

Wil.
(approaching Marmaduke).
O my poor Master!

Mar.
[Turning to Wallace.

Several of the band
(eagerly).
Captain!

Mar.
No more of that; in silence hear my doom:
A hermitage has furnished fit relief
To some offenders; other penitents,
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer must I go,
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing, that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on—
A Man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life—till anger is appeased
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.