 | The Daughter |  |
SCENE III.
—The inside of Robert's Cottage. Robert seated in the centre, occupied in splicing an oar.Enter Stephen—a lad.
Rob.
Well, Stephen! what of the ship?
Ste.
She's under way
With every yard of canvas spread.
Rob.
The wind
Is fair?
405
A point, or more, abaft the beam;
A gentle breeze, and steady.
Rob.
So it seems.
'Twill change ere night!
Ste.
I see no signs of it.
Rob.
You do not know them when you see them, Stephen!
Though a good sailor, you're a young one yet!
But I'm an old acquaintance of the weather.
“A point,” you say, “or more, abaft the beam?”
Then is the vane north-west. Ne'er heed the vane,
Look ever to the cloud, the weathercock
Behoves the shipman heed, which tells what wind
Will come. How steers the cloud?
Ste.
North-west.
Rob.
That's right
Against the ship which now sails with the wind!
Now mark my words! Ere night the wind will take
Her merry sails aback, and talk to her!
And bid her clew her gay topgallants up!
There will be call for reefs, and work for sheets
And halyards! “Fore-sheet, fore-top-bowling!”
Will keep throughout the night a busy watch!
But she'll have sea-room, and no gull more safe
Sitteth the wave than she. Here! Lend a hand.
[Stephen goes to Robert and assists him.
Where's Marian?
Ste.
I left her on the beach
Following the 'parting ship with all her eyes!
I call'd to her—The sands on which she stood
Had ears as much as she!—She heard me not.
I turn'd to note if she were following me—
As well expect the sea!—It moved, but she
Stood still, in plight as sad, as barque that's driven
Upon a quicksand, settling fast, and sure
Never to come away!
Rob.
Her mother's vein
Is in the girl!—So fond a wife was she,
That marriage, which with most is end of love,
With me was only the beginning on't!—
She had been early sent to school—remain'd there
Till she could teach where first she had been taught.
You see the girl she made my Marian!
She made me good, for she was goodness' self;
Reclaim'd me from a wrecker, for a time;
But evil habits, Stephen, like old sores,
Are seldom safe from breaking out again!
One night arose the cry “A ship on shore!”
I had been out carousing at a wedding—
The love of my old trade came strong upon me—
Down to the beach I slew, and fell to work,
Unconscious that she follow'd! Three whole hours
Remain'd she standing in the pelting storm!
406
White as our cliff—cold, stiff, and motionless!
My ill-got spoil I soon exchanged for her,
Nor set her down till in our bed I laid her—
But Heaven well knew she was too good for me;
For from that bed she never rose again!
[Turns from Stephen.
What of the ship?—Go to the door and see!
Ste.
She's hull down.
Rob.
Any other sail in sight?
Ste.
Three to the westward.
Rob.
Up or down channel?—which?
Ste.
Up channel do they bear.
Rob.
One of the three
May come ashore to-night.
Ste.
The ship has changed
Her course!
Rob.
The wind has changed!—'Tis right ahead!
She's on the larboard tack—Is it not so?
Ste.
It is.
Rob.
It looks thick weather round the ship,
Does n't it?
Ste.
Yes.
Rob.
And 'twill grow thicker! Storm
Is in the air, though here 'tis sunshine still.
I feel it! It will blow great guns to-night!
The scud will gallop and the waves will leap!
A cloud has just come o'er the sun. What kind
Of cloud?
Ste.
A streaky one, and black and low,
Stretching from east to west, and in its wake
A fleet of others.
Rob.
To be sure!—I know it,
As well as you that see it.—Get my axe,
Boat-hook, and grapple—Lay them here beside me.
[Stephen goes out and returns with the things.
A storm is coming on from the south-east,
Right from the sea—full on the shore! The ship
Is lost that keeps not a good offing, for
The sea, in such a wind as cometh on,
Rolls in like a spring tide, and surely sweeps
Into our bay the unwary barque, that hugs
This iron-bound inhospitable shore!
What offing keep the ships?
Ste.
Two miles, the first,
And more.
Rob.
She's safe. The second?
Ste.
Scarce a mile.
Rob.
She'll have her work to do, to clear the bay?
Behoves her to sail well upon a wind!
Lie high! be lively in her stays! The third?
Ste.
Not half a mile. The first ship is about!
407
The wind has come to her! That's the new wind
I told you of!—the wind that brings the storm!
Will make the tackle sing! the bulkheads creak!
Try braces, shrowds and all! The very wind
For the wrecker! I could tell 't at one o'clock!
Ste.
The second ship is now about.
Rob.
She is?
Ste.
And bearing from the land. The third ship—
Rob.
Ay?
Well, what of her?—Is she about too?
Ste.
No,
She misses stays! They ware her!
Rob.
Is she deep?
Ste.
She is.
Rob.
Within the head?
Ste.
Within the head.
Rob.
How far?
Ste.
A quarter of a mile,
Rob.
A wreck!
Sure as she's now afloat!
Ste.
Here's Marian.
Enter Marian, abstracted.
Rob.
My Marian! My child! Her thoughts are still
Upon her lover's ship. How does my girl?
Mari.
[Coming to herself, and running to Robert.]
Well, father, well!—What have you there? Your axe,
Boat-hook, and grapple! Ah!—a storm is coming!
You're for the shore again!—the heartless shore,
That spares nor ship nor shipman!
Rob.
Did it lighten?
Ste.
It did.
[Robert rises and takes up his wrecker's implement
Mari.
Stay, father, stay! Sit down again
And listen to me.
Rob.
[Resuming his seat.]
Well?
Mari.
How canst thou bear
To strip the seaman, whom the winds may strip—
The waves—the rocks—which know not what they do;
But thou dost know, and ought'st to feel! To live
Upon the plunder of the elements!
The havoc of whose fury it should be
Thy labour to repair! The drowning man
Forgot, to get possession of the mite
For which he bides the perils of the sea!
And, if he sinks, is not his bubbling breath—
That calls upon the friends he leaves behind—
A testament, more strong than pen can write,
To make assurance unto those he loves
Of aught the billows spare? Thy boat-hook drops—
Give me thy axe.
Ste.
The storm is on! It thunders!
408
It is the voice of Heaven in anger!—calls
On men for pity to each other—each
Alike in peril placed!—Let go thy axe!
Think of the axe that's lifted now above
And falling fast!—might it not light on thee?
Let go thy axe.—O the poor ship—poor crew!
That hear the thunder which the ship hears not!
O their poor wives! poor children! and poor friends!
That pray this hour some help may be at hand!
Hear me, my father! Have not you a child?
Were you at sea!—were you within that ship!
Give me your axe—and now that coil of rope—
Your grapple—give it me!
Ste.
A gun!
Rob.
It is
The signal of distress.
Mari.
Thy grapple, father!
Rob.
I tell thee, Marian, not a soul can live
In such a sea as boils within our bay.
Mari.
And shouldst thou therefore strip the drownéd man?
O! at his death-bed, by the side of which
No friend can stand, there is a solitude
Which makes the grave itself society!—
Helplessness, in comparison with which
An ordinary death is kin to life!
And silence, which the bosom could fill up
With thoughts more aching, sad, and desolate
Than ever utter'd wailing tongues of friends
Collected round the bier of one beloved!—
To rifle him! purloin his little stock
Of gold, or jewels, or apparel!—take
And use it as thine own!—thou!—thou! whom Heaven
Permits to see the sun that's set to him;
And treasure ten times dearer than the sun,
Which he shall never see!—O touch it not!
Or if thou touch it—drop it, and fall down
Upon thy knees, at thought of what he was,
And thou, through grace, art still!
Rob.
Her mother's voice!
Her mother's words!—Here, take the coil!—Put by
My boat-hook and my axe!—My Marian,
I'll not go to the beach!
Mari.
[Having laid the things by.]
Heaven guard his ship!
Rob.
Thy lover's?—Fear not! She has sea-room!—She's
A bird upon the sea!
Mari.
I am weary, father!
Rob.
Go to thy bed—Thou art mind and body-worn!
Mari.
I will! You'll mind!
Rob.
I will, my Marian.
[Marian goes out.
Ste.
Another gun!
Rob.
And nearer than the first!
She's driving in apace!—Who pass'd the door?
409
Black Norris.
Rob.
He will make a mint to-night!
Ste.
She takes the ground!—Her masts are overboard!
[Runs out.
Rob.
Black Norris will not spare, and why should I?
The waves won't spare, and why should he or I?
Chests, bales will come ashore!—cordage and spars,
Hatchets will go to work!—No one will spare,
And why should I?—Not I!—I'll have my share!
[Takes up the boat-hook, &c.
Mari.
[Rushing in.]
Father!
Rob.
My child, go in!
Mari.
Thou go'st not forth!
Rob.
I must!
Mari.
O father! 'tis unhallow'd work!
Rob.
Go thou to rest!
Mari.
And thou at work like that?
How wouldst thou sleep if I were doing wrong?
I will not let thee forth!
Rob.
Come from the door!
Mari.
Father!—when Heaven commands me shut the door?
Rob.
Command who may, I'll open it!—Give way!
[Forces her from it—she falls. Robert and Stephen go out.
Mari.
Father!—I'm stunn'd! He's gone! How could he go!
O vice that's early planted!—Hard to weed it!
Plant virtue early!—Give the flower the chance
You suffer to the weed!—To hope success
Where my poor mother sail'd!—Heaven pity him!
Heaven pity him—and I, his child, on earth,
And not attempt to save him!—Father!—Father!—
[Rushes out.
| The Daughter | |