 | The Daughter |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
—A Waiting-room.Enter Ambrose and Philip.
Amb.
He is committed, and I pity him!
To be condemn'd upon the evidence
Of his own daughter! 'Tis unnatural
To take away the life that gave us ours!
This comes of learning!—Had it been a child
Of yours, or mine, what heed would she have taken
Of a false oath, to save her father's life?
Her mother was a sort of lady—ay,
The daughter of a broken gentleman,
Took up his quarters in the cottage, while
Old Robert's father lived. They fell in love,
And at the father's death, they married.
Phil.
So
Fair Marian's lady breeding.
429
Even so
She, as her mother used before, it seems,
Still quarrels with the freedom that we take
With dead men's gear; and to the beach must needs
Follow her father—She had better far
Have sought her death, for what a curse must life
Be to her now! Was it not strange she fainted
Soon as her evidence was done, and yet
Could give that evidence!
Phil.
Here comes old Robert.
Enter Robert between two constables, followed by men and women.—Norris in the back-ground.
Rob.
I am innocent! I am murder'd! My own child
Has sworn my life away! My Marian!
Falsely—most falsely!—When they try me, 'tis
By her I die; not by the judge—the jury,
Or any one but her! She gives the verdict!—
Passes the sentence!—puts my limbs in irons!—
Casts me into my dungeon!—drags me thence
To the scaffold!—is my executioner!
Does all that puts her father in his grave
Before his time!—Her father, good to her,
Whate'er he was to others—Oh! to have died
By any evidence but mine own child's!
Take me to prison.
First Constable.
We are waiting for
The order of committal.
Mari.
[Rushing in.]
O my father!
Rob.
Thy father?—Am I so?—I prithee, girl,
Call me that name again! It is a thing
Too strange to be believed!
Mari.
What, father?
Rob.
What?
Why, to be father to so good a child!
Mari.
So good a child?
Rob.
So good a child! I say it
Again!—So good a child!—Come, look at me!
Give me thy hand!—the other one, and look
Full in my face!—And fix thine eyes on mine!—
As I do live, thou canst!—And yet canst lie
To call me father!—Thou'rt no child of mine!
[Casts her from him, she falls on her knees.
Mari.
My father!
Rob.
Up! or I will trample on thee!
Fasten my hands in thy dark silken hair,
And lift thee up by it, and fling thee from me!
Who gave thee those fine locks?
Mari.
Thou! Thou!
Rob.
Who gave thee
Those hands thou clasp'st to me?
Mari.
Thou!
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I!—Indeed!
And the rest of thy limbs?—Thy body? and the tongue—
That murder'd me—Owest everything to me?
Mari.
I do!—indeed I do!
Rob.
Indeed! Indeed!
Thou liest! Thou wast never child of mine!
No!—No!—I never carried thee up and down
The beach in my arms, many and many a day,
To strengthen thee, when thou wast sickly!—No!
I never brought thee from the market-town,
Whene'er I went to it, a pocket-load
Of children's gear!—No!—No!—I never was
Your playfellow that ne'er fell out with you,
Whate'er you did to him!—No!—Never! Nor
When fever came into the village, and
Fix'd its fell gripe on you, I never watch'd
Ten days and nights running, beside your bed,
Living, I know not how, for sleep I took not,
And hardly food! And since your mother died—
Mari.
Thou'lt kill me, father!
Rob.
Since your mother died,
I have not been a mother and a father
Both—both to thee!
Mari.
Oh! spare me!
Rob.
I was never
Anything to thee!—Call me father!—why
A father's life is wrapp'd up in his child!
Was mine wrapp'd up in thee?—Thou know'st 'twas not!—
How durst thou call me father?—fasten upon me!—
That never gave thee proof, sign, anything
Of recognition that thou wast my child!
Strain'd thee to my heart by the hour!—parting thy hair
And smoothing it, and calling thee all things
That fondness, idolizing, thinks upon
To speak its yearning love!—core of my heart!
I never was a father to thee, so
Don't call me father! Thou'rt no child of mine!
Mari.
I am!—I am!—Don't say I'm not thy child!
The child to whom thou didst all this and more.
Rob.
Thou stood'st not then, just now, in the witness-box,
Before the justice in that justice-room,
And sworest my life away.
Mari.
Where thou dost say,
I stood!—What thou dost say, I did!—and yet,
Not in those hours thou namest of fond endearment,
Felt, as I felt it then, thou wast my father!
Rob.
Well!—Justify it—Prove thee in the right—
Make it a lawful thing—a natural thing—
The act of a child!—a good child—a true child!
An only one!—one parent in the grave,
The other left—that other, a fond father—
A fond, old, doating, idolizing father!
431
To slay that father! Come!
Mari.
An oath!—an oath!
Rob.
Thy father's life!
Mari.
Thy daughter's soul!
Rob.
'Twere well
Thy lips had then a little of the thing
The heart had over much of!
Mari.
What?
Rob.
Stone!—Rock!
They never should have open'd!
Mari.
Silence had
Condemn'd thee equally.
Rob.
But not the breath
Mine own life gave!
Mari.
I felt in the justice-room
As if the final judgment-day were come,
And not a hiding-place my heart could find
To screen a thought or wish; but every one
Stood naked 'fore the judge, as, now, my face
Stands before you! I could not, in his presence,
Deny the thing he knew—the thing he knew,
Was also known to me! I could not take,
And in his face, his holy name in vain!
Nor could I hold my peace; a stronger will
Than mine, than yours, than all the world's, compell'd
My lips to open!—I lost thought, that moment,
Of everything—friends, lover, father, all!—
I nothing saw but that all-seeing eye
Bent searchingly on mine—though now I see
Nothing but my father!
[She rushes towards him, and throws her arms round his neck.
Rob.
Hold off!—thou adder!
Sting me, and think to coil about me still
With thy loathsome folds! Think I will suffer thee!
Not grasp thee!—pluck thee from me!—dash thee to
The earth!
Mari.
Oh! no!
Rob.
Unloose thy coil!—my flesh
Creeps at the touch of thee! Let go thy hold,
Or I will do some violence to thee!
Mari.
Do!
Rob.
Strike thee!
Mari.
Do!—Dead!—Dead!—'Twere merciful.
Rob.
No: suffer thee to live, that thou mayst see
My execution.
Mari.
Is it thy child
Thou speakest to!
Rob.
Let go, or I will curse thee!
Mari.
Do! so thou sufferest me to cling to thee.
You cannot think I swore it with my will!
432
Good to thee—was I not?—and loving thee!—
Did I not?—O you cannot think that I,
Who would suffer torture—death—ten thousand deaths,
To save thy life—would swear thy life away
Willingly? willingly?—Oh! in my heavy strait—
To be an instrument of justice 'gainst thee—
That makes me wish—and I do wish it—thou
Hadst never given me being!—bear not thus
Unsufferably hard upon thy child!—
Thy child as ever! Whatsoe'er she did!
Whatsoever thou hast done!—That loves thee—dotes
Upon thee! honours!—idolizes thee,
As e'er did child her father!
Rob.
Let me go!
Or sure as I'm a living murder'd man—
Murder'd by thee;—I'll curse thee!—let me go!—
Third Bailiff enters with a paper, which he gives to the First Bailiff.
Third Bailiff.
The order of committal!
Mari.
[To Bailiff.]
Stop!—a minute!
Rob.
Or loose thy hold, or bide my curse!
Mari.
My mother!
That is in her grave—who gave me to thee—gave me,
When she had bless'd me on her death-bed, saying,
“Be mother, now, and father to our child!”—
For her sake, father! Am I not by her
Enough an orphan!—would I, think you, would I
Be more an orphan than I am?
Rob.
Away!
Mari.
Both—both my parents lose?
Rob.
May—
Mari.
[Shrieks.]
Don't curse me—but I cannot let thee go!—
[They go out, Marian clinging to her father.
Norris.
[Coming forward.]
Hold on, old Robert!
That's the mood! Hold on!
Rail at her! Spurn her! Curse her! Drive her mad!
The more she's fit for me. Use thy own flesh
Like carrion! Foot it from thee! Loathe it! I'm
The bird will banquet on't!—A father's blood
Must not be shed—although unwittingly—
For nothing!—That's the price which I have paid
For her dark hair, white skin, and shapely limbs;
Her lady face and fairly rounded form!
And I will have them;—nor do I prize them less
Because her heart would give them to another!
That is the feast of hate, to taste the joy
That's purchased at the cost of those we loathe!
And, now, to end the game successfully,
The close of which I pant for more and more,
The nearer that it draws! She must be mine!
433
For not disclosing what I was not ask'd
To tell. And what my tale? I saw old Robert
Dragging the body in. Well, what comes next?
I saw him leave it; and, to put a trick
Upon the old man, just in sport, although
I'll own 'twas somewhat devilish in me, took
Occasion of his absence, found his knife,
And, knowing that the man was dead—stone dead—
Stuck it, and left it where they saw it. This
I'll swear, and who can contradict me? Wolf
Is far away! Thus, that he lives or dies
Depends on me—on Marian, the choice
To save or sacrifice her father's life.
One only bar remains—her love for Edward,
And that I've taken care to manage—spread
Report his vessel founder'd in that storm,
And he and all went down. I managed this
In the village where I skulk'd. 'Twill soon be here,
And then for Marian. Madden'd as she is—
Her lover fancied drown'd, her father's life
In jeopardy; she's certain to consent.
Then, my confession, when the prison doors
Will ope to him, and Marian's arms to me!
Enter Stephen.
Whither so fast, good Stephen?
Ste.
Where is my master?
Nor.
Fast in prison!
Ste.
Where
His daughter?
Nor.
Thou hast news,—and it is bad!
Ste.
It is!—Young Edward's ship is cast away
Upon the coast of France, and all the crew,
'Tis said, have perish'd!
Nor.
Know'st thou what thou say'st?
Ste.
As thou that hear'st me say it!
Nor.
All the crew?
Ste.
All!
Nor.
And thou art in search of Marian
To tell her this?
Ste.
I am!
Nor.
I'll bring thee to her.
Stephen, I wonder at thy news!—The news
Which I myself have spread! [Aside.]
I'll bring thee to her.
[They go out.
SCENE II.
—The Outside of a Prison.Marian before the gate, half-reclining on the ground.
Mari.
Here is my death-bed. Here I'll stretch myself
434
I am about to die. I could have borne
The shame of the misdeed that was not mine—
Submitted to it, as the will of Heaven,
Incurring which I had not broke its will—
But that the tie of nature should have snapp'd
Along with that of reverence for Heaven—
That where I found all love—all safeguard, once—
I find all loathing—all desertion now!—
That is too hard to bear! No kind of shame
That ever made the cheek to redden, while
The heart was free, had made me shrink from him—
I would have cleaved to him amid the lightnings
Of blasting looks, and voices, thundering scorns!—
Shared the dark penance of his dungeon with him!
Walk'd with him to the place of execution!
Mounted it, step by step, along with him!
And, all around him lowering, shone upon him
Till his last look, with reverence and love!
They shall not shut me from his prison!—Have
No right! I am his child! They should not heed
His anger 'gainst me which they do not share,
But I must bear alone! How high soe'er
The surf doth run! They shall not keep me out!
Within! within!—Who minds the gate?
Enter Jailer.
Jailer.
What want you?
Mari.
Admittance to my father!
Jailer.
'Tis forbid!
Mari.
Open the door a little.—Do, good sir,
And let me speak with you—give me but a chink,
I'll pass through it! [Aside.]
[Jailer opens the gate, she tries to pass it, but is prevented. They advance struggling.
Jailer.
What mean you? Are you mad?
Mari.
I am! The fury all, without the trance
That makes it bearable! The horror of
The dream, without the sleep! Do you know aught
About the ties of nature? Have you look'd
Upon a living father, mother, brother,
Or sister—or upon a living child
That was your own? I have a living father,
And he's within that prison—and I am here
His living child, and yearn to go to him!
And you say I cannot! Can you say it? Will you?
Do you? You do not! Cannot! Will not! Oh,
Admit me to my father!
Jailer.
What's the use?
He'll only drive thee from him!
Mari.
Let me in,
I'll find the use! Oh! do you think his heart
435
To the very core, and 'gainst his only child?
Admit me, and you'll see it still is flesh;
All flesh—all beating flesh, and at the core,
Its inmost—tenderest—warmest part—his child!
Jailer.
Poor girl!
Mari.
You pity me!—Oh! show me pity then—
The act it prompts!—without which, spite of all
Its melting looks and tones, its sighs and tears,
'Tis useless as a very beggar, who
Gives all things but the needed thing—relief!
You say “Poor girl!”—and you say true! To be
An orphan!—to be friendless!—shelterless!
To go in rags, and they in tatters! Hang
From morn till morn—from week's end unto week's end,
'Twixt sustenance and starvation!—all of these,
Together, but a little sprinkling make
Of suffering, to the torrent hurl'd on me!
I can't stand under it much longer.—Now!
My reason totters!—reels! Another moment
I'm a lunatic—O save me from the jacket,
The straw—the whip—the chain—open the door!
Admit me to my father!
Jailer.
It is hard
To have no option but the act of duty,
When the heart bleeds, and duty fain must let it.
Poor girl! Though I consort with stone and iron,
My heart partakes not, so, of their condition,
That I can see and hear thee with such eyes
And ears, as walls and bars on misery turn!
Thou must endure—and Heaven support thee under it!
All are denied admittance to his cell,
And thou, I grieve to say it, chief of all!
[Going.
Mari.
[Stopping him.]
Stay! Let me stop at the door of his cell!—at the end
Of the passage that leads to it!—in the court on which
The passage opens!—on the stairs!—anywhere
Within the prison!—so that I may be
Under one roof with him! Let me stop with you
At the gate!
Jailer.
It may not be.
Mari.
Show me the window of
His cell!—Is it that?—or that?—which is it?
Jailer.
Neither.
Mari.
Is it that then?
Jailer.
'Tis not in this quarter of
The prison.
Mari.
Which quarter, then?
Jailer.
I may not tell thee.
Don't stop me, girl! I can't stay longer with thee!
Thou quite unmann'st me!
Mari.
Leave the door ajar—
436
[He shuts the door.
Go!—Thou dost weep indeed!—but 'tis pretence.
Thou art no better than the grating bolt
That at thy will is shot, and holds the door!
I am helpless—hopeless!—Would I were the bolt,
Door—walls—bars—anything but what I am!
And I have put him there;—and if he dies,
I hang him! Who are these that look at me,
As they would strike me dead? I couldn't help it!
My mother train'd me in the fear of God!
I was forced to do it! Just as well might ye blame
A rock to split, when riven by the lightning,
As my lips to part, when in the name of Heaven
The justice bade them ope and speak the truth!
I am innocent!—don't spurn me—I am innocent!
[Retreats to the wall, and supports herself against it.
Enter Norris and Stephen.
Nor.
There!—Up to her!—Accost her!—Tell your news!
What! is it loathing that I feel for her,
Not love? It pleasures me to see her thus!
Except for her I had not done it! That
Is rankling at my heart—sets it in storm!
I'm all for havoc! He should die—but then
It were another murder on my soul!
And I should lose the prize I've paid so much for!
Ste.
Marian!
Mari.
Well, Stephen! What of misery more?
For sure it is your errand, by your looks!
Tell me! You can add nothing to the cup
Already that o'erflows! Is it of Edward?
Is he dead?
Ste.
He is! Drown'd on the coast of France.
Mari.
I hear it—and I do not shed a tear!
Nor feel the want to weep! I welcome it!
'Tis good news! He has left a world of woe
To him—to him—for what is woe to me,
Were woe to him! Would I a heart I love,
As I love his, should feel the blight mine feels?
Would I put adders where I could not bear
To have an insect sting? 'Tis well he's dead!
The friends he leaves, should put on holiday,
Not mourning clothes for him! His passing bell
Should ring a peal, and not a knell! 'Tis best
It is as it is. His welcome home had been
“Heaven help you!”—not “Heaven bless you!”—Well, he's dead!
How was he drown'd?
Ste.
His ship, they say, went down
With all the crew.
Mari.
With all the crew! He lies
In a watery grave! How fresh he look'd the day
437
You would have thought would ne'er go out? He seem'd
In speed to meet good fortune as a friend
Already come in sight!—I see him now
Stepping with gallant air into the boat,
And looking at the sea, as 'twere a thing
Stable as the solid earth!—My sailor lad!
Young, comely, manly, good, and fond of me!
I little thought the look would be my last
Which promised I should see thee soon again.
Thou diest in good time—'Tis years of woes
Saved by a minute's pang! I thought just now
I was past weeping! I did love him!—love him
With all my will!—no portion of my heart
But what was given to him—no portion on't
I ever wish'd were back!
Nor.
Now is my time!
Marian!
Mari.
What! more?—Is there more misery?
There's nothing left but death—I do not count
Death misery!
Nor.
I come to talk to thee
Of life, not death!
Mari.
Where is it?—show it me!
Life is the opposite of death—a thing
To be preferr'd to it!—show me that life!—
For if thou mean'st such life as now I see,
I had rather die than live!
Nor.
I love thee, Marian!
Mari.
Does any one love Marian?
Nor.
I repeat
I love thee, Marian, wilt thou marry me?
Mari.
Marry thee?—Yes; when they put on for me
My wedding clothes—my shroud!—and lay me in
My bridal bed—my grave!—Then I'll be wife
To thee or any one!
Nor.
What wouldst thou do
To save thy father's life?
Mari.
Anything!
Nor.
What
To have it proved that he is innocent?
Mari.
Anything!—pay the felon's penalty
Myself!—Abide the gibbet!—Marry thee
Now!—now!—If now thou couldst heave off for me
That mountain on my heart—my father's plight!
That, heavier on my soul—my father's sin!
This didst thou do—and stood my lover there,
Of whom to say, that, in his grave, he's dearer
Than he was, ever, when in life to me,
Is to say truth—I'd give to thee my hand!
Nor.
I take it!—
What! draw'st thou back?
438
'Tis but to pause a moment!
No!—I'll see nothing but my father!—Think
There's no one else in the world!—I'll see but him
And the plight he lies in!—deeper—lonelier
Than shipman at the bottom of the sea!
Canst thou do this thou sayest?
Nor.
Yes!
Mari.
Thou'lt save
My father's life? Thou'lt prove him innocent?
Nor.
I will!
Mari.
The day thou dost it, I am thine!
Nor.
Give me thy hand upon it!—Draw'st thy hand back
Again!
Mari.
No!—There!—One moment!—Edward!—There!
[Faints in his arms.
END OF ACT IV.
| The Daughter | |