University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The exterior of a small inn by the sea-coast; the Castle of Arundel at a distance; a boat drawn on the beach; a ship at anchor. The door of the inn is open, and discovers Falkner and Sailors carousing within. Before a table in front of the stage— Giles Gaussen seated. Time, forenoon.
LANDLORD
(serving Gaussen, with a flask, &c.)

If this be not the best Canaries on the coast, I give
thee leave to drown me in my own butt. But it is dull
work drinking alone, master;—wilt join the jolly
fellows within?

GAUSSEN.

No.

LANDLORD.

A bluff customer. If his reckonings be as short as

his answers, he is not likely to die in debt to his landlord.

[Exit Landlord within the inn.
GAUSSEN.

Luke should be returned ere this; Sir Maurice
would be eager eno' to see his old friend if he knew
what news in the way of shot I carry in my locker.
Humph! Sir Walter Raleigh is a great man—and
introduced tobacco! (smokes.)

SAILORS
(within).

Ha, ha!

GAUSSEN.

To the foul fiend with those drunken sailors! Had
I known what kind of guests my fat landlord harboured
I should hardly have put into this port: I hate
honest men: what right have men to be honest and
spoil other men's trade?

Enter Luke.

Ha, Luke! what says the old knight?

LUKE.

Mighty little, but he is close at my heels. He carries
back his own answer, to save porterage, I suppose.
Thou mightst well call him a miser—not a tester for
my trouble. His very face is like a board to warn
men off the premises of his breeches' pockets.

GAUSSEN.

Where are our crew?

LUKE.

Rambling through the town yonder, and picking up

stray news of what ships sail and what their cargo.
They are keen scouts.

GAUSSEN.

Go, select twelve of the stoutest; stow them away in
the sea-cave that I told thee of, below the castle yonder.
I may find work for them ere nightfall.—Hark
ye, Luke. If thou hadst done a man such wrong that
thy life lay at his mercy, what wouldst thou?

LUKE.

Take the first dark night for a spring from the bush,
and keep my knife ground.

GAUSSEN.

I like thy advice.—Hence!

[Exit Luke.
Enter Sir Maurice.
SIR MAURICE.

What, Giles Gaussen—bully Gaussen, my heart of
oak; how fares it? Why, it is ten years since we
met. I thought thou wert in another land.— (Aside)

I wish thou wert in another world. You are a little
altered—warlike wounds, eh? All for the better—
more grim, terrible, manly, and seamanlike.

GAUSSEN.

I must thank the boy whom I took out to please
thee for this gash across the brow.

SIR MAURICE.

Ugh! it is by no means a handsome keepsake, bully
Gaussen. What, then? you are quits with him. You

gave him a very large winding-sheet,—one that will not
wear out this many a day, eh?

GAUSSEN.

No; he has escaped—he lives! I saw him yesterday
—a day's journey hence. It is this which brings me
hither. I have tracked news of him. He bears another
name—Norman! He has a goodly ship of his own.
Look yonder (pointing to the ship)
. Does this news
open your purse-strings, Sir Maurice?

SIR MAURICE.

Thou traitor! Hadst thou not five hundred broad
pieces—bright, new, gold broad pieces? I recollect
the face of every one of them as if it were my own
child's;—and all, all that thou mightst never say to
me “He lives.”

GAUSSEN.

Hist!

Enter Falkner and Sailors from the inn.
FALKNER.

Yes, steady, lads, steady. The Captain will be here
anon—it is the hour he fixed. Avast there, messmate!
Thou seem'st one of our cloth. Dost want a berth
in the Royal Eliza, under the bold Captain Norman?

GAUSSEN
(aside to Sir Maurice).

Norman—you hear?

SIR MAURICE.

You serve under Captain Norman, worthy sir?—Do
you expect him soon this way, worthy sir?

FALKNER.

This instant, worthy sir! I am his lieutenant,
worthy sir. Faith, you shall drink his health.

SIR MAURICE.

Zounds, sir! what is his health to me? It is as
much as a man of my age can do to drink his own
health. This way, Gaussen; quick—tell me more—
tell me more. Good day to you, master lieutenant.

[Exeunt Sir M. and Gaussen.
FALKNER.

Good day to you both—and an ill wind go with you!
By the Lord, messmates, a man who refuses to drink,
without a satisfactory explanation, is to my mind a
very suspicious character.

SAILOR.

Hurrah for the Captain! hurrah!

Enter Norman.
NORMAN.

Well met, lads! beshrew me but the sound of your
jolly welcome is the merriest music I've heard since
we parted. Have ye spent all your doubloons?

FIRST SAILOR.

Pretty nearly, Captain.

NORMAN.

That's right—we shall be all the lighter in sailing!
Away to the town—and get rid of these pieces for me.
Off; but be back an hour before sunset.

[Exeunt Sailors.
What should I do with all this prize-money
If it were not for those brave fellows?—faith,
They take a world of trouble off one's hands!
How fares it, Falkner?—thou hast seen thy home?—
All well?—

FALKNER.
All well! my poor old father, bless him,
Had known reverse—he tills another's land,
And crops had fail'd. Oh, man, I was so happy
To pour my Indian gold into his lap,
And cry “Your sailor son has come to drive
Want from his father's door!”

NORMAN.
That hour were worth
A life of toil!—well, and thy mother?—I
Have never known one—but I love to see
A man's eyes moisten and his colour change
When on his lips lingers the sweet name “MOTHER!”
Thy mother bless'd thee!

FALKNER.
Scarce with words;—but tears
And lifted hands, and lips that smiled dear thanks
To the protecting Heaven—these bless'd me!

NORMAN.
Friend,
I envy thee!—

FALKNER.
Eno' of me—now for thyself, what news?
Thy Floweret of the West—thy fair betroth'd—
The maid we rescued from the Afric corsair
With her brave father—in the Indian seas—
Thou'st seen her?—

NORMAN.
No!—I had more wisely, saved
My time and speed. Her sire is dead—the stranger
Sits at his hearth; and with her next of kin
Hard by this spot—this very spot—dear Falkner,
My Violet dwells: look where the sunlight gilds
The time-worn towers of stately Arundel—
Thither my steps are bound;—a happy chance
Our trysting-place should have been chosen here!—
I'd not have gone one bowshot from the path
That leads my soul to bask in Violet's eyes—
No, not for all the lands my journey traversed.
Nor—what is more—for the best ship that ever
Bore the plumed Victory o'er the joyous main.

[Going out.
FALKNER.
Hold—but the priest, thy foster-father, Onslow—
Hast thou sought him?

NORMAN.
Thou dear old man, forgive me!
I do believe as whirlpools to the sea
Love is to life!—Since first I leapt on land
I have had no thought—no dream—no fear—no hope
Which the absorbing waves of one strong passion
Have not engulphed!—Wilt serve me Falkner?—Bear
This letter to the priest—the place inscribed
Scarce two hours' journey hence;—say I will seek him
Perchance this night—if not, the morrow's dawn.
Let all good news be glad upon thy tongue—
How I am well—strong—gay—how every night—
Mark—tell him this—(good men at home are apt
To judge us seamen harshly)—every night
On the far seas his foster-son recall'd
The words he taught my infant lips,—and pray'd
Blessings on that grey head.

FALKNER.
I'll do thy bidding.

NORMAN.
So now to Violet.

FALKNER.
Hark!—thy men are true—
Thy ship at hand: if she say “ay”—hoist sail,
Off with the prize. I prithee, is she rich?—

NORMAN.
Her sire died poor—thank Heaven, she is not rich!

FALKNER.
I'm glad to hear it—Had she lands and beeves,
And gold, you might forswear the sea.

NORMAN.
The sea!
No—not for Beauty's self! the glorious sea—
Where England grasps the trident of a god,
And every breeze pays homage to her flag,
And every wave hears Neptune's choral nymphs
Hymn with immortal music England's name!—
Forswear the sea! My bark shall be our home;—
The gale shall chaunt our bridal melodies;—
The stars that light the angel palaces
Of air, our lamps;—our floors the crystal deep
Studded with sapphires sparkling as we pass;—
Our roof—all Heaven!—my Beautiful, my Own!
Never did sail more gladly glide to port
Than I to thee! my anchor in thy faith,
And in thine eyes my haven.—
Farewell, Falkner.

[Exeunt Norman and Falkner at opposite sides.

SCENE II.

The Gardens of the Castle of Arundel.
Enter Lady Arundel.
It is the day—now five-and-twenty years
Elapsed—the anniversal day of woe!
O Sun, thou art the all-piercing eye of Heaven,
And to thy gaze my heart's dark caves lie bare
With their unnatural secret.—Silence, Conscience!
Have I not rank—power—wealth—unstain'd repute?
So will I wrap my ermine round the past,
And—Ah—he comes! my son—my noble boy,
I see thee, and air brightens!—

LORD ASHDALE
(speaking without to Servants).
Yes—old Rowland!—
And, stay, be sure the falcon which my Lord
Of Leicester sent me. We will try his metal.

Enter Ashdale.
Good morrow, mother—Hum—methought that Violet
Were here. Well! what with you and Mistress Prudence,
That virgin legacy of starch and buckram
Which Violet's father (rest his soul!) bequeath'd her,
I might as well be cousinless.

LADY ARUNDEL.
My son,
She is no bride for Arundel's young heir.

ASHDALE.
Who spoke of brides?—Can we not gaze on Beauty
Save by the torch of Hymen?—To be gallant—
Breathe out a score of sighs, or vows, or sonnets—
Mirror the changes in that Heaven called “Woman”—
And smooth our language to a dainty sadness;—
All this—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Is love!—

ASHDALE.
No—No—amusement, mother.
The pastoral recreation of the groves
Where birds and shepherds dissipate their dulness
By the sweet pastime amorous poets sing of.
You take this matter far too solemnly;
I own I would abridge the days—the days (yawning)

Are wondrous lengthy in the country, mother—
By practising the bow of Cupid, just
To keep one's hand in, with my blush-faced cousin!
How does this plume become me?

LADY ARUNDEL.
Well! yet I
Would have it sweep less loosely.

ASHDALE.
Now-a-days
Our love is worn just as I wear this plume,
A glancing feather, gay with every wind,
And playing o'er a light and giddy brain
Such as your son's— (kissing her hand)
—Let the plume play, sweet mother!

LADY ARUNDEL
(fondly).
Ah! Percy, Percy!

ASHDALE.
Well, I hear my steed
Neighing impatience, and the silver bells
On my dark falcon shaking their own gladness
Into the limber air;—the sun will halt
Midway in heaven ere my return; meanwhile,
If you would keep me faithful to your hand,
Give me my wings—in other words (now, frown not),
The court, the camp, or any life but this,
If my fair cousin saddens all my sunshine
With eyes so coldly gentle;—fare you well.
[Exit Ashdale.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Too light—too vain for his ancestral honours—
And yet, what mother does not love her son
Best for the faults she chides in him?
Enter Violet and Mistress Prudence.
My Violet,
Why still this pensive brow—this garb of grief?

VIOLET.
Lady, I am an orphan!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Nay, take comfort.—
Yet is there not a softer sorrow, Violet,
In thy meek eyes than that which bathes with tears
A father's holy urn? Thou turn'st away—
(Angrily)
—Does thy gaze rove for Ashdale?
Girl, beware—
The love that trifles round the charms it gilds
Oft ruins while it shines.

VIOLET.
You can speak thus,
Yet bid me grieve not that I am an orphan!

LADY ARUNDEL
(touched).
Forgive me, I was hasty!—No, you do not—
Say it—you do not love my graceless Percy?

VIOLET.
You know that I have shunn'd him!—I am poor;
But Poverty is proud (aside)
, and Memory faithful.

LADY ARUNDEL
(as to herself).
I have high hopes for Ashdale—bright desires—
Wild schemes—the last son of a race whose lords
Have sought their mates beside the hearth of kings,
He stands before me as a dream of glory,
Haunting some young ambition; and mine eyes
Pierce to the future, when these bones are dust,
And see him princeliest of the lion tribe
Whose swords and coronals gleam around the throne,
The guardian stars of the Imperial Isle.
Kings shall revere his mother!

Enter Sir Maurice.
SIR MAURICE
(aside to Lady Arundel).
Hark! he lives!

LADY ARUNDEL.
He! who?

SIR MAURICE.

The young gentleman who stands between your
Percy and his inheritance! Ugh, ugh! (coughing)
.
It is very cold. (To Mistress Prudence.)
Suppose
you take a walk with your fair charge, Mistress Prudence;
and, not to waste your time, you can pray for
grace to spin me a pair of lambs-wool stockings against
Michaelmas.

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

Stockings, Sir Maurice! Marry, come up; is that
a delicate allusion?

[Walks up the stage with Violet.
SIR MAURICE
(to Lady Arundel).

I tell thee,—he lives; he is at hand; no longer a
babe, a child, a helpless boy; but a stout man, with a

ship, and a name, and a crew,—and money, for what
I know. Your son Percy is a fine youth. It is a
pity his father married before, and had other sons. But
for your Lordships of Ashdale and Arundel, your Percy
would be as poor—as poor as old Maurice Beevor.
The air is very keen. Poverty is subject to ague
(shivers)
, and to asthma (wheezes)
, and to cold rheums
and catarrhs (sneezes)
, and to pains in the loins,
lumbago, and sciatica (rubs himself)
; and when
Poverty begs, the dogs bark at it; and when Poverty
is ill, the doctors mangle it; and when Poverty is
dying, the priests scold at it; and when Poverty is
dead, nobody weeps for it. If this young man prove
his case, your son, Percy Ashdale, will be very poor!

LADY ARUNDEL.

My son, my Percy! but the priest is faithful. He
has sworn—

SIR MAURICE.

To keep thy secret only while thy father and thy
spouse lived: they are dead. But the priest has no proofs
to back his tale?

LADY ARUNDEL.

Alas! he has.

SIR MAURICE.

He has! Why did you never tell me that before?

LADY ARUNDEL.

Because—because (aside)
I feared thy avarice more
than the priest's conscience.

SIR MAURICE
(aside).

Hum! she must come to me for aid now. I will get
these proofs. Under the surface of this business I see
a great many gold and silver fishes. Hum! I will
begin to angle!

LADY ARUNDEL.

My own thoughts confuse me. What should be
done?

SIR MAURICE.

I know a nice little farm to be sold on the other side
of the river Ex; but I am very poor—a very poor old
knight.

LADY ARUNDEL.

Do you trifle with me? What is your counsel?

SIR MAURICE.

There is a great deal of game on it; partridges, hares,
wild geese, snipes, and plovers (smacking his lips)
; besides
a magnificent preserve of sparrows, which I can
always sell to the little blackguards in the streets for a
penny a hundred. But I am very poor—a very poor old
knight.

LADY ARUNDEL.

Within, within! You shall have gold—what you
will; we must meet this danger!

SIR MAURICE.

If she had said “gold” at first, I should have saved

exactly one minute and three quarters! Madam, I follow
you. Never fear, I will secure the proofs.

LADY ARUNDEL.

I dreamed of him last night; a fearful dream!

[Exit Lady Arundel within the house.
Mistress Prudence and Violet advance.
MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

The old miser! See how I will chase him. (To Sir Maurice, curtsying very low.)

Worshipful Sir Maurice,
may I crave your blessing?

SIR MAURICE
(aside).

I never heard of a man being asked to give his blessing
who was not expected to give something else along
with it. (Aloud.)
Chut, chut! what do you want with
a blessing, you elderly heathen?

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

Why, it does not cost anything.

SIR MAURICE
(aside).

That's a jibe at my poverty. Every fool has a stone
for the poor. (Aloud.)
Does not cost anything!
Does it bring in anything? What will you give for it?

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

This ribbon.

SIR MAURICE
(taking the ribbon).

Hum! it will do for a shoe-tie. There, bless you,

and mend you, and incline your sinful old heart to my
lambs'-wool stockings! Do you want to be blessed too,
child?

VIOLET.

Nay, indeed, sir!

SIR MAURICE.

The girls grow perter every day! That hypocritical
Jezabel looks all the merrier for my benediction. I
am afraid she has got a bargain out of me.

[Exit within the house.
Manent Violet—Mistress Prudence.
MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

Now would I give my best peach-coloured padusoy
to know why that malicious old miser has so mighty
an influence with the Lady of Arundel.

VIOLET.

You forget he is her relative; nay, failing Lord
Ashdale, the heir-at-law to the estates of Arundel.
—Ah, Mistress Prudence, how shall I thank thee for
aiding me to baffle the unwelcome suit of this young
lord?

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

Dear child, I am amply repaid for it by my own
conscience— (aside)
and the young lord's mother. You
sigh, sweetheart—thinking still of your absent sailor?

VIOLET.

When do I cease to think of him?—and now that
my poor father is gone, more than ever. His pride

might have forbid my union with one of obscure birth—
but now—

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.

He is indeed a cavalier of very comely presence!
How noble he looked the day he leaped on board the
Corsair—with his bold crew shouting round him—
“England and Elizabeth—Norman to the rescue!” I
think I see him now—his eyes flashing through the
smoke. Ah, lady-bird, but for him we two innocent
virgins would have been put up for sale in the Beauty-Market
at Tunis! Why, you don't hear a word I say.
Well, if you like solitude, as the young lord is abroad
for the forenoon, I will leave you awhile; I have my
great tapestry-work of the loves of King Solomon and
Queen Sheba to finish; and when one has ceased to feel
love it is a comfort at least to create it—in tent-stitch.

[Exit.
VIOLET.
O for some fairy talisman to conjure
Up to these longing eyes the form they pine for!
And yet in love there's no such word as absence!
The loved one, like our guardian spirit, walks
Beside us ever,—shines upon the beam—
Perfumes the flower—and sighs in every breeze!
Its presence gave such beauty to the world
That all things beautiful its likeness are;
And aught in sound most sweet, to sight most fair,
Breathes with its voice, or like its aspect smiles.
Enter Norman.
There spoke my fancy, not my heart!—Where art thou,
My unforgotten Norman?

NORMAN.
At thy feet!
Oh, have I lived to see thee once again?
Breathe the same air?—my own, my blessed one!
Look up—look up—these are the arms which shelter'd
When the storm howl'd around; and these the lips
Where, till this hour, the sad and holy kiss
Of parting linger'd—as the fragrance left
By angels when they touch the earth and vanish.
Look up—Night never panted for the sun
As for thine eyes, my soul!—

VIOLET.
Thrice joyous day!
My Norman!—is it thou, indeed?—my Norman!

NORMAN.
Look up, look up, my Violet—weeping? fie!
And trembling too—yet leaning on my breast.
In truth thou art too soft for such rude shelter!
Look up—I come to woo thee to the seas,
My sailor's bride—hast thou no voice but blushes?
Nay—from those roses let me, like the bee,
Drag forth the secret sweetness!—

VIOLET.
Oh, what thoughts
Were kept for speech when we once more should meet,
Now blotted from the page—and all I feel
Is—Thou art with me!—

NORMAN.
Not to part again.

Enter Mistress Prudence.
MISTRESS PRUDENCE.
What do I see?—I thought that I heard voices!
Why, Captain Norman!—It must be his ghost!

NORMAN.
Ah, my fair governante!—By this hand,
And this most chaste salute, I'm flesh and blood!

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.
Fie, Captain, fie! But pray be gone—The Countess—
If she should come—

NORMAN.
Oh, then I am a ghost!

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.
Still the same merry gentleman! But think
Of my responsibilities. What would
The Countess say, if I allowed myself
To see a stranger speaking to her ward?

NORMAN.
See, Mistress Prudence?—oh, if that be all,
What see you now?

[Clapping a piece of gold to the left eye.
MISTRESS PRUDENCE.
Why, nothing with the left eye—
The right has still a morbid sensibility!

NORMAN.
Poor thing!—this golden ointment soon will cure it!
[Clapping another piece of gold to the right eye.
What see you now, my Prudence?

MISTRESS PRUDENCE.
Not a soul!

NORMAN
(aside).
Faith, 'tis a mercy on a poor man's purse
That some old ladies were not born with three eyes!

[Prudence goes up the stage.
VIOLET.
Nay, my own Norman—nay!—You heard no step?
This awful woman—

NORMAN.
Woman! a sweet word!
Too sweet for terror, Violet!—

VIOLET.
You know not
The Dame of Arundel—her name has terror!
Men whisper sorcery where her dark eye falls;
Her lonely lamp outlives Night's latest star,
And o'er her beauty some dark memory glooms,
Too proud for penitence—too stern for sorrow.—
Ah! my lost father!—

NORMAN.
Violet, thou and I
Perchance are orphans both upon the earth:
So turn we both from earth to that great mother
(The only parent I have known), whose face
Is bright with gazing ever on the stars—
The Mother Sea;—and for our Father, Violet,
We'll look for Him in heaven!

[They go up the stage.
Enter Lady Arundel and Sir Maurice.
[Mistress Prudence creeps off.
LADY ARUNDEL.
It must be so!—
There is no other course!

SIR MAURICE.
Without the proofs
The old man's story were but idle wind—
This rude but hunger-witted rascal shall
To Onslow's house—seize on the proofs—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Quick!—quick!—
See to it quick, good kinsman!

[Exit Sir Maurice.
Re-enter Norman and Violet.
VIOLET.
It is she!
Meet her not—nay, you know not her proud temper!

NORMAN.
Pshaw for her pride!—present me boldly!—'Sdeath!
Blush you for me?—He who's a king on deck
Is every subject's equal on the land.
I will advance!

LADY ARUNDEL
(turning suddenly).
Avenging angels, spare me!

NORMAN.
Pardon the seeming boldness of my presence.

VIOLET.
Our gallant countryman, of whom my father
So often spoke, who from the Algerine
Rescued our lives and freedom.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Ah!—your name, sir

NORMAN.
A humble name, fair lady;—Norman.

LADY ARUNDEL.
So!
Arm me, thou genius of all women—Craft!
Sir, you are welcome. Walk within and hold
Our home a hostel while it lists you.

NORMAN.
Madam,
'Twill be a thought for pride in distant times
To have been your guest.

LADY ARUNDEL.
He knows not what I am.
I will forfend all peril. Fair sir, follow.

[Re-enters the Castle.
VIOLET.
Strange—Norman!

NORMAN.
What?

VIOLET.
I never knew her yet
So courteous to a stranger.

NORMAN.
Ah, sweet lass!
I told thee right. We Princes of the Sea
Are no such despicable gallants, eh?
O thought of joy!—one roof to shelter both,—
To see thee, hear thee, touch thy hand, and glide
By thy dear side adown the blessed time!
A most majestic lady!—her sweet face
Made my heart tremble, and call'd back old dreams
Of—Well—Has she a son?

VIOLET.
Ah, yes!

NORMAN.
In truth
A happy man!

VIOLET.
Yet he might envy thee!

NORMAN.
Most arch reprover, yes!—as kings themselves
Might envy one whose arm entwines thee thus!

[Exeunt within the Castle.