University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A room in the Castle.
Enter Servant, preceding Sir Maurice.
SERVANT
(insolently).

You can take a seat, Sir Maurice; my Lady is
engaged. She will see you when her leisure suits.

SIR MAURICE.

What a modest, respectful, civil fellow it is! you
know behaviour to a man of quality, I see; if I did not
fear to corrupt thy morals, by this light I would give
thee a penny.

SERVANT
(half aside).

“A man of quality!”—a beggarly poor cousin—
marry, come up!

[Exit.
SIR MAURICE.
Ah, there it is, a beggarly poor cousin!
Up from my cradle, a poor beggarly cousin!
Butt for my Lord—convenience for my Lady—
Jibe for the lackey. And men blame Sir Maurice
For loving gold!—My youth was drudged away
In penury and dependence—manhood went
In piling wealth that age might mount to power.
How the sleek rogues would fawn on the poor cousin
If they could peep into his money-chest!
Let Gaussen get the proofs, and half the lands
Of this proud Countess scarce shall wring them from me!
Then let the spendthrift Percy be the heir,
I'll get the other half in mortgages,
Loans, and post obits. Ha, ha! who will then be
The beggarly poor cousin?
Enter Lady Arundel.
I've despatch'd
Gaussen to Onslow's house—Well, why so pale?

LADY ARUNDEL.
He is beneath my roof—this youth, this Norman—
My guest!

SIR MAURICE.
Your guest! (vindictively)
—The fly is in the web!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Scarce had you left, when, lo! he stood before me.
I knew him ere he spoke—his father's eyes
Look'd me to stone in his—I did not swoon,
I did not tremble!

SIR MAURICE.
Chut, chut! you dissembled
Of course—you are a woman!

LADY ARUNDEL.
What dark perils
Gather around me now!

SIR MAURICE
(whispering).
Remove him then
While yet 'tis time.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Remove?—thy stealthy voice
Curdles my veins. Remove him?—yes; I have
A scheme to make all safe. I learn, thro' Prudence,
That he loves Violet—woo'd her months ago
In the far Indian seas. 'Twas he who saved her
When, homeward from the isle her father govern'd,
Their ship was captured by the Algerine.

SIR MAURICE
(impatiently).
Well, well;—I see—you will befriend the suit?

LADY ARUNDEL.
Ay, and promote the flight!—To some fair clime
In the New World the hurrying seas shall waft them,
And I shall sleep in peace.

SIR MAURICE.
He loves the girl!
What will thy Percy say—Hotspur the Second—
When he discovers—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Ere he learn the love,
Their bark is on the deep. I dare not tarry.
He is return'd—is with them now—a spark
Would fire his jealous humour. Be at hand,
Lest I may need thy aid.

SIR MAURICE.
Thou'rt on the abyss!

LADY ARUNDEL.
But my brain reels not, and my step is firm!

[Exit.
SIR MAURICE.
In love with Violet! I see, I see;
I'll set this fiery Percy on his rival.
If one should perish by the sword, the other
Dies by the law. Thanks to these proofs, I'll make
The rival's contest seem the assassin's snare.
Ha, ha! were these men dead, I should be heir
To Arundel and Ashdale. For the Countess—
The worm's already at her heart! Ah, shall I
Then be a miser?—Ho, there! my Lord's lackeys!—
Room for the Earl of Arundel! You dined
With the Earl yesterday? A worthy Lord!
I'll marry a young bride, get heirs, and keep
A lean poor cousin of my own to play
At leapfrog with the little Maurices.

Enter Lord Ashdale (in disorder).
ASHDALE.
By Heavens! this stranger's insolence would fire
An anchorite's patience. 'Sdeath! his hand press'd hers,
His breathing fann'd her locks.

SIR MAURICE.
How now, my Hector,
My diamond, apple of my eye? How now?—
Chafed, vexed?

ASHDALE.
Home, home, Anatomy, and drive
The mice from thy larder.

SIR MAURICE.
Mice!—Zounds, how can I
Keep mice?—I can't afford it—they were starved
To death an age ago!—the last was found,
Come Christmas three years, stretched beside a bone
In that same larder—so consumed and worn
By pious fast—'twas awful to behold it!
I canonized its corpse in spirits of wine,
And set it in the porch—a solemn warning
To thieves and beggars. (Aside)
Shall I be avenged—
Shall I—for this? Come, come, my pretty Percy;
I'll tell thee why thou strid'st about a lion:—
Dogs would invade thy bone. This stranger loves
Thy Violet.

ASHDALE.
Loves her!

SIR MAURICE.
And will win her too—
Unless I help thee—for (but mum!—no word of it)
Thy mother backs his suit.—Thou art no match
My innocent Percy, for a single woman;
But two—a virgin and a widow—would
Have made King Solomon himself a ninny.

ASHDALE.
All Egypt's plagues confound this fellow! Deaf
Ev'n to affront.—He wards off all my taunts
With a blunt, sailorlike, and damn'd good humour
That makes me seem, ev'n to myself, less like
An angry rival than a saucy clown.

SIR MAURICE.
Be cool—be cool now—take a walk with me,
And talk upon it.

ASHDALE.
Wilt thou really serve me?

SIR MAURICE.
Ay, and for nothing too!—you patient saints
Make miracles. Ha, ha! you like a jest
On old Sir Maurice. All men joke upon
The poor old cousin—ha, ha, ha!—Come, Hotspur.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Gothic hall.—On one side a huge hearth, over which a scutcheon and old banners; the walls hung with armour and ancient portraits.—In the front of the stage a table spread with fruits and wine.
Lady Arundel—Norman—Violet.
NORMAN.
Ha, ha! in truth we made a scurvy figure
After our shipwreck.

LADY ARUNDEL.
You jest merrily
At your misfortunes!

NORMAN.
'Tis the way with sailors;
Still in extremes. I can be sad sometimes.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Your wanderings have been long: your sight will bless
Your parents?

NORMAN.
Ah! I never knew that word.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Your voice has sorrow in its calm. If I
In aught could serve you, trust me!

VIOLET.
Trust her, Norman.
Methinks in the sad tale of thy young years
There's that which makes a friend, wherever Pity
Lives, in the heart of woman.

NORMAN
(to Lady Arundel).
Gentle lady,
The key of some charm'd music in your voice
Unlocks a long-closed chamber in my soul;
And would you listen to an outcast's tale,
'Tis briefly told. Until my fourteenth year,
Beneath the roof of an old village priest,
Nor far from hence, my childhood wore away
Then waked within me anxious thoughts and deep.
Throughout the liberal and melodious nature
Something seem'd absent—what I scarcely knew—
Till one calm night, when over earth and wave
Heaven look'd its love from all its numberless stars—
Watchful yet breathless—suddenly the sense
Of my sweet want swell'd in me, and I ask'd
The priest, why I was motherless!

LADY ARUNDEL.
And he?

NORMAN.
Wept as he answered, “I was nobly born!”

LADY ARUNDEL
(aside).
The traitor!

NORMAN.
And that time would bring the hour,
As yet denied, when from a dismal past
Would dawn a luminous future. As he spake
There gleam'd across my soul a dim remembrance
Of a pale face in infancy beheld—
A shadowy face, but from whose lips there breathed
The words that none but mothers murmur!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Oh,
My heart, be still!

NORMAN.
'Twas at that time there came
Into our hamlet a rude, jovial seaman,
With the frank mien boys welcome, and wild tales
Of the far Indian lands, from which mine ear
Drank envious wonder. Brief—his legends fired me,
And from the deep, whose billows wash'd the shore
On which our casements look'd, I heard a voice
That woo'd me to its bosom: Raleigh's fame,
The New World's marvels, then made old men heroes,
And young men dreamers! So I left my home
With that wild seaman.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Ere you left, the priest
Said nought to make less dark your lineage?

NORMAN.
No;
Nor did he chide my ardour. “Go,” he said;
“Win for thyself a name that pride may envy,
And pride, which is thy foe, will own thee yet!”

LADY ARUNDEL.
I breathe more freely!

NORMAN.
Can you heed thus gently
The stranger's tale? Your colour comes and goes.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Your story moves me much: pray you, resume.

NORMAN.
The villain whom I trusted, when we reached
The bark he ruled, cast me to chains and darkness,
And so to sea. At length, no land in sight,
His crew, dark swarthy men—the refuse crimes
Of many lands—(for he, it seems, a pirate)—
Call'd me on deck—struck off my fetters: “Boy,”
He said, and grimly smiled; “not mine the wrong:
Thy chains are forged from gold, the gold of those
Who gave thee birth!”

LADY ARUNDEL.
A lie! a hideous lie!
Be sure a lie!

NORMAN.
I answer'd so, and wrench'd
From his own hand the blade it bore, and struck
The slanderer to my feet. With that a shout,
A hundred knives gleam'd round me; but the pirate,
Wiping the gore from his gash'd brow, cried, “Hold;
Such death were mercy.”—Then they grip'd and bound me
To a slight plank: spread to the wind their sails;
And left me on the waves alone with God!

VIOLET
(taking his hand).
My heart melts in my eyes:—and He preserved thee!

NORMAN.
That day, and all that night, upon the seas
Toss'd the frail barrier between life and death.
Heaven lull'd the gales; and, when the stars came forth,
All look'd so bland and gentle that I wept,
Recall'd that wretch's words, and murmur'd, “Wave
And wind are kinder than a parent.” Lady,
Dost thou weep also?

LADY ARUNDEL.
Do I? Nay, go on!

NORMAN.
Day dawn'd, and, glittering in the sun, behold
A sail—a flag!

VIOLET.
Well, well.

NORMAN.
It pass'd away,
And saw me not. Noon, and then thirst and famine;
And, with parch'd lips, I call'd on death, and sought
To wrench my limbs from the stiff cords that gnaw'd
Into the flesh, and drop into the deep;
And then methought I saw, beneath the clear
And crystal lymph, a dark, swift-moving thing,
With watchful glassy eyes,—the ocean-monster
That follows ships for prey. Then life once more
Grew sweet, and with a strain'd and horrent gaze,
And lifted hair, I floated on, till sense
Grew dim and dimlier, and a terrible sleep—
In which still—still—those livid eyes met mine—
Fell on me, and—

VIOLET.
Go on!

NORMAN.
I woke, and heard
My native tongue. Kind looks were bent upon me:
I lay on deck—escaped the ghastly death;
For God had watch'd the sleeper!

VIOLET
(half aside).
My own Norman!

NORMAN.
'Twas a brave seaman, who with Raleigh served,
That own'd the ship. Beneath his fostering eyes
I fought and labour'd upward. At his death—
[A death, may such be mine!—a hero's death!—
The blue flag waving o'er the victory won!]—
He left me the sole heir to all his wealth,—
Some sacks of pistoles—his good frigate—and
His honest name! (To Violet.)
Fair maid, the happiest deed
That decks my life thou knowest!

LADY ARUNDEL.
And the priest:
Hast thou not seen him since ye parted?

NORMAN.
No;
But two short days return'd to these dear shores.
(Aside to Violet.)
Those eyes the guiding stars by which I steer'd.

[Violet and Norman converse apart.
LADY ARUNDEL
(gazing on them).
He loves—yes, there my hope! Ha! Percy's voice!
I must beguile or blind him. One day more,
And all is safe. Fair Sir, anon I join you.

[Exit.
VIOLET.
And thou hast loved me thus?

NORMAN.
Thus, Violet; nay,—
For when had true love words for all its secrets?
In some sweet night, becalm'd upon the deep,
The blue air breathless in the starry peace,
After long silence, hush'd as heaven, but fill'd
With happy thoughts as heaven with angels, thou
Shalt lift thine eyes to mine, and with a glance
Learn how the lonely love!

VIOLET.
Not lonely, Norman:
Not lonely, henceforth: I shall be with thee!
Where'er thou goest, my soul is; and thy love
Has grown life's life. To see thee, hear thee, dream
Of thee when absent—to bear all—brave all—
By thy dear side;—this has become my nature—
Thy shadow, deepening as thy day declines,
And dying when thou settest.

NORMAN.
Heaven desert me
If by one cold look I should ever chill
The woman heart within thee!

VIOLET.
So, my Norman,
In cloud, or sunshine—labour as repose—
Meek tho' I be, and lowly,—thou shalt find
This courage of my sex, that bears all change
Save change in thee—and never breathes one murmur,
Unless it be a prayer to guard my Norman!

NORMAN.
My bride—my blessing—my adored!

Enter Ashdale.
ASHDALE.
Gramercy!
I well escaped to meet my lady mother!
This tale of the old knight has fired my blood.
I would not see her in this mood—
(turning and perceiving Violet and Norman)
By heavens!
Whispering!—so close!—
(approaching)
Familiar sir—excuse me:
I do not see the golden spurs of knighthood—

NORMAN
(aside).
These landsmen, who would shake if the wind blew,
Are mighty quarrelsome. The golden spurs!
He thinks we ride on horseback thro' the seas!
Alas! we sailors have not so much gold
That we should waste it on our heels.

ASHDALE.
D'ye jest, sir?

VIOLET.
Oh cousin, fie!

ASHDALE
(mimicking her).
Oh cousin, fie!—sir, mark me:
There's one too many present—

NORMAN
(aside).
On my life
I think with him!—he might remove the objection!—

ASHDALE.
Good Master Norman, in the seneschal's hall
You'll find your equals.

NORMAN.
Haughty lord, not so.
He who calls me his equal first must prove
His arm as strong—his blade as keen—his heart
As calm in peril!—tush! put up thy sword.
He not my equal who insults his guest,
And seeks his safety in the eyes of woman.

Enter Lady Arundel.
VIOLET.
Protect your guest from your rash son!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Lord Ashdale—
These humours wrong your birth. To you, sir stranger,
Have I in aught so fail'd that in the son
You should rebuke the mother?

NORMAN.
Ask your son
If I was prompt to answer scorn by strife!

ASHDALE.
Nay, it is true, more prompt in taking licences
Than courting chastisement!

NORMAN.
You hear him, lady.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Ashdale, be ruled—my best beloved—my child,
Forbear—you—

ASHDALE
(quickly).
Learn'd in childhood from my mother
To brook no rival, and to fear no foe!
I am too old to alter now. Observe me:
You thwart my suit to Violet—you defend
This insolent stranger. Mother, take my counsel:
Despatch him hence and straight, or, by mine honour,
Blood will be shed.—Beware!

LADY ASHDALE.
Blood! blood! whose blood?

ASHDALE.
Not mine—for noble knighthood is too holy
For varlet weapons!—not your son's—

LADY ARUNDEL.
My son's!

ASHDALE.
Look to it, mother!—We may meet again, sir.
Fie, mother! pale?—Beshrew me, but those eyes
Look fondly on the knave!

[Exit.
LADY ARUNDEL.
O, sharper than
The serpent's tooth!—

NORMAN.
Sweet hostess, do not fear me;
There is a something in your looks that melts
The manhood in me back to second childhood.
Let him rail on—he is your son, and safe
From the poor stranger's sword.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Go, Violet,—
No, stay—come back—I know thy secret, girl—
Thou lovest this Norman?

VIOLET.
Lady—I—he saved
My life and honour—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Joy!—oh, joy! retire
And trust in me—

[Exit Violet.
LADY ARUNDEL.
Now, sir— (aside)
Alas! alas!
How like to his dead father!

NORMAN.
Speak—command,
And learn how thou canst move me!

LADY ARUNDEL.
I'm a mother!
I live but for this boy—heart, life, and soul,
Are interweaved with his!

NORMAN.
How sweet to hear
How mothers love their sons!

LADY ARUNDEL.
He is proud and fiery,
Quick to affront, slow to forgive. Nay, more:
Ashdale hath set his heart where thine is placed;
The air both breathe seems blood-red to my eyes.
Fly with her!—fly, this night!

NORMAN.
This night, with her?
Rapture! With Violet?

LADY ARUNDEL.
You consent?

NORMAN.
And yet
My birth untrack'd—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Oh, lose not for a doubt
Your certain bliss;—and, heed me—I have wealth
To sharpen law, and power to ripen justice;—
I will explore the mazes of this mystery—
I—I will track your parents!

NORMAN.
Blessed lady!
What have I done, that thou shouldst care for Norman?
My parents!—find me one with eyes like thine,
And, were she lowliest of the hamlet born,
I would not change with monarchs.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Mighty Nature!
Why speak'st thou thus to him, yet dumb to me?
What is there in these haggard looks to charm thee,
Young stranger?

NORMAN.
Madam, when I gaze upon thee,
Methinks an angel's hand lifts up the veil
Of Time—the Great Magician; and I see
A face like thine bent o'er my infant couch,
And—pardon me—it is a vain, wild thought—
I know it is—but on my faith, I think
My mother was like thee!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Like me! ha, ha!
Most foolish thought. (Aside)
I shall go mad with terror
If here he linger longer. Well, your ship
Is nigh at hand; you can embark to-night.

NORMAN.
So soon—so soon all mine!—In distant years,
Tho' we may meet no more—when thou, fair dame,
Hast lost ev'n memory of the stranger—o'er
The lonely deep, morning and night, shall rise
His prayer for thee.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Thou, thou!—a prayer for me?
Will Heaven record it? Nature rushes on me—
I cannot—I—forgive me; ere you part
We meet again, and—

[Rushes out.
NORMAN.
When I spoke of prayer
Her lip grew white. What is there in this woman
That half divides my thoughts with Violet's love?
Strange, while I muse, a chill and solemn awe
Creeps to my heart. Away, ye ill-timed omens!
Violet, at thy dear name the phantoms vanish,
And the glad Future breaks, a Fairy Isle,—
Thy voice its music, and thy smile its heaven!