University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The hall in the Castle of Arundel.—Night—lights. Sir Maurice—Gaussen.
SIR MAURICE.

Thou hast not got the papers; and thou hast committed
a murder; and, what is worse, thou hast slain
the wrong man!

GAUSSEN.

But—

SIR MAURICE.

But me no buts: thou hast ruined me. Stand
back, and let me think. (Aside.)
The heir has the
proofs—clear! He will not come back to this house,
the very den of his unnatural foe—clear! He will seek
the law for redress—clear, clear! But he loves Violet.
He will keep his assignation; carry away the girl; and
then off to London, to assert his rights:—all this is
clear as noon-day! Gaussen, thou canst repair all.
The sea-captain will be at the ruins to-night—eleven
of the clock—to be married in the chapel by stealth.

GAUSSEN.

I overheard all that in the gardens ( aside
—and
more too perhaps), and am already prepared. My bold
fellows shall seize priest and boatmen, and I will await
the bridegroom.

SIR MAURICE.

And that thy cutlass may not fail thee this time, I
will brace thy hand by refreshing thy memory. Five-and-twenty
years ago—thou then but a young fellow,
caught in thy first desperate piracy on the high seas—
wert placed in the dungeons of this castle, in order to
be marched off the next day to the county gaol, with a
rope for thy journey's end. Thou wert released that
night: at day-break thou wert on the merry waves again,
with a sack of pistoles in thy pouch. What was the
price of thy life and liberty?

GAUSSEN.

The blood of a man whom the stern old Lord bade
me strike as his worst foe.

SIR MAURICE.

Right! and the son of that man is the boy thou didst
cast on the seas! Thou sayest that Onslow recognised
thee. Be sure the dying man told the son in what face
to look for his father's murderer. If thou make not
sure work to-night, thou art meat for the crows!

GAUSSEN.

Trust me. I will fasten to him as a panther on the
stag!

SIR MAURICE.

And—stand back!—let me think!—let me think!
I see it!—I see! Thou shalt not only do the deed, but
thou shalt find another to bear the blame! This crack-brain,
Ashdale, the young Lord, will be on the spot. He

loves the girl Norman would wed: they will have
words, perhaps blows. Be on the watch with thy fellows
—ten, twenty of them: rush in, under pretence of
separating—stab—stab both! Dead men tell no tales:
and ye and your men can bear witness that they fell
by each other's hands!

GAUSSEN.

'Tis a death more than I bargained for. The price?

SIR MAURICE.

Shall be doubled—two thousand pieces!

GAUSSEN.

Touch hands. Bring five hundred to-night—by the old
chapel—for my men. I will come for the rest to thine
own house to-morrow eve at dusk.

SIR MAURICE.

Five hundred to-night! Five hundred, Bully Gaussen,
beforehand! Premiums are an abomination in law—
usury, rank usury!

GAUSSEN.

I must have them: my men want pay, and are half
mutinous as it is. Blood and wounds, old knight! this
is sharp work you set them at—to net a covy of sailors,
who will fight like devils, and to stab a lord—to say
nothing of the other man—that's my quarrel—five hundred
pieces, or I hoist sail, and you may catch the sailors
and stab the Lord for yourself.

SIR MAURICE
(groaning).

Five hundred little, pretty, smiling, golden-faced

cherubim: 'tis a second Massacre of the Innocents!
Well, thou shalt have them ( aside
—and the Countess
must repay me). Before eleven I will be with thee:
but you will smite both—both the Lord and the Captain:
no time for death-bed explanations.

GAUSSEN.

They shall never hear the bell toll midnight!

[Exit.
SIR MAURICE.

Then, ere matins, I shall be Baron Ashdale and
heir of Arundel. The lordship and lands of Ashdale
are so settled that they go at once to the male heir.
Yes, I can trust this man to do the deed! but can I
trust him after it? A pretty acquaintance Giles
Gaussen for a great lord!—Well, time enough to be
rid of him.

ASHDALE
(speaking without).
Yes—the dun and sorrell.

Enter Lord Ashdale.
SIR MAURICE.
Hast thou prepared thy plans, my Hotspur?—

ASHDALE.
Yes;
My steeds and grooms will wait me in the forest:
And, for the rest,—I wear my father's sword.

SIR MAURICE.
Oh, I could hug thee! By my golden spurs,
I doat on valour!—Thou wilt win the maid,
I know thou wilt.—Faith, how a frown becomes thee!
Yet he's no carpet warrior—thou must use
All thy address!—

ASHDALE.
Thou need'st not urge me to it.

SIR MAURICE.
Good night, and luck to thee. (Aside.)
Now, now I have him!
I feel myself a lord already!—lights there!
Enter Servant.
Light me, good knave; there is a pistole for thee.
(Aside)
A great man should be generous.—'Bye, my Hector (hums a tune).

Is my state-coach below?—Oh, I forgot.

[Exit.
LORD ASHDALE
(looking after him in great surprise).
Touch'd, crazed!—the old knight has so starved his body,
The brains have taken fright, and given him warning.
Ha, ha! adventure is the gale to love;
And stratagem the salt of its tide! ha, ha!
I think I never loved this maid so well
As now, 'twixt fear of loss and hope of triumph.

Enter Lady Arundel.
LADY ARUNDEL.
Percy—

ASHDALE.
Well, madam, I am press'd—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Oh, Percy!
Speak kindly, Percy!

ASHDALE.
Mother, if my mood
Be chafed to-day, forgive it!—shall I speak?
Your sudden care for this ignoble stranger,
Coupled with memory of wild words your lips
Oftimes let fall—your penances and fasts—
Your midnight vigils—your habitual gloom;—
Weaving all this, to form a likelihood,
Why, harsher judgment than your son's, my mother,
Might half suspect—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Speak on, sir—

ASHDALE.
That your past
Was darken'd by some unatoned-for sin,
Whose veil this stranger's hand had lifted.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Percy,
Your words are daggers—if the unstrung brain
At times gives discord—if the insane phantoms
That haunt all hearts vex'd by the storms of life—
(And I have suffer'd, Percy, sadly suffer'd)—
Do mock and gibber in my dreary path—
'Tis thine to pity, to forbear, to soothe,
Never to doubt. Where should that angel men
Call “Charity” abide—but in the hearts
Of our own children?

ASHDALE.
Mother—oh, forgive me!
If the unquiet, cavilling spirit born
Within me, of the race that, like the ermine,
Would pine to death when sullied by one stain,
Makes me seem harsh—forgive me!

LADY ARUNDEL
(approaching him).
Never know
Till I am dead how deeply I have loved thee!
Thy father—tho' an earl in rank—and near
To the royal house in blood and martial fame—
Had wed before—had other sons—on me
Alone depends thy heritage—from me
Thy lordship and thy fortunes.

ASHDALE.
True, what then?

LADY ARUNDEL.
You have loved pomp and state; and I have pinch'd
To feed the lavish wants of your wild youth—
Have I not, Percy?

ASHDALE.
You have been to me
Ever most bounteous, mother.

LADY ARUNDEL.
Yet, in truth,
You prize too much the outward show of things.
Could you not bear—for you have youth and health,
Beauty and strength—the golden wealth of Nature:—
Could you not bear descent from that vain height
Of fortune, where poor Vanity builds towers
The heart inhabits not—to live less proud—
To feast less gorgeously—to curb thy wants
Within the state—not of the heir to earls,
But of a simple gentleman, whose station
Lies in his worth and valour?—Could you?

ASHDALE.
Never!
Such as I am, my sire and you have made me,—
Ambitious, haughty, prodigal!—my hopes
A part of my very life! If I could fall
From my high state, it were as Romans fell—
On their sword's point. Why is your cheek so hueless?
Why daunt yourself with air-drawn phantasies?
Who can deprive me of mine heritage?
The titles of the antique seignory—
That will be mine, in trust for sons unborn,
When time (from this day may the date be far!)
Transfers the ancestral coronal that gems
Thy stately brows to no unworthy heir?

LADY ARUNDEL
(aside).
My proud soul speaks in his, my lion boy!
Come shame—come crime—come death and doom hereafter—
I'll know no son but him!

Enter Servant.
SERVANT.
Most honour'd madam,
The cavalier you entertained this morning
Is here.

LADY ARUNDEL.
I will not see him!

Enter Norman.
NORMAN.
Gracious lady!
My business—grant me but your private ear—
Will plead for my intrusion.

LADY ARUNDEL
(aside).
All else fails!
My own stern heart support me!

NORMAN
(aside).
How like strangers
They look upon me, both, the while I yearn
To rush into their arms!

ASHDALE.
Why parley with him?
Who is he?—What?

LADY ASHDALE.
Hush!—I attend you, sir;
Be seated—Ashdale, leave us.

[Norman places his cloak and hat on a table and draws a seat near to Lady Arundel.
ASHDALE
(carelessly).
By my troth,
I have no wish to mar good company.
Fair sir, I owe you back disdainful words
Repaid you later.

NORMAN
(aside).
I love that warm spirit!—
'Twas mine at his age—my dear brother!

ASHDALE
(going to the table and exchanging the cloak and hat).
Ho!
The signal plume—a fair exchange,—so please you,
The cloak too. Tarry now as long as lists you;
I'll be your likeness elsewhere.

[Exit.
NORMAN.
How to break it—
And not to give overwrought joy the shock
Of grief—

LADY ARUNDEL.
I listen, sir.

NORMAN
(with great emotion).
You love your son?

LADY ARUNDEL.
Better than life, I love him!

NORMAN.
Have you not
Another son—a first-born?

LADY ARUNDEL.
Sir!

NORMAN.
A son
On whom those eyes dwelt first, whose infant cry
Struck first on that divine and holy chord,
In the deep heart of woman, which awakes
All nature's tenderest music? Turn not from me.
I know the secret of thy mournful life.
Will it displease thee—will it—to believe
That son is living still?

LADY ARUNDEL.
How, sir—such licence?
I will not brook it!

[Rises to go.
NORMAN.
No, thou wilt not leave me!
I say, thou wilt not leave me! On my knees,
I say thou shalt not leave me!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Loose thine hold,
Or I will call my menials, to chastise
This most unmanner'd freedom!

NORMAN.
Mother, mother!
I am thy son—thine Arthur—thine own child!
Do you deny your own?

LADY ARUNDEL.
I have no son,
Save Percy Ashdale!

NORMAN.
Do not—do not hear her,
Thou everlasting and all-righteous Judge!
Thou, who, amidst the seraph hosts of heaven,
Dost take no holier name than that of “Father!”
Hush, hush! Behold these proofs—the deed of marriage!
The attesting oaths of them who witness'd, and
Of him who sanctified, thy nuptial vow!
Behold these letters!—see, the words are still
By years unfaded!—to my sire, your lover!
Read how you loved him then. By all that love—
Yea, by himself, the wrong'd and murder'd one,
Who hears thee now above—by these, my mother,
Do not reject thy son!

LADY ARUNDEL.
The worst is past.
(Re-seats herself.
And were this so—own that I had a son—
What proof that you are he?

NORMAN.
What proof? There, there!
In your own heart—your eyes—that dare not face me;
Your trembling limbs—there—there my witness! Nature
Blanches your cheek, and heaves your struggling breast!
Thou know'st I am thy son!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Oh, while he speaks,
My courage melts away! And yet, my Percy,
My son, whose years blossom'd beneath my eyes—
All his hopes blasted! No, no!

NORMAN.
See—you falter!
Ah—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Sir, if you, a stranger till this day,
Have, by suborning most unworthy spies,
Glean'd from the tragic tale of my gone life
Some hints to build this wild and monstrous fable,
Go, seek the laws to weave them into shape
More cunning and less airy. Quit my presence!

NORMAN.
I will not!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Will not? Ho, there!

NORMAN.
Call your hirelings;
And let them hear me!
[Goes to the hearth.
In these halls—upon
The sacred hearth-stone of my sires—beneath
Their knightly scutcheon—and before their forms,
Which, from the ghostly canvass, I invoke
To hail their son—I take my stand! I claim
My rights! They come—your menials! bid them thrust
From his own hearth the heir of Arundel!

Enter Servants.
LADY ARUNDEL.
Seize on!—No! no!—My father's lordly mien
Is his! I dare not!

FIRST SERVANT.
Did you summon us,
My gracious lady?

NORMAN.
Yes! she summon'd! Now,
Lady of Arundel, your mandates!

LADY ARUNDEL
(sinking into a seat).
Leave us;
We do not need you now!

[Exeunt Servants.
LADY ARUNDEL
(rising, and hastily approaching).
Oh, Arthur!—son!—
If so you be—have mercy!

NORMAN.
Do not kneel—
No, do not kneel—that, my place!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Listen to me.
Grant that you are my son—the unhappy pledge
Of a most mournful nuptials:—grant that I,
Scarce on the verge when child-born fancy glides
Into the dreaming youth, misplaced my heart—
Forgot the duties which the noble owe
The past and future:—that a deed was done
Which, told, would blacken with a murderer's crime
My father's memory—stain thy mother's name—
Bid the hot blush, rank in the vulgar eye,
Blister my cheek, and gnaw into my heart:—
Grant this—and you, my son! will you return
The life I gave, for that, more vile than death,
The everlasting shame? Now, SPEAK!

NORMAN.
Go on!
Go on! I cannot speak!

LADY ARUNDEL.
Heaven witness for me,
With what reluctant and remorseful soul,
After what threats endured and horrors done,
I yielded to my ruthless father's will,
And with false lips profaned a second vow!
I had a child! I was a mother! true:
But did I dare to dwell upon that thought?
In darkness and in secret—if I sought
The couch it hallow'd—did not my steps creep
Fearful and shuddering as the tread of crime,
Which starts at its own shadow? With that son
Were woven, not the proud, self-glorying joys
Which mothers know; but memory, shame, the dread
And agony of those who live between
Evil and its detection. Yet I loved thee—
I loved thee once!

NORMAN.
I knew it—Heaven, I knew it!

LADY ARUNDEL.
I loved thee till another son was born—
One who, amidst the sad and desolate world,
Seem'd sent from Heaven by Mercy. Think, thou wert
Alien—afar—seen rarely—on strange love
Leaning for life;—but this thrice-precious one
Smiled to my eyes—drew being from my breast—
Slept in my arms;—the very tears I shed
Above my treasure were to men and angels
Alike such holy sweetness!—food, health, life,
It clung to me for all!—mother and child,
Each was the all to each!

NORMAN.
I am not jealous—
I weep with thee, my mother—see, I weep!
Oh, so much love, and has it nought to spare?

LADY ARUNDEL.
My boy grew up—my Percy. Looking on him,
Men prized his mother more. So fair and stately,
And the world deem'd to such bright hopes the heir.
I did not love thee then—for, like a cloud,
Thy dark thought hung between him and the future.
And so—

NORMAN.
Thou didst not—O the unnatural horror!—
Thou didst not—

LADY ARUNDEL.
Doom thee to the pirate?—No,
No—not so ruthless, Arthur. But design'd
To rear thee up in ignorance of thy rights—
A crime—'tis punish'd. So, my tale is done.
Reclaim thy rights—on me and on my son
Avenge thy father's wrongs and thine;—I ask not
Mercy from thee—and from the hated earth
I pass for ever to the tomb, which hath
Even for shame a shelter!

NORMAN.
Oh, my mother!
You do not know the heart your words have pierced!
I—I—thy son—thine Arthur—I avenge?
Never on thee. Live happy—love my brother—
Forget that I was born. Here, here—these proofs—
These—these (giving the papers)
. Oh, see you where the words are blister'd
With my hot tears? I wept—it was for joy:
I did not think of lands, of fame, of birthright—
I did but think these arms should clasp a mother!
Now they are worthless—take them—you can deem not
How in my orphan youth my lonely heart
Pined for the love you will not give me!—Mother,
Put but thine arms around me—let me feel
Thy kisses on my brow;—but once—but once!
Let me remember in the years to come
That I have lived to say “A mother bless'd me!”

LADY ARUNDEL.
Oh, could I speak—could I embrace him—all
My heart would gush forth in one passionate burst,
And I should bid him stay; and—Percy, Percy,
My love for thee has made me less than human!

NORMAN.
She turns away—she will not bless the outcast!
She trembles with a fear that I should shame her!
Farewell—farewell for ever! Peace be with thee—
Heaven soothe thy griefs, and make the happy son
Thou lovest so well the source of every solace.
For me (since it will please thee so to deem),
Think I am in my grave!—for never more,
Save in thy dreams, shalt thou behold me!—Mother,
For the last time I call thee so!—I—I
Cannot speak more—I—

[Rushes from the room.
LADY ARUNDEL.
Arthur! O, my son!
Come back, come back, my son!—my blessed son!

[Falls by the threshold.