University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

—A Woodland spot in front of Gilbert's Cottage.
Enter Bernard and Gilbert from different sides.
Gil.
You fellow there, what seek you? vagabonds
And ruffians are not harboured on this manor!
Come, what 's your business here?

Bern.
Only to rest
A little moment, on this bench, my friend.

Gil.
[coming nearer.]
Indeed, sir, you look pale. You have walked far,
Perhaps, already, though the sun 's not high.

Bern.
I have wandered all the night.

Gil.
“Sir,” did I say?
Well, no great harm in that, whoe'er you be—
But though your speech is like the gentlefolks,
You might be, as I guess, some shipless sailor . . . .

Bern.
I have been a sailor.

Gil.
And what are you now?

Bern.
A wanderer.

Gil.
That is to be nothing, man,
Or worse than nothing.

Bern.
So I am.

Gil.
For shame!
Such a strong likely fellow talk like that!
Work, work, my friend, and make your own hands keep you.

Bern.
I am willing, show me how to earn a meal first,
Ere I go further.

Gil.
Oh, for that, no matter,
A crust to break your fast with, I'll not grudge you—
And may be I can spare you a few minutes,
To hear your story.

Bern.
Thanks. We 'll let that be
A moment. [A pause.]
Will you tell me . . . who is your master?

Gil.
You will have seen the Manor Hall, I think—
The dark, red, ivied house amongst the elms?
You would have passed it—that is Sir Hugh Lyle's,
My master's—many a hundred years, they say,
Lyles have lived there.

Bern.
Is he . . . an old man is he?

Gil.
Old? Not so old. It is not age, but somehow,
He 's broken,—yes, he 's broken.

Bern.
[after a pause.]
I should like
To stay awhile in these parts, if I could . . .
I would fain go no further . . . say I sought
Service with—this Sir Hugh?

Gil.
Ah, now 't is out!
That 's what you 're aiming at! Why, here and there,
True, I might find you odds and ends of work,
But we don't harbour vagrant strangers—no!
Come now, your story, friend! where do you come from?

Bern.
No matter that, if I care not to tell.

Gil.
You take things easy, on my word, sir vagrant!

Bern.
You can but try me.

Gil.
You have a name at least?
What do you call yourself?

Bern.
Well—Leonard Grey.

Gil.
Come, that is something—you have at least been christened.
You 'll have to vouchsafe more, though, my good friend,
If you are to stay here. What can you do?
Can you train hawks—ride or break in a horse—
Mend fences, or tend cattle?

Bern.
All these things
I have done in my time.

Gil.
You are a strange fellow!
I know not why I send you not straightway
After your business, which it seems is nothing.
I think I am the greatest of all fools;
But I do trust you—I can't help myself.
I'll speak to our young master. He 'll be here,
Be sure, ere long.

Bern.
I thank you. Did you say
Sir Hugh . . . was failing somewhat?

Gil.
Ay, that is he.

Bern.
Sickness? You say he is not old.

Gil.
Say rather
He has had troubles.

Bern.
[after a pause.]
What may those have been?
Has he had losses? Land, I mean? or money?

Gil.
Ah, 't is a strange tale. Well, in that old house
Some ugly things have happened.

Bern.
In your time?

Gil.
No, not in mine. I have been here but five years;
I was bred further north, on the estates
Of my late lady's father—she you know 's dead—
And this I speak of was, ay, ten years back.
They keep it close, that people at the Hall,
But 't is a village tale, as you may guess,
Though they all say that our young master, Ulric,
And my young lady, to this day know nothing.
You see 't was in their childhood.

Bern.
Will you tell me
What is this village talk?

Gil.
Well—why tell you?
But 't is no secret.

Bern.
Let me hear it then?

Gil.
Truly I do believe it all arose
From that unlucky shipwreck, and that child!

Bern.
Tell me of that?

Gil.
'T was on those very rocks
Below the rough glen yonder. You can't see them,
Though you just hear the murmur of the waves—
But 't is a cursed spot for such mischances—
Though this was long years back.

Bern.
Go on.

Gil.
I've heard it
Often—the strangest tale! Who would have thought
All that would come of it! 'T was a tall ship,
Of foreign build they fancied, as the gleams
Of lightning showed it them by fits and starts,
That pitch-dark night—and crash! they saw it too
Split like an eggshell on yon ugly pavement,
Whilst crowds stood watching—all the old sad story—
Sir Hugh amongst them, and my Lord de Warenne
—A youth then from his travels just returned—
And all did what they could—and that was nothing.

Bern.
But some . . . were saved?

Gil.
Oh yes! That makes the strangeness.
By miracle—I know not rightly how—
A little two-years' babe—it might be less,
It might be more—was rescued from the sea.
Sir Hugh and his kind lady took the orphan
And reared it as their own, to their own sorrow.
You know 't is said whoever saves a soul
From drowning, saves it to his own undoing.

Bern.
Was it so now?

Gil.
As you shall see. And doubly
Ill-omened was that rescue, for 't is said
By those who know, 't was the ghost-light up yonder
In the old ruined watch-tower, wrecked that ship.
'T was there that wicked old Sir Ralph was wont,
In days gone by—so say the people here—
To set false signals for poor mariners,
All for the greed of booty—so thenceforth
That light in the old tower shows itself
Each time a ship is doomed to touch those rocks.
Whoever sees it knows a wreck is near—
And each time, for three hundred years they say
Some evil has befallen this family,
Although themsleves scoff ever at the story—
No Lyle has seen that light, or ever will.
Nay, are you listening? With your head in your hands
That fashion, one would say you were asleep.

Bern.
I was not sleeping. Pray go on.

Gil.
Your voice
Sounds sleepy though; yet one would think my tale
Might keep the dead awake. Now but hear this:
That self-same pretty child they saved that night,
When she grew up a slim and fair young maid,
She, we may say so, robbed the good Sir Hugh
Of his two first-born, and his wife as well.
You 'll wonder how that could be? Sad to tell
For love of her one brother killed the other.
Heaven save us! Why, what now? Where start you to?

Bern.
[returning.]
Pardon me. I have lived a life so wild
And wandering, I have learnt, I think, rough ways.
But I heard all . . . How, tell me, was this known?
Was there no doubt? . . . Did any see the deed?

Gil.
No, 't was suspicion only.

Bern.
Who could dare
Suspect a thing so monstrous?

Gil.
I can't tell you
All the sure proofs they had, but proofs there were.
And this I know, young Leolyn's corpse was found
One evening in the cove stabbed to the heart.
The mother died next day, the brother fled,
And has not since been heard of.

Bern.
[after a pause.]
Do they still
Believe he did it? . . . Nothing more discovered?

Gil.
Oh, nothing that I know of—not a soul
But feels assured he did it, now as then.
Lad as he was, nor given, they say, to wrangling,
And unlike other striplings of his age.
But Sir Ralph's blood ran still and deep within him.
The eldest, Leolyn—a haughty youth,
I 've heard he was, but thought at court a Phœnix—
Was only one-and-twenty, as I think,
And mad in love, they say, with that young creature,
When first he came home from his foreign travels.
I tell you all believe 't was as I say,
Though it had been hard matter, so 't is thought,
To have scraped up proofs enough for judge and jury.
Now you know why Sir Hugh lives broken-hearted.

Bern.
My God!

Gil.
Such things do not chance every day.
Well may you wonder that one mad young fool
Should bring such misery down on each and all
For a love fancy. Had I been their father
I would have sent that girl, for all her beauty,
Out of my sight, away to the world's end.

Bern.
But she still lives with them?

Gil.
Ay, that does she,
And just as handsome as in days gone by.
They treat her like a queen, ay all of them,
And like a queen I'll own she bears herself,
Proud, mischievous foreigner! Oh pity, pity!—
Ha! In good time! You hear those horse-hoofs yonder,
Amongst the trees? 'T is the young master out
Already with his sister; they both love
Their morning gallop o'er the bluebells. Hold!
Here he is coming to us.

[Enter Ulric, riding.]
Ul.
I will follow!
Do not wait, Olive!

Gil.
I 'll just say one word
About yourself. Don't draw back, let him see you.

Ul.
[approaching.]
Here, Gilbert—ha! whom have you here? what is he?
What does he want?

Gil.
Sir, I've just promised him—

Ul.
What eyes, by heaven! And how he looks at me!
Is he unhappy? Why, his eyes flash blue!
But what about him?

Gil.
Sir, 'tis an odd fancy,
You 'll say, for me to take—and so it is—
I never saw the man until this morn.
I only know that he has been a sailor.

Ul.
The very man! I saw him on the rocks
Last evening, wandering like a shipwrecked ghost.
I said he was a sailor!

Gil.
And, he 'll tell you,
Many things else—but will not tell his story;
And yet is fain to take some service with us:
Says he can train hawks, horses, and what not.
You see he 's a fine noble-looking fellow,
For all that rough, wild mane—I'll wager, sir,
No ruffian, nor mere rustic,—speak to him!
Calls himself Leonard Grey.

Ul.
Good-morrow, friend—
Gilbert here tells me—say, have you no home,
No friends?

Bern.
None.

Ul.
Stay—don't walk away. You wish then
To stay and serve here?

Bern.
If I be permitted.

Ul.
Won't you say where you come from?

Bern.
That 's small matter,
If I but do my duty; yet I pledge
My word to you, I come of honest parents,
And early left my home to seek my fortunes.
I have failed, but through no fault.

Gil.
[to Ulric.]
Now, look you, sir,
He might so glibly have just forged a tale,
To satisfy us. Silence looks more honest,
Sir, to my thinking.

Ul.
Oh, he does look honest!
Now you know, Gilbert, you have often groaned
For a young pair of hands to help you—

Gil.
Sir,
I dare swear there is none will call me idle.
I do my duty—but by little and little
All burdens fall on me. I 'm falconer,
Forester, and all things else in one.
And now I 'm getting old, too. I will own
This fellow takes my fancy mightily.
I am a fool—and yet the more I look
The more I see he is no mere ne'er-do-well,
That will work hard at all things, save his business.

Ul.
Oh we will keep him. Stay, you can train horses,
Leonard, you tell us?

Bern.
I have tamed, ere now,
The wildest colts of the savannah.

Ul.
Gilbert!
Oh, think not I will spare him to your hawks,
If this be so. Leonard shall be my groom,
If he can master Sorcerer. There, Gilbert!
I 've found a test for him.

Gil.
You 've found a way, sir,
To break his neck, I think. Right well you know
There 's ne'er a man now in your father's stables
That can so much as mount him.

Ul.
'T is a shame!
A horse the wonder of the country-side,
The beautifulest of devils! I declare,
I 'd do it, if they 'd let me—will you try him—
Will you try Sorcerer?

Bern.
Whene'er you will.

Ul.
He has a devil, mark me!—is, I think,
Satan himself.

Bern.
I'll try to exorcise him.

Ul.
I 'll show you him when I come home again.—
Gilbert, keep Leonard here till I return.

[Exit.
Gil.
A lucky morning this, for you, I think—
Well may you look at them! Oh pity, pity,
The other two are wanting. But Sir Hugh,
To my mind, sins to fret so evermore
For those he has lost. He might take pride and pleasure,
A little, in that noble boy and girl.
Enter Lettice.
Why, here 's more company.

Let.
What, a friend with you?
He has walked away—but 't is no secret neither,
I come to tell you.

Gil.
Come to bring me news
So early?

Let.
News, indeed! I used to think
Nothing could ever happen in our house
Again, in my time.

Gil.
Well, what is it now?

Let.
First—we are all bidden to a festival
That 's holden in the hall to-night—no less
Than—wonder now—a dance! For us, for you,
For all the retinue of the old place yonder,
That list to come.

Gil.
Well now, if you had said
Sir Hugh had bid fell all the timber round,
You had amazed me less.

Let.
Truth, I assure you.

Gil.
'T is just one of your jests. This very night, too!
How will the maidens have their finery ready?

Let.
Come up to-night, and see. You have not guessed
The meaning of this merrymaking.

Gil.
Out with it!
How should I guess?

Let.
'T is a betrothal—there!

Gil.
What! that child? Why, she rode past us just now!

Let.
Not she! Forsooth, it is our foreign beauty,—
'T is she that weds—

Gil.
Whom, in the name of wonder?

Let.
Whom but my Lord de Warenne? There 's news for you!

Gil.
She marry! That proud princess! She at last!

Let.
Sir Hugh, it seems, for once, is almost glad;
And so he bids rejoice this abrupt fashion.
He won't have any of his own degree—
None but his own folk from his own lands. You
Come in good time, and you shall dance with me.
If not so young as all those giddy girls,
You 'll own I 'm more experienced in my steps.

Gil.
No, no! you go too fast for me. What say you
To him there for a partner? I will tell you
About him shortly.

Let.
Well, bring whom you will.
I must be back again in haste to the hall.

[Exit.
Gil.
Well, now we've done with gossip, see my falcons:
They are worth the trouble, I can tell you that.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—The Manor Hall. A Gallery overlooking the Court.
Enter Annabella and Olive.
Ol.
Come to this window—see that strange new groom,
Ulric has found—dropt somewhere from the clouds—
Mount Sorcerer. Ulric says he has promised
To bring the rebel to his senses.

An.
Has he?
My heart is on the side of the poor rebel.

Ol.
They are all waiting there, the grooms and horse-boys—
And now comes Ulric. Oh, you must look now!
The furious, beautiful, black creature, all
A-quiver with the hell-fire raging in him!

An.
Poor savage! brave in vain against his fate,
The tyrant's master-mind.

Ol.
There! there! that sailor—
That must be Leonard—with the wild brown hair,
That smothers half his face! How quiet he is!
He knows—I trust he knows—what he is doing.
[Covering her face.]
Oh, I can't look! it 's frightful! He will be killed!

[Cries of “Well done!” heard from below.
An.
Safe in the saddle!

Ol.
Oh, thank heaven! thank heaven!
That storm of whirling hoofs hid all from me!
'T is magic! Conquered almost by a look,
Was he not?

An.
We shall see.

Ol.
There 's Ulric mounted,
And Oswald. Off goes Leonard through the archway!

An.
Like Satan and some mortal that has just
Outwitted him in a bargain for his soul.

Ol.
But what will happen next? Will he return
With limbs unbroken? Ulric says that horse
Plays strangest antics, curls into a ball,
And then uncurls in diabolic fashion.
Shall we go? What are you thinking of?

An.
[speaking half to herself.]
How can I tell?
A chance look, a chance tone, something or nothing,
Touched on some sensitive nerve within my brain,
And straight a long-closed door seemed to fly open,
A light streamed in, and there was all the past!
And, oh, how past! For, ten times spring has brought
The sunsets flaming through young chestnut-leaves,
And scent of sweetbrier, and of grass new-mown,
And Babel-clamours of the birds again—
But not the girlish spirit back with them,
More evanescent and ethereal still . . .

Enter De Warenne from the further end.
Ol.
[meeting him.]
You have found us out.

De War.
They told me you were here.
Accept my greetings.

Ol.
If your eyes seek her,
She is in that window there. She has seen a spirit—
Go, ask her all about it.

[Exit.
De War.
Annabella!

An.
Oh—who is that?

De War.
Do I so startle you?
You surely looked to see me?

An.
Surely—yes . . .
After our last night's parting.

De War.
Is that all?
My coming does not please you?

An.
Do not think so.
My word and faith are given to you.

De War.
And yet
I find you in your thoughts so far away,
You start to see me.

An.
I will tell you then—
Since in some sort I owe my thoughts to you—
And mine lay deep down and were sad ones too—
What I was pondering . . .

De War.
Tell me, in God's name!

An.
Some perplexed questionings on human crime . . .

De War.
Of human crime, great heavens!

An.
I wondered, as
I oft have wondered, if a crime, . . . a great
Irrevocable crime . . . may not be sometimes
The one exceptional action of a life . . .
Linked neither with the past nor with the future
By any evil bias of the soul . . .
A thing to put aside . . .

De War.
Surely it may—
At least I think so. Yes, I think that men
Have groaned under a hopeless burden, had
Their whole lives poisoned to them, either by
Secret remorse, or published ignominy,
Through some unhappy deed . . . that not themselves
But, as you say, some accident of fate . . .
Take . . . take the crime whose name affrights us all . . .
Perhaps we are the veriest slaves of names . . .
Perhaps the immortal spirit which one blow,—
Too swift, it may be, even to be felt,—
Released from flesh, may smile at that word . . . murder . . .
Smile that its wakening to new life and light
Should here be called misfortune, and the deed
Which wakened it, a crime.

An.
I wish I knew
If your thought springs from the same source as mine—
If—but I see it pains you—and me too.—
Have you yet seen this wondrous Leonard Grey?

[They pass out of the gallery.

Scene III.

—The Court-yard. Bernard and Ulric just dismounted from their Horses.
Ul.
Oh, Leonard, what a man you are! That demon
Against his will you 've turned into an angel!
And now black Sorcerer, you have found your master
For ever more! Oh, how have we all lived
Without you? There is Oswald—he can ride,
We all know that—but he 's a child to you—
Oswald, you know it.

Osw.
That 's as may be, Sir.
[Aside]
'T is not my fault—I 've made no league with Satan.

Ul.
When he began his devilry again,
Just as we got upon the turf, you know—
You 'd say he had a hundred hoofs, not four—
Then I did think it was all over with you.
He meant it—he meant murder, nothing else—
In truth I knew not half his wickedness,
No, nor yet half his worth. Oh, you must teach me
The cunning secrets you have brought away
From your wild west with you. How old were you
When you left home? You must have had adventures
And wondrous—by the score—by land and sea?
And fought the Spaniards oft?

Bern.
Yes, I have been
Where human lives were tossed about in the air
As children toss their balls.

Ul.
But I shall never
Get half my questions asked. Why, why not tell me
Who you are—where you come from?

Bern.
'T is small matter.
The past is past—why should we talk of it?

Ul.
And shall you never see your home again,
Nor parents?

Bern.
Well—I cannot talk of that.

Ul.
Well, Leonard, then at least you 'll stay here always?

Bern.
That may be doubtful.

Ul.
I shall speak to-night
About you to my father.

Bern.
But if Fate
Held me as in a leash, to pluck me back,
When my time comes?

Ul.
Oh, but where would you go,
If you left us?

Bern.
Where would I go? Oh, God!
I need not think of that yet—no, not yet.
The very dead may leave their graves at night!

Ul.
Leonard! But you talk thus, to startle me
From asking you more questions. See you come
Up to the Hall to-night—I must be gone.
To-morrow you shall tell me everything.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

—The Hall. Servants, Retainers, etc., entering and filling it by degrees.
Enter Humphrey.
Humph.
Well, friends, this truly is a pleasant sight;
I trust you feel Sir Hugh's great condescension.
And you, young lads and lasses, you in chief,
Met for the first time under such a roof,
Must show your humble gratitude to him
By your discreet deportment, mostly then
When he and his vouchsafe to come amongst us,
And when, perhaps—I just may hint so much—
My lord himself and Mistress Annabella,
And our young master and young lady, too,
Will of their goodness dance one dance with us.
No giddy noise and laughter then, I pray,—
Enjoy yourselves with seemly merriment,
As fits the time and place and such a presence.

Let.
Good man! He understands how fittingly
A humbling admonition prefaces
And adds to the enjoyments of young folks!
The bashful ones seem much encouraged.
Enter Cuthbert.
Here
Comes one too late for the lesson. Well done, Cuthbert!
You are the death's-head ready at hand to check us
Whene'er we grow too noisy. Well, what think you?
Does not the dull old hall show to advantage,
Though you did stint us so in bough and blossom?
But we have done our best.

Cuth.
Advantage! What!
You have done your best, I warrant, with this rubbish,
The sweepings of my barrow. Ten years back
'T was different—ay, the old hall was as gay,
With the fine colours of the gentlefolk,
And with the ladies' talk and laughter, bless you,
As Mistress Olive's gilded aviary there.
Had he that 's dead and gone been here this day—
Why do you talk to me? I am an old fool!
I have no business here,—but something drew me,
I can't tell what—to see that poor lad's sweetheart
Take a new love with all this talk and noise.
A proud young fellow, too, he looked the master,
He looked the master of us all—but you—
None of you think of that now.

Let.
Why what use
To think of it? Don't call up our old ghosts,
To-night, old man.

Cuth.
Oh, I 'm content, I tell you,
Content enough, so others be content.
I don't set so much store by yon fine damsel
This lord 's to marry—let him please himself.
Only she has much to answer for, I say,
For all her shy looks, and her proud pretences,
As though she saw not well enough, forsooth,
With those two great brown haughty eyes of hers
The fools who came to bow and coax and flatter—
And such a veriest May-wand as she was!
Lord, what a rose she carried on her cheeks, though—
And such a thing as that to work such mischief!

Let.
Come, come, old man, truce to your mutterings.
The youngsters will be catching up your words—
And I shall fancy if you talk on so,
Some horrid ghost is crouched behind the hangings!

Enter Bernard and Gilbert.
Humph.
Who is that stranger Gilbert brings with him?
Do any of you know him?

Osw.
That 's the man
They talk so much of—Leonard Grey, that rode
Black Sorcerer to-day, and had such luck.
Another day, perhaps, he may fare worse,
But now they all think him the sorcerer.

Humph.
Is that the man?

Osw.
Ay, that 's the favoured mortal
That has bewitched our Master Ulric so.

Let.
He 's fain to go back to his mad black horse,
I think. He looks, amongst us cheerful Christians,
The very saddest of the sad—or, rather,
Like one who has just forgotten his own name.
I 'll presently go tell him what it is.
Why, Cuthbert there can't take his eyes from him—
He has spied out a Jesuit.

Humph.
Good even, Gilbert.
[To Bernard.]
Young man, I bid you very welcome here,
And trust you feel how fortunate you are,
To be admitted at a time like this.
You will soon see our master's family,
Who graciously have promised so to honour
The honest folk here met. You see that door,—
The great carved oaken door and canopy
At the far end,—'t is there you 'll see them enter
And take seats on the dais. Look round, pray you.
It is a noble hall—a sight, no doubt,
That 's new to you, who have seen many things,
It may be, less worth seeing.

Bern.
That is most true.
[Humphrey moves away.
How often have I been here in my dreams!

Humph.
[turning back.]
Then must your dreams, young man, be very strange ones.
To show you things you never saw awake.
Nay, friend, don't tell me that.

Bern.
I mean . . . of course . . .
I only mean that in my hardest straits
I have dreamed of beautiful and happy homes,
As famished men dream of the banquet board.
'T is a fine hall.

Humph.
See all the portraits hung
'Twixt those deep oak-framed windows—ay, and note
The carved black oaken tables ranged beneath them;
They are thought a miracle of workmanship,
Those feathers, flowers, and foliage. You may count here
Whole generations of the Lyles gone by,
But none of those now living—our late lady,
She, too, is elsewhere—in the library:
But that 's no matter now.

Gil.
[aside to Bernard.]
One day I'll show you
Two other portraits I'll not name that hang
Out of the way in . . .

Humph.
You should look up too.
Strangers that come do ever much admire
The carved and gilded groining of the roof.
Well, to my other duties: now, young man,
I trust that you will well enjoy yourself
Under our roof to-night.

Gil.
You are in luck,
For that grave gentleman thinks well of you.
He talks to you this condescending fashion,
Because he knows you are from over seas;
And he is so proud to show this hall of ours
To travelled strangers—and you look so wise
And thoughtful, you don't seem like one of us.
Ay, you have dropped here, too, at no bad moment—
On any other day but this, I know,
You would have thought a corpse was in the house,
You scarcely hear a whisper within doors.

Bern.
All this bewilders me . . . let me stand back . . .
I do not care to dance . . . nor yet to talk . . .

Gil.
Well, as you please. 'T is time the gentlefolk
Should show their faces now. The young ones all,
You see, are growing eager for the dance—
'T is time, I say, these empty chairs were filled:
Nay, one step nearer—there!
Enter Sir Hugh, De Warenne , Annabella, Ulric, and Olive.
Where are you? Oh,
No need to shrink back, they 'll not notice you!
A noble-looking gentleman, you see,
Is good Sir Hugh; but 't is just as I said,
Feebler and paler than his age.

Bern.
Oh, God!

Gil.
What now? Why, on my soul, 't is you
Are pale—ay, trembling, too, from head to foot—
Your very lips white! What is this has seized you?
Sit on this bench, then.

Bern.
You will think it strange.
These lights . . . the heat . . .

Gil.
Nay, go into the air
And get this faintness over. Stay, drink this.
You 'll be well straightway. You strange being, you,
To be so strong and weak both! Are you often
Seized thus?

Bern.
Oh, no—but I have lived so long
In the free air . . . Thanks, I am well again.

[Music strikes up, Cuthbert approaches Bernard and Gilbert.
Let.
Come, Cuthbert, shall I find a partner for you?
'T is only twenty years since last you danced.

Cuth.
Ay, when I danced with you.

Let.
That must have been
When you danced me a baby in your arms.
[To Bernard.]
I dare not, after what you have heard just now,
Propose myself to be your partner, but
Will cheerfully lead you to some younger fair one.

Gil.
Oh, he 'll not dance he tells me.

Let.
Is he crazed,
This friend of yours? He might, at least, have thanked me,
Instead of staring at the great folks yonder.
Are you sure he knows where he is?

Gil.
Excuse him,
He has lived in the rough places of the earth,
And is not used to such fine company.

Let.
He seems bewildered, like a prowling owl
Straying abroad by daylight.

Gil.
Wake up, friend!
You are bid to dance, but I have answered for you,
Your own thoughts please you best.

Bern.
Oh, yes . . . with thanks . . .
I know I scarcely have a right to burden
Your gala-night with such a useless presence . . .
I will relieve you soon.

Gil.
No, no; cheer up!

Bern.
I ought to, looking on such joyous faces.

De War.
[Taking Annabella's hand.]
You know 't is ruled we two should lead the dance,
And Ulric there will follow with his sister.

An.
Oh, as you will, my lord. [To Sir Hugh.]
We 'll come back to you,
And go away together, shall we not?

Sir Hugh.
I shall be patient whilst you dance, my child.
You must not think of me.

Ul.
Come, Olive, come!
One dance, and then 't is over. How I hate it!
[The dance begins.
Why there is Leonard, looking on so gravely
From under those dark meeting brows of his!
I wonder what he 's thinking of?

Ol.
Of strange
Adventures, doubt not, in the golden dream-lands,
Away in Spain's enchanted Indies.—Oh!
Do but admire grave Humphrey there with Phœbe,
With what a stately grace he takes her hand.
You don't treat me with half such ceremony.

Gil.
Now, tell me, is not that a sight worth seeing?
That pretty creature, dancing with her brother?
If they inherit troubles with their name,
At least the Lyles inherit beauty too.
But then the other one—the beauty—why
You look at her and wonder—she just looks
To my mind, like some queen from over seas,
In all her foreign bravery—you would never
Take her for English bred, although she came
So young here that she knows not where she came from.
You saw that golden rosary? They say
She always wears that—it was found upon her
When she was cast on shore. By that you see
She comes of Papist kin.

Bern.
She . . . which was she?

Gil.
The tall one, dressed in white, broidered with gold—
She that was dancing with my lord, you know—
Where strayed your eyes when she was on the dais?

Bern.
I could see nothing there in all that glare—
I only saw my—'t was Sir Hugh I looked at.

Gil.
There, there she comes!

Bern.
'T is some resembling sister . . .
Oh no, herself . . . her very self . . . but changed!—
My God! I cannot bear this!

Gil.
What is that
You are saying? Are you awake then?

Cuth.
[approaching.]
Master Gilbert,
You are wanted by those fellows there.
[Gilbert leaves them.
How know you
She is changed?

Bern.
What say you?—Old man, you are dreaming . . .
I did not speak.

Cuth.
Do you wish to kill your father?

Bern.
What do you mean?

Cuth.
For shame! No more of that!
You can't deceive me, sir. Away with you!

Bern.
Cuthbert . . . how did you know me? All the rest,
You see, have quite forgotten me . . . I thought
I was too changed.

Cuth.
And so you are—you are.
You were a lad then—now you are a strong man.
Oh, but I knew you at a glance—I knew you!
And there 's none here remembers as I do—
Your father's elder brother—your own namesake,
As you are now, you are just his portrait—ay,
Came to the scaffold just about your age.
But his crime, I have always said, his crime
Was not so damnable. They called it treason—
But Cain did worse.

Bern.
Cuthbert, you were my friend once.

Cuth.
Ay, so I was—best talk no more of that.
You must be gone. Your father, by God's mercy,
Sits thinking in himself, and sees just nothing—
Don't look at him—by the lord, sir, are you mad?
What, Druid, too,—blind Druid—has found you out!
Do you think they 'll not see that? Don't they all know
He 'll lick no stranger's hand? Why to this day
He growls at my lord, there—Plague on the brute!
Whining already! Come out, no one 's looking.

[Exeunt Bernard and Cuthbert.
De War.
[passing with Annabella.]
Then, Annabella, is this happiness?
Or are we but two players on a stage,
And playing our parts ill? Fool that I was!
Whilst thus so kindly cold you move beside me,
Methinks that we are only baffled phantoms
Reacting on the pale Elysian fields,
In a mechanical and silent game,
The old intensity of joy and pain,
The strain and passion of a warmer world.
Your very beauty, even whilst I speak,
Seems waning from its own imperial tints,
To make the sad comparison more just.
Or what else, tell me, means this pale eclipse,
This moonlight copy of yourself,—no colour
Save the brown shading of your eyes and hair?
You are tired—we 'll rest.

An.
Oh, let us come away.

De War.
Yes, Sir Hugh rises, we will follow him.

An.
And as for happiness . . . what matters it . . .
If neither you nor I should ever find it?
How can the heart that feels . . . ever be happy?

De War.
I 'll lead you to the summer-parlour, then
Start on my homeward ride ere set of moon.

An.
You will go so soon?

De War.
Why should I stay? The moon
Above me, will not be more lone than I.
Ay, here and now.

An.
But you will come to-morrow?
You said that you were going, did you not?
I am so strangely tired. . . . Yes, to-morrow?

De War.
I know not. Yes, perchance, if you desire it.

Ul.
Come, Olive, let us go. We have done our duty.

[Exeunt Sir Hugh, De Warenne, Annabella, Ulric, and Olive.

Scene V.

—The Garden. Bernard, Cuthbert, and Druid.
Bern.
One friend that 's true to me . . . poor dog! dear dog!

Cuth.
You can't stay here; no, not a moment longer!
It was a shame to come. What, did you think
That you could show yourself?

Bern.
You mean, of course,
I shall be hanged if I am found here?

Cuth.
Oh,
I don't say that, sir; no, I don't say that,—
Things may be known that can't be proved by law;
And I don't say there 's one here would betray you;
But you would have such shame as kills some men,
And you would kill your father. He is sick.
I have seen it ofttimes when I 've stopped my work
To watch him as he paced along. Young master,
I cannot talk with you! I can't, I can't!
Away with you; say nothing to old Gilbert.
He 'd talk and hinder you.

Bern.
I shall not go
Till I have seen my mother's grave. Where is it?

Cuth.
What, have you heart and front enough for that?
Oh, were I you, I 'd pray the earth to open
And swallow me, before I would stand there.
Poor lady! As she lies there in the dark,
Could she but know who 's talking of her, why
Her heart would break again beneath the sod.

Bern.
My mother!

Cuth.
Ay, it killed her.

Bern.
Where is her grave?

Cuth.
She lies in the churchyard—she loved the flowers
And birds so, she would say she ne'er could rest
In the cold vault, and so Sir Hugh bade lay her
Under the elm, that we call the ghost's tree;
And Mistress Annabella and your sister
They have set primroses and violets
And snowdrops, and such common things as those,
Above her.

Bern.
You will never see me more;
So I might tell you, but that it would be useless . . .
No, best forget me quite.

[Exit.
Cuth.
And I must watch him—
Ay, and that dog too, for the poor blind brute
Would let all out. I 'm a worse brute than he;
But there 's no help for it, none. Tough as I am,
I do think this will kill me . . . I ne'er looked for it . . .
O Lord, that I might lie, my day's work done,
Under the daisies too! By this time sure
He has reached the churchyard wicket: I must follow.

[Exit.

Scene VI.

—The Court-yard.
Enter De Warenne and Ulric.
Ul.
They are at their foolery, every man of them,
Groom, horse-boy, serving-man, and all—and all,
Perchance, despite old Humphrey, less than sober;
But I will saddle you your bay myself,
If you are pressed to go.

De War.
Yes, yes, to-night
I do not care to stay. I 'll go with you.

Ul.
I did hear some one saying he had seen
Leonard with Cuthbert talking in the garden.
He is not within, I know, but 't were waste time,
Methinks, to seek him now.

De War.
Oh 't is no matter,
We 'll go now to the stables.

Enter Cuthbert.
Ul.
Here 's one straggler.
What, Cuthbert, have you broken from the revels
So early, you, the very life of the dance?

Cuth.
My lord, my lord! A word apart with you!

De War.
I am pressed.

Cuth.
Ay, so am I too. [Whispering.]
There 's none else
'T is fit to speak to: not that poor lad there—
Too young by half.

De War.
Come then, tell me this trouble;
Some freak of yonder revellers? That concerns
Old Humphrey's office.

Cuth.
No, no, no, my lord!
No grief like that; 't is noways what you think.

Ul.
Well, then, whilst Cuthbert whispers this great matter,
I will go saddle you your Moslem.

De War.
Thanks!
[Exit Ulric.
Now, my good friend?

Cuth.
Well, well! No use nor time,
To beat about the bush. I 'll tell it plainly.
That man, my lord—that self-same Leonard Grey,
Who rode black Sorcerer—that very man
Young Master Ulric sets such store by—

De War.
Is
Some thief that has broke prison, Jesuit spy,
Or disguised Spaniard?

Cuth.
I must out with it!
That man, my lord, is—Bernard Lyle himself!
Oh, I knew well that I should startle you!
But rouse yourself, in heaven's name! Look to it!
Though I do see your face is white,—ay, whiter
Than this white moonlight makes it,—there 's no time,
My lord, for wondering; something must be done,
And quickly.

De War.
Some impostor—

Cuth.
No, no, no!
Don't tell me that! I not know my own lad!
Trust me and Druid!

De War.
Oh, some dexterous knave,
Trusting to a chance likeness, and the changes
Ten years may print on any stripling's face,
Covets the lands of Lylford.

Cuth.
And the gallows
Along with them?

De War.
Man, you are mad to say so!
Who dares speak such a word? No law could touch him,
Whatever you or I may guess or think;
For we may feel a deed in the air around us,
May see it written there, yet never prove it!

Cuth.
That 's as may be. But Bernard Lyle it is,
And here he must not stay. My lord, you 'll tell him!

De War.
Not I? I will not see him.

Cuth.
What, my lord!
And will you have your lady that 's to be—

De War.
What?

Cuth.
Be the first to give him welcome hither?

De War.
In the devil's name, what mean you?

Cuth.
This, my lord—
I saw her white dress flitting down the path
To the churchyard—and there she will find him;
And 't is not fitting—no. I think, my lord,
She knew him in the hall. I saw her dart
One look at him,—'t was whilst she danced with you,—
And turn as white as you are now.

De War.
By God!
You are right—I see it! Madman that I have been!
What devil sealed my eyes?

[Exit.
Cuth.
And she they thought
Did love the other, talking with his murderer!
And my lord jealous! Ay, it needed that
To wake him from his stupor. I scarce thought
To see him so struck down. But I did well:
He is a noble gentleman, and loves
My master. Curse it! Oh, my poor, poor lad!
I 'll go and watch that boy from coming near them.

[Exit.

Scene VII.

—The Churchyard. Bernard rising from his Mother's Grave.
Bern.
Thank God! The rending throes are over now.
I can think where I am, and what I am,
Without a second frenzy. I am calm,
And I can calmly think of you, my mother.
Oh, mother, mother, mother! you believed,
You—only you—in your unhappy son!
You did not turn him from your kind heart's door—
You did not ban him from his house and home,
When my own father—oh, my God! my God!—
My father—my own father—with white face,
He looked the curse I almost heard him speak.
And so, a guiltless Cain, accurst I am,
By man's injustice, by the devil's hate,
And God's disdain of such a wretch as I!
And mother, in a life of misery,
Your darling voice, your own ineffable smile,
Have soothed my dreams and agonized my wakings,
Till I have longed to die—and yet lived on,
Through the fierce energies of strenuous youth's
Instinct, recoiling from death's nothingness—
That I might drain the cup to the very dregs.
Now let me try and lay up for myself
One thought, one memory—just one water-drop
For those strange fires of misery I go back to,
Unpitied and unknown as first I came.
Where shall I find it? Let me try to think—
For I have seen all that I came to see,
The grave of the one being that believed me—
My father, broken-hearted, yet to me
But a blind distant deity of stone—
Those little ones, my brother once and sister,
Grown up to live without a thought of me—
And my one love . . . Oh Annabella, love!
My barbarous, barbarous love! bound to another!
No, never mine! You never, never knew,
And now would loathe to think I could have loved you—
And yet I live, and yet I am not mad!

Enter Annabella unseen.
An.
Bernard!

Bern.
What! Who is there? Has the Ghost's Tree
Summoned its phantom hither?

An.
Is it . . . Bernard?
It is so dark there . . .

Bern.
It is he.

An.
Oh Bernard! . . .
I saw you in the hall . . . I knew you . . . Bernard!

Bern.
Why do you come here? Are you not one of those
Who call me Cain?

An.
Bernard! Bernard! For years
I wondered . . . and this eve a light flashed on me—
Say what you will, I shall believe your word.

Bern.
Then God, it seems, is merciful at last,
And I will speak. That I should have to say it!
I did not kill my brother—God alone,
God knows, not I, who did. There! That is enough!
I may go now.

An.
Oh Bernard! Oh, lost brother!
You see I try . . . You see I cannot speak . . .
Come home, dear, and forgive us!

Bern.
Annabel,
You know not what you say—I have no home—
I must not, cannot stay—and you must never
Speak of me. It is better so . . . my father
Will bear his burden yet a little while, . . .
Then die . . . and know my innocence.

An.
You kill me!
Come now, now, now!

Bern.
I would I might die now!
I must not stay.

Enter De Warenne .
De War.
I pray your pardon, madam,
For breaking on this private conference,
And further, in my right as your betrothed,
Bidding you leave this spot. You, sir, how dare you
To hold this lady here in talk?

Bern.
'T is hers
To choose whom she will talk with.

An.
Adrian! Adrian!
'T is Bernard, our lost Bernard! Do you not know him?

De War.
What madness is all this?

An.
And he is guiltless!
I am ashamed to say so before him—
Guiltless as you are.

Bern.
Calm yourself, my lord.
Enough for me she knows my innocence;
I ask not for your verdict. For the rest,
I shall go hence—my father shall remain
Unvexed by me for ever.

De War.
Sir, you will lose
For your own sake no moment. I will add,
So you will rid us of your presence now,
You have nought to fear from me. I will assume
You are that you call yourself—but that 's not proved.
Were you but the wild sailor that I think you,
'T were your best wisdom still to—

An.
Stop, my lord.
Or I shall hate you!

De War.
Come away then—come,
We will talk this over calmly.

Enter Ulric.
Ul.
So I have found you!
Cuthbert misled me. My lord, Moslem 's saddled—
What is all this? What has happened? Won't you speak?
Why look you on each other?

Bern.
All this means,
My boy, that I must leave you, and for ever.

An.
No, Bernard, no!

De War.
Hush!

Ul.
Bernard . . . is that Bernard?

An.
Yes, Ulric, 't is your brother.

Bern.
Ay, my boy,
'T is useless to deny it now.

Ul.
My brother! . . .
Leonard my brother! . . . Does my father know?

Bern.
You must not tell him—do not say a word.

An.
I will . . . Oh, I will tell him—carefully,
And gently. Let me tell him.

De War.
Silence! For shame!
This must not be borne longer. Go, sir, go!

Enter Lettice hastily.
Let.
Thank heaven I have found you! Mistress Olive
Is frightened past her wits: Sir Hugh is ill
In the library—a faintness like to death—
She fancies he will die, though he has come
Gaspingly back to life . . . asks for you all,
You too, my lord . . . pray you come instantly!—
He has tasked his strength too far—but it may pass.

An.
Bernard, you dare not go now!

Bern.
Father! father!

Ul.
Oh, come with me—I 'll take you to the steps
Of the oriel window—you shall wait there—come!

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene VIII.

—The Library. Sir Hugh leaning back in an Arm-chair. De Warenne, Annabella, Ulric , and Olive around him.
Sir Hugh.
It is past now—I shall not die this time.
Yet 't will come suddenly whene'er it comes . . .
The hand of death still lingers on the latch
Waiting to enter . . . nor unwillingly
I listen for him . . . for I like to think
That he will lead me to a world where haply
This life's sad problems may be solved for me,
And the great question of the Universe,
“Why do I suffer so?” at last be answered.
I should not speak so much about myself . . .
But you will bear with me, for 't is the thought
Of one . . . not here . . . whom I have tried in vain
To pardon . . . God forgive me . . . that makes me long
For light to understand how I may pardon
And love him once again . . .

An.
[to De Warenne.]
I must speak now.

De War.
And hurry him to death? He cannot bear it.

Sir Hugh.
I have heard you—do not fear, my child, to speak
Whate'er is in your mind.

An.
Dear friend and father . . .
Your son is innocent . . . indeed he is!
We know it now . . .

Sir Hugh.
You think so! Can you prove it?

De War.
Stop there! For God's sake stop there—ere too late!

Ul.
Then now I will speak out: she says true, father!
And I will tell you who the murderer was . . .
When I get breath . . .

De War.
Fool! for your father's sake,
No more of this!

Sir Hugh.
Let him speak, Adrian.

Ul.
Yes . . .
I would have told before . . . it has so plagued me . . .
Only I hardly understood the thing . . . the thing . . .
That has so haunted me from a child . . . but now
I know the murderer was—my Lord de Warenne.
Look at him now.

An. and Ol.
[together.]
Ulric, for shame! for shame!

De War.
Sir Hugh, you 'll let your boy utter such words
Of your old friend?

Ul.
I saw you on that eve—
For I remember it like yesterday—
Hastening down to the cove, and . . .

Sir Hugh.
Turn, De Warenne,
And look me in the face. Did you do this?— [a long pause.]

Yes, you did murder him.

De War.
'T was in fair fight.

Sir Hugh.
Where are your witnesses?

De War.
My word.

Sir Hugh.
A villain's.—
I see all now, as dying men see truth.
You coveted the girl your friend's son loved,
And with your strength matured, and practised arm,
In a mock combat slew the boy that loved her—
You broke the heart of one who was to you
All angel kindness through her lovely life—
You let Cain's curse fall on the innocent—
And, having groaned ten years beneath your secret,—
As if ten years and their remorse could wash
The original blackness of your deed away,
You now would take possession of the prize.
But the mask falls at a breath—go, Adrian, go!
Not I, nor mine, will touch you—but your crime,
And my boy's innocence will not be hid
Beneath a bushel. Go you and repent,
If penitence to you may be vouchsafed.
Your country is no country now for you;
Fly from the sight and hearing of good men,
And thank just heaven she does not share your fate.

An.
[drawing off a ring.]
Ulric. go give him this . . . and take back mine.

De War.
[approaching Annabella.]
You, bitter angel, ere the gates of Hell
Have quite closed on me, show me Paradise
Just opening on another. Devils are kinder.

[Exit.
Sir Hugh.
I see you look, each upon each, my children,
With a pale horror that 's too great for words . . .
You have passed a terrible moment.

An.
Oh, of you,
Of you, it is, we think before all things.
[Kneeling before him]
Alas! you have lost your friend, but you have found
Your dear, dear son again.

Sir Hugh.
Not in this life.
He will not stand before my dying bed
Whom I have wronged, as surely never yet
Father wronged son.

An.
He shall, he shall! You have borne
Such misery, can you now bear joy? We know
Where Bernard is . . . he has reached English ground . . .

Sir Hugh.
Send for him, and at once.

An.
He is here.

[Ulric rushes out by the window, calling, “Bernard! Bernard!” and re-enters with him.
Bern.
[throwing himself at the feet of Sir Hugh.]
Oh, father! father!

Sir Hugh.
My son! [a pause.]
My son! forgive me . . . had I years
To live, as I have only days . . . yet never
Should I forgive myself. My martyred boy!

Bern.
Oh father!

Sir Hugh.
Vainly do I ask myself,
Vainly . . . what reparation I can make.
Time is not left me, were it possible . . .
But these dear three will make it.

Bern.
'T is enough
I see you once again . . . all is wiped out.

Sir Hugh.
I am almost spent . . . just now I scarce have breath
To say but this . . . you must not think it strange
If I should bid you leave that unmasked felon . . .
That hapless wretch . . . who has confessed his crime, . . .
Your father's friend . . . to God's great vengeance only.
It cannot fail him.

Bern.
Will you think your son
Unworthy of his name, if I confess,
At such a moment, not a thought of vengeance
Touches my soul? I only think of you.

Sir Hugh.
I am content, dear boy. Changed as you are,
You see I use the old name. Come then, help me
To my own chamber . . . for my strength is spent.
I shall be better soon . . . and I shall rest
With happier thoughts than heretofore. Then leave me,
And come back to these children.

Bern.
But how leave you,
Father, to-night? For you are ill indeed.

Sir Hugh.
Not so—I am better. Give me your arm now.

[Exeunt Sir Hugh and Bernard.
Ol.
Oh, Annabella!

An.
You must love him, dear.

Ol.
Yes, I will love him . . . but . . .

Ul.
Neither of you
Know yet half what he is.

Ol.
'Tis all so dreadful!

Re-enter Bernard.
Bern.
He would not let me stay.

An.
We should not weep so . . .
It seems but a sad welcome . . . but it is not.

Bern.
I should blush . . . only you will bear with me . . .
You see I cannot help it—let us sit,
Beseech you, on these steps, that I may breathe
The old-world perfume of this honeysuckle,
Which seems to blot out ten years' exile.
[Olive gathers, and gives him a spray.
Olive,
Are you my sister, or some delicate work
Of rainbow-tinted wax, we dare not touch,
Too beauteous to be real, like all I see
Round me on English ground?

Ol.
Am I much changed?

Bern.
No, you are just the same . . . the very tyrant
Who ruled me with a little rod of iron—
As you should rule me still.

Ol.
[sobbing]
Oh I can't help it.
Everything seems . . . everything seems so strange.

An.
Bernard, ah see, this is too much for her!
The hour is late—you'll go to rest my child,
I will come soon.

Ol.
Bernard . . . good night. You will not
Think I don't love you?

Bern.
Good night . . . my own sister.
[Exit Olive.
When all last night I wandered round the house,
Little I dreamed of this. When last I left it,
It flared up in my fancy far behind me,
As men escaping o'er a dark waste sea
Look back to see the ship that was their home
Transfigured to a pyramid of fire.
I have seen that, too.

An.
Ah me, how shall we ever
Bear to hear half your tale? And how shall we
Bear not to hear it?

Bern.
Do not ask it now—
Not now—this moment is too blest, too perfect,
To stain with all the ten years' lurid past,
All the wild wanderings, strange companionships,
Enmities, friendships—and, by land and sea,
Warfare and danger—horrors blent with beauty—
Things more than I can tell.

An.
No—talk not of them.

Bern.
Yet I could tell you too of unimaginably
Beautiful things, that blessed me in my sorrow;
Oh God, I have suffered much, but never yet
Has my heart failed to beat in adoration
Of the great spirit of Beauty in all forms.
What things I would, if I could, paint for you!
What prodigies of nature's tropic fancy,
What glooms of forest, pillared Eblis-halls,
Alight with fire-flies, all one dance of stars,—
Where, glaring through a serpent-twist of flowers,
Broods like a damned deserted tyrant, some
Forgotten idol of an unknown race—

Ul.
Oh Bernard!

An.
You take us out of this earth.

Bern.
Or desolate paradises, where it seemed
Neither man walked, nor God—lovelily weird,
With blue lake and blue sky—savannah-seas,
One blushing outbreak of extravagant bloom,
Incredible colours that surprised a shout
Of wonder in the utter solitude,—
Foolishly happy in their useless beauty;
Mountains all smothered in soft plumes of green,
Splendours of foliage woven close as moss,
And such a glory inexpressible
As I could fancy in the unvisited stars.
Folly! Why talk of this? Not Eden's self
Were worth to me one dewy hedgerow bank
Of England, blue-starred with the speedwell's eyes—
Not all those strange bird-miracles, whose shocks
Of colour burst on us like fire from heaven,
Could charm me as, on some wet reed-fringed mead,
One flying flash of the small kingfisher,
The little brilliant phantom of the brook.
And I have seen this!—seen this once again!

An.
Say, you are happy now?

Bern.
There is no name
For what I feel this moment. Past and future,
I will forget them both just now. Your faces
Are all my world—my treasure: they are mine,
Though I should never see them any more.
I have not come in vain.

An.
With such a tone
Of hopelessness you speak e'en now, it wrings me
To think of all you have borne.

Bern.
Oh, listen! listen!
Those fairy bells up-ringing through the dark!
The first lark waking.

An.
It will soon be dawn;
The garden is grey with twilight. Oh, my Olive!
I promised her to come. And Bernard, yes,
You 'll sleep once more beneath your father's roof,
And in your own old room!

Ul.
I 'll go seek Humphrey—
He has the key, I know.

Bern.
And the laburnum
Still flings its showers across the casement?

Ul.
Oh,
As thick as ever. Humphrey's stirring still,
I 'll wager, after such late merrymaking;
He will be at his reckonings in the spence,
Or busying about something just as useless:
I must just whisper to him all about it:
You know . . . they will all know to-morrow. Wait
A moment for me.

Bern.
Annabel, my sister . . .
It was worth while to come back for this moment
To feel again what joy was!

An.
You must be
An angel, dear, so to forgive and love us.
I should be, oh, so humble in your sight . . .
Only, somehow, I never did believe it . . .
Never . . . although I thought I did. 'T was like
Some bitter dogma of a narrow creed,
Which heart and reason writhe from, yet from habit
Avowed in words . . . and then your father . . . just
Because he doated on you two so proudly . . .
Poor Leolyn! . . . But Bernard, our whole lives
Henceforth shall be yours only!

Bern.
Annabel,
Your words so bless me, whilst they wring me—once
To have seen my father's face again on earth
Is such a treasure laid up for my life;
Only, let no one name that man to me,
Lest I should break out in some frantic word
Or act . . .

An.
Oh, calm yourself! How you are trembling
Forget all that.

Bern.
With your dear hand in mine
I can be calm. And I will try to hope
I, too, have brought some blessing. May I not
Trust, should I e'en now leave my father—

An.
Leave him?

Bern.
E'en so, would not his life be happier?

An.
Bernard,
You are hiding something from me! Why will you
Hint at I know not what, as if your home
E'en now were not your home?

Bern.
And if—and if—

An.
Then now I guess it, now I see it all—
You have a love, a wife!

Bern.
You make me laugh.

An.
But you deny it not!

Bern.
A love! A wife!
If you but knew the home, the love I come from!

An.
What—who is it?

Bern.
What, who is it? you ask?
You who have been my love, my agony,
Through my long banishment, you ask me that?

An.
Bernard!

Bern.
Since that day—more than ten years past—
When I came home to find you from a child
Transfigured to a spirit-mystery
Moving amongst the old familiar things,
Radiant and shy as from another world,
My life too was transfigured—but the change,
Was still, like music, or the sense of Spring,
A beautiful pain—and I had scarcely dared
Own to myself that mingling with my dream
Was a wild fantasy of hopeless hope,
Till that sharp agony when first I thought
You loved poor Leolyn.

An.
Ah no! ah never!
I let him yield me homage, being then—
Though it seemed natural to be crowned a queen—
So young I knew not that such things could be
Serious realities. Alas for that!
For oft in the dead night the dear sad ghost
Reproaches me.

Bern.
But then, he, in his pride,
Seemed like the eagle gazing on the sun—
Those secret serpent eyes that watched us both
I guessed not . . . but I dare not speak of that . . .
So with a silent gnawing of the heart,
I held aloof . . . and then . . . then . . . you know, how
I fled and followed long the roving star
Of many a reckless flag by land and sea.
Oh, how in loneliest wildernesses, lost
From sight or sound of man, or hope of life,
Your voice has thrilled through the still, awful air,
In silver syllables like little bells,
Articulately as now; how, on the bed
Of fever, raving in the deadly fires,
I have seen you pass before me, o'er and o'er,
In some mysterious wedding pageantry,
To some unknown church-altar; or you seemed
Weeping to sit upon some wild sea-shore
Weeping, but not for me—and everywhither,
Cruelly sweet, unutterably dear,
You followed me like an angel of despair!
I have seen faces beautiful to terror,
Creatures of flame whose startling witcheries
Seemed revelations from some magic star—
Yet what were these, but hollow dreams of things
Beside my one reality of love?—
All this means nothing. All I ask of Heaven,
Would be, that only I might die for you,
To watch you ever as your guardian spirit,
And make you happy though you knew me not—
But e'en that will not be.

An.
Oh, . . . I do think,
My heart has found its other half at last,
And now without it, it would bleed to death!

Bern.
Wretch that I am! I never meant to tell you . . .
I meant to have forgone such utter rapture . . .
E'en had I dreamed it was for me to win . . .
Oh, would, for your sake, love, you meant it not!
No—no—not that—you must not think me mad . . .
To-morrow all my heart I 'll tell you.

An.
Bernard!
I cannot guess your meaning . . . You have caught
The trick of hopelessness . . . but I persist
In joy ineffable to have you back . . .
Whether you love me, or you love me not . . .
And my heart's vow that you shall yet be happy.

Re-enter Ulric.
Ul.
All 's ready for you—Humphrey is in amaze—
I have told him you will speak to him to-morrow—
But for that matter, 't is to-morrow now.

Bern.
So shall we lose less of this precious time
Whose minutes should be hoarded up like gold.

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene IX.

—A Chamber upstairs. Olive sleeping; Annabella standing at a Window.
An.
I 'll think of that no more: I 'll cast away
The horror, the bewilderment, the shame—
Shame for another, worse than for ourselves—
And triumph in his happiness and mine!
Oh, how the inventive genius of my heart
Shall wake, each day, eager to exercise
Its happy art, in multiplied devices
Of consolation and of tenderness,
And find the day too short for half of them!
Such bliss is only possible on earth,
Nor heaven itself were such a heaven as that!
So let the lightning of that luminous smile,
Which for one moment over his sad face
Flashed such a glory, then went out again
In tremblings of emotion, be my star
Of happy omen till we meet once more.—
Oh, my poor child! She is sobbing in her sleep!
That is not sleep, but pain.

[Goes up to Olive.
Ol.
[waking].
Why, Ella! is it
So very late? Have I slept so long?

An.
Nay, dear,
'T is early yet; one by one all the birds
Have waked, but they are scarcely yet in chorus.
But you were sleeping in such troubled fashion,
I am glad you have wakened from it.

Ol.
Oh, I know
What I was dreaming of. But am I, tell me,
Wicked . . . would Bernard think me wicked, Ella,
For pitying—him? I cannot, cannot help it!
So changed, so shamed, so fallen as he went . . .
And we all turning from him! Ella—Ella!
I shall remember it to my dying day.
But how you shudder! Do you hate me!

An.
Ah!
To pity wretchedness for you is easier
Than to realise crime. And pity is
The keenest pain I think the heart can feel. . . .
For martyrs and for heroes it may swell
With what transcends all pity . . . but—

Ol.
To see
That which we honoured brought to infamy!

An.
Oh, think of Bernard, rather!

Ol.
But, perhaps,
There may be, if we only knew . . . let me
Say only this, and then I 'll say no more. . . .
There may be—oh, I do not mean excuse—
But something not so fiendlike as it seems.
If I can 't think so, I must go half-mad!
I did so honour, so believe in him!

An.
Alas! so did we all.—Now sleep again.
There 's yet an hour or two of rest for you.
I 'll watch beside you, for I could not sleep.