University of Virginia Library

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.