University of Virginia Library

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.