University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

—The Library, Lylford Hall. Sir Hugh Lyle .
Enter De Warenne.
Sir Hugh.
Well met, De Warenne.

De War.
Better elsewhere, surely,
Than in this hermit-cell.

Sir Hugh.
It suits me.

De War.
Nay,
Why not put by those papers for an hour,
And join your children on the green plot yonder?
You should be less alone.

Sir Hugh.
I am less so,
When busied thus, than listening to their talk.
I like they should be happy, but care not
To join them.

De War.
Yet you are wrong.

Sir Hugh.
We 'll let that be.
I have had much to think of, and to do,
Of late, in ordering my affairs so far
As fate has left them in my power—so far
As pen and parchment may, trusting to you
Hereafter to interpret to my boy
What pen and parchment cannot.

De War.
Why this now?
You have years and years before you.

Sir Hugh.
Have I? Fewer,
Perhaps, than you may think; and there is something
Still left to say.

De War.
Why, what is this, this fancy?
Nay, what 's your age? What 's fifty years, my friend,
Or a half-dozen over? 'T is a jest.
You straight and strong, too, as the tallest pine
In yonder sturdy grove! So much of life
Is left you still, so much of comfort, too,
Would you but think so!

Sir Hugh.
It may be I have
Too weakly let one sad blot overspread
These ten years all the colouring of life.
Indeed, you know how it has been with me
As well as I myself.

De War.
For God's sake, Hugh,
Speak not of that!

Sir Hugh.
'T is the first time, and shall be,
So help me, God, the last! But such a life
In death as mine has been, is now, I think,
Fast wearing to its close, and I must look
To you—I know you 'll not refuse me this—
To be the guardian of my boy and girl
Through all the years of tutelage, and stand
In my place to them for more years than those—
To be their friend—and that is saying all.
They could not have a better. Though you seem
Beside me, fresh still in your vigorous prime,
Yet in the school of life you are more trained,
Tried on a wider field, abroad, at home,
Accomplished and approved. And yet your life—
You know it, let me say so—is a house
Whose noblest chambers are untenanted.
I would you had a wife.

De War.
A wife! What, I?

Sir Hugh.
And since I know you will not now go forth
As knightly youth does, far away to seek her,
And since you stand above the need to add
Either lands, wealth, or splendour, or a name,
To that all-perfect ladyhood I wish
To see your home crowned and made happy by—
Nor ever were a worshipper of these—
Have you ne'er thought how near you might be found
E'en such a lady worthy of your suit?
I say not she is lightly to be won;
But hearts unswayed by butterfly caprice,
And honest as the very sun in heaven,
Own their true mates in time. You guess not yet?
She is my daughter now; but when I die,
What home has Annabella then?

De War.
My God!
With whom but me?

Sir Hugh.
With you? Why, stay! Is this so?
You love her, then, already? That is well.
Win her then, Adrian; win her, for in her
You win a noble wife, a noble home,
Nor, search the country in its length and breadth,
Would you find statelier beauty than hers, now
In her maturity of womanhood;
At least, to my accustomed eyes it seems so.

De War.
To mine no less.

Sir Hugh.
I am very glad you love her.

De War.
Love her! I said not that . . . though to my thought
No woman equals her . . . but I ne'er dreamed
So to aspire . . . and I must think this over . . .
She is good, she is beautiful, may become homeless—
And would she deign so far . . . but she is proud,
Too proud I think to love. But I 'll not hear you
Talk thus of death, as though at the next corner
You saw him waiting.

Sir Hugh.
And he shall be welcome.
A heavy care your words have something lightened;
And for the comments of the worldly-proud,
If those you heed, at least we have our proofs
That her unknown lost family and name
Can be no mean ones.

De War.
Oh, that would be nothing,
If I should give this thing a serious thought
She is herself alone amongst all women.
But you are weary, Hugh—your voice is faint,
And you grow paler. Let me leave you now.

Sir Hugh.
See me again ere you depart.

De War.
I will.

[Exit.

Scene II.

—The Garden. Olive gardening; Cuthbert clipping a Holly Tree.
[Olive sings.]

Oh, Cuthbert, I have tired so of your peacocks,
And all the rest of them; do cut us out
Some newer kind of monster.

Cuth.
That 's your way.
There 's nought can please you long; what 's good is no worse
For being old. Peacock, lion, or bear,
You 'll get nought else from me.

Ol.
Clip me a dodo,
And all my life I 'll thank you.

Cuth.
Make my garden
A scandal with unchristian things like that!
You 'll have no dodo here whilst my head aches—
No, no, not in my garden.

Ol.
Oh dear dear!
I 've dreamed about the dodo all my life.—
Then why not let this choose its own green shape,
Have its own lovely way, with bough and berry,
As other trees do?

Cuth.
Lord forgive your folly!
What, grow like the wild hollies in the wold?
Then what 's the use of gardens?

Ol.
Do you think
The bowers of Paradise were clipped like these?
[Sings.

Cuth.
Still singing, singing! Such a ceaseless worry;
As if there were not nightingales and finches,
And daws too, more than enough! By day and night
The noise goes through me.

Ol.
Are those pretty things
Grumbled at me?

Cuth.
'T was not so much amiss
When that boy, Bernard, hooted to the owls,
Until they hooted to him back again.
There was sense in that. Now I am sick of it all,
And 't is a wicked wicked world. Still climbing
Here, there, and everywhere—finding out all
The secretest caves and nooks—knew everything
Of his own head—you can't say how he learnt it—
Mostly he kept his odd thoughts to himself,—
And to end so!

Ol.
Now you have done your scolding,
What are you talking of?

Cuth.
Oh, what, you heard me?
What fool has taught you just that song, young mistress?
It mostly is forgotten in these parts.

Ol.
Who taught me? Oh, the blackbird in the elm,
That 's the sweet fool whose songs inspire my own.
I like the sad ones best, you know.

Cuth.
Ay, ay!
You have no heart, you young ones. All alike,—
Not one to mend another. Why, a child
Might have known better than to sing that song
Before me, and your father within there.

Ol.
My father? Oh, he never heeds my singing,
And you are always talking mysteries,
And always they mean nothing. Why on earth
Should I not sing that song now?

Cuth.
[Putting down his barrow.]
Mistress Olive,
Do you not know what came when last that light
Was seen in the old ruin? But you young ones,
You never think.

Ol.
How would you have me know,
When no one ever tells me anything?
But now, now you must tell me all about it.
When was that light seen? Did you see it?

Cuth.
Ay.

Ol.
What happened then?

Cuth.
You know as well as I.

Ol.
What? Oh, you mean the great storm and the shipwreck
Down yonder? Well, you know better than I,
I was not born then. But you saw the light?

Cuth.
Ay, ay, as plain as ever star in heaven,
And said to myself, “A ship will go to pieces
On those accursed rocks before the morn.”

Ol.
You must have dreamed it.

Cuth.
If you choose to think so,
It matters not to me,—oh, not a jot!

Ol.
Why have you never told me this? You have never
Talked of that night.

Cuth.
Do you think I took such pleasure
To see a ship-load of poor Christian souls
Go down in sight of land, that I should love
To chatter on 't?

Ol.
And did you see all that?
Oh, Cuthbert! see her caught in the white breakers—
Poor unknown ship? Oh me! And nothing left
To tell her name or history! Pitiless sea!
But then the prize, the great prize that it gave us,
Worth all the plunder of the Spanish Main!

Cuth.
Better the sea had kept that.

Ol.
Cuthbert, Cuthbert!
You are very wicked now. For shame! Do you know
Of whom you are speaking? What, the sea keep her,
The cold dark sea keep such a creature! What!
Do not you know she is an angel sent
In that strange way to keep misfortune from us?

Cuth.
And rarely well, forsooth, she did her business!
Let angels stay in heaven.

Ol.
What 's that you're muttering?
My Lord de Warenne says,—for once I asked him,—
No need to know from whence she came, for never
Was lady that could match her; and for beauty,
Were she beheld at court, all eyes would so
Worship her, 't would be her court, not the queen's.
No, I'll not talk to you.

Cuth.
I'm a poor man,
Yet not so ignorant but what I know
That 's almost treason. Talk of beauty! Trash!
Would she had gone to court then, and stayed there,
Since that 's her place. She brought much sorrow here.

Ol.
No, you mean happiness. Sorrow! She bring it?
You put me past all patience! How and when?
How could a baby such as that bring sorrow?
I know she came a little baby creature.
Could syllable her own name, nothing more.
How could you say that?

Cuth.
Nonsense! I say that?

Ol.
Oh yes, you did. If you would hide your thoughts,
You must not think aloud. Put down your barrow
Once more, and tell me straightway everything
I want to know. What was that terrible something
Befell ten years ago that none will speak of!
I do remember something . . . .

Cuth.
Hush, I say!

Ol.
I know poor Leolyn was found one day
Down on the white sands yonder . . . dead . . .

Cuth.
Come, come!
Enough of that.

Ol.
But I will know. How died he?
And then my mother . . . she died then, I think,
And I was brought to her bedside to kiss her.
I went unwilling, cruel little wretch!
Being much engaged in teaching of his letters,
To Druid there—oh, I remember well!

Cuth.
Poor lady! Ah, you 'll never be like her,
However long you live—no, never be
So good, nor yet so beautiful.

Ol.
I know it.
No need to tell me that. But Bernard . . . tell me,
Did he die then?

Cuth.
Die? Ay, be sure he did.
Who ever said aught else?

Ol.
Why no one ever
Says anything to me. Then did he die
After my mother?

Cuth.
What is that to you?

Ol.
I cannot make you out. How you do look!—
I guess it now. He is not dead at all!—
I am sure that he is somewhere far away:
I am sure he is not dead, though you will say so!

Cuth.
What makes you think that?

Ol.
Where is he? Oh where?
I fancy I remember he was grave
And gentle—like none else I 've ever seen—
And sometimes even now I dream of him.
Had he not blue eyes? How can you refuse
To tell me where he is?

Cuth.
No matter—dead.
Come, mistress, I have no more time to lose
Over your idle chatter—not a word
Of sense in all of it. And look you, there 's
My Lord de Warenne coming.

[Exit.
Ol.
Druid, hush!
Enter De Warenne .
Old dog, old dog! Will you ne'er know your friends?—
He does not see me, he stops short—he's lost
In one of his dark moods. Well, to my flowers then!

De War.
[musing]
Oh, Annabella! magnet of my soul!
Who, noble as thou art in innocence,
Hast power to draw me down from heaven to hell—
Who draw'st me still, as thou hast drawn for years,
To this sad house where I have vowed so oft
Never, never again to set my feet—
Whom evermore to seek, ever to shun,
Seemed my accursed destiny till death—
Can duty bid me now to win and wear
The terrible prize, the awful happiness,
The hope of which is bitter as despair?
What do I hope for? Shouldst thou smile me “yes,”
Should I not shudder, wondering why I sought it—
Regret almost this torture of suspense—
The long waste of intolerable days?
If “no,” the sudden chill of sick despair,
When all light fades, and everything seems nothing—
But I shall win—some devil tells me so.
What, Olive, you?

Ol.
Good even, my good lord.
Were you there with my father?

De War.
I have just left him.
You are a busy gardener.

Ol.
All the winter
I plan how I will play the tyrant here
Amongst my summer subjects.

De War.
Do your flowers
Know you for one of them, and talk to you
In language of their own? Where 's Annabella?

Ol.
Stay; you can hear her. She hast just begun
To dream her soul out o'er the organ yonder.
Listen! You know those slow sounds are her thoughts.
Oh, if I had her gift!

De War.
Wish yourself first
A second St. Cecilia. [To himself]
Gracious heavens!
How does her soul from where she sits unseen
Send its mysterious message out to mine!
Each angel-voiced and crowded harmony
Seems meant for me—each change of tone and theme
Each rise and fall, my heart starts up to answer
As to its own anticipated thought.
Oh! if our spirits thus in air can meet,
What law, what power, shall separate our lives?
If she will love me, 'tis the voice of God.
[Going]
Olive, your father lives too much alone.
Try you and win him to enjoy your talk,
And know the blessing that his children are.

Ol.
I have tried, my lord, and try,—but if I speak
He does not hear me, or I seem a shock
Of discord on the slow tune of his thoughts.
He smiles not when we laugh, nor asks a question
Save on grave matters.

De War.
Ah, 't is pity, truly!

Ol.
Was he thus always? Never, since you knew him,
Has he had any pleasure in his life?

De War.
No . . . he was ever silent . . . he was . . . no,
Not quite as now.

Ol.
Oh sit, my lord, beseech you!
I want to ask you something. I begin
To think of many things. Surely my father
Has lived thus chiefly since my mother's death, . . .
And all the strange things which befell just then
That none will speak of!

De War.
Oh, and why should you?

Ol.
Ah, there it is! Why, e'en old Cuthbert scolds me
If I but breathe a word—pray stay a moment!
I do so long to know. Wherefore says Cuthbert
My Annabella brought misfortune here?

De War.
She brought? . . .

Ol.
I have thought . . . did they . . . my brothers . . . love her?—
What have I said? Have I said what I should not?
Speak to me!

De War.
You have said no wrong, my Olive,
But in your ignorance you make wild guesses.
She was a child.

Ol.
What, and am I a child?
For she had just the age that I have now.

De War.
And have you lovers, then, my pretty friend?

Ol.
I want no lovers; and you say that only
To make me angry, and to stop my talking?

De War.
No, no, I did not. Pardon me, indeed
I cannot stay.

Ol.
Oh yes, you must, my lord!
For there she comes, with streaming folds of blue,
The colour, see, of purplest hyacinth,
Sweeping the steps.

De War.
What said you? Did you speak?

Enter Annabella.
An.
My Lord de Warenne, I am glad you are come.
I think Sir Hugh has longed for you.

De War.
Not more
Than I to be here.

Ol.
Hark, the nightingales!

An.
Yes; they are wakening up on all sides from
The afternoon's long trance.

De War.
They are rapturous maniacs.
How sweet the evening! Will you walk awhile?

An.
Surely. What say you, Olive?

Ol.
Make a third,
Shall I? No, I will weed this bed of lilies.
Druid shall go with you. And here comes Ulric!
Oh, how that violent boy will waste my time!
I know he comes to drag me down the glen
To his beloved cove.

Enter Ulric.
Ul.
Come, Olive, quick!
A shoal of porpoises is bounding now
Across the bay. You can see them through the limes there.
Come down with me and watch them from the beach.

Ol.
Oh, must I? Well!—But there 's my lord.

Ul.
Your pardon,
My Lord de Warenne, and good even. Come!

[Exeunt Ulric and Olive.
An.
Will you walk now, or will you rather choose
To linger here?

De War.
I think we are well thus.
You reigned just now a very queen of music,
Over a world of sounds most magical.
I followed where you led through the sweet maze,
With heart and brain submissive to your will.
It seemed as if you thought with my own soul,
Yet I seemed moving in a mystery.
What was your thought?

An.
Oh, I thought not, I dreamed.

De War.
Your dream, what was it? Reverently I ask.

An.
Such vague unconscious movements of the mind
Are scarcely worth recalling.

De War.
Your proud spirit,
Does it reject the sympathy of one
Whose heart beats with your slightest inspiration
Unconsciously in rhythm?

An.
[after a pause.]
It was a trance
Wherein I scarcely seemed to hear the sounds
That floated into space and lost themselves,
Or know their meaning, till when all had ceased,
The air seemed sighing with an invocation
To some unbodied soul astray in æther,
Some desolate wandering waif for ages lost,
Nor claimed by any world, to come to this
And find a home.

De War.
Would I had been that soul
Through all the ages of its misery,
To be so called by you. You scorn my folly—
So says that curling lip.

An.
Indeed, my lord,
Though I had lost myself in lofty nonsense
Just now, I looked not for such flights from you.

De War.
Yet tell me do you often lose yourself
In dreams so strange, such far-fetched poet-fancies?
And is that why you care for no one?

An.
Oh,
You do not think I care not, though you are pleased
To say so.

De War.
You just let yourself be loved,
And that is all.

An.
Not so, for I am grateful
To all that love me—and they are not many—
Nor care to add one to the number.

De War.
Oh,
Cold noble angel! Shall not smiles, not tears,
Shine ever on our passionate worship through
The haughty seriousness of those large eyes?
How vain to speak! How make you understand,—
How make you care to understand, I love you?

An.
I am sorry for it . . . if 't is so indeed . . .
I had long ceased to fancy this could be.

De War.
I am a fool to tell it—a mad fool!
Yet who can choke the suffering heart for ever?
No answer? Only that proud cold surprise?

An.
No; for I cannot love, and will not marry.

De War.
You cannot love, you will not marry me—
That 's what you mean.

An.
Oh, love 's not of my world.

De War.
Why not? In heaven's name, why not?

An.
Must I tell you?
But scarce should you have needed me to tell it.
Ten years ago, that mystery of horror . . .
That which I see you shrink to hear me speak of,
As I to speak . . . have made such fancies hateful,
If e'er I could have had them. Nay, my lord,
You are wrong to go in anger.

De War.
Angry! My God!
Angry with you? But can you wonder, then,
That when my heart 's refused for some sad phantom
Of girlish years gone by, the agony
Is more than it can bear? I will not plague you
With my vain passion more.

An.
It is not that—
I have no love, no dream. Over the past
A blinding pain has settled like a mist. . . .
I need not speak of that . . . only, to give
My life to this ill-fated family has seemed
The one thing possible to my lonely heart.
Not if my unknown and unguessed-of parents
All smiling from the world of visions came,
And stretched their arms to court me to a palace,
Could I for these desert my second father.
Yet stronger call could never come to me;
All other dreams seem poor beside a dream
So beautiful as that.

De War.
So deeply true—
So pitilessly cold! But if—but if—
Himself, Sir Hugh, owned for his keenest wish
That we should be united?—I speak truth,
He does desire this thing. He feels his life
Waning.

An.
It is so. I have seen it too,
His life is waning—and I am not kind
To grieve for him who grieves not.

De War.
Oh, believe me,
To bring him back his hopes and happiness . . .
To bring back all that miserable past . . .
I would . . . but no, I cannot talk of that.
Enough, I feel it may be as he thinks—
I cannot bear to think it, but at least
This let me say—he longs for this last comfort,
Though—silent, sad, and patient as he is—
He would not urge it on you. Can you give it?
Can you with me join to prepare a home,
A future, for the bright young pair you love—
For all our sakes? Oh, dare to be my wife,
And found new happiness for him, for all!

An.
He shall not, no, he shall not send me from him.

De War.
I would not take you from him—only pray you
To own a second home along with this—
So might your life pass 'twixt two happy changes.
And oh, if true love can absolve the soul
From all the sins its past has stained it with,
However deeply they may need forgiveness,
Then may I humbly dare to think mine own
Is worthy to be mated e'en with yours,
And worship you for ever. Annabella!
If I believed not this, I would lay down
This heart beneath your feet, and, while you crushed it,
Smile silent o'er the expiating torment,
Love's penitent martyr.

An.
Wherefore this, my lord?
Why this to me, who know your high deserts,
And ever honoured you?

De War.
Honoured me! Love me!
If we two loved, we could defy the world!
Alas, that I can never strike from you
That spark of passionate romance which lights
Suddenly the dark doubtful pathway up,
And sets the future all ablaze with stars!
But give me then my answer.

An.
Let me think
A moment, if a loveless heart can bear
The lifelong burden of another's love,
If such a life as I might lead beside you,
Would, if most passionless, at least be noble—
If one incapable of happiness
Could make another happy. Let me think,
And do not speak to me.

De War.
I will not breathe.
[Leaning against a tree]
Now, whilst she turns away her beautiful cheek,
Weighing my doom like a severe, just queen—
Now, can I pause to think what I am doing.
No, no—too late! One moment's flash of hope
Has dazzled all those ghastly doubts away
That stood between us—and she shall be mine.

An.
My lord!

De War.
Speak, speak! I wait!

An.
You have my promise.

De War.
I have no words . . . not one . . . to thank and bless you . . .
Never, never, never shall you repent—
And, whatsoever you may find in me,
Believe this, and this always, that I love you,
You only, with my heart and soul, for ever!

An.
And have you thought if you can be content
With such unjoyous and cold constancy?

De War.
It was too rash to hope you so would love me
That whatsoe'er I be,—however short
Of that all pure ideal I once soared to,
However sometime traitor to world-laws—
You still could prize the best, the love in me,
And pardon all the worst—too rash! Oh, dare I
E'er put it to the test? But I am raving—
It is my part to strive and win this from you,
And I will win it.

An.
I have told you all
You ever can win. Having yielded that,
Now let me beg one quiet hour to think.

De War.
What, leave you ere I quite believe this vision
That I have had a glimpse of?

An.
Yes, pray leave me,
And come again to-morrow.

De War.
Then how know I
But all will melt in air?

An.
My word is given.

De War.
And not repented of?

An.
I am not so light.
Good-night, my lord.

De War.
Good-night, if so it must be.
[Exit Annabella.
Oh, am I mad—or am I happy—which?
If she had loved me, as some women can,
Then in mine own eyes I had been absolved—
But now I seem like one that lures away
To dangerous seas, an ignorant comrade bent
But on some pleasure-voyage of an hour.
Oh for a heart to love me as I love,
To love my true self, not interpret me,
As the mistaken world interprets us,
Crudely by the mere accidents of fate!
Oh, Annabella, couldst thou but prove such!

[Exit.

Scene III.

—The Sea-cove below the Grounds of the Manor Hall. Ulric and Olive seated on the Rocks.
Ol.
I can't think why you are so rude to him.
I felt my cheeks on fire to see you so
Turn your back on him! And my lord the while
So gracious and so gentle.

Ul.
What of that?
I do not like him.

Ol.
Not like Lord de Warenne!
That 's a discovery! What has he done?

Ul.
Done? Nothing. It has grown upon me—somehow.
Well, there 's one thing that I have noted, too,
Which has escaped your eyes—where were they then?
Have you ne'er thought that he loves Annabella?

Ol.
Ulric!—well, yes, of course he loves her—who
Amongst us does not? Love her! As a lover,
Do you mean that?

Ul.
Just that. A hundred times
I 've seen him follow her with eyes intense
As Gilbert's kestrels when they watch and watch—
Not knowing or not heeding that I saw him.
He thinks me but a foolish boy, you know,
But I have guessed his secret.

Ol.
Can it be?
I do believe you are right. This evening—oh,
How lost, how strange he was, until she came!
He scarcely seemed to understand or hear me,
Broke off abruptly, asking where she was?
And when she came, he looked—

Ul.
Oh, I could kill him!

Ol.
And this is why you hate him?

Ul.
Hate him! Who
Said that I hate him? But what right has he
To think of Annabella?

Ol.
She 'll not take him.
She is too proud to marry, be you sure.

Ul.
What, not for a coronet?

Ol.
A coronet?
She 's a king's daughter, if we did but know.
Oh, Ulric, I believe she came to us
Just as some rare bird lights upon our isle,
A moment flashing all its wondrous plumes
Amongst our woodlands—then away, away,
Across strange oceans and to unknown shores,
Never more to return to this. How oft
I dream this, and I wander up and down
Through forlorn lovely landscapes of enchantment,
And look for her in vain.

Ul.
If she flew from us
I'd follow her to the uttermost parts of earth,
Like one of Arthur's errant knights of old,
And never cease till I had won my quest.

Ol.
Yes, yes, he loves her. That was why he looked
So white and awful, when I said one thing—

Ul.
What, Olive, what?

Ol.
I am ashamed to tell it.

Ul.
But tell me.

Ol.
Well, I spoke about our brothers.

Ul.
Of them? you spoke of them?

Ol.
Why should I not?
I asked if haply . . . they could both have loved her?

Ul.
How strange you thought of that! What did he say?

Ol.
Oh, scarcely anything. It was his look—
I felt that I had said a strange thing, Ulric!
There is some mystery. I am sure now
Old Cuthbert thinks that Bernard is alive.

Ul.
(after a pause).
I think so too.

Ol.
And never told me, Ulric?
Where is he then? Why did he go? What had it
To do with Leolyn's death?

Ul.
Don't talk of it,
Olive, I hate to think about it.

Ol.
You, too!
You will not tell me.

Ul.
Well, I 'll tell you this,
The time will come when I must ask my father,
Have I, or have I not, a brother living?
I wait, because I know that not once, since
He lost them, has he uttered either name;
And so I shrink from breaking in with questions.

Ol.
Do tell me more of this. When have we two
Had secrets from each other?

Ul.
No, I cannot.
I could not tell such things to any girl.

Ol.
For shame, girls are not always frightened fools!
What do you mean by “such things?”

Ul.
Things I never
Have told as yet to any one on earth,
Things that no mortal creature knows but me . . .
And that I try to put away from me,
Half-hoping I have only fancied them.
'T is only since I 've ceased to he a child
I half perceive their meaning . . . it comes out
Like an invisible ink revealed by fire . . .
And still the more I hate to think of it . . .
Ask me no more. Look there!

Ol.
Why, who can that be?

Ul.
He looks like some seafaring man, but 't is not
One of our fishermen; he has climbed the rocks
Yonder at low tide.

Ol.
How he leans and gazes
Like one entranced up the rough pathway: what
Seeks he, I wonder? Does he know our house
Stands at the head of that steep glen above him?
One might guess by the cawing of the rooks
That some old manor hall was hidden there
Behind the tall pine grove.

Ul.
I must go see
What he is like.

Ol.
But here comes our own Ella.
Enter Annabella.
And where 's my Lord de Warenne?

An.
He is gone.

Ol.
And did you come, then, here to look for us?

An.
Let me confess I had forgotten quite,
You had fluttered down before me. Truth to tell,
I have come here, hardly knowing how I came.

Ul.
[whispering to Olive].
She is thinking about him, be sure of that.

[Walks away.
Ol.
You scarcely ever come, and when you do,
You only count the waves.

An.
They fascinate me.

Ol.
This spot is such a gem! So fittingly
The blue waves fill up the white curve of sand,
And the red walls of rock on either side,
With the green glen and golden gorse between,
Make such a brightness, too, that in the dark
Even to think of it dazzles my two eyes.

Ul.
[returning].
He seems a sailor, and he looks so strange,
Somehow I scarcely like to speak to him,
Or rouse him from his thoughts by coming near.
I 'll find out all about him from the fishers.

[Exit.
Ol.
Dear Annabella, you 'll not marry him?
You will not leave us all for Lord de Warenne?

An.
But I shall be the same to you as ever.

Ol.
Then you do mean it? You do really mean it?
Ella, then will you really marry him?

An.
One day.

Ol.
Oh, Ella!

An.
But why speak as if
You hated the old friend you doated on so
No further back—and that 's but yesterday—
Than when you were the naughtiest of children?

Ol.
But when I think you are betrothed to him
It seems so different. Do you—do you love him?

An.
You ask me that just in the awe-struck voice
You used to urge me on with when I paused
In telling fairy tales; and, truth to speak,
The question suits those silly stories best.

Ol.
I do not think that I can ever bear it.
Why should there be a change? We were so happy.
If I should tell you what I think of it,
You would laugh at me again. No chivalry—
Nothing romantic—nothing wonderful—
Of course I never shall wed any one,
But if I did—of course I do not mean to—
It should be some one from afar, some stranger
Suddenly lighted at our gates, half knight,
Half angel, dropped amongst us from the skies.
But as for you . . . Just tell me one thing, Ella.
Will you be angry with me?

An.
What new question?
I fear, no wiser than the last.

Ol.
I wish
You had loved some one else. If, now—if, now,
Suddenly Bernard should return amongst us . . .

An.
Do not go on with that.

Ol.
May I not, Ella?
Will you not tell me if he still is living?

An.
I know not. No one knows.

Ol.
What do you think?

An.
That he is dead. What can this be to you?
To you he can be but a faintest painting
On childhood's blotted, confused memory;
No more than one you have read of in a book.
But I had grown to feel them both my brothers,
And therefore every time I speak their names,
'T is like a blood-drop wrung out of my heart.
[Starting up.
Oh, no! I cannot, will not, bear this spot!

Ol.
Forgive me, Ella! Let us come away.

An.
[kissing her].
Poor baby! But I was not angry with you.

[Exeunt Annabella and Olive.

Scene IV.

—The Library. Sir Hugh seated; Annabella kneeling before him on a Footstool.
An.
You do—you do approve, then?

Sir Hugh.
Truly so.

An.
You are glad?

Sir Hugh.
I am glad. 'T will be to me
One pleasant thought 'twined like a golden thread
In the grey fabric of my life.

An.
Oh, then,
I am glad too—I have done well—I have not
Lived quite in vain.

Sir Hugh.
The friend so true to me,
Will in due time to you—and you will love him—
Be as the strong sheet-anchor of your soul;
Whilst she, whose erring trust has worn in sunder,
Shall find herself one day with sad surprise,
Drifting away upon a cheerless sea,
To mourn such freedom, and to love no more.
That 's an old truth, I know.

An.
Yes, but old truths
Flash sometimes back on us with startling newness.
You are so tired—may I stay and read to you?
Yes, let me read Chaucer, or Fairy-queen,
Or the dear tale of Arthur and his knights?

Sir Hugh.
Not now, my child, not now—I have much to do,
And for hours yet to come—good night.

An.
Good night, then . . . .
I am dearly glad that I have pleased you so.

[Exit.