University of Virginia Library

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.