University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

A Room in a Country House.
Gemel, Martha.
Mar.
How is it with thee, son? Tell me thy ail.
Somewhat preys deeply on thy mind and health;
Tell it thy mother; all that thee concerns
Concerns her more.—Has thy beloved maid
Discarded thee?—Thou answer'st not to that!—
I see it all!—I see it!—Ah, my son!
Thou little know'st of women!—think not of it.
It is our way; whene'er we take offence
We love the most—Think not of that, my son.

Gem.
My Gelon is all purity and truth,
But she must ne'er be mine.—Consider well,
And tell me once again, what is mine age?

Mar.
I told thee—Twenty-three—Why dost thou start?

Gem.
Already twenty-three!—Sure thou mistakest!
Thy reckoning hath outrun the march of time
For one full year at least—I know it has—
Say one year less, and I will bless thee, mother.
Sit down, and state to me the year, the day.

Mar.
That can I well, for well may I remember!
It was that year the Kerrs and Turnbulls rode:
Thy father join'd them—Ah! that was a year
That I shall ne'er in life forget!—It was
A bloody, a severe, and stormy one!
The sheep fell down with hunger—for the snow
Lay till the suns of April master'd it.
The shepherds of the dale gather'd their dead,
And built them up for shelters to the living:
But all could nought avail!—That was a year
Not soon to be forgot!—I nursed thee then
On my young breast, and sore perplex'd I was,
Not knowing how to guide thee—When I woke
I found thee often roll'd aside, and lying
Like little chubby snow-ball, sound asleep.
But nought could hurt thee—such a healthy boy,
Or happy little elf, I ne'er beheld:
When I awoke thee, thou would'st crow and smile,
And pat my bosom with thy little hand
Cold as an icicle. O how my heart
Yearn'd over thee, and clung to thee!—Who knows
A mother's joys who has not been a mother!

Gem.
Is that aught to the question which I put?

Mar.
That was thy native year.—Now for the day—
No, not the day—the night, I should have said;
It was by night,—a Sabbath-night it was,—
The week before the king came o'er the water—
Aye, I remember well!—Thou art, my son,
To-morrow morn, three-quarters of an hour
Before the cock crow—twenty years—and four.

Gem.
(Starting up, and greatly agitated.)
O God of heaven, so soon!—Then I am gone!—
Yes, I must leave thee, mother, ere that time!
I saw it with my eyes in characters
Of deadly whiteness, “AGED TWENTY-THREE.”

Mar.
What dost thou mean? and whither goest thou?
Unsay that word; for, if thou leavest me, Gemel,
Thou seal'st thy parent's doom.

Gem.
It is too true.—That I must go, I know;
But whither I know not.—All that thou seest
Of me will not go far; a lowly home
Hard by will be my dwelling.—Woe is me!
Oh I am sick at heart!

Mar.
If these thy words
Have any meaning, I perceive it not.
Speak to me, Gemel; say some cheering word,
For all my blood runs cold.

Gem.
Then well may mine!
Oh that I could unknow it!—that I could
Close up the hideous chasm which I have made
Through the unbless'd and ever-folding shroud
That veils the terrors of futurity!
Then might I hope even to the last, and meet
Death all unaw'd, and step from this existence
Into another, scarce discerning it.
But thus to know it—thus to be assured
That ere another night is overpast
I must lay down this warm and feeling frame,
And be something I know not!—To give up all
The joys of life, and love, which never man
Held in such estimate!—To know all this,
Inflicts a death-pang every moment, till
The weary heart, o'ercome with sufferance,
Longs for the appointed hour that brings it rest,
Or change of feeling, never to change more.
And my poor Gelon, I must leave her too,
All loving as she is!—And thee, my mother,
Helpless and unprotected, here alone!

Mar.
Talk'st thou of death, and that so seriously?
This is some dream or frenzy; thou art well,
Or slightly indisposed.—O, my loved son,
No more of such illusions let me hear.

Gem.
Oh, it is seal'd and register'd beneath,
As well as in the heaven—so it would seem!
I'm not more certain that I live and breathe,
And speak to you, than that to-morrow night,
Before the eastern star, by shepherds named
The Counter of the Sky, hath gained the cope,
The zenith of the middle heaven, I shall
Be lying low indeed!—This conscious frame,
So full of keen sensation, that the sting
Of insect can molest it, all unbraced
And torpid, shall be stretch'd—If I not knew,
Why it is naught;—but the poor criminal,
All hopeless of reprieve, is not more cast
And wretched than am I.—Death still is death;
The manner of that death to him assured
Avails but little.

Mar.
But here comes one will charm thee back to life,
And drive that sullen boding mood away.
Enter Gelon.
Welcome, dear Gelon, we have need of thee;
Thy Gemel's mind is sore disturb'd, but thou
Bring'st ever with thee cure for all his ails.

Gem.
Welcome, dear Gelon.—True, my mind is sad,
But to that sadness thou add'st grievously.

Gel.
Dost thou already know that we must part?

Gem.
Alas, too well! It is decreed, my Gelon.

Gel.
Deem'st thou that heaven is kind in this?—I could
Yield all the earth beside for love of thee;
And yet must give thee up.—

Gem.
Do not repine,
'Tis vain to strive against the will of heaven,—
What is ordain'd, must, and will come to pass.

Gel.
I came to warn thee of our hapless lot;
It glads me that thou know'st and art resign'd.
Why grow'st thou paler?—I may not remain,
Else our meek acquiescence all will fly,
And we shall vainly war with Providence.
Adieu, my Gemel,—fate may sever us,
But ne'er shall drive thy image from my heart.
This is the last embrace we may indulge.
Adieu, my Gemel!
(Exit Gelon.)

Gem.
Yes, it is the last!
And she, too, knows of it!—my doom is public,
As his who dies for treason!—That dear maid
Grieves me the most of all—When I am gone,
Regard her as thine own.

Mar.
You both are mad,
Or else possess'd by some wild witchery!
The Women of the Linn have hand in this;
I'll send for them.

Gem.
If e'er within this door
One of these hags set foot—My doom is fix'd!
I'll go and pray—be not far off, my mother.
(Exit Gemel.)

Mar.
What shall I do? these women have the power
Of wreaking ill on us beyond belief;
Either I must bribe well, and brave high heaven,
Or take the cause of heaven and outbrave hell.
In both there's danger!—Would that they were cross'd,
Or to deserved punishment given up,
Then might we live unscathed, and void of dread!
My poor unhappy boy by some mishap
Hath come within their power, and who can tell
Where such wild fantasies and fears may end!