University of Virginia Library

ACT FOURTH.

SCENE I.

A Cottage.
Caroline, Esther.
Est.
At length the anxious moments are outrun;
There comes our youth, with slow and sullen pace,
Switching the ling with's staff, and ambling so
As if he had forgot his thought behind him,
And walk'd from instinct—He is much unlike
Love's messenger, with tidings of success.

Car.
Do you receive him, Esther; my weak heart
Is all so tremblingly alive and full,
I will retire a moment, and give vent
To feelings hitherto unknown to me.
Receive him, Esther, and converse with him,
I will return anon.

(Exit.)
Enter Cubbin.
Est.
Well, Cubbin, hast thou seen Sir Anthony,
And given my letter?

Cub.
Yes.

Est.
How look'd he?—How was he affected by it?

Cub.
Most wickedly affected.

Est.
I'm glad of that.

Cub.
Glad!—O, here's a carline for you!
Does it rejoice thee so that men go mad?

Est.
What message does he send?

Cub.
None.

Est.
None!

Cub.
No, none that's known to me.

Est.
What did he say?—How look'd he?—Tell me all.

Cub.
Yes—First, then, he look'd most like a madman;
And what he said was so confused and contrary,
I could not eke't to sense—See, I will shew you
Pat how he look'd and spoke—He oped the letter.
“Ah, wretch!” said he, “what's this?—I'll run! I'll fly!
Get me my steed—Holla!—Get me a steed!
Speed the caparison.” With that there came
A gruff and stately knight, with aspect deep,
And link'd his arm in his, leading him off
Into a chamber—Short time did I wait
Ere he return'd, and strode athwart the floor,
Fuming and uttering incoherent stuff
Of fruit-ladders and windows—Then he said,
“So thou keep'st common women at thy house,
And runn'st their errands too—Is it not so?
Are they not common women?”

Est.
And, booby, what said'st thou to that?

Cub.
I said, yes.
Then he gave me this letter.
“Go back to them,” said he, “go back to them;
Give her that sent you, this,” which thus I do.
Then with a laugh, like gaoler in his sleep,
He strode away, and more of him I saw not.

Est.
Oh my foreboding heart!—I like it not.
All, all depends on this—Oh Caroline!
Come in, love Caroline, and read our fate,
If it be joy, or misery condign.

Re-enter Caroline, who takes the letter.
Car.
It is his hand and seal—Leave us, good Cubbin.
(Kissing the letter.)
Bless his kind heart!—But yet he might have been
Here ere this time himself.

(She opens the letter—becomes still as a statue, and lets the letter fall.)
Est.
Ha! is it so indeed?—Is there on earth
A monster can desert thee, Caroline,
In such a plight?
(Lifts the letter and looks at it.)
O beast!—O ruffian!—If a voice from heaven
Had spoke and said that such a man did live,
I'd not have trow'd it.—Ah, if he but knew
The value of the heart that he is breaking!—
Yet, yet he could not do't, fiend as he is!

(Reads.)
“Madam—My conduct, regarded as
cruel, is not once to be set in comparison with
that the Cecils have done to me. Our marriage
was a sham, a mere trick of love, which I hope

you have sense and spirit enough to forgive. I'll
have no wiving—if you list to follow the camp in
another light, the credit be yours.—The prior
claims of my friend may haply be relinquished.—
I know you well enough.

“Anthony Moore.”

O might I once but conjure up the fiends
Of vengeance at my instance!—Ye dark powers,
From your eternal portals of despair,
Rise on your baleful wings with gleesome speed
To your well-earned prey—and, first of all,
Inspire my tongue to curse him in the name
Of all the saints that influence the Godhead.
No—I'll not spend a single curse upon him;
For he has that already in his heart
Shall burn unquenchable, while earthly mould
Mures his devoted soul—Ay, and while last
The vital yearnings of the heaven-born mind,
And that they say's long, long.—Cheer thee, my love,
And teach thy heart such baseness to despise.

Car.
O Esther, make my bed—and make it dark;
Shut out that light that moves the busy world,
And all the din of nature—shut them from me,
Kind Esther!—make my bed and make it soft,
For I would fain go sleep.

Est.
No crime is thine,
Dear injured angel! thou may'st sleep in peace
With heaven, with thy own heart, and all mankind.

Car.
Nay, do not weep for me—See, I weep none;
But haste and make my bed, for oh, I long
To lay my head upon its rush-wove pillow,
And deeply, soundly sleep.

SCENE II.

Jasper, Kate—To them enter Esther.
Est.
Good dame, my poor young friend is gone to sleep,
Much indisposed, I fear—watch how she rests,
While I for one hour seek yon lonely dell
To ponder and to weep.—Dame, our last stay,
The only rest to which we lean'd is broke,
And left us gall'd and wounded—now we are
Most wretched—For the love of gracious heaven,
Good dame, look to my friend.
(Exit Esther.)

Kate.
Husband, you're a wise man—
I seldom, in the run, have ever found you
Far out in estimate of man or woman.
Now I bethink me of your honest fears.
'Tis meet we pack these women to the door,
And let them shift as we do, for themselves.

Jas.
Ah, Kate!—Ah, Kate! it was not then, I fear,
For love of heaven, or pure benevolence,
You took these hapless wanderers to your home;
But some mean selfish motive—Trust me, Kate,
You'll never win heaven by such a game as that.

Kate.
But then, say they are wicked creatures, husband,
As wisely you suggested?—Think of that—
And then cast-off too!—Pray let them be going.

Jas.
That case I leave to Him who knows the heart
And secret ways of men—thus much I know,
That they are wretched, that is plea enough—
Nor will I turn them hence while I have bread,
And household-room to share with them.

Kate.
O yes—I see how the land lies—the young one,
You have some hankering there—I see, I see!

Jas.
Go!—You're a weak old woman!—Well, I'll go
And tend on her myself.

Kate.
Nay, with your leave,
One step you go not there—But that you lack
All sense of honour and propriety,
You would not proffer—

Jas.
Then may I trust that you'll be kind to her?

Kate.
Certes I will, since 'tis my husband's wish,
I will be kind as if she were my own.

Jas.
That's my good Kate—God bless thee, my old wife!
If she is sick, thou hast a blessed cordial,
Which often sooth'd our pains in soft oblivion,
When we were all so ill—Give her of that:
None can administer that drug so well,
For none so oft as you hath proved its power.

Kate.
No more—my heart is now all bent on kindness.

SCENE III.

The interior of a Cottage.—A flock-bed at the farther end.
Caroline—To her enter Kate softly.
Kate.
I fear'd to wake you, but I see you're up;
I hope you are not ill.

Car.
I am not sick,
Only a kind of drowsiness hangs on me,
And yet I cannot sleep.—I should be well
Could I but sleep one hour—Is there no balm,
No elixir to sooth the aching sense
In deep forgetfulness a little while?

Kate.
Of all the ailments that beset our nature
In virulent array, and stint the alms
Of niggard happiness, there is not one
I can so well gainsay—I have a drug,
Sent from afar, when we were visited
By grievous sickness—One small drop of it
Will bring the boon you ask—A night, or day,
Will so o'erpass in downy dancing slumber,
You shall not miss it—It will make you dream
Of thousand garish freaks, all unconnected;
Two drops will lull you deeper, and your dream
Will be far-fetch'd and regular—But three,
Three drops, not bigger than the tear that hangs
On a young eye-lash, will o'erpower all motion
Of fancy or of frame; and one whole day
Outslept, shall only as a moment seem;
But all beyond is death—Shall I bring you that?
Or dare you trust my hand to pour it for you?

Car.
Bring it, good dame.
(Exit Kate.)
O how I long for it!
If I could cease to think, why I might wake;
But nature is so changed unto mine eye,
That I must either learn to think anew,
Or not at all.—I cannot think of mankind,
Therefore I'll sleep and dream of them.
Re-enter Kate with a cup, vial, and water.
Give me it, dame, I'll drop it for myself.

Kate.
I'll watch you then, and if you are not cautious,
One drop you shall not swallow.

Car.
I'll take but one,
It is enough for me—I long to dream
Of things my mind is used to—I have dream'd
So long on them that fancy cannot frame
Or image aught that grows not on one base.

Kate.
You're over cautious—two such other drops
Will more effective prove—trust me, they would.

Car.
One is enough—I'll take no more of it.
Let nought disturb me—let me neither hear,
Nor see, nor feel, for one short hour or two.

Kate.
Since I perceive thee timid of thy life,
Even to a fault, I will this cordial leave—
If you prove sickly—if that still you feel
Feverish and restless, two small drops will bring
Most blissful rest—peace to thy heart a while.
(Exit Kate.)

Car.
(Pause.)

Enter Esther, George, Kate, Jasper.
Est.
Pardon, dear lady; here comes one whose love
And care brooks not delay.

Geo.
O, my dear sister, do I find thee thus,
An outcast and forsaken!—My heart bleeds
To see thee in this guise, my Caroline.

Car.
Art thou so kind to seek me?—I scarce deem'd
That any heart beat with regret or love
For poor forsaken Caroline.

Geo.
Alas!
Our house has been one scene of dark despair
From that sad hour you left it.—Our old sire
Is sinking underneath a load of grief,
Even to the gates of death.—His rage is gone,
Subsided to a soft depressive woe
That vents itself in sighs and bitter tears
For thee his darling.—Trust me, Caroline,
Thy presence, and thy ever-loved embrace,
Would now delight his soul far more than all
The bliss that proud ambition e'er did yield.
I've sought thee out with joy, to bear thee back
To thy paternal home.

Car.
It is too late!
Back to my father's house I ne'er return.
There is but one home now can hide my shame,
And soon I will be there.—O, my dear brother,
The hand of death is on me!—My heart's broke.
Before that sun that journies down the west
Hath reach'd the line of yon extended waste,
I shall be in the walks of mortal life,
As I had never been.

Geo.
Thou say'st that word
With such a mein, and such a voice, that I
Am moved with horror.

Car.
Be not moved, my brother.
See I am calm as is the setting eve
Of a spring day, fit emblem of my fate!
Thou know'st how well I loved the setting sun;
And I could wish to live one other hour
To see that sight again—But it is o'er!
Even but last night, full of blithe hope and joy,
I saw him in his rubied glory burn
Across the golden windows of the west,
And lean his glowing cheek upon the moor
As if to set its darken'd bulk on flame;
And I rejoiced, yet wept, I knew not why.
I did not ween it was the last time I
Should ever see that scene—He'll set to-night,
And through that lattice pour his ruddy beam,
But not on me!—Or only on the dust
That late was Caroline.

Geo.
Let not thy grief
O'erpower thy reason, sister; thou shalt live,
Long long and happy.

Car.
(Taking his hand.)
Fare thee well, my brother.
I feel the grasp of death; I lay me down
Upon that bed to rise no more.—I have
One little boon to ask—To save my memory
From brand I cannot name, let me be laid
In Moore's own tomb—it is my last request
Of him to whom my sacred vow was pledged
Before high Heaven.

Geo.
O, every wish which thy loved lips can frame,
I hold as sacred.

Car.
Come thou near me, Esther.
Thou hast been true to me; farewell, dear Esther.
When thou shalt fit the dead-clothes on this form,
Which thou hast oft embraced, let it be deck'd
In all my bridal robes—they're bootless now,
None after me must wear them—promise this.

Est.
O! I can promise nought, nor aught perform,
My feelings all are there—and if thou diest,
I shall not stay behind.

Car.
(Heavily.)
My tie to nature's broke—Jasper—good dame,
Give me your hands—Remember them, my brother,
And give me one last kiss—for when I lie
Down on that bed, I speak no more.

(They embrace—Caroline stretches herself on the bed, and sinks asleep—Pause.)
Geo.
Is this illusion?—No—you all behold it,
And are amazed as I am.—Caroline!
O, my loved sister, lift those eyes again,
And speak to me!

(She stretches forth her hand feebly, they all embrace it—it lies still on the bed till they lift it to her side.)
Jas.
O let us cry aloud to Heaven, for now
There is but one that can restore her to us.

Kate.
Hold, hold. Or if you pray, pray for the dead.
She breathes no more—Oft have I look'd on death,
And dreaded it till now; but such a sight
I never thought to see.—O, 'tis most strange!
As calmly hath she enter'd death's domain
As child when rock'd to slumber. Give us leave
Few minutes, till we lay the lifeless form
In decent guise, then bring our neighbours in,
And let us join and sing the hymn of death.

(Exeunt Jasper and George.)
(Scene closes—after a minute or two, an Hymn is sung within.)