 | The Profligate Princess |  |
133
ACT FOURTH.
SCENE I.
The Hall, as before, in Drummond Castle.Enter Lady Drummond and Sir John Drummond.
L. Drum.
What news, Sir John? have you recover'd her;
Or learn'd aught of her route?
Drum.
No, nothing:—she is lost; our child is lost!
L. Drum.
Is this to be accounted for, Sir John?
Drum.
Each pass that leads from hence is search'd in vain.
No trace, no word of her!—I sorely dread,
And tremble while I think of it, that she
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For well I know that spirits were abroad
That awful night.
L. Drum.
What said old Merlin?
Drum.
Oh, name him not!—It makes my heart turn cold!
I would not witness such another scene
For all this world.
L. Drum.
What did you see?
Drum.
I saw and felt malignant spirits' power:
A light old book grew heavier than a rock;
Low voices moan'd within it; beings ran
Vengeful around me. My good steed they scared
A thousand times; drove him o'er steep, o'er crag,
In lake, in fen. They titter'd in my ears,
And scatter'd burning sulphur in my path.
I yielded up the prize;—a prize by which
I might have moved the world—but not before
All the wild spirits round the mundane sphere,
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Were in commotion. That rash deed of mine
Hath given them power over my Annabel.
Now all my hope in this vain world is lost;
And I'll go mourning to the grave for her.
Enter Sir Ronald wounded, leading, Annabel.
Ron.
There is your daughter, knight: I've rescued her,
At peril of my life, and house's peace,
From foul and woful infamy.
Drum.
(Embracing.)
My Annabel! have I recover'd thee?
And do I see thee good and pure as ever?
Anna.
Thou dost; but thank this brave and generous knight:
To him I owe my all. O thou said'st truly:—
I've been deceived, betray'd!—vilely betray'd!
Hence ne'er let maiden trust to her own heart,
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Man's the best judge of man.
Drum.
How happ'd all this, my daughter?
Anna.
I have been much to blame; but I have suffer'd;
Yes, I have suffer'd much, since I was borne,
Not half-consenting, from thy guardian tower.
Warn'd by a page, this valiant knight pursued
Our route, and found me in extremity.
O, virtue has an awe with it!—They shrunk
Before his blade, and yielded me to him,
With scowling eyes and many a sullen curse.
While I've been in his power, O he has used me
With such kind love, such honour and respect,
Even as thou would'st have done thyself, my father!
Drum.
O generous, good Sir Ronald! More we owe
To thee than all our worth can e'er repay.
Ron.
Thou can'st repay me well. There is one boon,
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And rage of those I have offended.
Drum.
Then name it, and command it.
Ron.
The hand of Annabel in holy wedlock.
Drum.
O that afflicts me! Wilt thou not reveal
Thy own true name and lineage?
Ron.
I'm bound by laws of knighthood for a time
Not to reveal it. Trust thou to my honour:
Give me that maiden; thou shalt not repent it.
Drum.
Dost thou love him, my Annabel?
Anna.
I cannot answer you in that.
Drum.
Not love the man who saved you?
Anna.
If it was love I bore for Lord Kilmorack,
I cherish it no more. But this brave knight
I do respect as I do thee, my father;
But that respect is mellow'd by a ray
Of soft esteem—'tis sweeter far than love:—
That love I felt, yet dreaded.
Drum.
And will you be his bride, my daughter?
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(Agitated.)
Pray, not just now: Forbear to ask;—
I would not be another's: But I plead
A short reprieve; and if you should request me—
Drum.
Then take her, knight: I'll trust thy we tried honour
With that which I hold dearest under heaven.
(Joining their hands.
Ron.
This night a priest shall make us one by marriage,
Then hie we all to Lithgow. I'll prepare
My friends and sovereign to receive my fair
As my true wedded spouse, which shall preclude
All intervention or remonstrance.
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SCENE II.
A Grove near Crawford Castle.Enter Badenoch.
Bad.
I shall grow weary of this froward dame:
Though fair her form as woman's form may be,
She has no heart, no sympathy of feeling,
In pleasure or in pain, beyond mere pride.
All things are made for her, and she for no one!
Ah, how unlike poor Elen!—No reflections;
They wont pass current here;—Away with them!
Here's the old friar who came last night: I'll wreak
Some vengeance on him, for I loathe a priest.—
How now, old greybeard? thou lookest wondrous wise:
If I may be so free, what seek'st thou here?
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Friar.
I heard of Crawford's most mysterious loss:
He was my friend, and my best benefactor;
And I came here to shrive his lovely dame,
And give her comfort.
Bad.
Shrive her sure thou mayest:
'Twill be a grateful task; a sweet, sweet task!
But such a comforter, for such a dame,
Is a shrewd fancy.—Think'st thou not that I
May comfort her as well?
Friar.
Thy talk's unmeet.
I know thee not, sir knight; but this I know,
The dame is virtuous as she's beautiful;
And no familiar converse e'er will hold
With such a thing as thee.
Bad.
Yes; thou art wise, and know'st a woman's mind;
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She has no violent passions—no desires
Of change, new-lighted flame, or adulation!
O, it becomes thee well to talk of women!
Old licenser, I tell thee, when thou shrivest
This lovely dame, I know thy frigid blood
Has so much fire remaining, as will urge thee
To press, of amorous sins a full narration.
Then shalt thou learn what holy cheering comforts
This dame hath had of me.
Friar.
I've heard there were such men, who loved to boast
Of favours from the sex they ne'er received;
But till this instant I did deem it false,
A libel on our manhood:—'Tis so mean,
And hath in't marks so diabolical!
Bad.
Say one had tasted of those precious favours,
Nay, feasted to satiety;—were't best
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Or tell the honest truth?
Friar.
Woman is fallible; but her kind heart
Is feeling and repentant. He that can
First take advantage of her yielding nature,
And then expose it, is a wretch, a fiend!
A woman's fame's her all; and he that blasts it
Is charter'd in damnation.
Bad.
What! thou grow'st warm, old dotard? Darest thou say
That I'm a baffled boaster, and a liar?
Friar.
Would I were sure of heaven's eternal bliss
As I am of thy falsehood: 'Tis sheer vanity,
Or downright hellish spite for suit denied.
Bad.
Woman's denial I have not yet proved:
'Tis pity thou art blind, and canst not see
The sexes as they are, and as become them.
When falls the evening we shall meet to hold
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For I should like of all things thou wert nigh;
'Twill please thee much.—From that thick yew thou mayest
See us, yet rest unseen. Will't please thee come?
Friar.
Thou art a wondrous man!—May I believe
That thou so soon could'st win her to thy love?
Such matchless beauty and unstain'd regard?
It is impossible! Thou'rt a mere braggart.
Bad.
Will't please thee come?
Friar.
Haply I may, to prove how false thou art.
Bad.
I see her coming, and I list not stay
To hear her vague conceits; they're tiresome to me.
Watch here a few hours hence: 'twill do thee good
To witness happiness thou ne'er enjoy'd.
(Exit Badenoch.)
Friar.
God grant that such unrighteous bliss as thine
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As thou hast drunk, be lifted to my lips!
Vice, cherish'd in thy youth, has onward grown,
Till ripen'd to the last depravity.
Nought thou enjoyest, save glorying in thy shame;
Or, like the vengeful reprobates from heaven,
Enticing others to partake thy guilt.
Alas! 'tis all too true! Matilda's false!
False as the foulest fiend! Well, it is meet
I should be certified; then my revenge
Shall have free vent, and riot in their blood.
Here comes that beauteous, most unhappy woman!
Enter Matilda, musing.
Mat.
Should he return, my ruin is assured.
I've gone too far to wish for his return.—
I would I had not, for it lessens me
In my own estimation,—even the show
Of love and secrecy I have constrain'd
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The earldom to retain.—O, that I could
Find out the unblemish'd truth, if my brave lord
Was foully slain by him: Ah, how I shrink
At such revolting thought!—Here's the old friar!
These holy men know much; and they are close
In family secrets and in woman's faults.
I'll talk with him.—Come hither, reverend father;
Thou'st heard of my late loss.
Friar.
Yes, and it grieves me:
Lord Crawford was my friend and great protector;
But this brave stranger will protect your youth
Till your own lord return.
Mat.
He'll ne'er return:
Good friar, I am privately assured
One gave him his death wound: He'll ne'er return.
Friar.
One gave him his death wound! He'll ne'er return!
How happ'd it then the body was not found?—
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Tell me, sweet lady, is this lord respectful?
Does he aspire unto your love and bed?
For if he does, and be of equal rank,
Trust me, he's a more proper man than Crawford.
Mat.
Yes, he does love—But, list to me, good friar,
And note thy ignorance:—This gay gallant,
In manly courage, generosity,
Truth, sympathy, and singleness of heart;
Yea, every virtue that ennobles man,
Sinks farther under my late noble lord
Than that rank weed beneath the sovereign oak.
Friar.
(Aside.)
Do I indeed hear this from my Matilda?
I'll kiss the very dust on which she treads!
She has been much abused.
Mat.
What moves thee, sire?
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My heart has wrong'd thee; and it moves me much
To hear thee talk thus of my benefactor.
Thou art abused—Lord Crawford is not slain,
But gone on secret pilgrimage, and will
Return to you anon.
Mat.
Return!—Ah, were it so! Nay, hold;
If you repeat that word 'twill drive me mad!
Friar.
(Aside.)
How's this? O, patience, keep subordinate;
The character I bear no passion brooks.
Mat.
But 'tis impossible: His rival told me
He gave him his death wound—He can't return:
No, he can never return. Would I knew all!
Friar.
(Aside, much agitated.)
O, thou eternal Spirit, who pervadest
The minds of all that live, give me to learn
The adverse workings of this woman's breast!
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What mean'st thou, reverend father? thou look'st wild,
And mutterest to the winds!
Friar.
Lady, thou know'st
I am thy servant, thy devoted slave;
Tell me the secret workings of thy heart,
And I'll assist thee, be there danger, death,
Shame, and reproach of privilege in the office.
Mat.
(Musing.)
No; he can never return!—That's absolute.
Friar.
Might I presume to judge, I would suppose
Thou hast already given thy hand and heart
To this young stranger.
Mat.
I have given him more than—
My hand to him, that once was Crawford's!
No; I detest him! But he is no stranger.
Friar.
More!—More!—No stranger? you then knew him
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Mat.
Too well!—we grew together in the court,
And loved in youth: He is of royal blood;
The prince next to the crown.—Return!
Gone on a pilgrimage!—Thou hast appall'd
My heart, old friar.—I'll go seek the prince,
And ask him farther of it.
(Exit Matilda.)
Friar.
They loved in youth!—More!—She has given him more!—
Than what?—Her speech is most ambiguous;
And yet she loathes him!—'Tis a candid picture
Of appetite depraved, and vice in cloyment.
Who would have ween'd that beauteous angel form,
So young in being, yet so old in crime?
O woman, woman! if that vanity,
And love of state, inherent in thy nature,
Remain unalter'd in the world to come,
Then may malignant spirits, with the breath
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Lure thee from out the bowers of paradise
Into the abodes of woe!—Of royal blood!
The prince next to the crown!—I might have known it
By his effrontery and licentiousness.
O shame! that those in stations dignified,
Who stand as patterns to be copied forth
By rank to rank succeeding, thus should stain
The annals of our land, by open violence
Of every precept that enlinks mankind,
And marks the bounds of honour and of shame!
Misrule, so palpable and so unvarnish'd,
Makes one to doubt of Heaven's supremacy,
And wrangle with his Maker.—'Tis even said
There are some lords, who, for the fattening smile
Of royal favour, and the fees of office,
Will deign to lay aside the galling helm
Of honour from their brows; and they will feast,
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Perdition on such wretched parasites!
When Crawford stoops to this, may his proud name
Be blotted from the rolls of chivalry.
Yes; I will read to them, if prince or peer
Dares trifle with the honour of my house:
Down with him to the pit—
Enter the Shepherd with his plaid and staff, as formerly. He comes close to the Friar, who is stooping, and looks curiously into his face.
Shep.
What ails thee, sire?—Thou'rt in a grievous passion;
Cursing and swearing too, which is unseemly,
But chiefly in an old man and a priest.
Friar.
Pray, follow out the business thou'rt upon,
And don't distract my meditations thus.
Shep.
Sire, no offence; I meant none, on my soul;
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I deem'd it friendly to divert your thoughts
To something more befitting your grey hairs,
Your life of sufferance and most mild vocation.
Friar.
What is your business here, young man?
Shep.
'Tis well remember'd.—I am come in search
Of a poor damsel, whom mishap hath rest
Of her true mind.—She had been raving much
Of this same castle;—of its dame;—and one
Who robb'd her of her all.—Escaped o'er night,
Her steps I this way traced, and she was seen
Enter this glen. Have you observed her, sire?
Friar.
I saw a beauteous country maiden stand
Upon the margin of yon rippling stream,
In strange fantastic mood, most pitiable.
Her fading cheek was on her shoulder lean'd;
Her lips just parted, and her full blue eyes
Were bent inquisitive into the air,
Where nought was to be seen: Yet she there saw
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For still more fix'd and curious grew her look,
Till, by degrees, her hand stole from her breast,
Where it was placed, as with intent to hold
The trembling heart within its citadel,
Moved imperceptibly into the air,
Till it was pointed at the very aim
On which her eye was bent.—Then all at once
She pull'd a flower, and steep'd it in the brook;
Washing her fair hands with such frantic haste
As if the water of the stream were boiling.
She's not far hence; we'll seek her conjunctly.
(Exeunt.)
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SCENE III.
Another part of the Glen.Enter Elenor in a fantastic russet dress, carrying some flowers; she looks ruefully upward, and motions as with intent of extinguishing a light.
Elen.
Will none take pity on me, and put out
That little lamp, or turn it to one side?
Wilt thou not do it? Were't in other point
Than just the zenith, I could bear with it;
But there it burns, and burns, and burns,
And my poor head burns with it!
Who hung it there, or how it comes suspended
So close above my head, I cannot learn;
But it torments me. Oh, sway it aside
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Yet none will do it!—Yes, I know thou wilt;
For thou art kind,—kind,—kind,—kind!—
Now,—now,—now,—now,—now;—
Uh!—uh!—uh!—There it is off.
Now I am well;—quite well!—O, what a weight
Is from my heart! 'Tis light,—light!
(Laughs feebly and franticly—It dwindles to a kind of crying—Comes forward, and sits down in a feeble convulsion of laughter.)
I cannot help laughing at the conceit of the poppy
being a lord. It was so like!—
(Laughs, and selects
a daisy.)
It was in hard circumstances the little
virgin flower, for it had no one to defend or protect
it.—It said, no; and the tear was in its eye.—
What could it do more, when it said no, no, to the
last? And it wept too.
(Weeps.)
—Then it laid down
its head, and died!
(Weeping and sobbing.)
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Shep.
Elen!—Why sit'st thou weeping here alone
Over a faded flower?
Elen.
Dost thou not see
How all the virgin gold within its bosom
Is stolen away; and all the blushy hues
That tinged its cheek? O, I must weep for it!
Friar.
Kind heaven restore her! She's a gentle dame.
And is't all true that thou hast said of her?
Seduced, maltreated, spurn'd away indignant
For a new flame! Her father foully murder'd!
Shep.
All by this upstart lord, who governs here.
O sire, hast thou no influence with heaven,
Whose justice stands arraign'd by such misdeeds?
Canst thou not bring the forked bolt adown,
Or make the earth to ope her furnaced jaws,
And gorge him to the centre?
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No; but I've power on earth that soon shall make
His guilt fall triple on his dastard head.
Enter Badenoch, who turns aside and speaks.
Bad.
A maiden all distract! and the bold hind
Who saw old March's death!—If aught on earth
Could mar my pleasures, it would be his face.
It shall not!—Clown, who brought that creature here?
I list not that such maniacs thus should haunt
My private walks. Go, take her hence, I say.
Shep.
Dost thou not know this creature, sir?
Bad.
How should I know her? Lead her straightway hence,
Else slaves shall drag you both into the dungeon.
No reply—go off.—
(Exit Badenoch.
(Elenor views him with a vacant pitiable look;
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Shep.
O, sire, let me come at him.
Friar.
No, hold, not yet; his cup of wickedness
Wears to the brim apace, and he shall drink it.
Shep.
(Aside to the Friar.)
—See, he returns: O, let me kill him now!
I'll do it forthwith; he shall not escape me.
Friar.
Peace, peace, I say.—Wait the event;—be calm.
Re-enter Badenoch.
Bad.
Who is this maiden, hind? is she thy sister?
Some feature sought my heart so forcibly,
Missing my recollection, that it drew me
To read the trait once more.
(Elenor turns round, and looks ruefully in his face.)
O soul of agony!
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Another shaft like this?—No, no; 'tis past!
I have outstepp'd the bounds of nature here,
Wounding her finest chords, which all the balm
Of worlds can never heal.—O God! O God!
(Exit.)
Friar.
Ay, thou may'st groan and howl. It is begun;
The worm that gnaws the conscious soul has there
Begun its work; and never shall it end!
Shep.
(Weeping.)
I saw him weeping,—and—I—will—not—kill him.
No—I have determined not to kill him;
Nor any man—that—weeps—for any thing!
Elen.
Did he not say, that it would never heal?
'Tis false—he would deceive me; for I dress'd it
So painfully that it must quickly heal.
These hands have often bound my father's wounds,
And they grew well anon. I had a brother,
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But he lay down to rest, and there was blood
Came streaming from the wound—he felt it warm
As it crept down his breast; his eyes grew heavy;
But he beheld the grass before he slept,
And it was wet and growing, but not green.—
Tis all false—all false!
Shep.
Wilt thou go home with me, sweet Elenor?
Elen.
Yes, yes;
(As they are going out, she shrinks back.)
Oh, there it is! there it is!—I can't go now.
Put it out, good youth; put it out.
Shep.
What is it pains thee, gentle sufferer?
Elen.
Dost thou not see that little golden lamp
That burns above my head, dazzling my brain?
I cannot bear it!—O put it aside!
Put it in any place but that.
Friar.
O, this is pitiful! It is a ray
Of dire remembrance warring with distraction:
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Reason is veering on a verge, and soon
Will gain the empire of her wounded breast,
And she may live a holy penitent.
Elen.
Live—live!—No, that cannot be!
The poor babe has neither father nor mother—
He cannot live! For if they carry him, the wind
will blow in his face,—the sun will parch his lips,
and the rain will fall down upon his head!—And
his thin auburn locks will be all dripping, dripping
wet!
(She strikes slightly at her locks, and strains them, as with intent to put wet from them.)
Shep.
Wilt thou go home with me, sweet Elenor?
Elen.
Yes, yes;—come—come—come—come.
(Exeunt.)
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