University of Virginia Library

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?

Enter Crawford, habited as an Old Friar, with gray hair, and a long white beard.
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;
Her temper, frame, and ruling energies!
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
To add another crime by flat denial,
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
Our obsequies to love—Pray, come thou then,
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
May never qualm my soul! or such a chalice,
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
To this abandon'd prince, which I must do
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?—
I dread black treachery and deep deception.
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?

Friar.
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!

Mat.
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
Before your spousals with the Lord of Crawford?

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
Of flattery, and vows that swell thy pride,
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,
And smile, and fawn, and set the face to heaven.
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;
But noting your wild passionate demeanour,
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
Something by wild imagination framed;
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.)