University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Grove near Crawford Castle, as before.
Enter Friar.
Friar.
Hold, my wrung heart, hold still thy wonted firmness!
The only meed remains is in thy power:
Vengeance is thine, and that alone becomes thee.
Say she knew I were living, and in health;—
Is't well to take this scorpion to my room,
And there to keep him?—Say she deems me slain,
Does that aught palliate? Is't not ten times worse
Than were the other? Slain by that same hand
Around her press'd in soft and wanton dalliance!
The man she swore to love—took to her bosom!—
Couch'd in his blood upon the neighbouring waste,
While yet his wounds are green, hardly begun
To fester and corrupt—and the red stream
Scarce clotted in the sun!—His murderer,
Press'd to her bosom, riots in her love:—
Is this a palliation?—Soft! he comes.

Enter Badenoch, gayly.
Bad.
Well, father, art thou fully satisfied
Of that I told thee? Art thou wiser now
In woman's virtue? Hast thou shrived the dame
Thou deem'd so chaste?

Friar.
Hast thou no qualm of conscience, no remorse
For words like these? For to corrupt or slander
Are heinous both alike.

Bad.
No, on my soul; not one.

Friar.
If Crawford should return, I ween thy head
Stands in full danger.

Bad.
I hold light of Crawford:
His boasted might already have I proved,
And found it nothing worth.—Oh, I relent
That I kill'd him so soon, so easily!
Would he were here to-night, that I might shew thee
I could as easily subdue his sword
As the slim virtue of his facile dame.
Foh on such champions!—Would that he were here!

(The Friar flings off his cowl, wig, and beard, and stares him in the face.)
Cra.
Thy wish is granted.

Bad.
What! Crawford?—Didst thou never ween, my lord,
I knew it all the while, and was in jest?

Cra.
The honour of my consort and my name
Thus marr'd, is a neat jest—a well turn'd jest!
Fair Elenor of March, my old friend's child,
Ruin'd, debased, and driven to distraction!
Her father stabb'd in semblancy of friendship!
Are these all jests with princes?

Bad.
For all of these I'll answer; not to thee.
But since I find thee in this querulous mood,
This night I quit your towers, and yield you up
My wardship, in regard, much as I found it.

Cra.
'Tis greatly kind! I'm much beholden to you;
And, in return, I beg you first accept
The boon you lately prayed.—
(Drawing.)
Here stands Lord Crawford:
Thou hast a sword; now use it as becomes thee.

Bad.
Haply, my lord, when you the truth do learn,
This rashness you may rue.

Cra.
I know thy cowardly and hellish nature:
Thou wilt not fight; thou listest not such wrong!
But when I sheathe my sword, or turn my back,
Then wilt thou stab me as thou didst old March.
But I'll not trust thee: Draw that sword of thine.

(Advancing.)
Bad.
Then, to confound thy arrogance, dost know
Whom thus thou threatest?—Dost know our Scottish king,
Robert the third?

Cra.
And if I do?

Bad.
Then know
His brother I,—the prince next to the crown!
Now, trowest thou I am one who dare not fight thee?
Kneel, and ask pardon for thy rank offence,
Steaming in face of potent royalty;
Or, by the blessed light, short is thy span
Of temporal heritage!

Cra.
Wo to the land
Where princes such as thee hold domination!
Think'st thou the honours and the lives of men,
Maidens, and dames, were only made for princes?
Such precept stands not in my nature's creed.

Bad.
Few words are best: When thou the catechism
Of thy belief hast finished, please betake thee
To thy offence most potent.

(They fight; Crawford gains upon him, and drives him off the stage: Clashing of swords, and groans behind the scenes. As they depart, the Shepherd comes stealing on as in terror.)
Shep.
That's the most wonderful old man on earth!
He is some angel in a friar's form!
He master'd him as easily as I
Would do a lamb.—I'm much deceived in this,
If yon abandoned wretch do not receive
A sharp requital of our detriment.—
Lord! here he comes again!

(The Shepherd strides hastily away, cowering as if in terror.)
Enter Crawford, masked as before.
Cra.
So perish all who use their rank and power
To purposes so shameless and unholy!
How beauteous is virtue in a prince!
How sacred the possessor! But when one,
Bloated with vice, and callous to all shame,
O'erpeers the land, woe to its happiness!
A warrandice—a potent cautioner
Stands for all evil then. As Scottish prince
I honoured him: But for my injuries,
I've stay'd his course for ever:—And I did it
Without remorse,—without uneasiness.
But oh, the task awaiting me is dreadful!

Enter Matilda.
Mat.
Saw you the prince, old friar?

Cra.
Yes, Matilda:
And if my view belied thee not, I saw him
Late in the bower with thee.

Mat.
What! in the bower?—Go;—say not so again.

Cra.
If thou hast neither shame nor sense of wrong,
Hast thou no terrors of an injured husband,
Should he again return?

Mat.
Should he again return, which heaven direct,
For I am weary of this prince, and hate him,
Thou shalt absolve and housel me in secret;
Then I shall well stand purely justified,
Even to my stern and most suspicious lord.

Cra.
No, thou never wilt!

Mat.
What!—Not persuade him I am innocent?

Cra.
No;—never;—never!

Mat.
I comprehend thee not.

Cra.
Then do it now.

(Unmasks, and stares her in the face.)
Mat.
Lord Crawford!—Thou, my husband!—Oh!

(Groans, then starts, and looks with dignity and disdain.)
Cra.
Matilda! Matilda!
(Pause.)
Come hither, I will show a sight to thee
Will freeze thy pamper'd blood.—See yonder lies
Thy loathful paramour writhing in death!

Mat.
And is it come to this!
Well, what is next to do? Him I regret not,
Nor fear I thee.

Cra.
But I will make thee fear me.—
Poor, callous, lost Matilda! whom I took
All dowerless from a loose ungracious court,
Deeming thy youth and innocence exposed
To countless snares.—Ah, little ween'd I then
I took a courtly chamberer to my tower,
An adder to my bosom.— (Pause.)
—What, not a word?
Hast thou no grace, no single boon to ask?

Mat.
Not one of thee.

Cra.
Then kneel to heaven, proud dame, and ask forgiveness!
For thou hast but a short, short time to live.

Mat.
With heaven I'm not conversant: I ne'er pray,
Nor will I now in my extremity:
I hate all whining.

Cra.
Most perverse, perverse woman!

Mat.
Spare reproach,
And glut thy cruel purpose with my blood.
Seeing, as I do now, thy jealous nature,
Know, I detest thee, loathe thee; and should'st thou
Now spare my life, I would right lieve pursue
The same unaltered, unrestrained career.
Nor have I in my life done single act
Which I regret, or would not do again,
Save wedding thee.

Cra.
Thou art a blot upon the cheek of nature;
A stain upon thy sex!—Down all compunction!

(He draws his sword.)
Enter Shepherd, stealing as before.
Shep.
O, he must be a devil, and no man!
Well, be he angel, devil, or a priest,
Or all in one, I'll not stand cowering here,
And see a woman slain.

Cra.
What! not one daunted look? thou bravest my rage
As if I could not hurt thee.—Take thy guerdon!

(As Crawford is bringing a stroke to slay her, the Shepherd runs up to him, and strikes the sword out of his hand, which he lifts, and rushes between them.)
Shep.
Strike now, old ruffian!—Madam, haste thee, 'scape
Into the castle; call up all your men,
And bar the gates: I'll guard this ruthless priest
Till you are safe.—Pray struggle not, sir priest;
In that I'll prove your equal. You shall not
Regain this sword you would so much profane:
It was not made to scathe and slaughter women.

Cra.
Rash youth! though good, thou art improvident:
Thou'st marr'd an act of most consummate justice.

Shep.
Who! Crawford! is it thee? I bless my God,
Who made me instrument of this release.
Thou nigh had'st done a deed that would have cost thee
Remorse, eternal and irremiable!
Did'st thou not mark her proud impenitence;
And durst thou thrust incontinent to hell
A precious living soul?—Could that be justice?

Cra.
Youth, thou hast roused reflection from its trance,
And raised a doubt within me, which before
I have not combated.—Pray thee, go on.

Shep.
Guilty or true, her death could not be justice.
If she were guiltless, then the die was cast,
And all remede and retribution over.
If guilty, death seals up futurity,
Debarring all repentance or amendment
Then where's the justice? He who makes one saint
Does labour more congenial to his Maker,
Than he who shrouds in death a thousand sinners.
Put her in ward,—in solitary cell,—
Her food be bread and water, till she think
Free for herself, and then she'll think aright.
O, my good lord! when thou stand'st at that bar
Where all must stand,—think, will it best become thee
To say, “In passion's heat I slew my spouse,
“And plunged her soul in everlasting woe;”—
Or to present a blessed penitent
Thou rescued'st from destruction?

Cra.
Thou hast o'ercome me.—O, immortal truth!
Still, still thou must prevail, though thy soft balm
Drop from a peasant's mouth!

Enter a Forester, running.
For.
My lord! my lord!
That wounded stranger knight, with his last breath,
Bade me haste to you, and declare, as he
Should answer his account, that your fair dame
Is most unblemish'd, pure.—He did belie her;
It was not she was in the bower with him;—
And howsoever her demeanour seems,
She is most absolute and proudly chaste.

Cra.
How's this, low knave? Art thou suborn'd to this?

For.
These were his words, my lord; nor know I aught
Whereto they tend. But he so earnestly
Delivered them, while in the grasp of death,
I judged this message meet.

Cra.
The burning flame
That prey'd upon my heart, begins to abate,
And mellow to a soft and welcome glow
Of love for my too proud, but wronged Matilda.
Canst thou forgive me?

Shep.
Could'st thou ever deem
That form majestic, that proud eagle-eye,
That mien, so dignified in every line,
Contained a soul could ever stoop to bathe
In spring so tainted and impure?—No, no;
The blame is all thine own.

Cra.
Matilda, thou hast faults;—nay, grievous faults,
Born of a haughty and unyielding soul.—
Yet, all those faults review'd, I now behold thee
As something above woman. Shepherd, thou
Camest like the messenger of God, to save me
From that I quake to think of. But if trust,
The highest trust, riches and honours, may
Avail thee aught, and chain thy long regard
To me and mine, of these thou shalt not lack.
The poor regretted Ellen, too, we'll cherish,
And thou shalt be her guardian still. Come with us.

(Exeunt.)