He must have felt it then, known what it was,
And in such wise to rack her gentle heart
Had been a tenfold cruelty.
Osw.
Strange pleasures
Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves!
To see him thus provoke her tenderness
With tales of weakness and infirmity!
I'd wager on his life for twenty years.
Mar. We will not waste an hour in such a cause.
Osw. Why, this is noble ! shake her off at once.
Mar. Her virtues are his instruments.-A Man
Who has so practised on the world's cold sense,
May well deceive his Child-what! leave her thus,
A prey to a deceiver ?-no-no-no-
'Tis but a word and then-
SCENE, the door of the Hostel.
HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host.
Her. (seated). As I am dear to you, remember,
Child! This last request.
But wherefore slight protection such as you
Good Host, such tendance as you would expect
From your own Children, if yourself were sick,
Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader,
[Looking at the dog.
We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect
This charge of thine, then ill befal thee !—Look,
The little fool is loth to stay behind.
Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy,
Take care of him, and feed the truant well.
Host. Fear not, I will obey you ;-but One so
Are not the enemies that move my fears.
Idon. No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest
Will bring me back-protect him, Saints-farewell! [Exit IDONEA. Host. 'Tis never drought with us St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims,
Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:
Pity the Maiden did not wait a while;
She could not, Sir, have failed of company.
Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.
Host (calling). Holla!
Her. No, no, the business must be done.What means this riotous noise? Host.
Is broken, you will hear no more of him.
Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand
times!-
That noise !-would I had gone with her as far
As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard
That, in his milder moods, he has expressed
Compassion for me. His influence is great
With Henry, our good King ;-the Baron might
Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court.
No matter he's a dangerous Man.—That noise!—
'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest.
Idonea would have fears for me, the Convent
Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good
Host,
And he must lead me back.
I have been waiting in the wood hard by
For a companion-here he comes; our journey
Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.
Her. Alas! I creep so slowly.
Osw.
We'll not complain of that.
Her. My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour?
Osw. Most willingly !-Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm. [Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE.
Osw. (to himself coming out of the Hostel). I have prepared a most apt InstrumentThe Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere
About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled,
By mingling natural matter of her own
With all the daring fictions I have taught her,
To win belief, such as my plot requires.
Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them.
And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog,
Host (to them). Into the court, my Friend, and Trotting alone along the beaten road,
Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids,
Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts,
Are here, to send the sun into the west
More speedily than you belike would wish.
SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel
MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering.
Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves:
When first I saw him sitting there, alone,
It struck upon my heart I know not how.
Osw. To-day will clear up all.-You marked a
Cottage,
That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock
By the brook-side: it is the abode of One,
A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford,
Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas!
What she had seen and suffered turned her brain.
Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone,
Nor moves her hands to any needful work:
She eats her food which every day the peasants
Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived
Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice;
But every night at the first stroke of twelve
She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring
Churchyard
Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm,
She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one-
She paces round and round an Infant's grave,
And in the churchyard sod her feet have worn
A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep
Ah! what is here ?
[A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in
sleep-a Child in her arms.
Beg.
Oh! Gentlemen, I thank you;
I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled
The heart of living creature.-My poor Babe
Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread
When I had none to give him; whereupon,
I put a slip of foxglove in his hand,
Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once:
When, into one of those same spotted bells
A bee came darting, which the Child with joy
Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear,
And suddenly grew black, as he would die.
Mar. We have no time for this, my babbling
Gossip;
Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money.
Beg.
The Saints reward you
For this good deed!—Well, Sirs, this passed away;
Came to my child as by my side he slept
And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden
Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head :
But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have
been a dream.
Osw. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice,
And put your head, good Woman, under cover.
Beg. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew
What life is this of ours, how sleep will master
The weary-worn.-You gentlefolk have got
Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be
A stone than what I am.-But two nights gone,
The darkness overtook me-wind and rain
Beat hard upon my head-and yet I saw
A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze,
Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky :
At which I half accused the God in Heaven.-
You must forgive me.
Osw. Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint-no matter-this good day Has made amends.
Beg.
Thanks to you both; but, O sir!
How would you like to travel on whole hours
As I have done, my eyes upon the ground,
Expecting still, I knew not how, to find
A piece of money glittering through the dust.
Mar. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady!
Do you tell fortunes ?
Oh Sir, you are like the rest.
This Little-one-it cuts me to the heart-
Well they might turn a beggar from their doors,
But there are Mothers who can see the Babe
Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it:
This they can do, and look upon my face-
But you, Sir, should be kinder.
Mar.
Come hither, Fathers,
And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch !
Beg. Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us.
Why now-but yesterday I overtook
A blind old Greybeard and accosted him,
I'th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass
He should have used me better !—Charity!
If you can melt a rock, he is your man;
But I'll be even with him-here again
Have I been waiting for him.
Osw.
Well he has often spurned me like a toad,
But yesterday was worse than all ;-at last
I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I,
And begged a little aid for charity:
But he was snappish as a cottage cur.
Well then, says I-I'll out with it; at which
I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt
As if my heart would burst; and so I left him.
Osw. I think, good Woman, you are the very person
Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale,
At Herbert's door.
Ay; and if truth were known I have good business there.
Mar. Your life is at my mercy.
And I will tell you all!-You know not, Sir, What strong temptations press upon the Poor. Osw. Speak out.
Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman.
Osw. Nay, but speak out!
He flattered me, and said
What harvest it would bring us both; and so,
I parted with the Child.
With whom you parted? Beg. Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl Is mine.
Mar. Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife?
Beg. Wife, Sir! his wife-not I; my husband,
Sir,
Was of Kirkoswald--many a snowy winter
We 've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred!
He has been two years in his grave.
I met you at the threshold. Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait And he seemed angry. For my return; be sure you shall have justice. Osw. A lucky woman!-go, you have done good [Aside.
Beg. Angry! well he might ; And long as I can stir I'll dog him.-Yesterday, To serve me so, and knowing that he owes The best of all he has to me and mine. But 'tis all over now. That good old Lady Has left a power of riches; and I say it, If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave Shall give me half.
Mar. (to himself). Eternal praises on the power
Osw. (gives her money). Here's for your little boy-and when you christen him
What's this?—I fear, good Woman, In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns
Beg.
Nay, I dare not speak ;
He is a man, if it should come to his ears
I never shall be heard of more.
Osw.
Lord Clifford ?
Beg. What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs,
I love her, though I dare not call her daughter.
Osw. Lord Clifford-did you see him talk with
Herbert?
Beg. Yes, to my sorrow-under the great oak At Herbert's door-and when he stood beside The blind Man-at the silent Girl he looked With such a look-it makes me tremble, Sir, To think of it. Osw. Mar. (to himself). Father!-to God himself we
A holier name; and, under such a mask,
To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed,
To that abhorrèd den of brutish vice !-
Oswald, the firm foundation of my life
Is going from under me; these strange discoveries-
Looked at from every point of fear or hope,
Duty, or love-involve, I feel, my ruin.
SCENE, A Chamber in the Hostel-OSWALD alone, rising from a Table on which he had been writing.
Osw. They chose him for their Chief!-what covert part
He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take,
I neither know nor care. The insult bred
More of contempt than hatred; both are flown;
That either e'er existed is my shame :
"Twas a dull spark-a most unnatural fire
That died the moment the air breathed upon it.
--These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter
That haunt some barren island of the north,
Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand,
They think it is to feed them. I have left him
To solitary meditation ;-now
For a few swelling phrases, and a flash
Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind,
And he is mine for ever-here he comes.
Mar. These ten years she has moved her lips all day
|