Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,-
That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling 't away from you: you make no use Of me, or of my strength ;-come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There-indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile On this green bank. [He sits down. Her. (after some time). Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.
Do not reproach me : I pondered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face,
Those eyeballs dark-dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The name of Marmaduke is blown away: Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give.
Her. Nay, be composed: Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and I bethought me of two things I ne'er had heart to separate-my grave, And thee, my Child!
Idon. Believe me, honoured Sire! "Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature
Her. I comprehend thee-I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. My fancies, fancies if they be, are such
As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit I feel my strength returning.-The bequest Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury; But when thy Father must lie down and die, How wilt thou stand alone? Idon.
Which with the motion of a virtuous act Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. Her. Unhappy Woman! Idon. Thus much to speak; but think not I forget- Dear Father! how could I forget and live- You and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.
Her. Thy Mother too!-scarce had I gained the door,
I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me, I felt thy infant brother in her arms; She saw my blasted face-a tide of soldiers That instant rushed between us, and I heard Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand. Idon. Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all. Her. Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time— For my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, That when, on our return from Palestine, I found how my domains had been usurped, I took thee in my arms, and we began Our wanderings together. Providence At length conducted us to Rossland,—there, Our melancholy story moved a Stranger To take thee to her home-and for myself, Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot Where now we dwell.-For many years I bore Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion.
I did not think that, during that long absence, My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, Traitor to both.
Osw. 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.
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
And One so fair, it goes against my heart That you should travel unattended, Lady!—— I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad
Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?) And for less fee than I would let him run For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.
Idon. You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard
Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, A look of mine would send him scouring back, Unless I differ from the thing I am
When you are by my side.
Osw. So far into your journey! on my life, You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you? Her. Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir?
Osw. I do not see Idonea.
She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither? Osw.
That will be soon despatched.
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.
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 some
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.
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. Who is it that hath wronged you? Beg.
I'll point him out ;—a Maiden is his guide, Lovely as Spring's first rose ; a little dog, Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before
Beg. He has the very hardest heart on earth; I had as lief turn to the Friar's school And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. Mar. But to your story. Beg. 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.
Mar. Your life is at my mercy. Beg.
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!
Osw. We've solved the riddle-Miscreant ! Mar.
Mar. (to himself). Eternal praises on the power
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. Beg. Angry! well he might; Osw. A lucky woman !—go, you have done good And long as I can stir I'll dog him.-Yesterday, [Aside. 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.
And there's the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. Osw. How say you? in disguise ?— Mar. But what's your business With Herbert or his Daughter?
Osw. (gives her money). Here's for your little boy--and when you christen him
I'll be his Godfather. Beg.
Oh Sir, you are merry with me. What's this?—I fear, good Woman, In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns You have been insolent. A dog that does not know me.-' .-These good Folks, For love of God, I must not pass their doors; But I'll be back with my best speed: for youGod bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters. [Exit Beggar. Mar. (to himself). The cruel Viper !-Poor devoted Maid, Now I do love thee. Osw. I am thunderstruck. Mar. Where is she-holla!
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