ACT I
SCENE I.—A Grove
Enter Father Philip and Motley.
F. PHIL. Never tell me!—I repeat it, you are a fellow of a very scandalous
course of life!
MOTL. And I repeat it, I'm a perfect image of the purest virtue, compared
to whom, for sobriety and continence, Cato was a drunkard, and Lucretia
little better than she should be.
F. PHIL. Oh! hardened in impudence!—Can you deny being a pilferer,
a lyar, a glutton—
MOTL. Can I?—Heaven be thanked, I've courage enough to deny any
thing!
F. PHIL Doesn't all the world cry out upon you?
MOTL. Certainly my transcendant merit has procured me some enemies,
and, in common with many other great men, my virtue at present labours
under something of a cloud. But understand me right, Father: Though
I don't assent to the sum-[2]total of your accusations, possibly I may
acknowledge some of the items; the best actions frequently appear culpable,
merely because their motives are unexplained. Therefore produce your
charges, let me justify my conduct, and I doubt not I shall retrieve my
reputation from your hands as immaculate and pure as a new sheet of foolscap.
F. PHIL. To begin then with your pilfering—Did you, or did you not,
break open the pantry-door, and steal out the great goose-pye?
MOTL. Begging your pardon, Father, that was no fault of mine.
F. PHIL. Whose then?
MOTL. The cook's undoubtedly; for if he hadn't locked the pantry-door,
‘tis an hundred to one I shouldn't have taken the trouble to break it open.
F. PHIL. Nonsense! Nonsense!— I tell you, you've been guilty
of stealing, which is a monstrous crime! And what did you steal?
Had you taken any thing else I might have forgiven you: but to lay irreverent
hands upon the goose-pye!—As I'm a Christian, the identical goose-pye which
I intended for my own supper!—But this is not my only objection to your
conduct.
MOTL. No?
F. PHIL. What principally offends me is, that you pervert the
minds of the maids, and keep kissing and smuggling all the pretty girls
you meet. Oh! fye! fye!
MOTL. I kiss and smuggle them? St. Francis forbid!
Lord love you, Father, 'tis they who kiss and smuggle me. I protest
I do what I can to preserve my modesty; and I wish that Archbishop Dunstan
had heard the lecture upon chastity which I read last night to the dairy-maid
in the dark! [3] he'd have been quite edified. But yet what does
talking signify? The eloquence of my lips is counteracted by the lustre
of my eyes; and really the little devils are so tender, and so troublesome,
that I'm half angry with nature for having made me so very bewitching.
F. PHIL. Nonsense! Nonsense!
MOTL. Why it was but yesterday that Cicely and Luce went to fisty-cuffs,
quarrelling which looked neatest—my red leg, or my yellow one. Then they
are so fond and so coaxing! They hang about one so lovingly!
And one says, 'Kind Mr. Motley!' and t'other, 'Sweet Mr. Motley!’—Ah! Father
Philip! Father Philip! How is a poor little bit of flesh and
blood, like me, to resist such temptation?—Put yourself in my place: Suppose
that a sweet smiling rogue, just sixteen, with rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes,
pouting lips, &c.
F.PHIL. Oh! fye! fye! fye!—To hear such licentious discourse brings
the tears into my eyes!
MOTL. I believe you, Father; for I see the water is running over at
your mouth. However, this shews you—
F. PHIL. It shews me that you are a reprobate, and that my advice is
thrown
away upon you: In future I shall keep those counsels to myself, which I
offered you from motives of pure Christian charity.
MOTL. Charity, my good Father, should always begin at home: Now, instead
of giving yourself so much trouble to mend me, what if you thought a little
of correcting yourself?
F.PHIL. I?—I have nothing to correct.
MOTL. No, to be sure!
F. PHIL. The odour of my sanctity perfumes the whole kingdom.
[4]
MOTL. It has a powerful smell about it, I own, not unlike carrion;
you may wind it a mile off.
F. PHIL. All malice!
MOTL. Not exactly: I could mention some little points which might
be altered in you still better than in myself; such as intemperance, gluttony—
F. PHIL. Gluttony?—Oh! abominable falsehood!
MOTL. Plain matter of fact!—Why will any man pretend to say that you
came honestly by that enormous belly, that tremendous tomb of fish, flesh,
and fowl? I protest I'm grateful to Heaven that among the unclean
Beasts who accompanied Noah, there went not into the ark a pair of fat
monks: they must infallibly have created a famine, and then the world would
never have been re-peopled. —Next, for incontinence, you must allow yourself
that you are unequalled.
F. PHIL. I? I?
MOTL. You, You.—May I ask what was your business in the beech-grove
the other evening, when I caught you with buxom Margery the miller's pretty
wife? Was it quite necessary to lay your heads together so close?
F. PHIL. Perfectly necessary: I was whispering in her ear wholesome
advice.
MOTL. Indeed? Faith then she took your advice as kindly
as it was given, and exactly in the same way too: you gave it with your
lips, and she took it with hers!—Well done, Father Philip!
F. PHIL. Son, Son, you give your tongue too great a licence.
MOTL. Nay, Father, be not angry: Fools, you know, are privileged persons.
F. PHIL. I know they are very useless ones; and in short, Master Motley,
to be plain with you, of [5] all fools I think you are the worst; and for
fools of all kinds I’ve an insuperable aversion.
MOTL. Really? Then you have one good quality at least, and I cannot
but admire such a total want of self-love!
(An horn sounds.) But hark! 'tis the dinner-horn. Away to table, Father—Depend
upon't, the servants will rather eat part of their dinner unblessed, than
stay till your stomach comes like Jonas's whale, and swallows up the whole.
F. PHIL. Well, well, fool, I am going: but first let me explain to
you, that my bulk proceeds from no Indulgence of voracious appetite.
No, son, no: Little sustenance do I take; but St. Cuthbert's blessing is
upon me, and that little prospers with me most marvellously. Verily,
the Saint has given me rather too plentiful an increase, and my legs are
scarce able to support the weight of his bounties.
(Exit)
MOTL. (Alone.) He looks like an over-grown turtle, waddling upon its
hind fins!—Yet at bottom 'tis a good fellow enough, warm-hearted, benevolent,
friendly, and sincere; but no more intended by nature to be a monk, than
I to be a maid of honour to the Queen of Sheba. (Going.)
Enter Percy.
PERCY. I cannot be mistaken: in spite of his dress, his features are
too well known to me! Hist! Gilbert! Gilbert!
MOTL. Gilbert? Oh Lord, that's I!—Who calls?
PERCY. Have you forgotten me?
MOTL. Truly, sir, that would be no easy matter; I never forgot
in my life what I never knew.
PERCY. Have ten years altered me so much that you cannot—
[6]
MOTL. Hey!—Can it be—Pardon, my dear master, pardon!—In truth, you
may well forgive my having forgotten your name, for at first I didn’t very
well remember my own. However, to prevent further mistakes, I must inform
you, that he who in your father's service was Gilbert the knave, is Motley
the fool in the service of Earl Osmond.
PERCY. Of Earl Osmond? This is fortunate. Gilbert, you
may be of use to me; and if the attachment which as a boy you professed
for me still exists—
MOTL. It does with ardour unabated, for I'm not so unjust as to attribute
to you my expulsion from Alnwic Castle: in fact I deserved it, for I cannot
deny but that at twenty I was as good-for-nothing a knave as ever existed;
consequently old Earl Percy dismissed me from his service, but I know that
it was sorely against your inclination. You were then scarce fourteen,
and I had been your companion and play-fellow from your childhood. I remember
well your grief at parting with me, and that you slipped into my hand the
purse which contained the whole of your little treasure. That act
of kindness struck to my heart: I swore at the moment to love you through
life, and if ever I forget my oath, damn me!
PERCY. My honest Gilbert!—And what made you assume this habit?
MOTL. Ah, my Lord! what could I do?—In spite of my knavery and
tricks I was constantly upon the point of starving, and having once contracted
an idle habit of eating, I never could bring myself to leave it off.
After living five years by my wits, want drove me almost out of them: I
knew not what course to take, when I heard that [7] Earl Osmond's jester
had fled the country. I exerted my knavery for the last time in stealing
the fugitive's cast coat, was accepted in his place by the Earl, and now
gain an honest livelihood by persuading my neighbours that I'm a greater
fool than themselves.
PERCY. And your change is for the better?
MOTL. Infinitely; indeed your fool is universally preferred to
your knave—and for this reason; your fool is cheated, your knave cheats:
Now every-body had rather cheat, than be cheated.
PERCY. Some truth in that.
MOTL. And now, sir, may I ask, what brings you to Wales?
PERCY. A woman, whom I adore.
MOTL. Yes, I guessed that the business was about a petticoat.
And this woman is—
PERCY. The orphan ward of a villager, without friends, without family,
without fortune!
MOTL. Great points in her favour, I must confess. And which
of these excellent qualities won your heart?
PERCY. I hope I had better reasons for bestowing it on her.
No, Gilbert; I loved her for a person beautiful without art, and graceful
without affectation—for an heart tender without weakness, and noble without
pride. I saw her at once beloved and reverenced by her village companions:
they looked on her as a being of a superior order; and I felt, that she
who gave such dignity to the cottage-maid, must needs add new lustre to
the coronet of the Percies.
MOTL. From which I am to understand that you mean to marry this
rustic.
PERCY. Could I mean otherwise, I should blush for myself.
[8]
MOTL. Yet surely the baseness of her origin—
PERCY. Can to me be no objection: in giving her my hand I raise
her to my station, not debase myself to hers; nor ever, while gazing on
the beauty of a rose, did I think it less fair because planted by a peasant.
MOTL. Bravo!—And what says your good grumbling father to this?
PERCY. Alas! he has long slept in the grave!
MOTL. Then he's quiet at last! Well, God grant him that
peace in heaven, which he suffered nobody to enjoy on earth!— But, his
death having left you master of your actions, what obstacle now prevents
your marriage?
PERCY. You shall hear.—Fearful lest my rank should influence this lovely
girl's affections, and induce her to bestow her hand on the noble, while
she refuses her heart to the man, I assumed a peasant's habit, and presented
myself as Edwy the low-born and the poor. In this character I gained her
heart, and resolved to hail, as Countess of Northumberland, the betrothed
of Edwy the low-born and the poor!
MOTL. I warrant the pretty soul wasn't displeased with the discovery!
PERCY. That discovery is still unmade. Judge how great must have been
my disappointment, when, on entering her guardian's cottage with this design,
he informed me, that the unknown, who sixteen years before had confided
her to his care, had reclaimed her on that very morning, and conveyed her
no one knew whither.
MOTL. That was unlucky.
PERCY. Was it not?—Ah! had I declared myself one day sooner, ere this
she would have been my wife.
[9]
MOTL. True; and being your wife, if a stranger then had conveyed her
no one knew whither, you might have thought yourself mightily obliged to
him.
PERCY. However, in spite of his precautions, I have traced the stranger’s
course, and find him to be Kenric, a dependent upon Earl Osmond.
MOTL. Surely 'tis not Lady Angela, who—
PERCY. The very same! Speak, my good fellow! Do you know her?
MOTL. Not by your description; for here she's understood to be the
daughter of Sir Malcolm Mowbray, my master's deceased friend. And
what is your present intention?
PERCY. To demand her of the Earl in marriage.
MOTL. Oh!— that will never do:—for in the first place you'll
not be able to get a sight of him. I've now lived with him five long
years, and, till Angela's arrival, never witnessed a guest in the Castle.—Oh!
'tis the most melancholy mansion! And as to its master, he's the
very antidote to mirth: He always walks with his arms folded, his brows
bent, his eyes louring on you with a gloomy scowl: He never smiles; and
to laugh in his presence would be high treason. He looks at no one—speaks
to no one. None dare approach him, except Kenric and his four blacks—all
others are ordered to avoid him; and whenever he quits his room, ding!
dong! goes a great bell, and away run the servants like so many scared
rabbits.
PERCY. Strange!—and what reasons can he have for—
MOTL. Oh! reasons in plenty. You must [10] know there's an ugly story
respecting the last owners of this Castle—Osmond's brother, his wife, and
infant child, were murdered by banditti, as it was said: unluckily the
only servant who escaped the slaughter, deposed, that he recognized among
the assassins a black still in the service of Earl Osmond. The truth of
this assertion was never known, for the servant was found dead in his bed
the next morning.
PERCY. Good heavens!
MOTL. Since that time no sound of joy has been heard in Conway Castle.
Osmond instantly became gloomy and ferocious; he now never utters a sound
except a sigh, has broken every tie of society, and keeps his gates barred
unceasingly against the stranger.
PERCY. Yet Angela is admitted:—But, no doubt, affection for her
father—
MOTL. Why, no; I rather think that affection for her father's child—
PERCY. How?
MOTL. If I've any knowledge in love, the Earl feels it for his
fair ward: But the Lady will tell you more of this, if I can procure for
you an interview.
PERCY. That very request which—
MOTL. 'Tis no easy matter, I promise you; but I'll do my best.
In the meanwhile wait for me in yonder fishing hut—its owner's name is
Edric;—tell him that I sent you, and he will give you a retreat.
PERCY. Farewell, then, and remember that whatever reward—
MOTL. Dear master, to mention a reward insults me. You have already
shown me kindness; and [11] when 'tis in my power to be of use to you,
to need the inducement of a second favour would prove me a scoundrel undeserving
of the first.
(Exit)
PERCY. How warm is this good fellow's attachment! Yet our
Barons complain that the great can have no friends! If they have
none, let their own pride bear the blame. Instead of looking with
scorn on those whom a smile would attract, and a favour bind for ever,
how many firm friends might our nobles gain, if they would but reflect
that their vassals are men as they are, and have hearts whose feelings
can be grateful as their own.
(Exit)
SCENE II.—The Castle-Hall.
Saib and Hassan meeting.
SAIB. Now, Hassan, what success?
HASS. My search has been fruitless. In vain have I paced
the river's banks, and pierced the grove's deepest recesses. Nor
glen nor thicket have I passed unexplored, yet found no stranger to whom
Kenric's description could apply.
SAIB. Saw you no one?
HASS. A troop of horsemen passed me as I left the wood.
SAIB. Horsemen, say you?—Then Kenric may be right. Earl Percy
has discovered Angela's abode, and lurks near the Castle in hopes of carrying
her off.
HASS. His hopes then will be vain. Osmond's vigilance will
not easily be eluded—sharpened by those powerful motives, love and fear.
SAIB. His love, I know; but should he lose Angela, what has he
to fear?
HASS. If Percy gains her, every thing! Sup/ported [12]
by such wealth and power, dangerous would be her claim to these domains
should her birth be discovered. Of this our Lord is aware; nor did
he sooner hear that Northumberland loved her, than he hastened to remove
her from Allan's care. At first I doubt his purpose was a foul one: her
resemblance to her mother induced him to change it. He now is resolved
to make her his bride, and restore to her those rights of which himself
deprived her.
SAIB. Think you the Lady perceives that our Master loves her?
HASS. I know she does not. Absorbed in her own passion
for Percy, on Osmond's she bestows no thought, and, while roving through
these pompous halls and chambers, sighs for the Cheviot Hills, and Allan's
humble cottage.
SAIB. But as she still believes Percy to be a low-born swain,
when Osmond lays his coronet at her feet, will she reject his rank and
splendour?
HASS. If she loves well, she will. Saib, I too have loved!
I have known how painful it was to leave her on whom my heart hung; how
incapable was all else to supply her loss! I have exchanged want for plenty,
fatigue for rest, a wretched hut for a splendid palace. But am I
happier? Oh! no! Still do I regret my native land, and the
partners of my poverty. Then toil was sweet to me, for I laboured for Samba;
then repose ever bless’d my bed of leaves, for there by my side lay Samba
sleeping.
SAIB. This from you, Hassan?—Did love ever find a place in your
flinty bosom?
HASS. Did it? Oh Saib! my heart once was gentle, once was good!
But sorrows have broken [13] it, insults have made it hard! I have
been dragged from my native land, from a wife who was every thing to me,
to whom I was every thing! Twenty years have elapsed since these
Christians tore me away: they trampled upon my heart, mocked my despair,
and, when in frantic terms I raved of Samba, laughed, and wondered how
a negro's soul could feel! In that moment when the last point of
Africa faded from my view, when as I stood on the vessel's deck I felt
that all I loved was to me lost for ever, in that bitter moment did I banish
humanity from my breast. I tore from my arm the bracelet of Samba's
hair, I gave to the sea the precious token, and, while the high waves swift
bore it from me, vowed aloud endless hatred to mankind. I have kept my
oath, I will keep it!
SAIB. Ill-starred Hassan! your wrongs have indeed been great.
HASS. To remember them unmans me—Farewell! I must to Kenric.
Hold!—Look, where he comes from Osmond's chamber!
SAIB. And seemingly in wrath.
HASS. His conferences with the Earl of late have had no other
end. The period of his favour is arrived.
SAIB. Not of his favour merely, Hassan.
HASS. How? Mean you that….
SAIB. His anxiety for independence, his wish to withdraw himself
from Wales—yet more, certain mysterious words and threats for some time
past have made our Lord uneasy. By him was I this morning commissioned…
Silence! He's here! you shall know more anon.
[14]
Enter Kenric.
KENR. His promise ever evaded! My request still heard with
impatience, and treated with neglect.—Osmond, I will bear your ingratitude
no longer.—Now, Hassan, found you the man described?
HASS. Nor any that resembled him.
KENR. Yet, that I saw Percy, I am convinced. As I crossed
him in the wood, his eye met mine. He started as had he seen a basilisk,
and fled with rapidity. Be on your guard, my friends! Doubtless he
will attempt to gain admission to the Castle.
HASS. Can we be otherwise than watchful, when we see how well the Earl
rewards his followers?
SAIB. Of that, Kenric, you are an example. Have you obtained
that recompense so long promised? Do you enjoy that independence which….
KENR. Saib, the Earl's ingratitude cuts me to the heart! Attached
to him from his infancy, I have long been his friend, long fancied him
mine. The illusion is now over. He sees that I can serve him no further—knows
that I can harm him much; therefore he fears, and, fearing, hates me! But
I will submit no longer to this painful dependence. To-morrow, for the
last time, will I summon him to perform his promise: If he refuses, I will
bid him farewell for ever, and, by my absence, free him from a restraint
equally irksome to myself and him.
SAIB. Will you so, Kenric?—Be speedy then, or you will be too late.
[15]
KENR. Too late! And wherefore?
SAIB. You will soon receive the reward of your services.
KENR. Ha! Know you what that reward will be?
SAIB. I guess, but may not tell.
KENR. Is it a secret?
SAIB. Can you keep one?
KENR. Faithfully!
SAIB. As faithfully can I. Come, Hassan. (Exeunt)
KENR. (Alone.) What meant the slave? Those doubtful expressions….Ha!
should the Earl intend me false….Kenric! Kenric! how is thy nature
changed! There was time when fear was a stranger to my bosom—when, guiltless
myself, I dreaded not art in others. Now, where’er I turn me, danger
appears to lurk; and I suspect treachery in every breast, because my own
heart hides it.
(Exit)
Enter Father Philip, followd by Alice.
F. PHIL. Nonsense!—You silly woman, what you say is not possible.
ALICE. I never said it was possible. I only said it was true; and that
if ever I heard music, I heard it last night.
F. PHIL. Perhaps the fool was singing to the servants.
ALICE. The fool indeed? Oh! fye! fye! How dare you call
my Lady's ghost a fool?
F. PHIL. Your Lady's ghost!—You silly old woman!
ALICE. Yes, Father, yes: I repeat it, I heard the guitar lying upon
the Oratory table play the [16] very air which the Lady Evelina used to
sing while rocking her little daughter's cradle. She warbled it so
sweetly, and ever at the close it went (Singing.)
‘Lullaby! Lullaby! hush thee, my dear!
‘Thy father is coming, and soon will be here!’
F. PHIL. Nonsense! nonsense!—Why, pr’ythee, Alice, do you think that
your Lady's ghost would get up at night only to sing Lullaby for your amusement?—Besides,
how should a spirit, which is nothing but air, play upon an instrument
of material wood and cat gut?
ALICE. How can I tell?—Why, I know very well that men are made; but
if you desired me to make a man, I vow and protest I shouldn’t know how
to set about it. I can only say, that last night I heard the ghost of my
murdered Lady….
F. PHIL.—Playing upon the spirit of a cracked guitar!—Alice!
Alice! these fears are ridiculous! The idea of ghosts is a vulgar prejudice;
and they who are timid and absurd enough to encourage it, prove themselves
the most contemptible—
ALICE. (Screaming.) Oh! Lord bless us!
F. PHIL. What?—Hey!—Oh! dear!
ALICE. Look! look!—A figure in white!—It comes from the haunted room!
F. PHIL. (Dropping on his knees.) Blessed St. Patrick!—Who has got
my beads? Where's my prayer-book?
ALICE. It comes!—it comes!—Now! now!—Lack-a-day, it's only Lady Angela!
F. PHIL. (Rising) Lack-a-day! I'm glad of it with all my heart!
ALICE. Truly so am I.— But what say you now, Father, to the fear of
spectres!
[17]
F. PHIL. In good faith, Alice, that my theory was better than
my practice. However, the next time that you are afraid of a ghost,
remember and make use of the receipt which I shall now give you; instead
of calling for a priest to lay the spirits of other people in the red sea,
call for a bottle of red wine to raise your own. Probatum est
(Exit)
ALICE. (Alone.) Wine indeed!—I believe he thinks I like drinking as
well as himself. No, no! Let the old toping friar take his bottle
of wine; I shall confine myself to plain cherry-brandy.
Enter Angela.
ANG. I am weary of wandering from room to room; in vain do I
change the scene, discontent is every where. There was a time when
music could delight my ear, and nature could charm my eye:—when, as the
dawn unveiled the landscape, each object it disclosed to me looked pleasant
and fair; and while the last sun-beams yet lingered on the western sky,
I could pour forth a prayer of gratitude, and thank my good angels for
a day unclouded by sorrow!—Now all is gone, all lost, all faded!
ALICE. Lady!
ANG. Perhaps at this moment he thinks upon me! Perhaps he wanders
on those mountains where we so oft have strayed, reclines on that bank
where we so oft have sat, or listens sadly to the starling which he taught
to repeat my name. Perhaps then he sighs, and murmurs to himself, ‘The
flowers, the rivulets, the birds, every object reminds me of my well-beloved;
but what [18] shall remind her of Edwy?’—Oh! that will my heart, Edwy;
I need no other remembrancer!
ALICE. Lady! Lady Angela!—She minds me no more than a post!
ANG. Oh! are you there, good Alice? What would you with
me?
ALICE. Only ask, how your Ladyship rested?
ANG. Ill! very ill!
ALICE. Lack-a-day! and yet you sleep in the best bed!
ANG. True, good Alice; but my heart's anguish strewed thorns upon my
couch of down.
ALICE. Marry, I'm not surprised that you rested ill in the Cedar-room.
Those noises so near you—
ANG. What noises? I heard none.
ALICE. How?—When the clock struck one, heard you no music?
ANG. Music!—None.
ALICE. And never have heard any while in the Cedar-room?
ANG. Not that I—Stay! now I remember that while I sat alone in my chamber
this morning—
ALICE. Well, Lady, well!
ANG. Methought I heard some one singing; it seemed as if the words
ran thus—(Singing.)— 'Lullaby! Lullaby! hush thee, my dear!'
ALICE. (Screaming.) The very words!—It was the ghost, Lady! it was
the ghost!
ANG. The ghost, Alice!—I protest I thought it had been you.
ALICE. Me, Lady!—Lord, when did you hear this singing?
ANG. Not five minutes ago, while you were talking with Father Philip.
[19]
ALICE. The Lord be thanked!—Then it was not the ghost. It was
I, Lady! It was I!—And have you heard no other singing since you
came to the Castle?
ANG. None. But why that question?
ALICE. Because, Lady—But perhaps you may be frightened?
ANG. No, no!—Proceed, I entreat you!
ALICE. Why, then, they do say, that the chamber in which you sleep
is haunted. You may have observed two folding-doors, which are kept
locked: they lead to the Oratory, in which the Lady Evelina passed most
of her time, while my Lord was engaged in the Scottish wars. She would
sit there, good soul! hour after hour, playing on the lute, and singing
airs so sweet, so sad, that many a time and oft have I wept to hear her.
Ah! when I kissed her hand at the Castle-gate, little did I suspect that
her fate would have been so wretched!
ANG. And what was her fate?
ALICE. A sad one, Lady! Impatient to embrace her Lord,
after a year's absence, the Countess set out to met him on his return from
Scotland, accompanied by a few domestics and her infant-daughter, then
scarce a twelvemonth old. But, as she returned with her husband,
robbers surprised the party scarce a mile from the Castle; and since that
time no news has been received of the Earl, of the Countess, the servants,
or the child.
ANG. Dreadful! Were not their corses found?
ALICE. Never! The only domestic who escaped pointed out the scene
of action; and as it proved to be on the river's banks, doubtless the assassins
plunged the bodies into the stream.
ANG. Strange! And did Earl Osmond then become owner of this Castle?—Alice!
was he ever suspected of—
[20]
ALICE. Speak lower, Lady! It was said so, I own: but for my own
part I never believed it. To my certain knowledge Osmond loved the Lady
Evelina too well to hurt her; and when he heard of her death, he wept,
and sobbed as if his heart were breaking. Nay, 'tis certain that
he proposed to her before marriage, and would have made her his wife, only
that she liked his brother better. Well she might indeed, for Earl
Reginald was a sweeter gentleman by half.
ANG. And in that Oratory, you say—Good Alice, you have the key of it:
Let me see that Oratory to-night.
ALICE. To-night, Lady? Heaven preserve me! I wouldn't enter
it after dark for the world!
ANG. But before dark, Alice?
ALICE. Before dark? Why that indeed—Well, well, we’ll see, Lady. But
I hope you're not alarmed by what I mentioned of the Cedar-room?
ANG. No, truly, Alice; from good spirits I have nothing to fear,
and heaven and my innocence will protect me against bad.
ALICE. My very sentiments, I protest! But Heaven forgive
me, while I stand gossiping here I warrant all goes wrong in the kitchen!
Your pardon, Lady: I must away! I must away! (Exit)
ANG. (Musing.) Osmond was his brother's heir. His strange demeanour!—Yes,
in that gloomy brow is written a volume of villainy!—Heavenly powers! an
assassin then is master of my fate!—An assassin too who—I dare not bend
my thoughts that way!—Oh! would I had never entered these Castle-walls!—had
never exchanged for fearful pomp the security of my pleasures—the tranquillity
of my soul!
Return, return, sweet Peace! and o'er my breast
Spread thy bright wings, distil thy balmy rest,
[21]
And teach my steps thy realms among to rove;
Wealth and the world resign'd, nought mine but love!
Ah! cease thy suit, fond girl! thy prayer is vain,
For thus did Love his tyrant law ordain.
—'Peace still must fly that heart where I still reign.'
(Exit)
END OF THE FIRST ACT