Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed,
Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries,
Traitor to both.
IDON. Oh, could you hear his voice!
I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me,
But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.
Enter a Peasant.
PEA. Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide,
Let me have leave to serve you!
IDON. My Companion
Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel
Would be most welcome.
PEA. Yon white hawthorn gained,
You will look down into a dell, and there
Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs;
The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man,
You seem worn out with travel—shall I support you?
HER. I thank you; but, a resting-place so near,
‘Twere wrong to trouble you.
PEA. God speed you both.
[Exit Peasant.
HER. Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed—
‘Tis but for a few days—a thought has struck me.
IDON. That I should leave you at this house, and thence
Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength
Would fail you ere our journey’s end be reached.
[Exit HERBERT supported by IDONEA.
Re-enter MARMADUKE and OSWALD.
MAR. This instant will we stop him—
OSW. Be not hasty,
For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction,
He tempted me to think the Story true;
‘Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said
That savoured of aversion to thy name
Appeared the genuine colour of his soul—
Anxiety lest mischief should befal her
After his death.
MAR. I have been much deceived.
OSW. But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love
Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely,
Thus to torment her with ‘inventions’!—death—
There must be truth in this.
MAR. Truth in his story!
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—
OSW. Something is here
More than we see, or whence this strong aversion?
Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales
Have reached his ear—you have had enemies.
MAR. Enemies!—of his own coinage.
OSW. That may be,
But wherefore slight protection such as you
Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.—
I am perplexed.
MAR. What hast thou heard or seen?
OSW. No—no—the thing stands clear of mystery;
(As you have said) he coins himself the slander
With which he taints her ear;—for a plain reason;
He dreads the presence of a virtuous man
Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart,
Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds
The punishment they merit. All is plain:
It cannot be——
MAR. What cannot be?
OSW. Yet that a Father
Should in his love admit no rivalship,
And torture thus the heart of his own Child—
MAR. Nay, you abuse my friendship!
OSW. Heaven forbid!—
There was a circumstance, trifling indeed—
It struck me at the time—yet I believe
I never should have thought of it again
But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed.
MAR. What is your meaning?
OSW. Two days gone I saw,
Though at a distance and he was disguised,
Hovering round Herbert’s door, a man whose figure
Resembled much that cold voluptuary,
The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows
Where he can stab you deepest.
MAR. Clifford never
Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door—
It could not be.
OSW. And yet I now remember,
That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue,
And the blind Man was told how you had rescued
A maiden from the ruffian violence
Of this same Clifford, he became impatient
And would not hear me.
MAR. No—it cannot be—
I dare not trust myself with such a thought—
Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man
Not used to rash conjectures—
OSW. If you deem it
A thing worth further notice, we must act
With caution, sift the matter artfully.
[Exeunt MARMADUKE and OSWALD.
SCENE—The door of the Hostel.
HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host.
HER. (seated). As I am dear to you, remember, Child!
This last request.
IDON. You know me, Sire; farewell!
HER. And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea,
We must not part,—I have measured many a league
When these old limbs had need of rest,—and now
I will not play the sluggard.
IDON. Nay, sit down.
[Turning to Host.
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 befall 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 young,
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.
HER. Idonea, wolves
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. The villagers
Are flocking in—a wedding festival—
That’s all—God save you, Sir.
Enter OSWALD.
OSW. Ha! as I live,
The Baron Herbert.
HOST. Mercy, the Baron Herbert!
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.
HER. Dutiful Girl,
She is gone before, to spare my weariness.
But what has brought you hither?
OSW. A slight affair,
That will be soon despatched.
HER. Did Marmaduke
Receive that letter?
OSW. Be at peace.—The tie
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.
OSW. You are most lucky;
I have been waiting in the wood hard by
For a companion—here he comes; our journey
Enter MARMADUKE.
Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.
HER. Alas! I creep so slowly.
OSW. Never fear;
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.
Enter Villagers.
OSW. (to himself coming out of the Hostel).
I have prepared a most apt Instrument—
The 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.
[Exit OSWALD.
Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them.
HOST. (to them). Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself
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;
And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog,
Trotting alone along the beaten road,
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?
BEG. 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, but softly,
Who is it that hath wronged you?
BEG. Mark you m
e;
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
With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur,
I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth
He does his Master credit.
MAR. As I live,
‘Tis Herbert and no other!
BEG. ‘Tis a feast to see him,
Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent,
And long beard white with age—yet evermore,
As if he were the only Saint on earth,
He turns his face to heaven.
OSW. But why so violent
Against this venerable Man?
BEG. I’ll tell you:
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. I was saying, Sir—
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.
BEG. Ay; and if truth were known
I have good business there.
OSW. I met you at the threshold,
And he seemed angry.
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.
OSW. What’s this?—I fear, good Woman,
You have been insolent.
BEG. 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?
BEG. Daughter! truly—
But how’s the day?—I fear, my little Boy,
We’ve overslept ourselves.—Sirs, have you seen him?
[Offers to go.
MAR. I must have more of this;—you shall not stir
An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught
That doth concern this Herbert?
BEG. You are provoked,
And will misuse me, Sir?
MAR. No trifling, Woman!
OSW. You are as safe as in a sanctuary;
Speak.
MAR. Speak!
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 7