BEG. He is a most hard-hearted Man,
MAR. Your life is at my mercy.
BEG. Do not harm me,
And I will tell you all!—You know not, Sir,
What strong temptations press upon the Poor.
OSW. Speak out.
BEG. Oh Sir, I’ve been a wicked Woman.
OSW. Nay, but speak out!
BEG. He flattered me, and said
What harvest it would bring us both; and so,
I parted with the Child.
MAR. Parted with whom?
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.
MAR. Enough.
OSW. We’ve solved the riddle—Miscreant!
MAR. Do you,
Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait
For my return; be sure you shall have justice.
OSW. A lucky woman! go, you have done good service. [Aside.
MAR. (to himself). Eternal praises on the power that saved
her!—
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.
In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns
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 you—
God 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!
[Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.
You are Idonea’s mother?—
Nay, be not terrified—it does me good
To look upon you.
OSW. (interrupting). In a peasant’s dress
You saw, who was it?
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. Enough! you may depart.
MAR. (to himself). Father!—to God himself we cannot give
A holier name; and, under such a mask,
To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed,
To that abhorred 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.
ACT II.
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.
Enter MARMADUKE.
MAR. These ten years she has moved her lips all day
And never speaks!
OSW. Who is it?
MAR. I have seen her.
OSW. Oh! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead,
Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness.
MAR. I met a peasant near the spot; he told me,
These ten years she had sate all day alone
Within those empty walls.
OSW. I too have seen her;
Chancing to pass this way some six months gone,
At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard:
The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still
The trees were silent as the graves beneath them.
Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round
Upon the self-same spot, still round and round,
Her lips for ever moving.
MAR. At her door
Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman,
I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea.
OSW. But the pretended Father—
MAR. Earthly law
Measures not crimes like his.
OSW. ‘We’ rank not, happily,
With those who take the spirit of their rule
From that soft class of devotees who feel
Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare
The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare
While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea
Were present, to the end that we might hear
What she can urge in his defence; she loves him.
MAR. Yes, loves him; ‘tis a truth that multiplies
His guilt a thousand-fold.
OSW. ‘Tis most perplexing:
What must be done?
MAR. We will conduct her hither;
These walls shall witness it—from first to last
He shall reveal himself.
OSW. Happy are we,
Who live in these disputed tracts, that own
No law but what each man makes for himself;
Here justice has indeed a field of triumph.
MAR. Let us be gone and bring her hither;—here
The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved
Before her face. The rest be left to me.
OSW. You will be firm: but though we well may trust
The issue to the justice of the cause,
Caution must not be flung aside; remember,
Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here
Upon these savage confines, we have seen you
Stand like an isthmus ‘twixt two stormy seas
That oft have checked their fury at your bidding.
‘Mid the deep holds of Solway’s mossy waste,
Your single virtue has transformed a Band
Of fierce barbarians into Ministers
Of peace and order. Aged men with tears
Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire
For shelter to their banners. But it is,
As you must needs have deeply felt, it is
In darkness and in tempest that we seek
The majesty of Him who rules the world.
Benevolence, that has not heart to use
The wholesome ministry of pain and evil,
Becomes at last weak and contemptible.
Your generous qualities have won due praise,
But vigorous Spirits look for something more
Than Youth’s spontaneous products; and to-day
You will not disappoint them;
and hereafter—
MAR. You are wasting words; hear me then, once for all:
You are a Man—and therefore, if compassion,
Which to our kind is natural as life,
Be known unto you, you will love this Woman,
Even as I do; but I should loathe the light,
If I could think one weak or partial feeling—
OSW. You will forgive me—
MAR. If I ever knew
My heart, could penetrate its inmost core,
‘Tis at this moment.—Oswald, I have loved
To be the friend and father of the oppressed,
A comforter of sorrow;—there is something
Which looks like a transition in my soul,
And yet it is not.—Let us lead him hither.
OSW. Stoop for a moment; ‘tis an act of justice;
And where’s the triumph if the delegate
Must fall in the execution of his office?
The deed is done—if you will have it so—
Here where we stand—that tribe of vulgar wretches
(You saw them gathering for the festival)
Rush in—the villains seize us—
MAR. Seize!
OSW. Yes, they—
Men who are little given to sift and weigh—
Would wreak on us the passion of the moment.
MAR. The cloud will soon disperse—farewell—but stay,
Thou wilt relate the story.
OSW. Am I neither
To bear a part in this Man’s punishment,
Nor be its witness?
MAR. I had many hopes
That were most dear to me, and some will bear
To be transferred to thee.
OSW. When I’m dishonoured!
MAR. I would preserve thee. How may this be done?
OSW. By showing that you look beyond the instant,
A few leagues hence we shall have open ground,
And nowhere upon earth is place so fit
To look upon the deed. Before we enter
The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock
The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft
Has held infernal orgies—with the gloom,
And very superstition of the place,
Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee
Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits
Of this mock Father’s guilt.
Enter Host conducting HERBERT.
HOST. The Baron Herbert
Attends your pleasure.
OSW. (to Host). We are ready—
(to HERBERT) Sir!
I hope you are refreshed.—I have just written
A notice for your Daughter, that she may know
What is become of you.—You’ll sit down and sign it;
‘Twill glad her heart to see her father’s signature.
[Gives the letter he had written.
HER. Thanks for your care.
[Sits down and writes. Exit Host.
OSW. (aside to MARMADUKE). Perhaps it would be useful
That you too should subscribe your name.
[MARMADUKE overlooks HERBERT—
then writes—examines the letter
eagerly.
MAR. I cannot leave this paper. [He puts it up, agitated.
OSW. (aside). Dastard! Come.
[MARMADUKE goes towards HERBERT
and supports him—MARMADUKE
tremblingly beckons OSWALD to take his place.
MAR. (as he quits HERBERT). There is a palsy in his limbs—he
shakes. [Exeunt OSWALD and HERBERT—MARMADUKE following.
SCENE changes to a Wood—a Group of Pilgrims and IDONEA with them.
FIRST PIL. A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw.
SEC. PIL. The music of the birds
Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves.
OLD PIL. This news! It made my heart leap up with joy.
IDON. I scarcely can believe it.
OLD PIL. Myself, I heard
The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter
Which purported it was the royal pleasure
The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed,
Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood,
Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady,
Filled my dim eyes with tears.—When I returned
From Palestine, and brought with me a heart,
Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort,
I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast:
He had a Guide, a Shepherd’s boy; but grieved
He was that One so young should pass his youth
In such sad service; and he parted with him.
We joined our tales of wretchedness together,
And begged our daily bread from door to door.
I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady!
For once you loved me.
IDON. You shall back with me
And see your Friend again. The good old Man
Will be rejoiced to greet you.
OLD PIL. It seems but yesterday
That a fierce storm o’ertook us, worn with travel,
In a deep wood remote from any town.
A cave that opened to the road presented
A friendly shelter, and we entered in.
IDON. And I was with you?
OLD PIL. If indeed ‘twas you—
But you were then a tottering Little-one—
We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker:
I struck my flint, and built up a small fire
With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds
Of many autumns in the cave had piled.
Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods;
Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth
And we were comforted, and talked of comfort;
But ‘twas an angry night, and o’er our heads
The thunder rolled in peals that would have made
A sleeping man uneasy in his bed.
O Lady, you have need to love your Father.
His voice—methinks I hear it now, his voice
When, after a broad flash that filled the cave,
He said to me, that he had seen his Child,
A face (no cherub’s face more beautiful)
Revealed by lustre brought with it from Heaven;
And it was you, dear Lady!
IDON. God be praised,
That I have been his comforter till now!
And will be so through every change of fortune
And every sacrifice his peace requires.—
Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear
These joyful tidings from no lips but mine.
[Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.
SCENE,—The Area of a half-ruined Castle—on one side the entrance
to a dungeon—OSWALD and MARMADUKE pacing backwards and
forwards.
MAR. ‘Tis a wild night.
OSW. I’d give my cloak and bonnet
For sight of a warm fire.
MAR. The wind blows keen;
My hands are numb.
OSW. Ha! ha! ‘tis nipping cold.
[Blowing his fingers.
I long for news of our brave Comrades; Lacy
Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens
If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed.
MAR. I think I see a second range of Towers;
This castle has another Area—come,
Let us examine it.
OSW. ‘Tis a bitter night;
I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman,
Who at full speed swept by us where the wood
Roared in the tempest, was within an ace
Of sending to his grave our precious Charge:
That would have been a vile mischance.
MAR. It would.
OSW. Justice had been most cruelly defrauded.
MAR. Most cruelly.
OSW. As up the steep we clomb,
I saw a distant fire in the north-east;
I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon:
With proper speed our quarters may be gained
To-morrow evening.
[Looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.
MAR. When, upon the plank,
I had led him ‘cross the torrent, his voice blessed me:
You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks
With deafening noise,—the benediction fell
Back on himself; but changed into a curse.
OSW. As well indeed it might.
MAR. And this you deem
The fittest place?
OSW. (aside). He is growing pitiful.
MAR. (listening). What an odd moaning that is!—
OSW. Mighty odd
The wind should pipe a little, while we stand
Cooling our heels in this way!—I’ll begin
And count the stars.
MAR. (still listening). That dog of his, you are sure,
Could not come after us—he ‘must’ have perished;
The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters.
You said you did not like his looks—that he
Would trouble us; if he were here again,
I swear the sight of him would quail me more
Than twenty armies.
OSW. How?
MAR. The old blind Man,
When you had told him the mischance, was troubled
Even to the shedding of some natural tears
Into the torrent over which he hung,
Listening in vain.
OSW. He has a tender heart!
[OSWALD offers to go down into the dungeon.
MAR. How now, what mean you?
OSW. Truly, I was going
To waken our stray Baron. Were there not
A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues,
We should deserve to wear a cap and bells,
Three good round years, for playing the fool here
In such a night as this.
MAR. Stop, stop.
OSW. Perhaps,
You’d better like we should descend together,
And lie down by his side—what say you to it?
Three of us—we should keep each other warm:
I’ll answer for it that our four-legged friend
Shall not disturb us; further I’ll not engage;
Come, come, for manhood’s sake!
MAR. These drowsy shiverings,
This mortal stupor which is creeping over me,
What do they mean? were this my single body
Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble:
Why do I tremble now?—Is not the depth
Of this Man’s crimes beyond the reach of thought?
And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment,
Something I strike upon which turns my mind
Back on herself, I think, again—my breast
Concentres all the terrors of the Universe:
I look at him and tremble like a child.
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 8