SCENE III.
Another Apartment, in Barton's House.
Enter Gondibert and 1st Robber.
Gondi. Away all night! What then? Am not I their leader? Do they begin to doubt me? Am not I, as it were, wedded to the party?
Rob. Very true, noble captain: and we have treated you as a wife would a kind husband:—but when a husband is out all night—why—
Gondi. Well, sir;—what then?
Rob. Marry, then, the wife is apt to grumble a little; that's all.
Gondi. Go to;—I had reason. What's the news?
Rob. The news is, we have taken some stragglers, in the forest.
Gondi. Are they of note?
Rob. 'Faith, we have some of all qualities;—gentle and simple mixed:—we had no time to stand upon the picking:—they're all penn'd up in the back cavern;—and you must e'en take 'em like a score of sheep—fat and lean together. But, there is a beardless youth, follow'd by a cowardly serving man, who presses hard to see you.
Gondi. What would he?
Rob. 'Faith, sir, he would be a noble fellow. I take it he has a great soul, too large for the laws;—he has questioned me plentifully concerning you.
Gondi. Concerning me?
Rob. Yes; he inquired if you were married; how long you had been with us; your age; your stature; nay, he was particular enough to ask what sort of a nose stood on your face.
Gondi. Wherefore these questions?
Rob. Troth, I think he would like well to serve in our band; for he seems to have a marvellous nice notion of honour. He took up your dagger, of curious workmanship, that lies on your table, in the cave, and did so study the dudgeon on't!—Marry, the boy knows how to handle a weapon, I'll warrant him.
Gondi. Where have you bestowed him?
Rob. Why, he was so importunate, that I have brought him, and his man, hither along.—The man, I feared, might babble: so, I've entrusted him to your friend Barton, here; and he, finding he has been a butler, has locked him in the cellarage.
Gondi. Conduct the youth hither.
[Exit Robber.
Then why should I repine? since there are others,
Who, in the early spring, and May of life,
Behold the promised blossoms of their hope
Nipt in the very bud. Here comes the youth;—
And bears a goodly outside;—yet 'tis a slender bark,
That Providence ne'er framed for tossing much
In a rough sea of troubles.
Enter Robber with Adeline.
Rob. Here, youth; this is our captain. Cheer up now, and speak boldly. You need not fear.—A raw youth, captain, but a mettled one, I'll warrant him.—A word with you. [Takes Gondibert apart.
Adeline. It is, it is my lord!—Oh Heaven! my heart!—to find him thus, too!—Yet, to find him any how is transport.
Rob. I shall look to it.—You would be private now, I take it.—Now, youth, plead, cleverly, to get admitted among us, and your fortune's made. Be but a short time with us, and it will go hard, indeed, if all your cares, in this world, are not shortly at an end. [Exit.
Gondi. Now to your business, youth.
Adeline. 'Tis brief.—I have been sorely wrung, sir, by the keen pressure of mishap.—I once had friends: they have left me. One whom I thought a special one—a noble gentleman—who pledged himself, by all the ties that are most binding to a man, to guard my uninstructed youth—even he, to whom my soul looked up; whom, I might say, I loved as with a woman's tenderness,—even he has, now, deserted me.
Gondi. Then he acted basely.
Adeline. I hope not so, sir.
Gondi. Trust me, I think he did, youth; for there is an open native sincerity that marks thy countenance, which I scarce believe could give just cause to a steady friend to leave thee.
Adeline. Now, by my holy dame, he had none to suspect me. Yet, from the pressure of the time,—some trying chance—but, I am wandering. This is my suit to you.—If you should find me fit to be entrusted with the secrets of your party, I could wish to be enrolled among you.
Gondi. Hast thou well weigh'd the hardships which our life
Constrains us to? Our perils; nightly watchings
Our fears, disquietudes; our jealousies,
Even of ourselves?—which keep the lawless mind
For ever on the stretch, and turn our sleep,
To frightful slumbers;—where imagination
Discovers, to the dull and feverous sense,
Mis-shapen forms, ghastly and horrible;—
And mixes, in the chaos of the brain,
Terrors, half real, half unnatural;—
Till nature, struggling under the oppression,
Rouses the sleeping wretch,—who starts, and wipes
The chilly drop from off his clay-cold temples;
And fain would call for help, yet dares not utter,
But trembles on his couch, silent and horror struck!
Adeline. Attempt not to dissuade me; I am fix'd.
Yet there is one soft tie, which, when I think
The cruel edge of keen necessity
Has cut asunder, almost bursts my heart.
Gondi. What is it, youth?
Adeline. That, which from my youth,—
For I have scarcely yet told one and twenty,—
Might, haply, not be thought;—yet so it is;—
Know, then, that I am married.
Gondi. Married, didst say?
And dost thou love——
Adeline. Oh! witness for me, Heaven!
The pure and holy warmth that fills my bosom.
Gondi. Nay then, my heart bleeds for thee! for thou mightst
As easily attempt to walk unmov'd,
With all the liquid fires which Ætna vomits
Pour'd in thy breast, as here to hope for happiness.
Oh! what does the heart feel, that's rudely torn
From the dear object of its wedded love!
And, still, to add a spur to gall'd reflection,
That very object, whom the time's necessity
Mads you to part with, witless of the cause,
Arraigns your conduct.
Adeline. And have you felt this! [With emotion.
Gondi. I tell thee wretched youth—fie! thou unman'st me.—
Pr'ythee, return, young man!—I have a feeling,—
A fellow feeling for thee;—if thou hop'st
For gentle peace to be an inmate with thee,
Turn thy steps homeward;—link not with our band.
Adeline. Wherefore should I return? return to witness
The bitter load of misery, which circumstance
Has brought upon my house? My infant children—
Gondi. And hast thou children then?
Whose innocence has oft beguil'd thy hours;
Who have look'd smiling up into thy face,
Till the sweet tear of rapturous content
Has trickled down thy cheek?—Thou trying for tune!
Mark out the frozen breast of apathy,
And tho' 'twere triple cased in adamant,
Throw but this poisonous shaft of malice at it,
'Twill pierce it thro'and thro'.
Adeline. An if I thought 'twere so?—
Gondi. Hear me, young man:—
Thou wring'st a secret from me, which, till now,
Was borne in silence here; while, vulture-like,
It preys upon my vitals.—I am married:—
I have a wife—and one whom kindly nature
Form'd in her lavish mood:—Oh! her gentle love
Beam'd through her eyes, whene'er she turn'd them on me,
With such a mild and virtuous innocence,
That it might charm stern murder!—and yet I
Have wounded, villain like, her peace. Even I,—
In whom her very soul was wrapt—
Turn'd coward with the time, have basely left her.
But I am punish'd for't:—day, night,—asleep,
Awake,—still, or in action,—bleeding fancy
Pictures my wife, sitting in patient anguish;
Pale; mild in sufferance; mingling meek forgiveness
With bitter agony;—blessing him who wrongs her;—
While my poor children, my deserted little ones,
Hang on her knees, and watch the silent drops
Steal down her grief-worn face!—Yea, dost thou weep?
Shape thy course homeward then; for pangs like mine,
Would so convulse thee, youth, that, like an engine,
'Twould wrench thy tender nature from its frame,
And pluck life with it.
Adeline. Oh! my dear, loved lord!
Here cease those pangs;—here, in the ecstacy of joy,
Behold your Adeline, now rushing to the arms
Of a beloved husband. [Running into his Arms.
Gondi. Merciful Heaven!
My Adeline! And hast thou!—Oh, my heart!
This sudden conflict!—thus let me clasp thee to it;
Ne'er to part more, till pangs of death shall shake us.
What hast thou suffer'd, sweet!—for me to cause—
And are our children——?
Adeline. Well, and in safety.
Gondi. And, to leave them too!
Adeline. Nay, pr'ythee, now, no more of this:—
Blot from thy memory all former sorrow:—
Or, if we think on't, be it at some moment,
When calm content smiles round our happy board.
And, trust me, now, I think our storms are over:—
For, on my way, I learn, the House of York
Has now sent forth free pardon to all those,
Who, long attach'd to the Lancastrian party,
Have not engaged in their late enterprise.
Gondi. Blessed chance,
That now constrain'd me to inaction! Adeline!
Once more to hold thee! to return to happiness—
To see our children!—
Enter First Robber.
How now! What's the matter?
1 Rob. Marry, the matter is, with the oaf in the cellar; the fool shakes as though he were in an ague; we may e'en turn him adrift any how, for he will no how turn to our profit. He's cowardly and poor; he can neither rob, nor be robbed.
Adeline. Oh! 'tis my man: I pray you conduct him hither.
1 Rob. I'll trundle him in; but you will make nothing of him. I have been trying to talk him into service, and make him fit for our party; but there are some manner of men 'tis impossible to work any good upon. [Exit.
Adeline. Poor simpleton! 'tis Gregory, who, in pure zeal, and honest attachment, has followed me.
Enter Gregory.
Gregory. Mercy on us! this is the great cock captain of the whole brood of banditti! 'Tis all over! and I have been shut up, these two hours, like a calf for killing. Lord! lord! if calves did but know the reason for their being stalled, as I have been, they'd so fall away with fear, that veal would not be worth the taking to market.
Gondi. Why, how now, man?
Gregory. Oh lud! I am a poor fellow, sir; that shall be a longtime getting rich, and would fain not die till I am so. Take my life, sir, and you take all;—I carry it about me, as a snail does his house:—and, truly, sir, you'll find that time has a mortgage upon it of forty-two years, and the furniture, of late, is so worn with ill usage, that the remainder of the lease is not worth your acceptance:—if, sweet, noble, sir, you would but——
[During this Speech, Gregory has been gradually raising his Eyes from the Ground, till he fixes them on Gondibert's Face.
Eh!—Oh!—O, the father!—No!—Yes—Oh lud—Oh lord!
Gondi. Why, dost not know me, Gregory?
Gregory. Huzza!—He's found! [Capering.] Dear my lord, I never was happier since I was born, at the sight of you.
Gondi. Trust me, I think so, Gregory. Come, love;
Let's in for calmer conference. Follow, good Gregory.
[Exeunt Adeline and Gondibert.
Gregory. Here's a simple change in a man's fortune! Now might I, when I say 'tis he—were it not as plain 'tis he as a nose is a nose—swear that my eyes were putting a lie in my mouth, in very spite of my teeth.—Oh, the quiet, comfortable days that I shall see again! Mercy on me! 'Tis enough to make a coward tremble, to think on the battles my valour has been put to. Nothing, now again, but old fare, old rubbing of spoons, and a cup of old sherry, behind the old pantry door, to comfort my nose, in a cold frosty morning.