Scene: Borders of England and Scotland
Time: The Reign of Henry III.
Act I
Scene: Road in a Wood
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Wallace and Lacy..
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| Lacy | The Troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. —-Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service. |
| Wallace | Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, Companionship with One of crooked ways, From whose perverted soul can come no good To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. |
| Lacy | True; and, remembering how the Band have proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved Captain. |
| Wallace | I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life His passion drove him—then a Voyager Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing In Palestine? |
| Lacy | Where he despised alike Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; Let us begone—the Band may else be foiled. |
| Exeunt | |
| Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred | |
| Wilfred | Be cautious, my dear Master! |
| Marmaduke | I perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm. |
| Wilfred | Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is— |
| Marmaduke | Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him? |
| Wilfred | You know that you have saved his life. |
| Marmaduke | I know it. |
| Wilfred | And that he hates you!—Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty. |
| Marmaduke | Fy! no more of it. |
| Wilfred | Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul.—Nobody loves this Oswald— Yourself, you do not love him. |
| Marmaduke | I do more, I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart Are natural; and from no one can be learnt More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience Has given him power to teach: and then for courage And enterprise—what perils hath he shunned? What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, And be at rest. |
| Wilfred | Oh, Sir! |
| Marmaduke | Peace, my good Wilfred; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest. |
| Wilfred | May He whose eye is over all protect you! |
| Exir | |
| Enter Oswald (a bunch of plants in his hand) | |
| Oswald | This wood is rich in plants and curious simples. |
| Marmaduke | (looking at them) The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: Which is your favorite, Oswald? |
| Oswald | That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal— (Looking forward) Not yet in sight!—We'll saunter here awhile; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. |
| Marmaduke | (a letter in his hand) It is no common thing when one like you Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald; 'Tis a strange letter this!—You saw her write it? |
| Oswald | And saw the tears with which she blotted it. |
| Marmaduke | And nothing less would satisfy him? |
| Oswald | No less; For that another in his Child's affection Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. Besides, I know not what strange prejudice Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours, Which you've collected for the noblest ends, Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed To guard the Innocent—he calls us "Outlaws"; And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts This garb was taken up that indolence Might want no cover, and rapacity Be better fed. |
| Marmaduke | Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. |
| Oswald | Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yet was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed. |
| Marmaduke | This day will suffice To end her wrongs. |
| Oswald | But if the blind Man's tale Should yet be true? |
| Marmaduke | Would it were possible! Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, And others who survived the wreck, beheld The Baron Herbert perish in the waves Upon the coast of Cyprus? |
| Oswald | Yes, even so, And I had heard the like before: in sooth The tale of this his quondam Barony Is cunningly devised; and, on the back Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail To make the proud and vain his tributaries, And stir the pulse of lazy charity. The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed; 'tis much The Arch-Impostor— |
| Marmaduke | Treat him gently, Oswald: Though I have never seen his face, methinks, There cannot come a day when I shall cease To love him. I remember, when a Boy Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm That casts its shade over our village school, 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, Till all the band of play-mates wept together; And that was the beginning of my love. And, through all converse of our later years, An image of this old Man still was present, When I had been most happy. Pardon me If this be idly spoken. |
| Oswald | See, they come, Two Travellers! |
| Marmaduke | (points) [The] woman[1] is Idonea. |
| Oswald | And leading Herbert. |
| Marmaduke | We must let them pass— This thicket will conceal us. |
| [They step aside.] | |
| [Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind.] | |
| Idonea | Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled. |
| Herbert | Nay, You are too fearful; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine. |
| Idonea | That dismal Moor— In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!— I thought the Convent never would appear; It seemed to move away from us: and yet, That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods— A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heath, And thankfully there rested side by side 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.] | |
| Herbert | (after some time) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause. |
| Idonea | 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. |
| Herbert | 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! |
| Idonea | 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— |
| Herbert | 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? |
| Idonea | Is he not strong? Is he not valiant? |
| Herbert | Am I then so soon Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child; Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed— This Marmaduke— |
| Idonea | O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul, 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. |
| Herbert | Unhappy Woman! |
| Idonea | Nay, it was my duty 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. |
| Herbert | 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. |
| Idonea | Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all. |
| Herbert | 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. |
| Idonea | 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] | |
| Peasant | Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you! |
| Idonea | My Companion Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel Would be most welcome. |
| Peasant | 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? |
| Herbert | I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you. |
| Peasant | God speed you both. |
| [Exit Peasant.] | |
| Herbert | Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed— 'Tis but for a few days—a thought has struck me. |
| Idonea | 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] | |
| Marmaduke | This instant will we stop him— |
| Oswald | 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. |
| Marmaduke | I have been much deceived. |
| Oswald | 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. |
| Marmaduke | 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. |
| Oswald | 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. |
| Marmaduke | We will not waste an hour in such a cause. |
| Oswald | Why, this is noble! shake her off at once. |
| Marmaduke | 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— |
| Oswald | 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. |
| Marmaduke | Enemies!—of his own coinage. |
| Oswald | That may be, But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.— I am perplexed. |
| Marmaduke | 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— |
| Oswald | What cannot be? |
| Marmaduke | Yet that a Father Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own Child— |
| Oswald | 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. |
| Marmaduke | What is your meaning? |
| Oswald | 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. |
| Marmaduke | Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door— It could not be. |
| Oswald | 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. |
| Marmaduke | 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— |
| Oswald | 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