Her. (after some time). Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.
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.
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!
Idon.
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-
Her. 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?
Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly
Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child;
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed—
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.
Her. Unhappy Woman!
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.
Her. 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.
Idon. Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.
Her. 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.
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.
Pea. Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you!
Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel
Would be most welcome.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
But wherefore slight protection such as you
Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.-
I am perplexed.
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
you; he knows your eye would search his heart, Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds
The punishment they merit. All is plain :
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