Dramas (Baillie)/The Phantom/Act 2

by Joanna Baillie

ACT II.

SCENE I.—The Cross of Glasgow. A great crowd of people are discovered, and bells heard tolling occasionally from the neighbouring churches.

FIRST CROWD.

Ah! woe is me! so bonnie and so young!

Of all that death hath ta'en in this fell ravage,
None hath he ta'en that seem'd so ill to suit
The coffin and the mould. Ah! woe is me!

SECOND CROWD.

Ay, neighbour, she was one mark'd from them all.

Though we have many fair and gracious ladies,
We had not one who could be pair'd with her:
The bonniest lass in all the west of Scotland.

FIRST CROWD.

Ay, thou may'st say, the bonniest and the best.

THIRD CROWD.

Nay, softly, David! for the point of goodness,

That is a matter, on her burial day,
We may not question; yet, if it be true——

FIRST CROWD.

If it be true! It is not: nought is true

That can throw speck or spot upon her virtue.

FIRST CROWD WOMAN (to First Crowd).

Be not so angry, man; my husband means

Against her maiden virtue no reproach,
Ev'n if her faith was papishly inclined.

FIRST CROWD.

She was no Papish; I'll take oath upon it.

The cloven foot of Satan in my shoe
Is at this point of time as surely buckled,
As that she was aught but a pure believer,—
A good and godly lady.

FIRST CROWD WOMAN.

That gentleman, so brave and soldierly,

Who lately has return'd from foreign wars,
Is a rank Romanist, and has been oft
Received by her. But, Lord preserve us all!
We, by God's grace, may sit by Satan's side,—
Ay, on the self-same settle, yet, the while,
Be ne'er one whit the worse.

THIRD CROWD.

And I should guess——

SECOND CROWD.

Hist, hist! the funeral's coming:

I hear the heavy wheels, and o'er the top
Of all those cluster'd heads I see the feathers,—

The snow-white feathers of the high-coped hearse
Move slowly. Woe the day! oh, woe the day!
How changed her state! She was on milk-white steed
Mounted right gallantly, with cap and plume,
When I beheld her last.

VOICE (without).

Make way, good folks, and let the ladies pass.

SECOND CROWD (to him without).

None can pass here on horseback.

VOICE (without).

It is the Provost's family: make way.

SECOND CROWD (as before).

An 'twere the king's, they must dismount, I trow,

Or wait till the procession be gone by.

Enter Alice, Marian, and Claude.

CLAUDE (to Crowd).

What makes so great a concourse? and those bells

To toll so dismally? Whose funeral
Are ye convened to see?

FIRST CROWD.

Ah, Sir! the fairest lady of the place.

I warrant you have seen her many a time;
They call'd her Emma Graham.

CLAUDE.

It cannot be! What didst thou call her? Speak;

Repeat her name.

FIRST CROWD.

Her name is Emma Graham; her father is——

CLAUDE.

No more! no more! too well I comprehend it.

And death hath dealt his blow on what was life's
Completest, dearest, best.
(Covers his face with his cloak.)

MARIAN (turning to Alice, and supporting her).

Dear Alice, thou art pale, and faint, and ill:

Lean upon me, my friend.

ALICE.

Think not of me: poor Claude! my heart-struck brother!

His wound is deep and sudden: for this stroke
I was prepared.

VOICES (without).

Stand back; stand closer: it is now at hand.

[A funeral procession crosses the Stage; the Mourners following the hearse on foot.]

FIRST CROWD.

Ah! never corse was follow'd to the grave

With deeper sorrow!

FIRST CROWD WOMAN.

Ay, tears are following tears down manly cheeks,

As gouts fall in Saint Mungo's dripping aisle,
Near which the grave is dug that shall receive her.

FIRST CROWD.

That is her grey-hair'd father, so bow'd down;

And those her brothers walking by his side.

SECOND CROWD.

Then all the kindred walking, two and two.

THIRD CROWD.

But who is he that follows after all,

In mourner's cloak so muffled to the eyes?
He walks alone, not mated like the rest;
And yet, methinks, his gait and motion say
The greatest weight of grief falls to his share.

CLAUDE.

God knows who hath the greatest share! Not he. (Pushing eagerly through the crowd.)

ALICE.

Where goest thou, Claude? (Endeavouring to hold him.)

CLAUDE.

Prevent me not. Shall mourning weeds alone

Have privilege, and sorrow be debarr'd.

[Exit hastily after the funeral, and the crowd disperses different ways, Alice, Marian, and their Servants alone occupying the front of the Stage.

MARIAN.

Dear Alice! how thou tremblest every limb,

As in an ague fit!

ALICE.

It was no dream;

It was no strong delusion of the fancy.

MARIAN.

This is indeed an awful confirmation.

But stay no longer here: go to thy home;
Thou hast great need of rest.

ALICE.

I have more need,

Within my closet, on my bended knees,
To pray for mercy on my sinful self,
And those to me most dear,—poor sinners all.
This is a sad and awful visitation.

MARIAN.

But didst thou not expect to find it so?

I thought thou wert prepared.

ALICE.

I thought so too;

But certainty makes previous expectation
Seem, by comparison, a state of hope.

MARIAN.

We now are free to hold upon our way.

Let us proceed: come on with me, dear Alice.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The House of the Provost, and the Apartment of Claude, who enters, followed by Crawford, and throws himself hack into a chair with the action of deep distress.

CLAUDE.

Follow me not, my friend; it is in vain

That friendly soothing would assuage my grief.

CRAWFORD.

Grieve not for that which is, indeed, most grievous,

Beyond all measure.

CLAUDE.

Can we measure grief,

And say, So much of it shall be my portion,
And only this? A prudent, lesson'd sorrow,
Usurps the name it bears.—She was the light
That brighten'd every object; made this world
A place worth living in. This beauteous flame
Hath in the socket sunk: I am in darkness,
And no returning ray shall cheer my sight.
This earth, and every thing that it contains,
Is a dull blank around me.

CRAWFORD.

Say not so!

It grieves my heart to hear thee. Say not so.

CLAUDE.

I will not grieve thee then; I'll hold my tongue;

But shall I feel the less?—Oh, had she lived!

CRAWFORD.

Perhaps she had but caused thee greater sorrow;

For how would'st thou have brook'd to see her hand,
Had it so been, bestow'd upon another?

CLAUDE.

Why should I entertain a thought so painful?

(Raising his head proudly, after a thoughtful pause.)

Yes, I can entertain it, and believe

That, even as another's, it were happiness
To see her yet alive; to see her still
Looking as never eyes but hers did look;
Speaking such words as she alone could speak,

Whose soften'd sounds thrill'd through the nerves, and dwelt,

When heard no more, on the delighted fancy,

Like chanted sweetness!—All is now extinct!—
Like some base thing, unmeet for mortal eye,

The sod hath cover'd all. (After a thoughtful pause.) Hath cover'd all!

CRAWFORD.

Dear Claude! why wilt thou dwell on things so dismal?

Let me read to thee from some pious book;

Wilt thou permit me? (He remains silent and thoughtful.) Dost thou hear me, Claude?

CLAUDE (muttering to himself without attending to Crawford).

The sexton has the key; and if he had not,

The wall may yet be clear'd.—
The banded mourners scatter to their homes,
Where kinsfolk meet, and social hearths blaze bright,
And leave the grave in midnight loneliness;
But should it be?

CRAWFORD (listening to him).

I understand these words:

But if he go, he shall not go alone.

Enter a Servant.

CLAUDE (impatiently).

What brings thee here?

SERVANT.

A gentleman desires to see you, Sir.

CLAUDE.

Tell him I am gone forth.—Such ill-timed visits!

Is the sore heart a sear'd and harden'd thing
For every fool to handle?[Exit.

CRAWFORD.

I'll follow him: he should not be alone.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A large Room, with rich furniture, and the walls hung with pictures.

Enter the Provost and Marian, by different doors.

PROVOST.

How is poor Alice?

MARIAN.

She is more composed;

For tears have flow'd uncheck'd, and have relieved her.
I have persuaded her to take an hour
Of needful rest upon her bed; and Jessie,
That kindly creature, watches her the while.

PROVOST.

Ay, that is right. And now, my right good lady,

Let me in plain but grateful words repeat,
That your great kindness, leaving thus your home,
And taking such a journey for the comfort
Of my poor child, is felt by me most truly,
As it deserves. May God reward you for it!

MARIAN.

I will not. Sir, receive such thanks unqualified;

They are not due to me. Regard for Alice,—
And who that knows her feels not such regard,—
Was closely blended with another motive,
When I determined on this sudden journey.

PROVOST.

Another motive!

MARIAN.

Has not Claude inform, you,

That Malcolm left Dunarden secretly,
The night before we did ourselves set forth?

PROVOST.

He has not. Ha! and wot you where he went?

MARIAN.

I wot not, but I guess: and it was he,

As I am almost confident, who walk'd
The last of all the mourners, by himself,
In this day's sad procession.

PROVOST (pulling a letter hastily from his pocket).

Madam, sit down; I'll cast mine eyes again

O'er this your father's letter. Pray sit down!

I may not see you thus. (Setting a chair with much courtesy, and obliging her to sit, whilst he goes aside and reads a letter earnestly. He then returns to her.)

My friend has many words of courtesy;

It is his habit; but subtracting from them
The plain unvarnish'd sense, and thereto adding
What, from this secret journey of your brother,
May be inferr'd,—the real truth is this—
At least it so appears to my poor reason—
(Preventing her as she rises from her seat.)
Nay, sit, I pray you. Lady Auchinmore;
We'll talk this matter over thoroughly,
And leave no bashful doubts hid in a corner,
For lack of honest courage to produce them.
(Sits down by her.)

MARIAN.

Proceed, good Sir, I listen earnestly.

PROVOST.

As it appears to me, the truth is this,

That Malcolm, whom your father doth admit,
Albeit a great admirer of my daughter,
To be at present somewhat disinclined
To give up youthful liberty so early,
As he from more acquaintance with her virtues

Ere long will of his own accord desire,—
(Pointing to the letter.)—so he expresses it.

MARIAN.

And with sincerity.

PROVOST.

Well, grant it, Lady!

The truth doth nevertheless appear to be,
That this young gallant, Malcolm of Dunarden,
With all her virtues, loves not Alice Denison,
And loves another.

MARIAN.

Rather say, hath loved.

PROVOST.

I'll not unsay my words. His heart is with her,

Low as she lies: and she who won his heart
From such a maid as Alice Denison,
Will keep it too, ev'n in her shroud. No, no!
We've spread our vaunting sails against the wind,
And cannot reach our port but with such peril
As will o'ermatch the vantage.

MARIAN.

Say not so.

Time will make all things as we wish to have them.

PROVOST.

Time works rare changes, which they may abide

Who are intent upon them. Shall I carry
My vessel where her cargo is not wanted?—

Tobacco to th' Antipodes, and wait
Till they have learnt to use and relish it?—
Shall I do this, when other marts are near,
With open harbours ready to receive her?

MARIAN.

Dear Sir, you must not think I will assent

To what would mar the long and cherish'd wish
Of me and mine. And we had fondly hoped
That you had been desirous of this union
Between our families.

PROVOST.

Your father won my friendship years ago,

When with his goodly mien and belted plaid,
His merry courtesy and stately step,
He moved amongst our burghers at the Cross,
As though he had been chieftain o'er us all;
And I have since enjoy'd his hospitality,
In his proud mountain hold.

MARIAN.

I recollect it: proud and glad he was

Of such a guest.

PROVOST.

Dost thou? Ay, then it was,

That, seeing his fair stripling by his side—
A graceful creature, full of honest sense
And manly courage—I did like the notion,
That Alice, then a little skipping child,
With years before her still to play about me,

Should in some future time become the lady
Of that young Highland chief. But years bring thoughts
Of a more sober and domestic hue.
Why should I covet distant vanities,
And banish from my sight its dearest object?

(Rising from his chair.) Have you observed those pictures?

MARIAN (rising also).

I have. They are the portraits of your parents:

Their features bear resemblance to your own.

PROVOST.

My mother's do: and look at her, dear Madam!

With all the bravery of that satin dress
Clasp'd up with jewels, and those roses stuck
Amongst her braided hair, she was the daughter
And sober heiress of a saving burgher,
Whose hoarded pelf in my brave father's hands
Raised such industrious stir in this good city,
As changed her from a haunt of listless sluggards
To the fair town she is. What need have I
To eke my consequence with foreign matches?
Alice shall wed, I hope, some prosperous merchant,
And live contentedly, my next door neighbour,
With all her imps about her.

MARIAN.

Wed whom she may, I hope she will be happy.

PROVOST.

I do believe that is your hearty wish:

And having plainly told you what I think
Of this projected match, as it concerns
My daughter and myself,—I will proceed
To that which may concern my ancient friend.
Should any mortgage press on his estate,
Or any purchase of adjoining lands
Make money a desired object with him,
He need but speak the word; at easy int'rest
He shall receive what sums he may require.
And need not fear that I shall e'er distress him
With hard ill-timed demands. In faith, he need not!

MARIAN.

Dear Sir, he knows full well your gen'rous heart

Hath for its minister a liberal hand:
In truth, he would not fear to be your debtor.

PROVOST.

Not all the rum and sugar of Jamaica,

In one huge warehouse stored, should make me press him,

Though apt occasion offer'd e'er so temptingly.

Then why should Malcolm bend his youthful neck
To wedlock's yoke for sordid purposes?
The boy shall be my friend; and when his mind
Is free to think upon another love,
I'll guide him to a very comely lady—

Yea, more than one, that he may have a choice—
Who may prove both a match of love and profit;
But, hear you plainly, not to Alice Denison.

MARIAN.

Oh, you are kind and noble! but my father——

PROVOST.

Say nought for him; he'll answer for himself:

And through his maze of friendly compliments,
I'll trace at last his veritable thoughts.
(Taking her hand kindly.)
Now, having thus so plainly told my mind,
Look on me as a man to whom again
You may as freely speak.

MARIAN.

And so I will:

The happiness of one, dear to us both,
Requires that I should do it.

PROVOST (surprised).

How so? is it of Alice you would speak?

MARIAN.

Yes, but another time; for here comes Jessie.

Enter Jessie.

(To Jessie.) How is she now? I hope she is asleep.

JESSIE.

She has not slept, but lies composed and easy,

And wishes now to see you.[Exit Marian.

PROVOST.

How art thou, Jessie?

JESSIE.

Well, an' please your honour.

PROVOST.

I hear thou hast become a Highland lass;

But, if thou really like the Lowlands better,
Thy native country, tell me honestly:
I'll make thy husband, whomsoe'er thou choose,
A freeman of this town. If he have brains.
And some few marks beside, he'll thrive upon it.

JESSIE.

I thank you, Sir; his marks are few indeed.

PROVOST.

Well, never mind; let us but have the brains,

And we will make the best of it.—Poor Jessie!
I well remember thee a barefoot girl,
With all thy yellow hair bound in a snood.
Thy father too.

JESSIE.

Do you remember him?

PROVOST.

Yes, Saunders Fairlie. Better man than Saunders

In factory or warehouse never bustled.

Enter Servant.

PROVOST.

What is the matter, Archy? On thy face

Thou wear'st a curious grin: what is the matter?

SERVANT.

The baillie bid me to inform your honour,

The country hucksters and the market wives
Have quarrell'd, and are now at deadly strife,
With all the brats and schoolboys of the town
Shouting and bawling round them.

PROVOST.

Good sooth! whenever those wives with hands and tongue

Join in the fray, the matter must be look'd to.

I will be with them soon.
[Exit Servant.
To think now of those creatures!
Ev'n at the time when death is in the city
Doing his awful work, and our sad streets
Blacken'd with funerals, that they must quarrel
About their worldly fractions! Woe is me!
For all our preachings and our Sabbath worship,
We are, I fear, but an ungodly race.

Enter another Servant.

And what has brought thee, too?

SERVANT.

There is a woman come from Anderston,

Whose neighbour, on pretence of some false debt,
Has puin'd her good milch cow,—her only cow.

PROVOST.

Is that a case to occupy my time?

Let her go with it to the younger baillie.

SERVANT.

I told her so, your honour, but she weeps,

And says the younger baillie is so proud,
She dare not speak to him.

PROVOST.

Poor simpleton! Well then, I needs must see her.

Re-enter First Servant.

Tut! here again! What is the matter now?

FIRST SERVANT.

A servant all cross'd o'er wi' livery lace,
As proud and grand as any trumpeter,
Is straight from Blantyre come, and says, my Lord
Would greatly be obliged, if that your honour
Would put off hearing of that suit to-morrow,
As he must go to Edinburgh.

PROVOST.

Tell the messenger

To give my humble service to his lordship,
And say, I could not, but with great injustice
To the complaining party, grant delay,
Who, being poor, should not be further burden'd
With more attendance; I will therefore hear
The cause to-morrow, at the hour appointed.

Exit First, and re-enter Second Servant.

Still more demands! For what foul sin of mine

Was I promoted to this dignity?
From morn till eve, there is no peace for me.

[Exit Provost, speaking to the Servants as they go out.

SCENE IV.

Before the walls of a Churchyard, a narrow iron Gate at the bottom of the Stage, behind which the gleaming of a Torch is faintly seen; the front of the Stage entirely dark. Solemn Music is heard, as the Scene opens.

Enter a Sexton, with keys, followed by Claude and Crawford.

CLAUDE.

Music! and from the spot! what may it be?

SEXTON.

Leave was requested that a solemn dirge

Should be this night sung by some grave; but whose,
Or e'en by whom requested, I am ignorant.
Some Papist, like enough: but what of that?

CRAWFORD (to Sexton).

How many graves thou'st made in one short week!

Thou hast been busy in thy sad vocation.

SEXTON.

I have, good sooth! and knew it would be so,

A month before the fell disease began.

CRAWFORD.

How knew it?

SEXTON.

He, the sighted man from Skye,

Was in the town; and, at the crowded cross,
Fell into strong convulsions, at the sight
Which there appear'd to him.

CRAWFORD.

What did he see?

SEXTON.

Merchants, and lairds, and deacons, making bargains,

And setting trystes, and joking carelessly,
Swathed in their shrouds; some to the very chin,
Some breast-high, others only to the loins.

It was a dismal, an appalling sight;
And when I heard of it, I knew right well
My busy time was coming.

CLAUDE (to Sexton, impatiently).

Didst thou say

That leave has been requested for a dirge
To be this night sung by some Papist's grave?

SEXTON.

Papist or not I cannot surely say,

I ask'd no questions.

CRAWFORD.

Having cause, no doubt.

To be well satisfied no harm would ensue.

SEXTON.

No harm. In this retired nook it cannot

Annoy the living; and for the departed.
Nought can disturb their rest.

CRAWFORD.

Hast thou not heard of restless souls returning?

Perhaps thou 'st seen it, during thirty years
In which thou hast been sexton of this parish.

SEXTON.

In all that time I ne'er could say with certainty

That aught of such a nature pass'd before me;
But I have seen uncertain shadows move

As 't were confusedly, and heard strange sounds,—
Stranger than wind or natural cause could utter.

CRAWFORD.

And thou wert sure they were unnatural sounds?

And hast thou heard them often?

SEXTON.

Many times:

But that was in the first years of mine office.
I am not now alarm'd: use makes me feel
As if no harm could e'er befall the sexton:
And ev'n my wife will in dark winter nights
Enter the church alone and toll the bell.

CRAWFORD.

And ne'er has been alarm'd by any sight

Of apparition or unearthly thing?

SEXTON.

Yes; she was once alarm'd.

CRAWFORD (eagerly).

And what appear'd?

SEXTON.

It was, as nearly as I can remember,

Upon a Friday night——

CRAWFORD (quickly).

Ne'er mind the night: what was it that she saw?

SEXTON.

Nay, she herself saw nothing; but the dog

That follow'd her bark'd briskly, then stopp'd short,
And, with a kind of stifled choking howl,
Look'd in her face, and then cower'd by her side,
Trembling for fear; and then right well she knew
Some elrich thing was near her, though its form
Was only visible to the poor brute.

CRAWFORD.

You think the dog saw something.

SEXTON.

Certes did he!

And had he not been dumb, he could, no doubt,
Have told a tale to set our hair on end.

CLAUDE (who, during their discourse, has been pacing to and fro impatiently, to Sexton).

You know not who it was?

SEXTON.

The Lord preserve us, Sir! for she saw nothing.

CLAUDE.

What dost thou mean? Could'st thou not guess, at least,

Who 't was who made request to chant the dirge?

SEXTON.

Ay, ay! the dirge. In truth I cannot say.

It was a man I never saw before.

CLAUDE (eagerly).

Stately, and of a stature somewhat taller

Than middle size, of countenance somewhat younger
Than middle age?

SEXTON.

No; short, and grave, and ancient, like a priest

From foreign parts. (Music sounds again.)

CRAWFORD.

Be still and hear the dirge.

Dirge, sung by several Voices without.

Dear spirit! freed from earthy cell,
    From mortal thraldom freed;
The blessed Virgin keep thee well,
    And thy dread passage speed!

Quick be thy progress, gentle soul!
    Through purifying pain,
To the saved Christian's happy goal,
    Thy Father's bright domain!

Beloved on earth! by love redeem’d,
    Which earthly love transcends,
Earth's show,—the dream that thou hast dream'd,
    In waking transport ends.

Then, bathed in fountains of delight,
    May'st thou God's mercy prove,
His glory open'd to thy sight,
    And to thy heart his love!

There may thy blessed dwelling be,
    For ever to endure
With those who were on earth like thee,
    The guileless and the pure!

Dear spirit! from thy earthy cell,
    From mortal thraldom freed, &c. &c.

CLAUDE (seeing the light disappear).

They are all gone at last: unlock the gate.

(The Sexton applies the key, but in vain.)
Canst thou not open it? what is the matter?

SEXTON.

I've brought a key made for another gate;

Woe worth my stupid head!

CLAUDE.

I'll climb the wall.

SEXTON.

Be not so very hasty, please your honour.

This key unlocks the southern gate: I pray you
To follow me, and you will soon have entrance.
Woe worth my stupid head![Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The Churchyard, near the walls of St. Mungo's Church, which occupies the bottom of the Stage. A newly covered Grave is dimly seen near the front; the Stage darkened, but not entirely so; a degree of light, as from a new-risen moon in a cloudy night, showing objects imperfectly.

Enter Malcolm, who bends over the grave for some time in silence.

MALCOLM.

And here beneath this trampled sod she lies,

Stiffen'd, and cold, and swathed in coffin-weeds,
Who, short while since, moved like a gleam of brightness,
Lighting each face, and cheering every heart.
Oh, Emma, Emma Graham, is this thy place?
Dearer than thee a lover's soul ne'er worshipp'd
Fairer than thee a virgin's robe ne'er wrapt;
Better than thee a parent's tongue ne'er bless'd.
Oh, Emma Graham, the dearest, fairest, best!
Pair'd with thee in the dance, this hand in thine,
I've led thee through the whirl of mazy transport,
And o'er thy chair have hung with wistful ear,
Catching thy words like strains of melody,
To be with fancy's treasures stored for ever.
I've waited near thy portal many an hour,

To see thy hasty transit from its steps
To the grim gaping coach, that seem'd to swallow,
Like a leviathan, its beauteous prey.
And now, alas! I come to seek thee here!
I come to seek thee here, but not to find.
This heart, which yearns through its ribb'd fence to break
Into the darken'd cell where thou art laid
In Nature's thraldom, is from thee divided
As by a gulf impassable. Oh, oh!
So short a time! such fearful, sad transition!
My day is turn'd to night; my youth to age;
May life to death be the next welcome change!

(Throws himself on the grave in a burst of sorrow.)

Sweet love, who sleep'st beneath, canst thou not hear me?

Oh, if thou couldst! Alas! alas! thou canst not!
(After a pause, and half raising himself from the grave.)
But! is it well, and is it holy, thus,
On such a sacred spot, to mourn the dead,
As lost and perish'd treasure? God forgive me!
The silver lamp, with all its rich embossments
Of beauteous workmanship, is struck and broken.
But is the flame extinguish'd? God forgive me!
Forgive a wretched and distracted man,
And grant me better thoughts!—The unclothed spirit
In blessed purity hath still existence.

Perhaps, in its high state is not unconscious
Of what remains behind; perhaps, beholds
The very spot. Oh, if she does! her pity—
Her pity, yea, her love now rest upon me.
Her spirit, from the body newly freed,
Was in my father's house, ere it departed
To its celestial home; was it not sympathy?
O! Emma, Emma! could I surely know
That I was dear to thee, a word,—a token
Had been to me a cherish'd, rich possession,
Outvaluing all that martial chiefs contend for
On their embattled fields.—Ha! who approaches?

Enter Claude.

Come not, I warn thee, near this sacred spot.

(Springing up from the ground.)

CLAUDE.

A sacred spot, indeed! but yet to all

Who loved in life the dead whom it contains,
Free as the house of God.

MALCOLM.

I say it is not.

In this, her first night of the grave, the man
Who loved her best when living, claims a right
To watch the new-closed tomb, and none beside.

CLAUDE.

Then yield to me that right, for it is mine;

For I have loved her longest,—long ere thou
Hadst look'd upon her face, or heard her name.

MALCOLM.

'T is not the date, but potency of love

Which bears account: I say, approach no nearer.

CLAUDE.

Must I endure such passion? Frantic man!

Are we not both in grief smitten to the earth?
May we not both weep o'er this sacred spot,
Partners in wretchedness?

MALCOLM.

Away, away! I own no partnership;

He who hath spoke such word hath thereby proved
The poorness of his love. Approach no nearer.
I'll yield my heart's blood rather than resign
This my sad eminence in widow'd sorrow.

CLAUDE.

Dar'st thou to hinder me?

MALCOLM.

I dare and will.

(They grapple fiercely.)

Enter Crawford.

CRAWFORD (separating them).

For shame! for shame! to hold contention here!

Mutual affliction should make friends of foes.
Not foes of friends. The grave of one beloved

Should be respected ev'n as holy ground,—
Should have a charm to smother all resentment.

MALCOLM.

And so it should, and shall.—Forgive me, Claude;

I have been froward in my wretchedness.

CLAUDE.

And I, dear Malcolm, was to blame, so suddenly

To break upon thy sorrow.

CRAWFORD.

The provost hath despatch'd a messenger

Upon our track, who found me out ev'n now,
Requesting both of you to give your presence
On an occasion solemn and important.

CLAUDE.

What may it be?

CRAWFORD.

Within the late apartment of the dead,

Your sister has a duty to perform,
Enjoin'd her by the dead. And 'tis her wish
That ye should both be present.

CLAUDE and MALCOLM (together).

We will obey her shortly. Go before us.

[Exit Crawford and Malcolm; and Claude, after bending in silence for a few moments over the grave, follows them.

SCENE VI.

An Apartment, the walls of which are lined with oak, and partly hung with arras.

Enter a Maid Servant, carrying a lamp and a basket, &c.

MAID (speaking as she enters).

I trow, when we have burnt this second parcel,

The sickly air must needs be purified.
But what does all this fuming signify,
Since we must die at our appointed time?

What dost thou think—(looking round and seeming alarmed)—She has not followed me.

I thought she was behind me. Lord preserve us!

Here in this ghastly chamber all alone!
(Going to the door and calling.)
Art thou not coming, Marjory? Where art thou?
I say, where art thou? I have need of thee.

Enter a Second Maid.

SECOND MAID.

Why didst thou call so loud? What is the matter?

FIRST MAID.

I thought thou wert behind me: mercy on us!

A kind of qualm came o'er me, when I look'd
On all within this silent dismal room,
And to that corner where the death-bed stood,—
A sudden qualm came o'er me.

SECOND MAID.

Let us be busy—there's no time to lose;

The provost and his daughter will be here
Ere we have done our work.

[They take gums and dried herbs from the basket, which they set fire to by the lamp, and fumigate the chamber, speaking the while occasionally.]

FIRST MAID.

The Lord preserve us! 'tis an awful thing.

SECOND MAID.

It was a sudden call: so young,—so good!

FIRST MAID.

Ay, many a sore heart thinks of her this night.

SECOND MAID.

And he, the most of all, that noble gentleman:

Lord pardon him for being what he is!

FIRST MAID.

And what is that?

SECOND MAID.

A rank and Roman papist.

FIRST MAID.

The Lord forgive him that, if it be so!—

And quickly, too; for this same deadly fever,
As I hear say, has seized upon him also.

Enter Provost.

PROVOST.

That's well, good damsels; you have done your task

Right thoroughly: a wholesome, fragrant smell
Is floating all about. Where is your master?

FIRST MAID.

In his own chamber. When he knows your honour

Is in the house, he will attend you presently.

SECOND MAID.

And it will do him good to see your honour.

PROVOST.

I fear, my joe, the good that I can do him,

Or ev'n the minister, if he were here,
Would be but little. Grief must have its time.
Some opiate drug would be to him, I reckon,
Worth all my company, and something more.
Howbeit, I'll go to him. My good old friend!
My heart bleeds for him.—Ye have done enough;
The ladies are at hand.
[Exit by the opposite side.

Enter Alice and Marian.

MARIAN.

Take hold of me; thy summoned strength, I fear,

Forsakes thee now. (She supports Alice, and they walk slowly to the middle of the room.)

Ay, thou look'st round, as if in search of something?

ALICE.

They have removed it.

MARIAN.

What have they removed?

ALICE.

The bed on which she lay. Oh, woe is me!

The last time I was in this chamber, Marian,
Becoming suddenly, from some slight cause,
A passing sufferer, she laid my head
On her own pillow, and her own soft hand
Press'd me so gently; I was then the patient,
And she the tender nurse. I little thought
So short a time——Alas! my dear, dear friend!

MARIAN.

Short time indeed for such a dismal change:

I may not chide thy tears.

ALICE.

Here are the virginals on which she play'd;

And here's her music, too. (Taking up a book from the virginals, and opening it.) Ah, woe is me!

The very tune which last she played to me

Has open'd to my hand, and 'twixt the leaves
The little flower lies press'd which then I gave her!

MARIAN.

'T is sweet to find it so.

ALICE.

But, oh! how sad!

She was——she was——(Bursting into tears.)
Well may I weep for her!

MARIAN.

Be comforted, dear Alice! she is gone

Where neither pain nor woe can touch her more.

ALICE.

I know—I know it well: but she is gone!

She who was fair, and gifted, and beloved:
And so beloved!—Had it been Heaven's blest will
To take me in her stead, tears had been shed,
But what had been their woe, compared to this?

MARIAN.

Whose woe, dear Alice?

ALICE.

His woe—their woe; poor Claude's, and Malcolm's too.

Death seizes on the dearest and the best!

MARIAN (embracing her).

I will not hear thee say so, gentle Alice.

A dearer and a better than thyself
'T were hard to find. No; nor do I believe
That she whom thou lamentest did surpass thee.

ALICE.

Hush! say it not!—I pray thee, say not so:

In pitying me thou must not rob the dead.
That he preferr'd a creature of such excellence,
Took from the wound its sting and bitterness.
Thou may'st not wrong the dead!

MARIAN.

I will not, then.

ALICE (looking round).

There is the arras which conceals the place:

Her awful words are sounding in my ears,
Which bade me search. I feel a secret awe!
But that her spirit from the earth hath ta'en—
As I am well assured—its final leave,
I could believe that she is near me still,
To see the very act! (Looking round her fearfully.)

MARIAN.

Nay, check thy ardent fancy: 't is not good

To let such dismal notions haunt thee so—
Thy father comes, with his afflicted friend.

Enter Provost, leading Graham by the hand.

[Alice advances affectionately to Graham, who opens his arms to receive her, and she weeps upon his neck, without speaking. She then leads him to a chair, and seats herself upon a stool at his feet, taking his hand in hers, and bending over it, while the Provost and Marian remain in the front.]

PROVOST (looking at them).

That poor old man! he utters not a word

Of sorrow or complaint; and all the more
I grieve for him. God help him! in whose hands
The hearts of men are kept.

MARIAN.

And he is help'd, for he is weeping now.

PROVOST.

He did not weep when we for him were weeping,

And he will weep when all our tears are dried.
—Our two young men, methinks, are long of coming.

MARIAN.

But are you sure your messenger hath found them?

PROVOST.

I scarcely doubt it. I have those in pay,
But little better than the prey they follow,
Who are expert in dogging stealthy rogues;
And it were strange indeed if artless men
Should foil their skill.——
And I am right—I hear their coming steps!

Enter Malcolm and Claude.

MALCOLM (after doing silent obeisance to the Provost and Graham, who, with Alice, comes forward to meet them, speaks in a low voice to Claude).

And here, night after night, in all her beauty,
She took her curtain'd rest, and here she died!
But that which I expected is not here:
Is this the very chamber?

ALICE (overhearing him, and in a low voice).

It is: but what thou look'st for is removed.

(Pointing.) Upon that spot it stood.

MALCOLM.

Yes, thou hast read my thought, most gentle Alice!

(Goes to the spot, where he remains in silence, covering his face with his hands.)

PROVOST.

Shall we not now proceed upon the business

For which we are convened?

(To Graham.) To you, my ancient friend, I have explain'd it.

Malcolm and Claude, know ye why in this chamber

Your presence has been solemnly requested?

CLAUDE.

I guess it well. My sister has inform'd me

Of Emma's last request; and I to Malcolm,
As we came hither, have repeated it.

PROVOST (to Alice).

Now, dearest child! it is for thee to act.

(Leads Alice to the bottom of the Stage, where, taking aside the arras which covers the wall, a small door is discovered.)

CLAUDE (to Malcolm, seeing him take a book from a bookcase).

Why dost thou snatch that book so eagerly?

MALCOLM.

It is the book I praised to her so much

A short while since; and see, she has procured it!

CLAUDE.

Ah! thou may'st well be proud.—But how is this?

Thy countenance all o' the sudden changed!

[Malcolm lets the book drop from his hand, and Claude takes it up eagerly, and opens it, reading.]

"The gift of one most dear."—Of one most dear!
Thou didst not it give to her?

MALCOLM.

No; nor thou!

MARIAN.

Hush, hush! words of ungentle rivalry

Do ill become this solemn place. Be calm.
See! Alice in the cabinet hath found
That which the vision'd form so earnestly
Directed her to search for.

[Alice, returning to the front with a small box in her hands, places it on a table, the rest gathering eagerly round her, and endeavours to open it.]

ALICE.

I know this box; alas! I know it well,

And many a time have open'd it; but now——

PROVOST.

Thy hands have lost all power, thou tremblest so.

(Taking it from her and from Graham, who attempts to assist her.)

Nay, friend, thou tremblest also: I will do it.

(Opens the box, and takes out a written paper.)

OMNES.

What is it?

PROVOST.

Give me time to look upon it.

GRAHAM.

Some deed or testament. Alas, poor child

Had she prepared for such an early death?

PROVOST.

It is no testament.

MALCOLM (impatiently).

What is it then?

CLAUDE.

Nay, father, do not keep us in suspense!

PROVOST.

It is a formal contract of betrothment;

Vows sworn between herself and Basil Gordon.

GRAHAM.

That popish cadet of a hostile house

To me and mine!—Let mine own eyes examine it.
Contracted secretly! to him contracted!
But she is in her grave, and I——O God!
Grant me with patience to endure thy chastening!
Contracted! married!

PROVOST.

Not married; no,—a mutual solemn promise,

Made to each other in the sight of Heaven.
Thus run the words:—
(Reads.) "I, Basil Gordon, will no woman wed
But Emma Graham."—Then follows her engagement:—
"I, Emma Graham, will wed no other man

Than Basil Gordon: yet will never marry
But with consent of my much honour'd father,
When he, less prejudiced, shall know and own
The worth of him I love."
(Spreading out the paper.)
This is her writing, as you plainly see;
And this is Gordon's, for I know it well.

GRAHAM (beating his breast).

This blow! this blow! a Gordon and a papist!

PROVOST.

True, he is both: the last, I must confess,

No trivial fault. Howbeit he is, in truth,
A brave and noble gentleman.

ALICE.

Indeed he is, dear Sir. Your gentle Emma

Could love no other. Valiant in the field,
As frequent foreign records have attested:
In private conduct good and honourable;
And loving her he loved, as he has done,
With ardent, tender constancy——

MALCOLM.

Hold! hold!

He loved her not—by Heaven he loved her not!
When all who ever knew her, drown'd in sorrow,
Follow'd her hearse, he—he alone was absent.
Where was he then, I pray?

PROVOST.

I'll tell thee where:

Stretch'd on a sick-bed—smitten by the same
Most pestilent disease that slew his mistress.

MALCOLM.

Ha! is it so! (Turning to Claude.) Then we must hold our peace.

CLAUDE.

And with each other be at peace, dear Malcolm:

What is there now of rivalry between us?

MALCOLM.

Speak not so gently to me, noble Claude!

I've been to thee so wayward and unjust,
Thy kindness wrings the heart which it should soften.
(After a pause.) And all our fond delusion ends in this!
We've tack'd our shallow barks for the same course;
And the fair mimic isle, like Paradise,
Which seem'd to beckon us, was but a bank
Of ocean's fog, now into air dissolved!

ALICE.

No; say not beckon'd. She was honourable

As she was fair: no wily woman's art
Did e'er disgrace her worth;—believe me, Malcolm.

MALCOLM.

Yes; I believe thee, and I bless thee too,

Thou best and loveliest friend of one so lovely!

Pardon me, dearest Alice! generous Alice!
Pardon the hasty error of a word
Which had no meaning—no intended meaning
To cast one shade of blame on thy dear friend;
For henceforth by no other appellation
But thy dear friend shall she be named by me.
(Turning to Graham.)
And you, dear Sir! look not so sternly sad.
Her love outran her duty one short step,
But would no farther go, though happiness
Was thereby peril'd. Though his house and yours,
His creed and yours, were so at variance, still,
She might expect his noble qualities
Would in the end subdue a father's heart,
Who did so fondly love her.

GRAHAM.

Cease! I am weak, bereft, and desolate,—

A poor old man, my pride of wisdom sear'd
And ground to dust: what power have I to judge?
May God forgive me if I did amiss!

CLAUDE (to Provost)

Did Gordon see her ere she breathed her last?

PROVOST.

He did. The nurse, who was her close attendant,

Says, that he came by stealth into her chamber,
And with her words and looks of tenderness
Exchanged, though near her last extremity.
And there he caught the fatal malady.

CLAUDE.

A happy end for him, if it should prove so.

Enter a Servant, who draws the Provost aside.

PROVOST (aside to Servant).

Thou hast a woeful face! what has befallen?

[Servant speaks to him in a whisper.]

MARIAN (to Alice).

Thy father has received some woeful tidings.

ALICE.

I fear he has; he stands in thoughtful silence.

Father, how is't? your thoughts are very sad.

PROVOST.

Ay; were this span of earthly being all,

'T were sad to think how wealth and domination,
Man's valour, landed pride, and woman's beauty,
When over them the blighting wind hath pass'd,
Are turned to vanity, and known no more!
[The bell of a neighbouring Church tolls five times.]

MALCOLM.

What bell is that?

CLAUDE.

Some spirit is released from mortal thraldom.

ALICE.

And passing on its way, we humbly hope,

To endless happiness.

PROVOST.

I trust it is, though stern divines may doubt:

'T is Basil Gordon's knell!

[The bell tolls again at measured intervals, and, after a solemn pause, the Curtain drops.]