Miscellaneous Plays/Rayner Act 2

by Joanna Baillie

ACT II.

SCENE I. A wood: dark night, with a pale gleam of distant lightning seen once or twice on the edge of the horizon. Advancing by the bottom of the stage, a few moving lights, as if from lanthorns, are seen and at the same time several signal-calls and loud whistles are heard, with the distant answer returned to them from another part of the wood: Enter Count Zaterloo, Rayner, Sebastian, and others of the band, armed, and a few of them bearing in their hands dark lanthorns. It is particularly requested if this play should ever be acted, that no light may be permitted upon the stage but that which proceeds from the lanterns only.

COUNT ZATERLOO (to Sebastian).

⁠They must be near: didst thou not hear their call?

SEBASTIAN.

⁠Methought I did; but who in this wild wood

May credit give to either eye or ear?
How oft we've been deceiv'd with our own voices,
From rocky precipice or hollow cave,
'Midst the confused found of rustling leaves,
And creaking boughs, and cries of nightly birds,
Returning seeming answer!

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Rayner, where standest thou?

RAYNER.

⁠Here, on thy left.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Surely these wild scenes have depriv'd thy tongue

Of speech. Let's hear thy voice's sound, good man,
To say thou art alive. Thou'rt marvellous silent:
Didst thou not also hear them?

RAYNER.

⁠I know not truly if I did. Around me,

All seems like the dark mingled mimicry
Of fev'rish fleep; in which the half-doubting mind,
Wilder'd and weary, with a deep-drawn breath,
Says to itself, "Shall I not wake?"

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Fy, man!

Wilt thou not keep thy soldier's spirit up?
To-morow's sun will be thy waking time,
And thou wilt wake a rich man and a free.

RAYNER.

⁠My waking time!—no, no! I must sleep on,

And have no waking.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Ha! does thy mind misgive thee on the brink?

RAYNER.

⁠What passes in my mind, to thee is nothing,

If my hand do the work that's fasten'd on me.
Let's pass to it as quickly as thou wilt,
And do not speak to me.——

Enter Bernard and others, armed &c.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Well met, my friends! well met! for we despair'd

Of ever seeing you.

SEBASTIAN.

⁠Yet we have heard your voices many times,

Now calling us on this side, now on that,
As tho' you had from place to place still skipp'd,
Like Will o'the Wisp, to lose us on our way.

BERNARD.

⁠We've far'd alike: so have we thought of you.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Have you discover'd aught of those we seek?

BERNARD.

⁠No; all is still, as far as we have travers'd:

No gleaming torch gives notice from afar,
Nor trampling hoofs found on the distant road.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Then must we take again our sev'ral routs,

That haply we may learn, ere he approach,

What strength we have to face, and how he travels;
And that we may not wander thus again,
This aged oak shall be our meeting place;
Where having join'd, we'll by a shorter compass
Attack them near the centre of the wood.

SEBASTIAN.

⁠The night grows wond'rous dark: deep-swelling gusts

And sultry stillness take the rule by turn;
Whilst o'er our heads the black and heavy clouds
Roll slowly on. This surely bodes a storm.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠I hope the devil will raise no tempest now,

To save this child of his, and from his journey
Make him turn back, crossing our fortunes,

BERNARD.

⁠Fear not!

For, be the tempest of the devil's raising,
It will do thee no harm. To his good favour
Thou hast (wrong not thy merit) claims too strong.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Then come on, friends, and I shall be your warrant!

Growl sky and earth and air, ne'er trouble ye;
They are secure who have a friend at court.
⁠(Exeunt.

SCENE II. A different part of the wood, wild and savage: the Scene still darken'd, and a storm of thunder and lightning, accompanied with hail.

Enter RAYNER.

RAYNER.

⁠I know not where these men have shelter'd them,

I've miss'd their signal: this loud dunning din
Devours all other sounds. Where shall I go?
Athwart this arch of deep embodied darkness,
Swift shiv'ring lightnings glare, from end to end
Mantling the welkin o'er in vivid flames;
Or from aloft, like sheeted cataracts
Of liquid fire, seem pour'd. Ev'n o'er my head
The soft and misty-textur'd clouds seem chang'd
To piles of harden'd rocks, which from their base,
Like the up breaking of a ruin'd world,
Are hurl'd with force tremendous. Patt'ring hail
Beats on my shrinking form with spiteful pith:
Where shall I shelter me? Ha! thro' the trees
Peers, near at hand, a small but settled light:
I will make quickly towards it; perhaps
There may be some lone dwelling in the wood.
⁠(Exit.

SCENE III. The inside of a cave: an Old man discoverd fitting by a small table made of coarse planks, with a lamp burning dimly upon it: the thunder heard still very loud.

OLD MAN.

⁠Doth angry heav'n still roll its loudest peal

O'er th' unblest head? Ay, thro' its deaf'ning roar
I hear the blood-avenging Spirit's voice,
And, as each furious turmoil spends its strength,
Still sounds upon the far-receding storm
Their distant growl.
'Tis hell that sends its fire and devils up
To lord it in the air. The very wind,
Rising in fitful eddies, horribly sounds,
Like bursts of damn'd howlings from beneath.
Is this a storm of nature's elements?
O, no, no, no! the blood-avenging spirits
Ride on the madding clouds: there is no place,
Not in the wildest den, wherein may rest
The unblest head.⁠ (Knocking heard without.)
———Ha! knocking at my door!

(Pauses and listens much alarmed: knocking heard still louder.)

Say, who art thou that knock'st so furiously?

Think'st thou the clouds are sparing of their din,
That thou must thunder too? Say who thou art,
And what thou would'st at such an hour as this,
In such a place?

RAYNER (without).

⁠I am a lone, and tempest-beaten traveller,

Who humbly begs a shelter from the night.

OLD MAN.

⁠Then art thou come where guest yet never enter'd.

RAYNER (without).

⁠I do not ask admittance as a guest,

Would'st thou not save a creature from destruction,
Ev'n a dumb animal? unbar the door,
And let me lay my body under shelter.

(Old Man makes no answer: the storm heard very loud.)

RAYNER (without).

⁠If thou'rt a man in nature as in voice,

Thou canst not sit at peace beneath thy roof,
And shut a stranger out to the rude night.
I would, so circumstanced, have shelter'd thee.

OLD MAN.

⁠He tries to move me with a soothing voice.

⁠(Aside.)
(Aloud.) Thou art a knave; I will not let thee in.

RAYNER (without).

⁠Belike I am, yet do not fear my wiles:

All men are honest in a night like this.

OLD MAN.

⁠Then I will let thee in, whoe'er thou art:

Thou hast some sense, shouldst thou lack better things. (He unbars a small door, and Rayner enters much ruffled and exhausted by the storm, and without his hat.)

RAYNER.

⁠I'm much beholden to thee.

OLD MAN.

⁠No, thou art not.

RAYNER.

⁠The violence of the night must plead my pardon,

For breaking thus unask'd upon your rest.
But wand'ring from my way, I know not how,
And losing my companions of the road,
Deep in the 'tangled wood the storm o'ertook me;
When spying thro' the trees this glimm'ring lamp,
And judging it, as now it doth appear,
The mid-night taper of some holy man,
Such as do oft in dreary wilds like this
Hold their abode, I ventur'd onwards.
⁠(Old Man, offering him bread and dryed fruits.)

OLD MAN.

⁠Perhaps thou'rt hungry.

RAYNER.

⁠I thank you gratefully.

OLD MAN.

⁠There is no need.

Fall to, if thou hast any mind to it.

RAYNER.

⁠I thank you truly, but I am not hungry.

OLD MAN.

⁠Perhaps thou'rt dainty: I've naught else to give thee.

RAYNER.

⁠I should despise myself, if any food

Could bear such value in my estimation,
As that it should to me a straw's worth seem,
To feed on homeliest, or on richest fare.

OLD MAN.

⁠So much the better. (They sit down.)

RAYNER.

⁠If I may guess from all I see around me,

The luxuries and follies of the world
Have long been banish'd here.

(Old Man looks sternly at Rayner, who looks fixedly upon him again, and both remain for some time silent.)

OLD MAN.

⁠Why look'st thou so?

What is there in my face that thou would'st scan?
I'm old and live alone: what would'st thou know?

RAYNER.

⁠I crave your pardon, and repress all wishes

That may disturb you.

OLD MAN.

⁠The night wears on, let us both go to rest.

RAYNER.

⁠I thank you, for in truth I'm very tir'd.

OLD MAN. (pointing to his couch).

⁠There is thy place.

RAYNER.

⁠Nay, I am young; the ground shall be my couch.

I will not take your bed.

(Old Man then gives Rayner a cloak, which he wraps about him, laying himself down in a corner of the cave. The storm now heard at a distance. After walking up and down for some time, the Old Man goes close up to Rayner, who appears asleep, and looks earnestly upon him; Rayner opening his eyes seems surprised.)

OLD MAN.

⁠Be not afraid, I will not cut thy throat.

RAYNER (starting half up from the ground).

⁠Nay, heaven such deed forfend! I fear thee not:

I can defend myself.⁠ (Grasping his sword.)

OLD MAN.

⁠Be not offended; but methought thy looks

Did seem as tho' thou wert afraid of me.
Rest thou in peace—rest thou in peace, young man:
I would not do thee harm for many worlds.

(Rayner goes to rest again, still keeping his drawn sword in his hand. The Old Man goes to rest likewise, but shortly after starts from his couch in great agitation.)

OLD MAN.

⁠It is mine hour of horror: 'tis upon me!

I hear th'approaching sound of feet unearthly:
I feel the pent-up vapour's chilly breath
Burst from the yawning vault:—It is at hand.

(Turning towards the door as if he saw some one enter.)

Ha! com'st thou still in white and sheeted weeds,

With hand thus pointing to thy bloody side?
Thy grave is deep enough in hallow'd ground!
Why com'st thou ever on my midnight rest?
What dost thou want? If thou hast power, as seeming,
Stretch forth thine arm and take my life; then free
From fleshy fears, in nature as thyself,
I'll follow thee to hell, and there abide
The searing flames: but here, upon this earth,
Is placed between the living and the dead
An awful mystery of separation,
Which makes their meeting frightful and unhallow'd.

(In the vehemence of his agitation he throws out his arm and strikes it against Rayner, who alarmed at his ravings has left his resting-place, and stolen softly behind him.)

Ha! what art thou? (starting and turning round to Rayner.)

RAYNER.

Nay, thou with bristling locks, loose knocking joints

And fixed eyeballs starting in their sockets,
Who speak'st thus wildly to the vacant space,
Say rather, what art thou.

OLD MAN.

⁠I am a murderer. (Rayner starts back from him and drops his sword.)

Ah! wherefore dost thou stare so strangely on me?

There's no blood on me now! 'tis long since past.
Hast thou thyself no crime, that thus from me
Thou dost in horror shrink?

RAYNER.

⁠Most miserable man!

OLD MAN.

⁠Thou truly say'st, for I am most miserable.

RAYNER.

⁠And what am I?⁠(After a disturbed pause.)

The storm did rage and bellow thro' the air,
And the red lightning shiver'd:
No traveller would venture on his way
In such a night.—O, blessed, blessed storm!
For yet it hath not been, and shall be never.
Most great and Merciful! sav'd from this gulf,
May I to thee look up?—No: in the dust—

(As he bows himself to the earth, and is about to kneel, the report of fire arms is heard without, and he starts up again.)

'Tis done!—O, it is done!—the horrible act!

⁠(Exit, beating his forehead violently.)

OLD MAN.

⁠What may this be? some band of nightly robbers

Is near my cave, committing violent deeds.
Thy light, weak flame, shall not again betray me,

And lure unwelcome visitors. (Puts out the lamp; and after a dark pause, enter Count Zaterloo supporting himself on First Gentleman, who bears a dark lantern, which he sets down on the ground, and fastens the door of the cave carefully behind them.)

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠I am wounded grievously: who would have thought

Of such a powerful guard of armed men
Attending on his journey. He is slain:
Did'st thou not see him fall?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

⁠Yes; we have kill'd our bird, but lost the eggs.

Fortune has play'd us false, yet we've escap'd:
Here we may rest; this cave is tenanted
With some lone being whom we may controul,
And take possession——(discovering Old Man.)
———Something living here!
What art thou?

OLD MAN.

⁠I am a thing no better than yourselves.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

⁠The better then for thee that thou art so.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

⁠Conduct me onward: I perceive an opening

Which leads, I guess, to some more close recess:
Lay me down there for I am very faint.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

⁠I will obey thee.—Come thou too, old man;

Not from my sight one moment must thou budge.
Come on: for, mark me well, should'st thou betray us,
Tho' fetter'd down with chains in grated dungeons,
Our arms were long enough to reach to thee.
⁠(Exeunt.

SCENE IV. Another part of the wood; at a distance, on the back ground, are discovered two men watching a dead body by the light of a torch stuck between the boughs of a tree; the stage otherwise perfectly dark.

Enter GOBUS on the front of the stage.

GOBUS.

⁠I fear they will all escape from us amongst these 'tangled paths and vile perplexing thickets. A man cannot get on half a dozen of paces here but some cursed clawing thing catches hold of him, and when he turns round to collar his enemy, with a good hearty curse in his mouth, it is nothing but a thorn-bush or a briar after all. A plague upon't! I'll run no more after them if they should never be taken.—Who's there?

Enter a Companion.

COMPANION.

⁠What, are you here, Gobus? I thought you had been in search of the robbers.

GOBUS.

⁠So I was; but what does it signify? they have all got the start of us now, and we can scarcely expect they will have the civility to wait till we come up with them.

COMPANION.

⁠Ay, Ay, Gobus, that is a lazy man's argument. Why, there was one of them seen by Bertram not five minutes since, with his head uncovered, stalking strangely amongst the trees like a madman, and he vows he will follow the scent through every path of the wood but he will have him, either alive or dead.

GOBUS.

⁠But if he be a young stout robber, he may knock Bertram on the head in the mean time, and relieve him from the obligation of keeping his vow.

COMPANION.

⁠Never fear that: his bugle-horn is by his side, and as soon as he comes up with him he will give his companions notice, and they will run to his assistance.

GOBUS.

⁠Well, well, let them manage it the best way they can, and let us join our friends yonder, who keep watch by the body; there is good store of dried sticks in that corner, we may make a fire and warm ourselves till they return.

⁠(Horn heard without.)

COMPANION.

⁠Ha! there is the signal, and close at hand too. He has caught his man and wants assistance; let us run to him, or the villain will escape.

(Exeunt Companion and Gobus, who follows rather unwillingly, whilst the men who were watching the body run eagerly to the front of the stage.)

FIRST MAN.

⁠It sounded to the right hand of us; let us strike into this path.⁠(Horn sounds again.)

SECOND MAN.

⁠Ay, there it sounds again; it is to this hand of us, but it is so dark there is no finding our way.

FIRST MAN.

⁠We have been so long by the torch-light that the darkness is darker to us: run back and fetch the light with thee. (Several other attendants from different parts of the wood run across the stage, calling to one another with great eagerness, whilst the Second Man running back again to the bottom of the stage, snatches the torch from the tree, and comes forward with it.

Enter Bertram, Gobus, and others, with Rayner as their prisoner.)

GOBUS (speaking as they enter).

⁠Here is light! here is light, friends! bring him near it, I pray you, that we may see what kind of a fish we have caught in our net. Ay, just as I said now, as hang'd a looking villain as ever scowl'd thro' the grates of a dungeon. See what a wild murderous look he has with his eyes! this is the very man that did the deed I warrant ye. Let us pull the cords faster round his arms tho': if he get one of his mischievous hands loose again, there is no knowing which of our brains he may knock out first.

FIRST MAN.

⁠It will never be thine, I am sure, thou'rt always safe when the knocking out of brains is going on.

GOBUS.

⁠As I'm a sinner he'll get one of his hands loose if we do not take care of him. (Attempting to tighten the cords round Rayner's arms.)

BERTRAM (putting him away with indignation).

⁠For shame, man, he is bound tight enough; I will not suffer thee to lay a finger upon him: and as for the hang'd face thou talk'st of, alack a day! it goes to my heart to see him, such a goodly-looking gentleman, for such I'll be sworn he is.

GOBUS.

⁠Ay, no doubt! it is ever thus with thee. Thou did'st never in thy life see a thief go to the gallows without crying out, "alack a day! what a fine looking fellow it is!" Ay, and if he could but make shift to howl out half a verse of a psalm along with his father confessor, thou wert sure to knotch him down upon thy holiday tables as one of the new made saints. Ay, there be no such great saints now-a-days as those who pass, with the help of a Dominican, thro' the hangman's hands to the other world; he beats your pope and your cardinals all to nothing in smuggling a sinner cleverly in by the back door to heaven.

BERTRAM.

⁠So much the better for thee; it is the only chance thou hast of ever getting there.—Stand off, I say (pushing Gobus away), and do not stare thus upon the prisoner! art thou not asham'd to stare in an unhappy man's face after this fashion? we don't know what hard fate may have brought him into these circumstances (to the attendants). Move on: we are losing time here.

GOBUS.

⁠What, will you not pinion him more closely?

BERTRAM.

⁠No, beast! I would rather flea the skin off that fool's back of thine than gall a hair's breadth of his body (in a softened voice to Rayner). Speak, Sir, if the rope hurts your arms; we will not use you cruelly.

RAYNER.

⁠What did'st thou say to me? was there kindness in thy voice?

BERTRAM.

⁠Yes, Sir, there was kindness in it. Do the ropes hurt your arms? if they do we will loosen them a little.

RAYNER.

I wist not that my arms were bound: but if thou hast any kindness in thee, give me a drink of water when thou can'st get it, for my mouth is very parched.

BERTRAM.

⁠Yes, Sir, that you shall not want, tho' I should pay gold for it.—Move on, comrades: the night is far advanced, and we must guard the dead body of our master and the prisoner back to the city before the morning break. ⁠(Exeunt.)

END OF THE SECOND ACT.