# Dramas (Baillie)/The Phantom/Act 2

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.
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.
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.
THIRD CROWD.
That is a matter, on her burial day,
We may not question; yet, if it be true——
FIRST CROWD.
That can throw speck or spot upon her virtue.
FIRST CROWD WOMAN (to First Crowd).
Against her maiden virtue no reproach,
Ev'n if her faith was papishly inclined.
FIRST CROWD.
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.
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.
SECOND CROWD.
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).
SECOND CROWD (to him without).
VOICE (without).
SECOND CROWD (as before).
Or wait till the procession be gone by.
Enter Alice, Marian, and Claude.
CLAUDE (to Crowd).
To toll so dismally? Whose funeral
Are ye convened to see?
FIRST CROWD.
I warrant you have seen her many a time;
They call'd her Emma Graham.
CLAUDE.
Repeat her name.
FIRST CROWD.
CLAUDE.
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).
Lean upon me, my friend.
ALICE.
His wound is deep and sudden: for this stroke
I was prepared.
VOICES (without).
[A funeral procession crosses the Stage; the Mourners following the hearse on foot.]
FIRST CROWD.
With deeper sorrow!
FIRST CROWD WOMAN.
As gouts fall in Saint Mungo's dripping aisle,
Near which the grave is dug that shall receive her.
FIRST CROWD.
And those her brothers walking by his side.
SECOND CROWD.
THIRD CROWD.
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.
ALICE.
CLAUDE.
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.
As in an ague fit!
ALICE.
It was no strong delusion of the fancy.
MARIAN.
But stay no longer here: go to thy home;
Thou hast great need of rest.
ALICE.
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.
I thought thou wert prepared.
ALICE.
But certainty makes previous expectation
Seem, by comparison, a state of hope.
MARIAN.
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.
That friendly soothing would assuage my grief.
CRAWFORD.
Beyond all measure.
CLAUDE.
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.
It grieves my heart to hear thee. Say not so.
CLAUDE.
But shall I feel the less?—Oh, had she lived!
CRAWFORD.
For how would'st thou have brook'd to see her hand,
Had it so been, bestow'd upon another?
CLAUDE.
(Raising his head proudly, after a thoughtful pause.)
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,
Like chanted sweetness!—All is now extinct!—
Like some base thing, unmeet for mortal eye,
CRAWFORD.
Let me read to thee from some pious book;
CLAUDE (muttering to himself without attending to Crawford).
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).
But if he go, he shall not go alone.
Enter a Servant.
CLAUDE (impatiently).
SERVANT.
CLAUDE.
Is the sore heart a sear'd and harden'd thing
For every fool to handle?[Exit.
CRAWFORD.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A large Room, with rich furniture, and the walls hung with pictures.
Enter the Provost and Marian, by different doors.
PROVOST.
MARIAN.
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.
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.
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.
MARIAN.
That Malcolm left Dunarden secretly,
The night before we did ourselves set forth?
PROVOST.
MARIAN.
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).
O'er this your father's letter. Pray sit down!
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.
PROVOST.
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.
PROVOST.
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.
PROVOST.
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.
Time will make all things as we wish to have them.
PROVOST.
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.
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.
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.
Of such a guest.
PROVOST.
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?
MARIAN (rising also).
Their features bear resemblance to your own.
PROVOST.
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.
PROVOST.
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.
Hath for its minister a liberal hand:
In truth, he would not fear to be your debtor.
PROVOST.
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.
PROVOST.
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.
The happiness of one, dear to us both, Requires that I should do it.
PROVOST (surprised).
MARIAN.
Enter Jessie.
(To Jessie.) How is she now? I hope she is asleep.
JESSIE.
And wishes now to see you.[Exit Marian.
PROVOST.
JESSIE.
PROVOST.
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.
PROVOST.
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.
PROVOST.
In factory or warehouse never bustled.
Enter Servant.
PROVOST.
Thou wear'st a curious grin: what is the matter?
SERVANT.
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.
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.
SERVANT.
Whose neighbour, on pretence of some false debt,
Has puin'd her good milch cow,—her only cow.
PROVOST.
Let her go with it to the younger baillie.
SERVANT.
And says the younger baillie is so proud,
She dare not speak to him.
PROVOST.
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.
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.
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.
SEXTON.
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).
Thou hast been busy in thy sad vocation.
SEXTON.
A month before the fell disease began.
CRAWFORD.
SEXTON.
Was in the town; and, at the crowded cross,
Fell into strong convulsions, at the sight
Which there appear'd to him.
CRAWFORD.
SEXTON.
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).
That leave has been requested for a dirge
To be this night sung by some Papist's grave?
SEXTON.
I ask'd no questions.
CRAWFORD.
To be well satisfied no harm would ensue.
SEXTON.
Annoy the living; and for the departed.
Nought can disturb their rest.
CRAWFORD.
Perhaps thou 'st seen it, during thirty years
In which thou hast been sexton of this parish.
SEXTON.
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 hast thou heard them often?
SEXTON.
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.
Of apparition or unearthly thing?
SEXTON.
CRAWFORD (eagerly).
SEXTON.
Upon a Friday night——
CRAWFORD (quickly).
SEXTON.
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.
SEXTON.
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).
SEXTON.
CLAUDE.
Who 't was who made request to chant the dirge?
SEXTON.
It was a man I never saw before.
CLAUDE (eagerly).
Than middle size, of countenance somewhat younger
Than middle age?
SEXTON.
From foreign parts. (Music sounds again.)
CRAWFORD.
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).
(The Sexton applies the key, but in vain.)
Canst thou not open it? what is the matter?
SEXTON.
Woe worth my stupid head!
CLAUDE.
SEXTON.
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.
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.)
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.
(Springing up from the ground.)
CLAUDE.
Who loved in life the dead whom it contains,
Free as the house of God.
MALCOLM.
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.
For I have loved her longest,—long ere thou
Hadst look'd upon her face, or heard her name.
MALCOLM.
Which bears account: I say, approach no nearer.
CLAUDE.
Are we not both in grief smitten to the earth?
May we not both weep o'er this sacred spot,
Partners in wretchedness?
MALCOLM.
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.
MALCOLM.
(They grapple fiercely.)
Enter Crawford.
CRAWFORD (separating them).
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.
I have been froward in my wretchedness.
CLAUDE.
To break upon thy sorrow.
CRAWFORD.
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.
CRAWFORD.
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).
[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).
The sickly air must needs be purified.
But what does all this fuming signify,
Since we must die at our appointed time?
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.
FIRST MAID.
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.
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.
SECOND MAID.
FIRST MAID.
SECOND MAID.
Lord pardon him for being what he is!
FIRST MAID.
SECOND MAID.
FIRST MAID.
And quickly, too; for this same deadly fever,
As I hear say, has seized upon him also.
Enter Provost.
PROVOST.
Right thoroughly: a wholesome, fragrant smell
Is floating all about. Where is your master?
FIRST MAID.
Is in the house, he will attend you presently.
SECOND MAID.
PROVOST.
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.
ALICE.
MARIAN.
ALICE.
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.
I may not chide thy tears.
ALICE.
Has open'd to my hand, and 'twixt the leaves
The little flower lies press'd which then I gave her!
MARIAN.
ALICE.
She was——she was——(Bursting into tears.)
Well may I weep for her!
MARIAN.
Where neither pain nor woe can touch her more.
ALICE.
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.
ALICE.
Death seizes on the dearest and the best!
MARIAN (embracing her).
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.
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.
ALICE (looking round).
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.
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).
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.
PROVOST.
And he will weep when all our tears are dried.
—Our two young men, methinks, are long of coming.
MARIAN.
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.
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).
(Pointing.) Upon that spot it stood.
MALCOLM.
PROVOST.
For which we are convened?
Your presence has been solemnly requested?
CLAUDE.
Of Emma's last request; and I to Malcolm,
As we came hither, have repeated it.
PROVOST (to Alice).
(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).
MALCOLM.
A short while since; and see, she has procured it!
CLAUDE.
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.
MARIAN.
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.
And many a time have open'd it; but now——
PROVOST.
(Taking it from her and from Graham, who attempts to assist her.)
(Opens the box, and takes out a written paper.)
OMNES.
PROVOST.
GRAHAM.
Had she prepared for such an early death?
PROVOST.
MALCOLM (impatiently).
CLAUDE.
PROVOST.
Vows sworn between herself and Basil Gordon.
GRAHAM.
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.
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).
PROVOST.
No trivial fault. Howbeit he is, in truth,
A brave and noble gentleman.
ALICE.
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.
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.
Stretch'd on a sick-bed—smitten by the same
Most pestilent disease that slew his mistress.
MALCOLM.
CLAUDE.
What is there now of rivalry between us?
MALCOLM.
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.
As she was fair: no wily woman's art
Did e'er disgrace her worth;—believe me, Malcolm.
MALCOLM.
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.
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)
PROVOST.
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.
Enter a Servant, who draws the Provost aside.
PROVOST (aside to Servant).
[Servant speaks to him in a whisper.]
MARIAN (to Alice).
ALICE.
Father, how is't? your thoughts are very sad.
PROVOST.
'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.
CLAUDE.
ALICE.
To endless happiness.
PROVOST.
'T is Basil Gordon's knell!
[The bell tolls again at measured intervals, and, after a solemn pause, the Curtain drops.]