Luke. God bless thee, Mary! Dear, go in-I'll follow; The air's refreshing-'tis not well with me. Mary. Not well! Oh, no! there's light enough to see How pale thou art. And thou art trembling too, Ye heavens, ye will not harm him, for ye know More worthy of your love! Luke, (much agitated). Hush-hush, my Mary. Mary. How is it, Luke? And what is in your hand At which you gaze so piteously? Nay, speak! Indeed, indeed, you terrify me, Luke. Luke. What didst thou ask? Mary. How dost thou ? Luke. I am bewilder'd. Oh, any thing but chiefly Well, or ill-or both. I know not Mary. Gold! and so weighty! Luke. Here is gold for thee. Ay-enough to keep us, With some slight help from labour, all our lives. Mary. Why, Luke, whence came it? Luke. Dishonestly? Mary. Dost thou think it came Not so, I will be sworn. No-though thou'rt sorely dealt with, and compell'd To toil for sustenance, thou still hast borne The noblest veins that own Lord Rayland's blood. Come in, and tell me what hath soften'd him To send this kindly aid. Luke. My father send it! I will not curse him, lest the words recoil On thee, my girl. No, no, he sent it not. Luke, (after a long pause). I had a friend One whom you never saw: he died this morning, And left me this-the earnings of his life. Mary. And he is blest for it! my gentle Luke, How well that manly tear becomes your eye! This good man's little wealth-how many days And nights of utter hopelessness 'twill spare us! While thankfully, as proudly, thou shalt think It was the meed thy virtue gain'd for us. Luke, (with increased agitation.) Go in-go in." Mary. O, Luke, we'll be so blest! Thou'lt never watch the wintry night again? With piercing misery behold the heavens, As if thou wert aweary of the world, And thy poor Mary too? Luke. I shall be changed Am changed already-changed so much, I scarce Can calculate what leagues my soul hath travell'd. So, now to bed. Mary. Oh, I have worlds to ask. Luke, (alone). And I to answer! She did not sus pect: She thought I was too honest. My wild brain, Till now I sicken'd at the sight of home, That must be told. Well-that is past and gone- With that which must be secret? Was it harder To bear confiding wretchedness than guilt In horrid solitude. O, Mary, dear, No more shall we two, heart to heart, lie down, Lest I betray to what that love did lead me, So much belied! The smiling, soft, content VOL. II. I This is not all—there still hath been a hope, But now 'tis past-the work of this dread night And every beam that might have lit me onward No widow'd maniac hooted through the streets ENTER CALeb. Caleb. So early rising, Luke? It is not day. Luke. Not day, good Caleb? No. I see it now; I dreamt, or do remember something said Of toil betimes this morn, and was unwilling To waste your time beneath an idler's casement. Caleb. Indeed a scanty rest— And yet not more so than my lord's. Last night Its master anxious for the expected guest, Luke, (with suppressed eagerness). And who was he? The guest? Caleb. I did not ask. Those powder'd underlings Ill sorted with their weather-worn companion. At midnight came the stranger in hot haste, So splash'd, and mired, and wofully disorder'd, You would have sworn some witch had hunted him Through all the bogs of Willowmead. Luke. He had a story? Caleb. What then? I should guess he had But none to tell, save that he lost his way. And then long council pass'd between the friends, And, running over a minute description Of one he sought, demanded if the like Could here be found. It was of you he spoke. Caleb. What said you? |