And brought back that which smoothes his nights
Rayland, (apart and suddenly resolved). 'Tis even so! Despair hath driven him
To gain by rapine what more guiltily
His father gave him not. Prophetic conscience;
Soon as I saw that pallid countenance,
I knew 'twas thus I should have looked for him,
And felt the secret more mine own than his !
[Aloud.] Most fair, most worthy of a kinder fortune!
Say, if Lord Rayland came with penitence
To seek the long-neglected Luke, and change
The lowly peasant to the peer's proud son,
Couldst thou forget thy days of lamentation—
Forgive the hand that raised thee not before?
Mary. Lord Rayland! Yes-that likeness! O,
my lord,
I have pray'd Heav'n to let me see you once! Rayland. Hast thou no more reproach? Thy spirit then
Is like thy looks, and my remorse more deep-
But sort me not with those with whom the wrench
Of nature's links is pastime. Years were gone
Before I knew my spirit heaved the breast
Of any but the sons beneath my care;
And then, 'twixt justice and thy husband, stood
A haughty woman, jealous of her own.
O'erruled in part, I yet commission'd one,
Who prov'd unworthy of his trust, to make
Such poor amends as fortune might afford,
For absence of the rest I dared not offer.
Oh! it was wrong! and I have paid it deeply.
It hath brought down misfortune in such weight
As might be called atonement—'Tis a tale
For ampler space; my wife is dead; my children,
Or dead, or worse, in disregarded duty :
My home is solitary, but for thee
And him thou lov'st.
And who will overpay
In all a son should be, whatever grief
May elsewhere have befall'n you. O, my lord, You come to bring us wealth, and ne'er can know The half of that son's worth; ne'er see him tried! (Caleb returns in great horror.)
Rayland. My messenger! Nay, speak.
Why is your look so dreadful?-Nought of him?
Of matchless horror to relate-My husband!
O, quickly speak!-My husband!
No strangeness in his manner when you parted? Mary. No-nothing-Yes-O, God! I charge thee, speak!
Rayland. Speak briefly, peasant; 'tis his father listens
Caleb. I used my utmost speed, but the deep fen
Clung to my feet, and pluck'd me back, as though
It were in league with that most damned whirlpool.
[They stand motionless, whilst he continues.
My heart misgave me whilst I struggled on;
I thought of his last look, and labour'd harder,
And came within a stone's throw of the brink.
The stream has nothing to oppose its course,
And glides in deadly silence. Then I heard
The name of “ Mary," and a plunge, and then
A suffocating gasp. I heard no more;
But, dashing through the rushes which conceal'd
The drowning man, beheld a quivering arm
Just vanish in the greedy whirlpool's gorge!
Mary. But-but-thou say'st-I know-I see thou
It was not he! My husband-God! O God!
[She falls into the arms of Rayland.
Rayland. Thou loitering knave! what need so many
Thou'dst have me think it was indeed my son.
Caleb. A boat had drifted to the shore- 'twas
I leap'd into't, and shouted loud for help,
Which, haply, was at hand. Alas, alas!
None ever rose,-and none hath e'er been rais'd,
Alive or dead, from that dark place! I left
My breathless friends lamenting on the bank:
Their toil was fruitless.
Still thou art not sure
Was there no wretch aweary of his life
Save my poor son? No father that deserved
Despair save me?
Wrought to a pitch of most impatient grief-
'Twas one of many blank, successless days,
And he talk'd madly of his wife and famine.
I left him late upon the moor. This morn,
Returning home from Willow Mead, I found him
In strange disorder at his cottage door.
He told me he had slept; his wife just now
Assured me that he was not home all night,
And, when he came, he brought a purse of gold.
My lord, perhaps, you best know how he got it.
Rayland. Well, well-thou'dst not betray?
Caleb.
Fear, shame, and horror, at the desperate deed
Explain the rest too well.
I gave no heed to his necessity,
And angry Heaven hath snatch'd him up from mine.
PART V.
The Whirlpool.
MARY (in wild disorder).
I HAVE escaped them, keenly as they watch'd;
Because, forsooth, I was not fit to stray
Alone. I did not love their finery.
Their downy couch-I could not rest on it
As I have rested on our cabin bed:
And that long mirror did but shew my face
Was very pale and haggard, and methinks
The limpid stream will do 't as well. Oh, here-
'Twas here my gentle Luke did bid me come.
He said I should not visit the last spot
He look'd upon-nor pray-for what? O, truly,
That water-lilies might be more abundant.
He should be here, but is not. Would he were !
For I would tell him of that good old man
Who call'd me his last child, and wept so sadly.
We shall be joyous now-no more of toil-
No more of terror: we will think of nothing
But making every one good, rich, and happy ;
But we'll live still in that sequester'd cot,
And listen when the distant bells do ring
Good night unto the setting sun, and mark,
With mirthful eyes, the insects revelling
In tiny multitudes above the stream.
[Pauses for a long time, and then bursts into tears.
He does not come, and they'll be here anon
To take me back to that dull house of mourning.
I'll climb this leaning stump and look for him-
And now I'll see them ere they come. Why, sure,
'Tis Martha's willow! No; that's farther down.
It shall be mine, and here I'll sit all day—
And night, when I can leave that strange old man :
And that is eas'ly done, for he is blind-
Blinded with tears. How gaily do I rock
In the swift whirl which seems to bear me with it!
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