The Family Legend: A Tragedy/The Family Legend Act 3

by Joanna Baillie

ACT III.

SCENE I. A small island, composed of a rugged craggy rock, on the front of the stage, and the sea in the back-ground.

Enter two Vassals dragging in Helen, as if just come out of their boat.

HELEN.

O why is this? Speak, gloomy, ruthless men!

Our voyage ends not here?

FIRST VASSAL.

It does: and now,

Helen the Campbell, fare thee—fare thee well!

SECOND VASSAL.

Helen the Campbell, thy last greeting take

From mortal thing.

HELEN.

What! leave me on this rock,

This sea-girt rock, to solitude and famine?

FIRST VASSAL.

Next rising tide will bring a sure relief

To all the ills we leave thee.

HELEN. (starting).

I understand ye.

(Raising her clasped hands to heaven.)
Lord of heaven and earth;
Of storms and tempests, and th' unfathom'd deep;
Is this thy righteous will?
(Grasping the hands of the men imploringly.)
Ye cannot mean it.
Ye cannot leave a human creature thus
To perish by a slow approaching end,
So awful and so terrible! Instant death
Were merciful to this.

FIRST VASSAL.

If thou prefer it, we can shorten well

Thy term of pain and terror: from this cragg,
Full fourteen fathom deep thou may'st be plung'd.
In shorter time than three strokes of an oar
Thy pains will cease.

SECOND VASSAL.

Come, that were better for thee.

(Both of them take her hands, and are going to

hurry her to the brink of the rock, when she shrinks back.)

HELEN.

O no! the soul recoils from swift destruction!

Pause ye awhile.(Considering for a moment.)
The downward terrible plunge!
The coil of whelming waves!—O fearful nature!
(Catching hold of a part of the rock near her.)
To the rough rock I'll cling: it still is something
Of firm and desp'rate hold—Depart and leave me.

(Waving her hand for the Vassals to go, whilst she keeps close hold of the rock with the other.)

FIRST VASSAL.

Thou still mayst live within a prison pent,

If life be dear to thee.

HELEN, (eagerly.)

If life be dear!——Alas, it is not dear!

Although the passing fearful act of death
So very fearful is.——Say how, even in a prison,
I still may wait my quiet natural end.

FIRST VASSAL.

Whate'er thou art, such has thy conduct been,

Thy wedded faith, e'en with thy fellest foes,
Sure and undoubted stands:—Sign thou this scroll,

Owning the child, thy son, of bastard birth;
And this made sure, Lochtarish bade me say
Thy life shall yet be spared.

HELEN. (pushing him away with indignation as he offers her the scroll.)

Off, off, vile agent of a wretch so devilish!

Now do I see from whence my ruin comes:
I and my infant foil his wicked hopes.
O harmless babe! will heaven abandon thee!
It will not!—No; it will not!
(Assuming firmness and dignity.)
Depart and leave me. In my rising breast
I feel returning strength. Heaven aids my weakness:
I'll meet its awful will.
(Waving them off with her hand.)

FIRST VASSAL.

Well, in its keeping rest thee: fare thee well,

Helen the Campbell.

SECOND VASSAL.

Be thy suff'rings short!

(Aside to the other.)
Come, quickly let us go, nor look behind.
Fell is the service we are put upon:

Would we had never ta'en that cruel oath!
(Exeunt Vassals.)

HELEN.(alone, after standing some time gazing round her, paces backwards and forwards with agitated steps, then, stopping suddenly, bends her ear to the ground as if she listened earnestly to something).

It is the sound; the heaving hollow swell

That notes the turning tide.—Tremendous agent!
Mine executioner, that, step by step,
Advances to the awful work of death.—
Onward it wears: a little space remov'd
The dreadful conflict is.

(Raising her eyes to heaven, and moving her lips, as in the act of devotion, before she again speaks aloud.)

Thou art i' the blue coped sky—th' expanse immeasurable;

I' the dark roll'd clouds, the thunder's awful home:
Thou art i' the wide-shored earth,—the pathless desert;
And in the dread immensity of waters,—
I' the fathomless deep thou art.———
Awful but excellent! beneath thy hand.
With trembling confidence, I bow me low,
And wait thy will in peace.

(Sits down on a crag of the rock, with her arms crossed over her breast in silent resignation; then,

after a pause of some length, raises her head hastily.)

Is it a sound of voices in the wind?
The breeze is on the rock: a gleam of sunshine
Breaks through those farther clouds. It is like hope
Upon a hopeless state.
(Starting up, and gazing eagerly around her.)
I'll to that highest crag and take my stand:
Some little speck upon the distant wave
May to my eager gaze a vessel grow—
Some onward wearing thing,—some boat—some raft—
Some drifted plank.——O hope! thou quit'st us never!

(Exit, disappearing amongst the rugged divisions of the rock.)

SCENE II.A small island, from which the former is seen in the distance, like a little pointed rock standing out of the sea.

Enter Sir Hubert de Grey, followed by two Fishermen.

DE GREY.

This little swarded spot that o'er the waves,

Cloath'd in its green light, seem'd to beckon to us,
Right pleasant is: until our comrades join,

Here will we rest. I marvel much they stand
So far behind. In truth, such lusty rowers
Put shame upon their skill.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

A cross-set current bore them from the track,

But see, they now bear on us rapidly.

Voices without.
Hola!

SECOND FISHERMAN.

They call to us.—Hola! hola!

How fast they wear! they are at hand already.

DE GREY.

Right glad I am: the Lord of Lorne, I fear,

Will wait impatiently: he has already
With rapid oars the nearer mainland gain'd,
Where he appointed us to join him.—Ho!
(Calling off the Stage.)
Make to that point, my lads.
(To those near him.)
Here, for a little while, upon the turf
We'll snatch a hasty meal, and, so refreshed,
Take to our boats again.

Enter three other Fishermen, as from their boat, on the other side of the stage.

Well met, my friends! I'm glad you're here at last.
How was it that you took that distant track?

THIRD FISHERMAN.

The current bore us wide of what we wist;

And, were it not your honour is impatient
Main-land to make, we had not come so soon.

DE GREY.

What had detain'd you?

THIRD FISHERMAN.

As near yon rock we bore, that o'er the waves

Just shows its jetty point, and will, ere long,
Beneath the tide be hid, we heard the sound
Of feeble lamentation.

DE GREY.

A human voice?

THIRD FISHERMAN.

I cannot think it was;

For on that rock, sea-girt, and at high tide,

Sea-cover'd, human thing there cannot be;
Though, at the first, it sounded in our ears
Like a faint woman's voice.

DE GREY.

Perceiv'd ye aught?

THIRD FISHERMAN.

Yes; something white that moved, and, as we think,

Some wounded bird that there hath dropt its wing,
And cannot make its way.

FOURTH FISHERMAN.

Perhaps some dog,

Whose master at low water there hath been,
And left him.

THIRD FISHERMAN.

Something 'tis in woeful case,

Whate'er it be. Right fain I would have gone
To bear it off.

DE GREY, (eagerly.)

And wherefore didst thou not?

Return and save it. Be it what it may;
Something it is, lone and in jeopardy,
Which hath a feeling of its desperate state,

And therefore doth to woe-worn, fearful man,
A kindred nature bear.—Return, good friend;—
Quickly return and save it, ere the tide
Shall wash it from its hold. I to the coast
Will steer the while, and wait your coming there.

THIRD FISHERMAN.

Right gladly, noble sir.

FOURTH FISHERMAN.

We'll gladly go:

For, by my faith! at night I had not slept
For thinking of that sound.

DE GREY.

Heaven speed ye then! whate'er ye bring to me

Of living kind, I will reward you for it.
Our different tracks we hold; nor longer here
Will I remain. Soon may we meet:
God speed ye!
(Exeunt severally.)

SCENE III. A Fisherman's House on the Mainland.

Enter John of Lorne and Sir Hubert de Grey.

LORNE.

Then wait thou for thy boat; I and my men

Will onward to the town, where, as I hope,
My trusty vassals and our steeds are stationed.
But lose not time.

DE GREY.

Fear not; I'll follow quickly.

LORNE.

I must unto the castle of Argyll

Without delay proceed; therefore, whate'er
Of living kind, bird, beast, or creeping thing,
This boat of thine produces, bring it with thee;
And, were it eaglet fierce, or wolf or fox,
On with us shall it travel, mounted bravely,
Our homeward cavalcade to grace. Farewell!

DE GREY.

Farewell, my friend! I shall not long delay

Thy homeward journey.

LORNE, (calling off the Stage.)

But ho! good host and hostess! (To De Grey.) ere I go

I must take leave of honest Duncan here,
And of his rosy wife.—Ay, here they come.

Enter the Host and his Wife.

(To Host, &c.)

Farewell, my friends, and thanks be to you both!

Good cheer, and kindly given, of you we've had.
Thy hand, good host. May all the fish o' th' ocean
Come crowding to thy nets!—And healthy brats,
Fair dame, have thou! with such round rosy cheeks
As brats of thine befit: and, by your leave,
(Kissing her.)
So be they kiss'd by all kind comers too!
Good luck betide you both!

HOST.

And, sir, to you the same. Whoe'er you be,

A brave man art thou, that I will be sworn.

WIFE.

Come you this way again, I hope, good sir,

You will not pass our door.

LORNE.

Fear not, good hostess;

It is a pleasant, sunny, open door,
And bids me enter of its own accord;
I cannot pass it by.—Good luck betide ye!
(Exit, followed to the door by Sir Hubert.)

HOST.

I will be sworn it is some noble chieftain,

Though homely be his garb.

WIFE.

Ay, so will I: the Lord of Lorne himself

Could not more courteous be.

HOST.

Hush! hush! be quiet!

We live not now amongst the Campbells, wife.
Should some Maclean o'erhear thee—hush, I say.
(Eying De Grey, who returns from the door.)
And this man too; right noble is his mien;
He is no common rambler.(To De Grey.)
By your leave,
If I may be so bold without offending,
Your speech, methinks, smacks of a southern race;
I guess at least of Lowland kin ye be.
But think no shame of this; we'll ne'ertheless

Regard thee: thieves and cowards be not all
Who from the Lowlands come.

WIFE.

No; no, in sooth! I knew a Lowlander,

Some years gone by, who was as true and honest—
Ay, and I do believe well nigh as brave,
As though, with brogued feet, he never else
Had all his days than muir or mountain trode.

DE GREY.

Thanks for your gentle thoughts!—It has indeed

Been my misluck to draw my earliest breath
Where meadows flower, and corn fields wave i' th' sun.
But let us still be friends! heaven gives us not
To choose our birth-place, else these wilds, no doubt,
Would be more thickly peopled.

HOST.

Ay, true it is indeed.

WIFE.

And hard it were

To quarrel with him too for his misfortune.
(Noise heard without.)

DE GREY.

Ha! 'tis my boat return'd.

Enter First Fisherman.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Ay, here we are.

DE GREY.

And aught saved from the rock?

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Yes, by my faith! but neither bird nor beast.

Look there, my master. (Pointing to the door.)

Enter Helen, extremely exhausted, and almost senseless, wrapped closely up in one of their plaids, and supported by the other two Fishermen.)

DE GREY.

A woman! heaven in mercy! was it then

A human creature there exposed to perish?

FIRST FISHERMAN, (opening the plaid to show her face.)

Ay look; and such a creature!

DE GREY, (starting back).

Helen of Argyll!

O God! was this the feeble wailing voice!

(Clasping his arms about her knees, as she stands almost senseless, supported by the Fishermen, and bursting into tears.)

Could heart of man so leave thee? thou, of all

That lovely is, most lovely.—Woe is me!
Some aid, I pray ye. (To Host and his Wife.)
Bear her softly in,
And wrap warm garments round her.
Breathes she freely?
Her eyes half open are, but life, alas!
Is almost spent, and holds within her breast
A weak uncertain seat. (Helen moves her hand.)
She moves her hand:—
She knows my voice.—O heaven, in mercy save her!
Bear her more gently, pray ye:—Softly, softly!
How weak and spent she is!

FIRST FISHERMAN.

No marvel she is weak: we reach'd her not

Until the swelling waters laved her girdle.
And then to see her——

DE GREY.

Cease, I pray thee, friend,

And tell me not——

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Nay, faith, he tells you true:

She stood above the water, with stretched arms
Clung to the dripping rock, like the white pinions—

DE GREY.

Peace, peace, I say! thy words are agony:—

Give to my mind no image of the thing!

(Exeunt, bearing Helen into an inner part of the house.)