Scene II Before Old Lionel’s House
Enter, from the House, Young Lionel, Rioter, Blanda, Scapha, two Gallants, and two Wenches, as newly waked from sleep.
Young Lionel.
We had a stormy night on’t.
Blanda.
The wine still works,
And, with the little rest they have took to-night,
They are scarce come to themselves.
Young Lionel.
Now ’tis a calm,
Thanks to those gentle sea-gods, that have brought us
To this safe harbour: can you tell their names?
Scapha.
He with the painted staff I heard you call Neptune.
Young Lionel.
The dreadful god of seas,
Upon whose back ne’er stuck March fleas.
1st Gallant.
One with the bill21 keeps Neptune’s porpoises,
So Ovid says in’s Metamorphoses.
2nd Gallant.
A third the learned poets write on,
And, as they say, his name is Triton.
Young Lionel.
These are the marine gods, to whom my father
In his long voyage prays to; cannot they,
That brought us to our haven, bury him
In their abyss? For if he safe arrive,
I, with these sailors, sirens, and what not,
Am sure here to be shipwrecked.
1st Wench.
[To Rioter]. Stand up stiff.
Rioter.
But that the ship so totters—I shall fall.
1st Wench.
If thou fall, I’ll fall with thee.
Rioter.
Now I sink,
And, as I dive and drown, thus by degrees
I’ll pluck thee to the bottom.
[They fall.
Enter Reignald.
Young Lionel.
Amain for England! See, see,
The Spaniard now strikes sail.
Reignald.
So must you all.
1st Gallant.
Whence is your ship—from the Bermoothes?22
Reignald.
Worse, I think from Hell:
We are all lost, split, shipwrecked, and undone.
This place is a mere quicksands.
2nd Gallant.
So we feared.
Reignald.
Where’s my young master?
Young Lionel.
Here, man; speak, the news?
Reignald.
The news is, I, and you—
Young Lionel.
What?
Reignald.
She, and all these—
Blanda.
I!
Reignald.
We, and all ours, are in one turbulent sea
Of fear, despair, disaster, and mischance
Swallowed. Your father, sir—
Young Lionel.
Why, what of him?
Reignald.
He is—
Oh I want breath.
Young Lionel.
Where?
Reignald.
Landed, and at hand.
Young Lionel.
Upon what coast? Who saw him?
Reignald.
I—these eyes.
Young Lionel.
O Heaven! what shall I do then?
Reignald.
Ask ye me
What shall become of you, that have not yet
Had time of study to dispose myself?
I say again, I was upon the quay,
I saw him land, and this way bend his course.
What drunkard’s this, that can outsleep a storm
Which threatens all our ruins? Wake him.
Blanda.
Ho, Rioter, awake!
Rioter.
Yes, I am ’wake;
How dry hath this salt-water made me! Boy,
Give me the other glass.
Young Lionel.
Arise, I say:
My father’s come from sea.
Rioter.
If he be come,
Bid him be gone again.
Reignald.
Can you trifle
At such a time, when your inventions, brains,
Wits, plots, devices, stratagems, and all
Should be at one in action? Each of you
That love your safeties, lend your helping hands,
Women and all, to take this drunkard hence,
And to bestow him elsewhere.
Blanda.
Lift, for Heaven’s sake.
[They carry Rioter in.
Reignald.
But what am I the nearer, were all these
Conveyed to sundry places and unseen?
The stain of our disorders still remains,
Of which the house will witness, and the old man
Must find it when he enters; and for these
[Re-enter Young Lionel and others.]
I am here left to answer.—What, is he gone?
Young Lionel.
But whither? But into the selfsame house
That harbours him; my father’s, where we all
Attend from him surprisal.
Reignald.
I will make
That prison of your fears your sanctuary;
Go, get you in together.
Young Lionel.
To this house?
Reignald.
Your father’s, with your sweetheart, these and all;
Nay, no more words, but do it.
Blanda.
That were to
Betray us to his fury.
Reignald.
I have’t here
To bail you hence at pleasure; and in the interim
I’ll make this supposed gaol, to you as safe
From the injured old man’s just-incensèd spleen,
As were you now together i’ the Low-Countries,
Virginia, or i’ the Indies.
Blanda.
Present fear
Bids us to yield unto the faint belief
Of the least hopèd safety.
Reignald.
Will you in?
All.
By thee we will be counselled.
Reignald.
Shut them fast.
Young Lionel.
And thou and I to leave them?
Reignald.
No such thing;
For you shall bear your sweetheart company,
And help to cheer the rest.
Young Lionel.
And so thou meanest to escape alone?
Reignald.
Rather without,
I’ll stand a champion for you all within.
Will you be swayed? One thing in any case
I must advise: the gates bolted and locked,
See that ’mongst you no living voice be heard;
No, not so much as but a dog to howl,
Or cat to mew—all silence, that I charge;
As if this were a mere forsaken house,
And none did there inhabit.
Young Lionel.
Nothing else?
Reignald.
And, though the old man thunder at the gates
As if he meant to ruin what he had reared,
None on their lives to answer.
Young Lionel.
’Tis my charge:
Remains there nothing else?
Reignald.
Only the key;
For I must play the gaoler for your durance,23
To be the Mercury in your release.
Young Lionel.
Me, and my hope, I in this key deliver
To thy safe trust.
Reignald.
When you are fast you are safe,
And with this turn ’tis done.
[Exeunt all except Reignald who locks the door.]
What fools are these,
To trust their ruined fortunes to his hands
That hath betrayed his own, and make themselves
Prisoner to one deserves to lie for all,
As being cause of all! And yet something prompts me—
I’ll stand it at all dangers; and, to recompense
The many wrongs unto the young man done,
Now, if I can doubly delude the old—
My brain, about it, then. All’s hushed within;
The noise that shall be, I must make without,
And he that, part for gain and part for wit,
So far hath travelled, strive to fool at home:
Which to effect, art must with knavery join,
And smooth dissembling meet with impudence.
I’ll do my best, and howsoe’er it prove,
My praise or shame, ’tis but a servant’s love. [Retires.
Enter Old Lionel, with Watermen, and two Servants with burdens and caskets.
Old Lionel.
Discharge these honest sailors that have brought
Our chests ashore, and pray them have a care
Those merchandise be safe we left aboard.
As Heaven hath blessed us with a fortunate voyage,
In which we bring home riches with our healths,
So let not us prove niggards in our store;
See them paid well, and to their full content.
1st Servant.
I shall, sir.
Old Lionel.
Then return: these special things,
And of most value, we’ll not trust aboard;
Methinks they are not safe till they see home,
And there repose, where we will rest ourselves,
And bid farewell to travel; for I vow
After this hour no more to trust the seas,
Nor throw me to such danger.
Reignald.
I could wish
You had took your leave o’ the land too. [Aside.
Old Lionel.
And now it much rejoiceth me to think
What a most sudden welcome I shall bring
Both to my friends and private family.
Reignald.
Oh, but how much more welcome had he been
That had brought certain tidings of thy death! [Aside.
Old Lionel.
But soft, what’s this? my own gates shut upon me,
And bar their master entrance! Who’s within there?
How, no man speak! are all asleep or dead,
That no soul stirs to open? [Knocks loudly.
Reignald.
What madman’s that who, weary of his life,
Dares once lay hand on these accursèd gates?
Old Lionel.
Who’s that? my servant Reignald!
Reignald.
My old master!
Most glad I am to see you; are you well, sir?
Old Lionel.
Thou seest I am.
Reignald.
But are you sure you are?
Feel you no change about you? Pray you stand off.
Old Lionel.
What strange and unexpected greeting’s this,
That thus a man may knock at his own gates,
Beat with his hands and feet, and call thus loud,
And no man give him entrance?
Reignald.
Said you, sir—
Did your hand touch that hammer?
Old Lionel.
Why, whose else?
Reignald.
But are you sure you touched it?
Old Lionel.
How else, I prithee,
Could I have made this noise?
Reignald.
You touched it then?
Old Lionel.
I tell thee yet I did.
Reignald.
Oh, for the love I bear you—
O me most miserable! you, for your own sake,
Of all alive most wretched!—did you touch it?
Old Lionel.
Why, say I did?
Reignald.
You have then a sin committed,
No sacrifice can expiate, to the dead;
But yet I hope you did not.
Old Lionel.
’Tis past hope;
The deed is done, and I repent it not.
Reignald.
You and all yours will do’t. In this one rashness,
You have undone us all: pray be not desperate,
But first thank Heaven that you have escaped thus well.
Come from the gate—yet further, further yet—
And tempt your fate no more; command your servants
Give off and come no nearer; they are ignorant,
And do not know the danger, therefore pity
That they should perish in’t. ’Tis full seven months
Since any of your house durst once set foot
Over that threshold.
Old Lionel.
Prithee speak the cause?
Reignald.
First look about; beware that no man hear;
Command these to remove.
Old Lionel.
Begone.—[Exeunt Servants and Watermen].—Now speak.
Reignald.
Oh, sir, this house is grown prodigious,24
Fatal, disastrous unto you and yours.
Old Lionel.
What fatal? what disastrous?
Reignald.
Some host, that hath been owner of this house,
In it his guest hath slain; and we suspect
’Twas he of whom you bought it.
Old Lionel.
How came this
Discovered to you first?
Reignald.
I’ll tell you, sir;
But further from the gate. Your son one night
Supped late abroad, I within—oh, that night
I never shall forget! Being safe got home,
I saw him in his chamber laid to rest;
And after went to mine, and, being drowsy,
Forgot by chance to put the candle out:
Being dead asleep, your son, affrighted, calls
So loud that I soon wakened, brought in light,
And found him almost drowned in fearful sweat;
Amazed to see’t, I did demand the cause,
Who told me that this murdered ghost appeared,
His body gashed, and all o’er-stuck with wounds,
And spake to him as follows.
Old Lionel.
Oh, proceed;
’Tis that I long to hear.
Reignald.
“I am,” quoth he,
“A transmarine by birth, who came well stored
With gold and jewels to this fatal house,
Where, seeking safety, I encountered death:
The covetous merchant, landlord of this rent,
To whom I gave my life and wealth in charge,
Freely to enjoy the one, robbed me of both:
Here was my body buried, here my ghost
Must ever walk, till that have Christian right;
Till when, my habitation must be here.
Then fly, young man; remove thy family,
And seek some safer dwelling; for my death
This mansion is accursed; ’tis my possession,
Bought at the dear rate of my life and blood:
None enter here, that aims at his own good.”
And with this charge he vanished.
Old Lionel.
O my fear!
Whither wilt thou transport me?
Reignald.
I entreat
Keep further from the gate, and fly.
Old Lionel.
Fly whither?
Why dost not thou fly too?
Reignald.
What need I fear?
The ghost and I am friends.
Old Lionel.
But Reignald——
Reignald. [Turning round.]
Tush!
I nothing have deserved, nor aught transgressed:
I came not near the gate.
Old Lionel.
To whom was that thou spakest?
Reignald.
Was’t you, sir, named me?
Now as I live, I thought the dead man called,
To inquire for him that thundered at the gate
Which he so dearly paid for. Are you mad,
To stand a foreseen danger?
Old Lionel.
What shall I do?
Reignald.
Cover your head and fly, lest, looking back,
You spy your own confusion.
Old Lionel.
Why dost thou not fly too?
Reignald.
I tell you, sir,
The ghost and I am friends.
Old Lionel.
Why didst thou quake then?
Reignald.
In fear lest some mischance may fall on you,
That have the dead offended; for my part,
The ghost and I am friends. Why fly you not,
Since here you are not safe?
Old Lionel.
Some blest powers guard me!
Reignald.
Nay, sir,
I’ll not forsake you.—[Exit Old Lionel.]—I have got the start;
But ere the goal, ’twill ask both brain and art. [Exit.