SCENE III.—_Inside of Prison_.

_Enter_ GRAYLING: _he has with him an iron rod_.

_Gray_. So now for my task; this is a day of triumph for me; I could have dressed myself as for a holyday; this Gwinett once dead who knows how time may work upon Lucy; perhaps I had rather the gang had seized and torn the lad away—but they deceived me—they took my money for the service, and have never since shewn themselves; after all it may be better as it is—Gwinett might have regained his liberty—have returned—there’s no marrying with the dead—no, ’tis best—much the best.—

_Enter_ BOLT, _the Gaoler_. L.

A good-day to you, master Bolt.

_Bolt_. A good-day—you are late, master Grayling—you will have scarcely sufficient time to perform your task.

_Gray_. Oh, plenty—I have an old set of chains in hand; an hour’s work will make them fit for any body—so let me at once measure the prisoner.

_Bolt_. The prisoner! do you not know that there are two to suffer?

_Gray_. Two!

_Bolt_. Aye; we have to day received an order that “mad George,” as he is called, who was last Sessions convicted for shooting an Exciseman, is to suffer with poor Ambrose Gwinett.

_Gray_. Poor Ambrose Gwinett—you are mightily compassionate, master Bolt.

_Bolt_. Why, for the matter of that, if a man’s a gaoler, I see no reason why his heart should be of a piece with the prison wall.

_Gray_. But is he not an assassin?—a midnight murderer?

_Bolt_. True; and yet I cannot but doubt—I do not think a man with blood upon his head, could sleep so soundly and smile so in his slumbers, as does master Gwinett; the whole country feels for him.

_Gray_. Aye, it is the fashion now-a-days—let a knave only rob an orchard, and he’s whipped and cried at for a villain—let him spill blood, and it’s marvellous the compassion that awaits him.

_Bolt_. Why, how now, master Grayling? once you would not have talked in this manner—you had one time a heart as tender as a girl’s—I have seen you drop a tear upon the hand of a prisoner, as you have fitted the iron upon it. Methinks you are strangely changed of late.

_Gray_. I am—no matter for that—let me to my work, for time speeds on.

_Bolt_. Well, you can first begin with mad George.

_Gray_. And why not with Gwinett?—with Gwinett, I say, the murderer?

_Bolt_. He’s engaged, at present, taking leave of poor Lucy Fairlove; eh! why what’s the matter with you? why you start and shake as though it was you that was going to suffer.

_Gray_. Well, well, delay no longer.

_Bolt_. (_calls without_.) Holloa! Tom, bring poor George hither. Poor fellow, he had begun to hope for pardon just as the warrant came down.

_Enter_ GEORGE _and_ TURNKEY. R.

_Geo_. Now, what further, good master Bolt?

_Bolt_. Why, there is another little ceremony—you know the sentence is—

_Geo_. Aye, I remember, to be placed as a scarecrow to my brother smugglers,—well, no matter, they’ll let me, I hope, hang over the beach with the salt spray sometimes dashing upon me, and the sea-gull screaming around.

_Gray_. Give me your hand, friend; so, (_shakes hands_.) this is an ugly task of mine, but you bear no malice?

_Geo_. I never knew it when I was a free and happy man, and should never feel it in my dying hour—and to prove to you that the fear of death has not wasted my powers,—there, bend that arm before you measure it—stronger men than you, I take it, have tried in vain.—(_Grayling takes hold of George’s arm_, _and with a slight effort_, _bends it_.) Ah! there was but one man who could do this—he who did it when a boy—surely you are not—yes, it is—Grayling!

_Gray_. Eh! George—George Wildrove—my earliest, my best of friends, (_they embrace_.) Oh! and to meet you now, and in such a place—and I—the wretch employed to—

_Geo_. Nay, Grayling, this is weak—your task is not a free one, ’tis, I know, imposed upon you—to the work, and whilst you measure the limbs of mad George, the felon, think not, for I would not think of him—think not of George Wildrove, the school-boy.

[_Music_.—_Grayling_, _after a struggle_, _advances to George_—_he turns up one of his sleeves_, _and is about to measure the arm_, _when his eye falls upon George’s wrist_. _Grayling_, _starting back with horror_.]

No, no, not if these prison walls were turned to gold, and I by fulfilling this hateful task, might become the whole possessor, I would not do it—as I have a soul, I would not.

_Geo_. What new alarm? What holds you now?

_Gray_. Your wrist, George.

_Geo_. Well—

_Gray_. Do you not see?

_Geo_. What?

_Gray_. That scar—in that scar I read the preservation of my life—alas! now worthless—can I forget that the knife aimed at my heart, struck there—there—

_Geo_. Oh, a schoolboy frolic, go on, good Ned.

_Gray_. Never! Oh, George, I am a wretch, a poor forlorn discarded wretch—the earth has lost its sweetness to me—I am hopeless, aimless—I had thought my heart was wholly changed to stone—I find there is one—one pulse left, that beats with gratitude, with more than early friendship.

_Bolt_. Come, master Grayling, you know there is another prisoner.

_Gray_. Ah! I had forgotten—gaoler, chains for this man, to be made an Emperor, I could not forge—if you will, say so to the governor: for the other prisoner, I’ll work—oh, how I’ll toil—but come a moment, George—let my heart give a short time to friendship, ’ere again ’tis yielded up to hate.

[_Exeunt Grayling and George_. L.

_Enter_ AMBROSE GWINETT. R.

_Gwin_. I feel as if within these two days, infirm old age had crept upon me—my blood is chilled, and courses through my veins with lazy coldness—my brain is stunned—my eyes discern not clearly—my very hair feels grey and blasted; alas! ’tis no wonder, I have within these few hours been hurled from a throne of earthly happiness—snatched from the regions of ideal bliss—and cast, bound, and fettered within a prison’s walls—and my name—my innocent name, stamped in the book of infamy—oh! was man to contemplate at one view the evil he’s to suffer, madness would seize on half his kind—but misery, day by day works on, laying at intervals such weights upon us, which, if placed at once would crush us out of life.—Ah! the gaoler!

_Bolt_. A good-day to you, master Ambrose.

_Gwin_. “Good-day” friend! let good days pass between those happy men, who freely may exchange them beneath the eye of heaven.—“Good-day” to a wretch like me! it has a sound of mockery.

_Bolt_. And yet believe me, Sir, I meant not so.

_Gwin_. I am sure you did not. It was my own waywardness that misconstrued you—I am sorry—pardon me, good man—and if you would yield a favour to a hapless creature, now standing on the brink of the grave, leave me—I fain would strive to look with calmness into that wormy bed wherein I soon must lie.

_Bolt_. Poor fellow, he forgets—but good master Gwinett—

_Gwin_. Well—be quick—for my minutes are counted—I must play the miser with them.

_Bolt_. Do you not remember the sentence?

_Gwin_. Remember?

_Bolt_. But the whole of it?

_Gwin_. The—oh, heavens, the thoughts like fire flash into my brain.—I had forgotten—there is no—no grave for me.

_Bolt_. Poor fellow, I could almost cry to look at him.

_Gwin_. Well, what does it matter; it is but in imagination—nothing more.

_Bolt_. That’s right—come, look boldly on it.

_Gwin_. Where is the place, that—my heart swells as it would burst its prison—the—you understand.

_Bolt_. Why, at the corner of the meadow, just by One-Tree Farm.

_Gwin_. (_with great passion_.) What!—at—oh!—if there be one touch of mercy in my judges’ hearts, I beseech (_throws himself at Bolt’s feet_.) I implore you—any other spot—but there—there—

_Bolt_. And why not there, master Ambrose?

_Gwin_. Why not!—the cottage wherein I was born looks out on the place—many a summer’s day, when a child, a little happy child, close by my mother’s side, my hand in her’s, I have wandered there picking the wild flowers springing up around us—oh! what a multitude of recollections crowd upon me—that meadow!—many a summer’s night have I with my little sisters, sat waiting my father’s coming—and when he turned that hedge, to see his eyes, how they kindled up, when the happy shout burst from his children’s lips—ah! his eyes are now fixed closely on me—and that shout is ringing in my ears!

_Bolt_. Come, come, be more composed.

_Gwin_. There I cannot die in peace: in one brief minute I should see all the actions of my infant life, as in a glass—there, there, I cannot die—is there no help?

_Bolt_. I’m afraid, Sir, none: the judges have quitted the town—but banish these thoughts from your mind—here comes one that needs support even whilst she strives to comfort others.

_Enter_ LUCY. R.

_Lucy_. Oh! dearest Ambrose—is there no hope?

_Gwin_. Hope, Lucy, none—my hour is at hand, and the once happy and respected Gwinett, will ’ere sunset die the death of a felon! a murderer! a murderer!—Oh, heavens! to be pointed, gazed at, executed as the inhuman, heartless assassin—the midnight bloodshedder!

_Lucy_. Bloodshedder! oh, Gwinett.

_Gwin_. But tell me, dearest Lucy, what say my fellow townsmen of the hapless Ambrose; do they all, all believe me guilty?

_Lucy_. Ob, no—some there are who, when your name is mentioned, sigh and breathe a prayer for your deliverance,—and some—

_Gwin_. Aye, there it is, they class me with those desperate wretches, who—oh, would the hour were come—I shall go mad—become a raving maniac: what a life had my imagination pictured: blessed with thee Lucy, I had hoped to travel onward, halting at the grave, an old grey headed happy man, and now, the scaffold—the executioner—can I think upon them, and not feel my heart grow palsied, my sinews fall away, and my life’s breath ebb—but no, I think, and still I live to suffer.

_Lucy_. There yet remains a hope—your judges are petitioned, they may relent—then years of happiness may yet be ours.

_Gwin_. Happiness—alas, no; my very dreams are but a counterpart of my waking horrors.—Last night, harassed, I threw me down to rest—a leaden slumber fell upon me, and then I dreamt, Lucy, that thou and I had at the altar sworn a lasting faith.

_Lucy_. Did you so? Ambrose, did you so?—Oh! ’tis a happy presage: the dream was sent from heaven to bid you not despair.

_Gwin_. It was, indeed, a warning dream: hear the end. We were at the altar’s foot, girt round by happy friends, and thou smilest—oh, my heart beat quickly with transporting joy, as with one hand clasping thine, I strove to place the ring upon thy finger—it fell—and ringing on the holy floor, shivered like glass into a thousand atoms—astonished, I gazed a moment on the glittering fragments,—but when I raised my head, thou wert not to be found—the place had changed—the bridal train had vanished, and in its stead, I saw surrounding thousands, who, with upturned eyes, gazed like spectres on me—I looked for the priest, and in his place stood glaring at me with a savage joy, the executioner—I strove to burst away—my arms were bound—I cast my eyes imploringly to heaven—and there above me was the beam—the fatal beam—I felt my spirit strangling in my throat, ’twas but a moment—all was dark.

_Lucy_. Oh! heavens.

_Gwin_. Such was the forerunner of the coming horror—so will ten thousand glut their eyes upon my misery—and then the hangman—

[_Lucy_, _who during the former and present speech of Gwinett_, _has been growing gradually insensible_; _here shrieks out_, _and rushes to him_.

_Lucy_. Oh! speak it not—think it not—my heart is broken. (_falls into his arms_.)

_Gwin_. Wretch! fool that I am, thus forgetful in my miseries to torture this sweet sufferer.

_Lucy_. (_recovering_.) There is then no hope—no, think not to deceive me, the terrible certainty frowns upon me, and every earthly joy fades beneath the gloom! I shall not long survive you—a short time to waste myself in tears upon your grave.

_Gwin_. (_aside_.) My grave!—oh madness! even this last solace is deprived me—she’ll never weep o’er me—never pluck the weeds from off my tomb—but if she’d seek the corse of Gwinett—there! hung round with rattling chains, and shaking in the wind, a loathsome spectacle to all men—there she must, shuddering, say her fitful prayer.—Oh! I’m phrenzied, mad,—Lucy thus distracted, locked in each others arms, we’ll seek for death. (_they embrace_.)

[_Music_.—_Enter_ BOLT _and_ GRAYLING. R.; _Grayling on seeing Gwinett and Lucy_, _is about to rush down upon them_, _when he is held back by Bolt_: _he at length approaches Gwinett_, _who_, _on beholding him_, _staggers back with horror_—_Grayling folds his arms and looks at Gwinett with an eye of malice_.

_Gwin_. Wretch! monster! what do you here? come you to glut your vengeance on my dying pangs?

_Gray_. Were there no wretches—no monsters—no bloodsuckers, look you, there need no prison smiths: chains and fetters are not made for honest men.

_Lucy_. Grayling, if e’er you felt one touch of pity, in mercy leave us, cheat me not of one moment, with—(_Lucy lifts her hands imploringly to Grayling_—_his eye rests upon the ring on her finger_.)

_Gray_. (_passionately_.) Thy husband?

_Lucy_. Aye, my husband, I swore to be his and none but his—my oath was taken when the world looked brightly on us both—the world changed, but my oath remained; and here, but an hour since, within a prison’s walls, with none but hard-faced pitiless gaolers to behold our wretched nuptials; here I kept my vow—here I gave my hand to the chained, the despised, the dying Gwinett; and whilst I gave it, whilst I swore to love and honour the outcast wretched felon, I felt a stronger pride than if I’d wedded with an ermined king. (_embracing Gwinett_; _Grayling_, _who_, _during this speech_, _is become quite overpowered_—_by an effort rouses himself_, _exclaiming wildly_—

_Gray_. Tear them apart, gaoler, tear them apart, I say.

_Bolt_. For shame! for shame, master Grayling, have you no pity?

_Gray_. (_incoherently_.) Pity—havn’t I to do my work—havn’t I to measure the culprit—havn’t I to—

_Gwin_. Hold! hold! she knows not—spare her.

_Gray_. Spare! and why should I spare? Hasn’t she wirled, despised me? isn’t she Mrs. Lucy Gwinett, the wife of the murderer, Gwinett? hasn’t she spoken words that pierced me through and through? and why should I spare?—Felon, you know your sentence; come, let me measure you for the irons, that—

_Gwin_. Wretch! heartless ruffian!

[_As Grayling approaches Gwinett_, _he seizes the rod of iron held by Grayling_, _and they struggle_—_Gwinett throws Grayling down_, _and is about to strike him with the iron_, _when the prison bell tolls_, _Gwinett’s arm falls paralyzed_; _Grayling looks at him with malicious joy_; _Lucy sinks on her knees_, _raising her hands to heaven_. _At this moment_, _a cry is set up without_, “_a reprieve_! _a reprieve_!”—_Officer_, _and neighbours enter_. L. _Grayling springing on his feet_, _tears the paper from the Officer’s hand_, _Lucy at the same time exclaims_, “_A reprieve_! _say_—_for Ambrose_!”

_Offi_. No; for mad George!

_Gray_. (_eagerly_.) The murderer’s fate is—

_Offi_. Death!

[_The prison bell again tolls_, _Lucy falls to the earth_, _Gwinett sinks into a state of stupifaction_, _Grayling looks at him with an air of triumph_; _characters at the back lift their hands imploringly to heaven_, _and the Scene closes_.—_End of Act II_.