 | The Lost Son |  |
Scene VII.
—The Churchyard. Bernard rising from his Mother's Grave.Bern.
Thank God! The rending throes are over now.
I can think where I am, and what I am,
Without a second frenzy. I am calm,
And I can calmly think of you, my mother.
Oh, mother, mother, mother! you believed,
You—only you—in your unhappy son!
You did not turn him from your kind heart's door—
You did not ban him from his house and home,
When my own father—oh, my God! my God!—
My father—my own father—with white face,
He looked the curse I almost heard him speak.
And so, a guiltless Cain, accurst I am,
By man's injustice, by the devil's hate,
And God's disdain of such a wretch as I!
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Your darling voice, your own ineffable smile,
Have soothed my dreams and agonized my wakings,
Till I have longed to die—and yet lived on,
Through the fierce energies of strenuous youth's
Instinct, recoiling from death's nothingness—
That I might drain the cup to the very dregs.
Now let me try and lay up for myself
One thought, one memory—just one water-drop
For those strange fires of misery I go back to,
Unpitied and unknown as first I came.
Where shall I find it? Let me try to think—
For I have seen all that I came to see,
The grave of the one being that believed me—
My father, broken-hearted, yet to me
But a blind distant deity of stone—
Those little ones, my brother once and sister,
Grown up to live without a thought of me—
And my one love . . . Oh Annabella, love!
My barbarous, barbarous love! bound to another!
No, never mine! You never, never knew,
And now would loathe to think I could have loved you—
And yet I live, and yet I am not mad!
Enter Annabella unseen.
An.
Bernard!
Bern.
What! Who is there? Has the Ghost's Tree
Summoned its phantom hither?
An.
Is it . . . Bernard?
It is so dark there . . .
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It is he.
An.
Oh Bernard! . . .
I saw you in the hall . . . I knew you . . . Bernard!
Bern.
Why do you come here? Are you not one of those
Who call me Cain?
An.
Bernard! Bernard! For years
I wondered . . . and this eve a light flashed on me—
Say what you will, I shall believe your word.
Bern.
Then God, it seems, is merciful at last,
And I will speak. That I should have to say it!
I did not kill my brother—God alone,
God knows, not I, who did. There! That is enough!
I may go now.
An.
Oh Bernard! Oh, lost brother!
You see I try . . . You see I cannot speak . . .
Come home, dear, and forgive us!
Bern.
Annabel,
You know not what you say—I have no home—
I must not, cannot stay—and you must never
Speak of me. It is better so . . . my father
Will bear his burden yet a little while, . . .
Then die . . . and know my innocence.
An.
You kill me!
Come now, now, now!
Bern.
I would I might die now!
I must not stay.
Enter De Warenne .
De War.
I pray your pardon, madam,
For breaking on this private conference,
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Bidding you leave this spot. You, sir, how dare you
To hold this lady here in talk?
Bern.
'T is hers
To choose whom she will talk with.
An.
Adrian! Adrian!
'T is Bernard, our lost Bernard! Do you not know him?
De War.
What madness is all this?
An.
And he is guiltless!
I am ashamed to say so before him—
Guiltless as you are.
Bern.
Calm yourself, my lord.
Enough for me she knows my innocence;
I ask not for your verdict. For the rest,
I shall go hence—my father shall remain
Unvexed by me for ever.
De War.
Sir, you will lose
For your own sake no moment. I will add,
So you will rid us of your presence now,
You have nought to fear from me. I will assume
You are that you call yourself—but that 's not proved.
Were you but the wild sailor that I think you,
'T were your best wisdom still to—
An.
Stop, my lord.
Or I shall hate you!
De War.
Come away then—come,
We will talk this over calmly.
Enter Ulric.
Ul.
So I have found you!
Cuthbert misled me. My lord, Moslem 's saddled—
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Why look you on each other?
Bern.
All this means,
My boy, that I must leave you, and for ever.
An.
No, Bernard, no!
De War.
Hush!
Ul.
Bernard . . . is that Bernard?
An.
Yes, Ulric, 't is your brother.
Bern.
Ay, my boy,
'T is useless to deny it now.
Ul.
My brother! . . .
Leonard my brother! . . . Does my father know?
Bern.
You must not tell him—do not say a word.
An.
I will . . . Oh, I will tell him—carefully,
And gently. Let me tell him.
De War.
Silence! For shame!
This must not be borne longer. Go, sir, go!
Enter Lettice hastily.
Let.
Thank heaven I have found you! Mistress Olive
Is frightened past her wits: Sir Hugh is ill
In the library—a faintness like to death—
She fancies he will die, though he has come
Gaspingly back to life . . . asks for you all,
You too, my lord . . . pray you come instantly!—
He has tasked his strength too far—but it may pass.
An.
Bernard, you dare not go now!
Bern.
Father! father!
Ul.
Oh, come with me—I 'll take you to the steps
Of the oriel window—you shall wait there—come!
[Exeunt omnes.
| The Lost Son | |