University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

—The Courtyard.
Enter Lettice and Cuthbert.
Let.
[weeping].
Oh, my poor master! Just when we all thought
He was to be so happy! That poor fellow—
Come home in time only to see him once,
And then to find him dead in his bed my morn!
Oh, my poor master!

Cuth.
Why, I might as well
Be a log of wood, I think, for I can't feel it—
I can't feel anything. I only think
How wickedly I treated that poor lad.
'T were almost better I should hang myself,
Than live to fret about it all day long.
And, for my master, I 'll be bound he knew
What worthless trash life is, and was content
To part in peace when he had seen his boy.
How I could make a devil of myself,
To torture him like that, I can 't guess now.
Did not I always know how kind he was,
And tender to dumb things? and then to fancy
That he could—

Let.
Oh, you were no worse than others!
Old man, forget it. But, now, tell me this—
Who did it, then?

Cuth.
Don't think that I shall tell you.
I 'll tell you nothing that is not my business—
I leave that to my betters. If there be, though,
A devil on the earth! It would fare ill
With that man if I met him,—I might chance
To brain him with my spade—ay, just as like
As I might kill a worm.

Let.
Well, we have got
A master we may all be proud of—Humphrey
Already speaks as if he were a god.—
Oh, poor Sir Hugh!—There's Humphrey calling me.

[Exit

Scene II.

—The Terrace in front of the House.
Enter Bernard and Olive.
Ol.
I was ashamed to weep so, yesterday . . .
And now I seem almost too tired for tears,
And feel as if I could not weep again!
Oh me, he looked so peaceful, I am sure
He thought of you and blessed you ere he died.

Bern.
My father, my dear father!

Ol.
You will take
His place, and comfort us.

Bern.
How thankfully would I
Were I permitted happiness so great . . .
Were it but possible . . . How sad and sweet
The holy summer perfume of the morn!
How should a world so beautiful as this
Be wasted on such devils as men are!

Ol.
Bernard!

Bern.
The innocent wild creatures—birds,
And beasts, and happy insect tribes . . . they are not
Unworthy to possess it . . . and some few
Of humankind are too pure to be left
Amongst the rest . . . Oh that the good might die,
And see no more of all the misery here!

Ol.
We seem all in a dream . . . and Lylford too
Is like some new strange place . . .

Enter Annabella.
Bern.
[meeting her.]
Dear, he died happy.

An.
Half of my sweet dream gone—the happy things
I meant to say to him, unsaid for ever!
The friend of all my life—my dear, dear father!

Bern.
Perhaps we are wrong to mourn him . . . had he lived,
Some other sorrow might have come . . .

An.
Ah, Bernard . . .
He had borne the worst.

Bern.
It was not in his nature
To feel keen happiness . . . not even ere
His outward troubles came.

An.
I 'll strive to think
'T is well for him . . . Oh, what should we now be,
Henceforward, without you?

Bern.
How hard you make
My duty!

An.
Do not turn away from me—
But let me comfort you.

Bern.
Come apart with me,
I have that to say which needs my heart's whole strength—
Would in some magic word I could sum up
All that the past has left unsaid, and all
The future ought to say. But easier were it
Here at your feet to die than put in words
The passion of my soul past and to come!
Alas, I cannot even in my own
Concentrate all the pain.

An.
And do you grudge
That I should share it with you?

Bern.
Dear, forgive me!

An.
What can I have to forgive?

Bern.
'T is now begins
The insupportable anguish of my task.

An.
Bernard!

Bern.
Oh look not so . . . for it is more
Than I can bear.

An.
But you bewilder me!

Bern.
What would you say . . . were I to tell you this,
That I am bound, irrevocably bound,
To leave . . . you, love, and home and happiness . . .
And . . . there, 't is said!

An.
Leave me!—At such a moment?
At this first anguish of our sudden loss?
Now, whilst our dear one, in that darkened room,
Waits burial?—For a day you mean? How long?

Bern.
I dare not tell you . . . no, nor think. To live
Away from you one moment is heartache—
But a whole life!

An.
Bernard!—Oh me, my folly!
I did believe you meant it—for one instant!
But do not frighten me again.

Bern.
Alas!
It is the simple truth . . . and I must leave you.
You must believe it, dear.

An.
But to go whither?
I cannot understand.

Bern.
But I am sworn
Not to reveal where and to whom I go.

An.
Why, Bernard, you are laughing at me now!
This is a tale, a dream!

Bern.
Ah no, no dream!
I am no more my own . . . I have won leave,
Wrenched as by miracle, from . . . but that's no matter . . .
To snatch one glimpse of all I love on earth,
And then . . . for ever leave it.

An.
Why, why will you
Harp on these dreadful fancies?

Bern.
I have had
That glimpse . . . I bless my God for it . . . and but
For you, dear, and your wounded love . . . alas!
Why did I tell you mine? . . . I should go hence,
Resigned to misery.

An.
Great God! What mean you?
What is this cruel, horrible mystery?
Is it . . . but no! I will not say that now—
I know you love no other—

Bern.
Love another!
My Annabel! my only love! my wife!

An.
Then, O beloved, cease to say such things!
Or tell me what they mean? What shall I do?
You speak and look as if all this were earnest,
Yet will not tell me why you torture me,
Lest I should show you that some fantasy
Born of past sufferings has unhinged your soul,
And led you to believe some madness—made you
So utterly enamoured of despair,
Your conscience so to misery bigoted,
You see no sacredness but in pain . . . just think
A moment calmly . . . I am calm, you see,
Because I know you have made some strange mistake,
I could explain would you but tell me—speak!
And do not turn away so hopelessly;
For I can bear no more.

Bern.
And do you think
I would say this if there were left to me
One possible loophole of escape?

An.
And I
Standing here in the bright daylight hear you
Talk of such horror as a possible thing?
Are we both mad? The joy of yesterday
All a delusion?

Bern.
It were better far
That we should die; we have known the best and worst,
Who love—such love as never yet was loved . . .
For you do love—

An.
To the last beat of my heart!

Bern.
But I must live. For to die now, and so
Escape my fate, in me were baseness past
All baseness. God, duty, and honour call me
Inexorably from you . . . Annabel,
Believe me by the anguish that I should,
But cannot, stifle—by all sacred things,
Believe and pity—

An.
Pity! Is there a name
For what I feel? To live on here in meanless
Safety and luxury . . . and you . . . and you . . .
Banished—I know not why, I know not where—
There is a curse then! Oh, I thought we had known
The worst, and that, our two sad mornings over,
Some good was yet in store for you and me . . .
But if, indeed, I understand you now,
If you are bound to some dark nameless woe,
Something so dire and strange you dare not tell me,
Whilst I go pining, wondering, to my grave . . .
Doubling my grief by night's inventive dreams—
If you must so destroy yourself and me . . .
Is there a God? And wherefore were we born?

Bern.
How can I say that I may not . . . come back?

An.
You do not cheat me—you will come no more.
Oh Bernard! Bernard! Bernard!

[Olive runs up to her.
Ol.
What is it?
What is it, Bernard? Ella, Ella, tell me!
Is it something new?

Bern.
Come in,—I have much to say,—
I would spare you this if I could . . . Let us go in . . .
And help me to be calm.

An.
Calm, oh my God!

[Exeunt omnes,

Scene III.

—The Hall. Humphrey and the rest of the Household assembled.
Let.
Sure such a day as this was never known here
Since Lyles have owned this place!

Another
And poor Sir Hugh
Above there lies asleep, and cannot speak
A word to help his children.

Anoth.
And they all weeping
Around him, the poor broken-hearted things,
And praying him to stay!

Anoth.
I think the curse
Of old Sir Ralph has come on him in madness.

Humph.
Hush! hush! They are coming, I'll do what I can.
Trust me, I'll speak to him. We must hope the best.

Enter Bernard, Annabella, Olive, and Ulric.
Humph.
[coming forward.]
Sir, I beseech you pardon us our boldness.
But we have waited here in hope to move you
By our united prayers not to forsake
Your heritage, your home, and faithful household,
Whose chief desire is henceforth so to serve you
As they have served your father. Oh, sir, see
How all you love are weeping round you, whom
We truly would all die for, as I think,
But 't were more natural you should live for them.
Oh, sir, sir, be persuaded!

Bern.
My good Humphrey,
I was not born under a happy star,
And such a life as that is not for me.
There 's none of you here but would do as I
With such a call as mine, for I must go . . .
And now no more . . . I would fulfil my part
As may become a man . . . hinder me not,
For it is hard—

Ol.
[throwing her arms round his neck.]
No, Bernard, Bernard, stay!
Our hearts are breaking . . . Who can be to you
What we are?

Bern.
None.

Ul.
I shall so hate this house,
These lands, all you would have me take in your place!
Bernard, I'll own it now—just for a moment,
I did, I did grieve they were not to be mine,
Wretch that I was! And now I hate it all!
Only stay with us!

An.
Bernard, at your feet,
With agony that language cannot utter,
For the last time your own, own love implores you
Not to forsake us!

Bern.
Annabella, spare me!

Ul.
O look, the tears are streaming down his cheeks,
And yet he will not yield!

Bern.
Why will you make me
Seem to myself a monster, while I struggle
For strength to seek . . . no garden of delight . . .
No bed of roses . . . only my own despair?
What should I seek else? In the universe,
What lure but misery could bribe me from you?
I have questioned, in my strange and stormy life,
Well nigh of everything in heaven or earth,
Have challenged all conventions' dogmas—doubted
All creeds of man's devisings,—but find here
A law of my heart, an instinct of my conscience,
Transcending every doubt, all questioning.
I go, dear love, because I have a debt
Which to disown were to deny all duty,
Because I have a trust which, to betray,
Were to be Judas, . . . what can I say more?
I go . . . because to stay would be to suffer
The deep damnation of my own self-scorn . . .
And make the heaven of your love my hell!
Well I will tell you—I must tell no more,
Nor must you image things beyond the truth.
I have a friend to whom I owe whatever
Man can owe man . . . who waits for my return
In misery, and will miserably die
If I return not . . . die for me, whose life
He has saved ere now, taking his own in his hand . . .
Who still would die for me without complaint . . .
Yet I must save him . . . ask me now no further,
My heart has almost burst to say so much,
And cannot utter more.

An.
Bernard, I ask
This only . . . is there any help or hope?
Does all the world hold out a single chance
Of your return?

Bern.
I dare not say I see
Or hope, or help. I see in all the world
Only a doom unalterable, and love
Unalterable as doom.

An
[after a pause.]
Yes, I have played
A barbarous part . . . so torturing the tortured,
So breaking the true heart that will not bend!
Forgive me . . . and go from me with the blessing
Of love intense . . . eternal . . . and complete!
Tell me but how to lay up comfort for you,
That something may be left me in my life.

Bern.
Oh, all I ask is but one sacred word
Of farewell, ere I go . . . One moment leave me,
Dear ones I pray . . . wait for me in the porch,
The little moment left.—I will not mock you,
By bidding you forget me, for if years
Of chance and change could not deaden my heart,
Life's mournful peace will scarcely stifle yours;
Nor dare I now to bid you pardon me
For rashly telling you my love—

An.
To know it
Is my one treasure—

Bern.
Yet it pierces me
As with a fiery fang to leave behind
Such anguish—

An.
Ah no, that 's my treasure too.
To suffer so in my love's suffering,
To be so wholly one with him, that neither
Distance nor silence, time nor death, can cleave
The single passion of two hearts in twain,
Nor dim by but a shade my utter trust—
For though in blind bewilderment you leave me,
One light shines in the darkness like a star,
And that 's your stainless truth—oh, my own love,
Repent not that for this you trusted me
With your heart's secret, since by that you crowned
My worthless life with glory, and have blessed,
With the strange blessing of a pain sublime,
A lonely heart for ever.

Bern.
I will think
Of all this, o'er and o'er again . . . and try
To rise so near your height of angelhood,
As to subdue weak self-reproach for what
I dare no longer call a wrong—

An.
Whenever
Your martyrdom . . . whate'er it be . . . shall seem
To pass endurance . . . Oh think I am there
To bless and pity! So, for evermore,
My spirit shall be with you—

Bern.
If I speak not
The unspeakable, you will understand . . . . and now . . .
The fatal moment . . . we must part.

An.
And nothing
Yet said!

Bern.
Nothing—yet everything—

An.
How . . . by what token shall our two souls meet?

Bern.
Each moment's consciousness.

An.
At every sunset
Listen, my Bernard . . . listen for the organ.
I will play all my soul into the strains
You love, and send them through the space to you . . .
Daily till death . . . and when I die, be sure
I 'll come to you . . . as you . . . you 'll promise me,
If you die first, your spirit shall come hither.

Bern.
I promise.

An.
Then we two shall meet again.

Bern.
Farewell!—'T is over.

[Rushes out.
An.
He is gone for ever!