 | The Lost Son |  |
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
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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!
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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 . . .
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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
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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.
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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!
| The Lost Son | |