 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
Scene VI.
—Same Apartment. Enter Walter, Randolph, and Allan.Walter.
Nothing from Falkland?
Allan.
Nothing.
Walter.
From the wars?
Allan.
Nothing.
Walter.
An empty mouth, an empty mouth!
Allan.
Better than have it filled with bitterness.
I look for no good news.
Walter.
Thou croaking man,
Thou raven, soul of evil augury,
Wherefore bad news?
Allan.
It is the feeling, man,
And the dull sky.
Walter.
God bless your sense, I feel
As merry, ay, as merry as the morn,
The cricket, lark, or any earthly thing
That figures my condition; and the clouds
From sullen flash to gay as seconds pass,
So I can build my humour on the sky
As well as you.
Randolph.
You can, my chanticleer!
Walter.
Marry, as thus: the prince will home again,
The king for very love will give him gold,
The gold will give us feast and merriment,
And jolly cups and wenches' jocund lips;
All these delights in turn will give us heart
To celebrate authentic victory
Of Scotland o'er the bragging English hinds.
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Ralph.
O lads, defeat!
Walter.
Come, come!—an ugly game!
We'll play at victory, if play we must.
Victoria!
Ralph.
All's over, all is lost;
Douglas a captive, with a gored right eye
And spouting wounds; our host but helpless limbs
And bleeding impotence that cannot meet
The wing'd attack of the mere birds of Heav'n.
The English Hotspur and our traitor March
Fell on the trustful bands, adorn'd with spoil,
And shook them to the nakedness of death.
Allan.
Where fell the woful chance?
Ralph.
At Homildon.
Walter.
Allan, thou wry-faced prophet, I have done!
The prince will next be either churchyard's corpse
Or church's convert. I will never speak
High-stomach'd language more.
Randolph.
How went the fight?
Ralph.
Why thus:—our Douglas, in audacious fit
(Foolhardy as his wont), in fated hour,
Bore up our army to a topping brow
Of moorland, naked, tree-unbonneted,
And open to the arrows' swift assault—
There held our men a target to the foe,
A troop for slaughter; till a voice arose
That thrill'd the pulseless manhood of our host
With surgent valour,—high it rose and clear
Above the whizzing darts, the foeman's yell,—
Higher, as if it scorn'd opposing sound—
John Swinton's knightly voice that cried aloft:
“Why stand we here as stags upon the hill,
Dart-stricken brutes, when down these drenchèd slopes
Naught hinders that we rush upon the foe
To fight as victors or to fall as men?”
They wake; they gather with a forward sway;
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For young lord Gordon, whose good sire was slain
By Swinton's hand, unmindful of revenge,
Bow'd down and pray'd for knighthood from the sword
Proved mortal to his house; for “ne'er again,”
Said he, “shall I encounter one so brave.”
Amid the surging bands he said the vow,
Received the hasty stroke; then with a rush
The two fair soldiers clave them out a path
To th' English centre and were overborne—
[Enter Albany and Lindsey.]
Albany.
With all our host. 'Tis miserable news!
[Lindsey draws him apart.
Lindsey.
The streets are full of citizens grim-brow'd,
With rancour in their throats.
Albany.
I like it not
That thus they are incensed; for in such mood
There's not a crime, however strange and black,
But they will hang it on their rulers' necks
To make a shame at which to point and jeer.
Lindsey.
It carries danger, as your grace conceives,
And much I fear what other news may come.
Albany.
Ay, Lindsey, there's the peril's very head.
We must be firm and stablish'd in our looks,
And in our speech most sad and circumspect.
Yon is Ramorgny, and the messenger
I sent upon his heels to slay the men
Who did the deed that never must be known.
[Enter Ramorgny and Messenger.]
Good news from Falkland? When returns the prince?
Ramorgny.
Never!
Albany.
A most impossible, loathed word!
[Aside to Ramorgny.]
Colour your ashen cheeks, you raving fool!—
What, in my castle do you say he died?
Messenger.
It was a sort of dysent'ry, your grace.
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[aside].
Oh, if it were!—his face impeach'd my soul,
A keen, malignant, bitter, cursing face—
Albany.
Have they yet buried him?
Messenger.
Your grace, they have,
With private ceremonial.
Albany.
Where? where?
Messenger.
Lindores.
Ramorgny.
And there he lies with the quick fiends
Bound in his stony clay—
Albany
[aside].
Tame your wild face!—
Fronting this doom I stand so terror-struck
That wail and grief are cow'd as childish things
Before an elder agitatiòn.
The king!
Lindsey.
I dare not think.— [Advancing to Walter,]
The prince is dead.
Walter.
What, the dear prince!
Allan.
The kind young prince!
Ralph.
Our mate!
Allan.
His spirit pass'd away that stormy night.
Did he die hard?
Albany.
Why?
Messenger.
No, 'twas short and fierce,
A feverous infection.
Allan.
Prison-caught?
Oh, the poor king!
Walter.
Mine eyes are wilful, Ralph.
I loved him. An' he'll drink a rouse no more.
Ralph.
Our days are over.
Randolph.
We'd best go repent;
For there's no liveliness in any sin,
Or chink of coin within our company.
Ralph.
I'll treat thee to a flagon for his sake.
Randolph.
An' while our throats are moist we'll pipe a mass.
Ralph.
Nay, pardie; but we'll give the priest his cup,
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Randolph.
Come your way.
[Exeunt.
Albany.
This is the very hour my brother stirs.
He will be here anon, and who will speak?
Lindsey.
Not I, your grace.
Ramorgny.
[aside].
Nor I, by my lost soul.
Messenger.
Nor I, for all the worth of very life.
Albany.
Varlet!
Messenger.
The torture shall not move my lips.
Ramorgny.
Death shall not force my tongue to utterance.
Lindsey.
Ruin and exile shall not ope my mouth.
Albany.
Then must I do 't.
Lindsey.
You must, your grace.
Ramorgny.
And will.
Messenger.
We humbly pray you.
Albany
[aside].
How my flesh is thrill'd
And my speech curdles. Let me face the deed
One moment and grow strong—then bury it
Beneath the soil of consciousness so deep
The death-bed quake alone can rive the sod
That over-presses it. With this resolve
I have built up my fortitude—I will.
[Enter King Robert, Prince James, and the Duchess Marjorie.]
King Robert.
O woe is me for a defeated king!
In vain they changed my name from woful John
To favour'd Robert—vainly was it done.
Ye are all silent. Is it fond respect
To hoary shame and vanquish'd royalty?
No wonder that your brows are black to-day.
Albany.
It is the mournful badge of minds bereaved.
King Robert.
Many the dead to mourn.
Albany.
One more, my liege.
King Robert.
Is my son well?
Albany.
Ay, as we count it bless'd.
King Robert.
Not dead?
[Pause; Exit Ramorgny wildly.
Allan.
Sweet majesty, at peace with God.
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Dead, dead! You tell an old man he is dead.
I've look'd on in a cradle—who was full
Of light and movement—when? Whom I begot.
Help, help! I'm sinking!—Whither? To the depths
To find him who for evermore is gone?—
No end to where I sink!
[Faints.
Albany.
A pillow here!
Raise up his head—this is unmanly grief,
Tho' eloquent for pardon. Chafe his hands.
We'll keep a silence till the fit is pass'd.
[OMITTED]
King Robert.
Oh, I shall never find him. I have gone
To deepest depths of Hell and utmost space—
For higher there's no warranty to go.—
Still he may be at Falkland.
Albany.
Brother, no.
At Lindores is he buried.
King Robert.
Put from sight!—
God help my unbelief!
Allan.
Be still. He prays.
Duchess Marjorie.
When did he die?
Messenger.
The night of the great storm.
Duchess Marjorie.
Of what complaint?
Messenger.
A fever.
Duchess Marjorie.
And you said
He's buried?
King Robert.
Stop this catechism! Stop!
A king's command. She's had no offspring—she!
Duchess Marjorie.
None.
King Robert.
Allan, ask them if he died a-bed,
Or on the floor as he had been a dog,
Who was my first begotten?
Messenger.
There was straw.
King Robert.
Shut his vile mouth!
Albany.
Control this lawless grief.
King Robert.
How dare you speak who sway'd my anxious love
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The net you forced me spin about his life;
You who, miscall'd my brother, art my foe,
A murderer, false witness. 'Twas your speech
Beguiled my fatherhood; 'twas in your fort,
Your nest of bloodshed, that my son breathed out
The last of his short days. Traitor, begone!
I read you through and through.
Albany.
I will not stay.
My pride instructs me, till this rage is out,
To spare my ill-starr'd, guiltless presence. Thus
I take my leave, till calmer thoughts shall claim
A penitent recall. Be comforted.
King Robert.
A hard-mouth'd, shallow wish! O Albany,
'Tis but the sword's point that is in my heart;
All the long cruel blade has yet to cut.
[Exit Albany.
I know not how to grieve; but time to come
Will find me perfect at it. This is strange,
That all my sorrow is but prophecy.
Allan.
Could he but weep!
Cries
[without.]
Curses on Albany!
The traitor! murderer! our prince, our lord!
King Robert.
My David, thou wilt never be a king.
God lets me put that little strip of balm
About my bleeding love. It falls on thee,
[Clasping James]
My last, last son, the whelming heritage,
On thee, who still art mine! Here, to my breast,
And let it feel possession—carry it,
And crush it into permanence!
Allan.
He weeps.
The red grief stains his lids.
King Robert.
Thou shalt not go,
As went thy brother. Oh, to think he's dead!
Within his fair and newly-fashion'd case
The pendulum of life no longer moves;
His face no longer answers to the hours,
Marking with lips and eyes their various flight;
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There is no voice in him to sound its lapse;
The cunning clock of his mortality
Is stopp'd for ever, and my heart hath lost
The count of all her days.
Prince James.
Oh, do not weep!
King Robert.
Not till I have my privacy. I'll go
Straight to my inner chamber. Allan, come,
Whom I must burthen with this grievèd frame.
[Exeunt.
Walter.
Well I believe that Albany is false.
He never loved the prince. I've deadly fear
That there hath been foul play. Oh, if there has
'Twill be reveal'd; for sin doth ever blab
And show the woman thro' its darkest crafts.
To think that all our merriment is done,
Our youth closed up and seal'd; our comrade gone
To lie beneath the ground where we must go.
[Re-enter Allan.]
How fares the king?
Allan.
But just beyond the door
He fell at once into a second faint,
And so was borne to bed, where now he lies
As if extinct. I am suspicious, Walt.
Let's go and hear what rumour holds the crowd.
[Exeunt.
| The Father's Tragedy | |