 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
Scene V.
—King Robert, and Prince James on the hearth, Albany, and the Duchess Marjorie.King Robert.
The wind is raging! it afflicts my head,
And stirs it to confusion.
Albany.
A wild night
For those not warmly housed; of dark presage
To our camped soldiers if they couch to rise
To-morrow to a battle. As they lie,
Their death-shrieks like pale ghosts will stride to them
Across the wailing air, and—curse the fools!—
Unman them for the fray.
King Robert.
O Robert, peace!
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An ingle-nook is gracious at such hours,
When all are gathered round it.
Albany.
Truth! The glow
Is pleasant, and doth ruddily assure
The heart of safety.
King Robert.
'Tis a black, black night.
D'you think it cold?
Albany.
Scarcely for March.
King Robert.
And yet
The blaze is welcome.
Albany.
'Tis a trifle chill
For those of fearful mind.
King Robert
[aside].
Then he is cold—
James, shall you be afraid to sleep to-night
In all this noisy darkness?
Prince James.
Father, no!—
I'm not afraid.—My noble hound, you've got
A comfortable ear.
King Robert.
The dauntless child!
Albany.
Our army will be routed by the air
Before it face the English. May to-night
Find it within some guarded vale that's slow
To open gates and parley with the storm.
There snaps a limb of some aghasted oak!
The Devils make Inferno of our woods.
King Robert.
Hark! Listen! [Aside.]
Oh, I wonder if he wears
The little relic that his mother tied
About his neck.
Albany.
I'm speaking of the troops—
King Robert
[to Prince James].
Will David sleep like you?
Prince James.
He fears the dark.
And, father—
Albany.
James, you're pressing on the dog.
His sides can scarcely bear your elbow-joint,
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Duchess Marjorie.
Is he asleep?
Prince James.
No, no; not he! He's listening by the fire,
As we are, to the rattle out of doors.
Albany.
Ah, as I told you, when my words were crashed
By falling of the oak, our army lies
In danger from the weather.
King Robert.
My poor lad,
My David, who is fearful of the dark,
Would he were here this bleak and scolding night!
He used to throw a cushion on the floor,
And lay him down as featly as the hound,
His foolish yellow head against my knee;
And so he'd laugh and chat and sing old songs,
Or gaily sneer at our last grave debate,
Drop sudden crude suggestions that anon
Our older counsel ripened into act;
Until for some light word I'd give rebuke,
When either with a peal of raillery
He'd toss me back a penitent bright face,
Or with a shaded humour spring apart,
No place from me too far. Good Albany,
You would not have our Rothsay longer shut
In such grim-tempered darkness?
Albany.
Fifteen days!
'Tis but a slender punishment, my liege.
King Robert.
Enough, enough! The terror of this night
Doubles the term of his captivity,
And makes of it a month.
Albany.
We'll send for him
Before the week hath touched its sacred goal.
[Aside.]
By this he must be dead.
King Robert.
Why now I'm warm in spirit, which the fire
With all the urgent comfort of its face
Could not effect; I'll send for him anon.
[Albany paces the room.
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I'm half afraid to meet him. Now all's well,
I'll think of him no more.
[Enter Allan.]
Allan.
Your porridge, sire.
King Robert.
Put it away, I have no appetite;
The turmoil makes me disinclined to eat.
Good Allan, set it on the hearth and stir.
Have you all supped? [To Albany.]
Why do you pace about?
Albany.
My foot is gone to sleep.
King Robert.
When did you sup?
Albany.
Like you, I have no stomach for a meal.
[Aside.]
All that I eat is heavy in my throat,
As if I gulped the bait on Hell's own hook.
[Re-seats himself.
This rain will smear our army's pride.
King Robert.
Too sure.
Yet are the troopers hardy and rough-bred,
Trained by strict weather to all skiey chance,
And led by one whose buff coat of bull's hide
Enfeebles all the water of the clouds,
And makes it folly.
Prince James.
Black old Archibald!
Allan, he is a mountain, and his voice
A waterfall.—Give me that oaten lump
Upon your spoon.—There, dog!—another one!—
Mouth open!
King Robert.
Allan, stir the embers up;
They lay themselves to rest.
Prince James.
A blaze, a blaze!
Brave! They put out red tongues, and roar for food
Like the big lion.
King Robert.
But the wind is shrill
Above their noise.—What's that?
[Shriek without.
Albany.
What?
Allan.
Some one dies;—
Mother of Christ!—for look you at the dog;
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Is like a sinner's, drowning in hell's pitch.
The Banshee! Hark!
Duchess Marjorie.
Allan is credulous.
'Tis an old story when the wind is sad,
And wails about a corner. By the tower
I've noted that it cries most audibly.
King Robert.
Ah, Allan! how you struck upon my fear,
And thumped on it as 'twere a crazy drum.
Brother, a woman is more rational
Than three old men.
Allan.
Well, sire, I know the wind
Hath got no breast from which such grief can moan;
An' why, sire, should the dog be scared with things
That touch not man?
King Robert.
Nay, nay, but he is still.
[Shriek repeated.
Again, again! It is a voice, my God!—
You know it, Albany; your eyes are cow'd,
You cannot lift them, tho' you shake your head.
It calls me, calls!—Allan, you say the voice
Is full of death and direful prophecy.
O Allan! do you think you know its tones?
Duchess Marjorie.
The same the blast makes ever when like Jews
It lifts its lamentations by a wall.
Albany.
I think 'tis so.
King Robert.
Think, think! But is your thought
The very cause? or do the elements
Speak out what we are deaf to in our souls,
And force a hearing?
Albany.
Should I know? How? why?
This is mere fooling. Mass! D' you think of me
As privy-counsellor to Doomsday, man!
It may be hurricane; it may be speech.
[Shriek third time repeated.
King Robert.
It is his voice!—Your shoulder, Albany—
Open the door! No matter if I fall.
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Like a tomb's gate eternally at stand?
Burst every lock!
[It opens.
David, my son, my son, thy father hears!
Thou shalt be freed, shalt come to me again.
Nothing shall hinder—chains, nor bars, nor bolts;
Nothing shall dare oppose my tyrant love
That binds and looses. David, thou art free
This moment. I have heard thee call, my son,
And all my soul hath answered thou art free.
Albany.
Come in! The madness of this howling air
Hath made you its interpreter. Come in!
Let it rage on in accents of its own,
And give it not our language. Come away!
King Robert.
He calls no more; his misery is done,
For I have promised comfort and release.
Albany
[aside].
This burthen on my shoulder is too much.
Brother, you lean
With desperate weight on me. A lighter hold!
Pr'ythee, to save my breath hang not so hard.
King Robert.
The very soul of hearing finds no sound,
No slightest human sigh in all this wind.
Albany.
Now shall you in with me.
King Robert.
How dare you put
My son and I apart?
Albany.
The wind convicts!
If you give ear
To a chance spasm in the air to fix
On me a guiltiness ...
King Robert
[still listening].
There may be more.
Duchess Marjorie.
They are possessed. I thought that Albany
Had nerve and reason stronger.
Allan.
The king's hair
Flies round like foam; his breath is much distressed.
We must entreat him back,—an' yet to stir
Seems irreligious.
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I will go. Stay here,
And I'll beseech him shut the door again.
King Robert.
Nothing! 'Tis gone; and yet I fancy still
It bleats upon the air.
Albany.
No; on my soul,
All's over. ...
King Robert.
Stay!
Albany
[aside].
I've said it audibly.
My lips have witness'd 'gainst me.
Prince James,
Father, sir!
You're cold and weak to bear this chilly gale.
Do not stay longer out.
King Robert.
I will not, boy.
James!
Albany.
You are wise to move.
King Robert.
My child, your hand.
Albany, shut the door [returns to his seat, led by Prince James]
. And, boy, to bed!
It was the wind that shrieked.
[Exit Prince James.
Duchess Marjorie.
Well, heard you aught
But windy fret and uproar?
Albany.
If my liege
Will pardon, I'll go start a messenger
To Falkland, that your mind may be at peace.—
[Aside.]
This wanton blast beguiles me. Conscience is
A fool o' the weather and the time o' night.—
I've your authority to send this man?
King Robert.
That of my fatherhood and royalty,
Which hand in hand instructs you so to do.
Albany.
I will; and if we do not meet again—
As I'll retire to rest—good-night, my liege;
And keep your mind from brooding on the fears
Absence and Love, with magic craft combined,
Both sorcerers, have raised for us this eve.
King Robert.
Robin, good-night, if you can shift to sleep.
[Exit Albany.
Cries in the whirl of night bode ...?
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Nothing.
Allan.
Death.
King Robert.
I think you are mistaken there—distress.
Allan.
As you will, sire.
King Robert.
And are they near of blood,
Or even kin at all for whose decease
The air is said to toll?
Allan.
I scarcely know.
But I should say for any fate hath put
Near to our int'rest, sire.
King Robert.
Then may this groan
For Douglas rive the throbbing atmosphere.
The army on whose welfare I have set
My nearest hopes may, at this very hour,
Perish in blood, their leader struck to earth,
With none to ring a dirge but senseless gusts.
Duchess Marjorie
[aside].
He almost smiles. Ah! deepest selfishness
That would prefer the doom of honest souls,
Led by a great and high-deserving chief,
To loss of its own pampered libertine.—
My father by the law, you give to fate
Him, who by nature is my father's self.
I am his daughter; but I'm blunt in soul,
And you so tender-strung that, at all cost,
You get you comfort.
King Robert.
Oh, I'm base indeed
For such oblivion to cross my sense
As hid your dear relationship to him
I fancied slain.
Duchess Marjorie.
Nay, I am used to such.
King Robert.
My girl, forgive me, for you cannot know
What it is works within a parent's breast;
'Tis the begetting makes the difference,
And so my passion grew.
Duchess Marjorie.
Your subjects?
King Robert.
Hush!
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On these disjointed rumours of the storm.
Your father is not bleeding. Cheerly, lass!
All's well.
[Exit Duchess Marjorie with a distant obeisance.
'Tis very quiet out of doors—
Unnatural!—I'll go and look at James.
[Exit.
| The Father's Tragedy | |