University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

A Terrace-garden.
Enter Almund.
Almund.
Not all at once! It comes too suddenly
To learn one's youth from the sharp cry of love.
There was no preparation,—my whole body
Answers that eager girlhood. Love, love, love,
Without which we are made of the mere clay
Of the world's agèd floor! Not all at once!—
Such news of honour and of joy—to be
Chosen of God to add the master-touches
To His unfinished work: He gives the lover
His coy girl Eve to make a woman of,
To warm, to waken. Ah, those changeful eyes—
To fill with love's imperishable light;
That cheek to alter,—such an obdurate,
Untempered cheek,—and a red mouth that never
Has learnt its heavenly use. I think I see her
What I would make her; I am called to it
As tiller to his toil. And ignorance—
The bonds I made in ignorance, before
I knew there were such powers, this youth, this loving;
Bonds senseless as the winter covenant
Of frost-bound forest that, at rise of sap,
Breaks into red and olive—must avail
For life's suppression! I am still a boy,
Young as they figure Cupid, so my Hubert
Hath often carolled. Ah, the sunny lad,
I could not be his rival; and the fact,
That must be nailed through flesh and bone to fasten
My unsubmitting senses to the cross,
Is this: I am betrothed.

[Enter Hubert.]
Hubert.
Almund, the darling,
That with her wildness and her storms has made
Such wreck of my astonished heart, refuses
To listen to my importunity.

Almund.
Then do not urge her, Hubert, 'tis a nature
That must not be distressed.

Hubert.
But she is certain,
Sweet fellow, that you love her: to prevent
Vain hope, I told her that you could not love,
Being betrothed.

Almund.
Oh, Hubert, you said justly.
[Aside]
Birds make no covenant; they sing and build;
There's no before and after—

Hubert.
And I think
That I can comfort her.

Almund
[turning away].
Stiff promises
And resolutions, and yon fleeting clouds
Grow golden as they travel.

Hubert.
You will speak,
And make her understand? For, were you free,
I think that I could move you, in compassion
To woo her for yourself. To see her suffer
Is just like speaking to a child that's lost;
One cannot help, one cannot show the way,
And she keeps sobbing.

Almund.
I will go to her.

Hubert.
You must not break her heart.

Almund.
By noon to-morrow
I'll yield her to more tender guardianship.
Oh, Hubert, it is sweet to be beloved—
'Tis to be born again, and find the world
Waiting the senses' pleasure, at one's feet.
It never hath been known how women love;
But those unpractised lips let fall a secret
Most terrible, transforming. Can you bear
The pressure of such passion?

Hubert.
You forget,
Dear Almund, that she gave the cup to you.
Tis not for Hubert to be much beloved,
Nor is he covetous; 'tis but to soothe her
I ask your intervention. Did I think
That you would bruise her, with harsh, tyrannous,
Will-breaking words—

Almund.
I shall be just and patient.
Come to the woods, and you will find it quelled,
This pitiful rebellion.

Hubert.
Plead with her!
To you, love is a duty; but your friend
Is bold to promise summer to his wife,
That shall creep lingering round the agèd years
And recreate them golden.

Almund.
I will offer
No blandishments;—an error to correct,
An ignorance, and mischief to remove,
And then my task is ended. Seek your bride
By that lone well amid the bulrushes,
Where I so often wander—

Hubert.
And none drink!
A cheerless place, blocked by the meadow-sweet,
And willow-herb in autumn; I remember
Your moody haunt by the mud-stifled stream,
That now must be half-spectral with the stalks
Of skeleton, grim reeds. I hate the aspect
Of that neglected well where everything
Is put from its right purpose, or forgotten.
Bring me the lass where yesterday she stooped
Her pitcher in the spring.

Almund.
Just at its source!
You shall have all your pleasure.
[Exit Hubert.]
How unconscious
In his beseeching and perplexity!
'Tis blessèd that he craves her, otherwise
I could be wild and wanton.
[Draws out tablets and writes.]
[To an old gardener who approaches.]
Reuben, take
This letter to your mistress.

Reuben.

Ay, sir, and happy; but she hasn't left the
terrace-walk an hour. It's my belief she spied you
coming through the shrubs, for, bless you, sir, she was
off, leaving her pruning-knife under the rose-tree,—her
hair was a bit blown on her forehead, and her hands
sort o' sticky. She likes you, sir, to see her in her best;
and I shouldn't wonder if she isn't putting on that
lavender gown took your fancy last June, with fresh
sprigs at her bosom. I say to her, the taste of young
gentlemen will change. I've worked for the great
families,—they like carnations one year, and the next
nothing but pansies will please them. I'll be up the
teep in no time; for, sir, she'll think more of this
[holding up the letter]
than of the buds on the tree that's
named after you, though she smells at the pink blossoms
as if they were lilacs in full bloom. It's all sweet, I
reckon, when one is young, and of a warm climate
inside like the vine-house.

[Exit.]
Almund.
So it should be in youth—all sweet. How hateful
Become the creatures that one ought to love,
What heathendom our past with them! That day
When we stood peering down into the stream
Together, and I smiled: Look, Millicent,
How Heaven mates us! we had brought our books
To learn by heart; but even then I feel
I could not bear her touch upon my shoulder,
And when we read of dire Necessity
I thought she had that form. She shared my studies,
The noble woman-scholar, and I fancied,
[Enter Millicent.
I fancied that I loved her. Oh, my Hubert,
Gleeful and foolish in yon purple copse,
How you will mock my wisdom! Down the beeches
The lady paces in that blemished gown
I hate the long, limp folds of. I remember
The child wore a blue, spotted skirt, and apron
Sprinkled with berries. Well, there are three yards
Betwixt us still. Better at once begin.
Now she is nearer I discern a smile
Irrelevantly silver on her brow;
I hate such unwooed shining.—Millicent,
There is not any reason in the world
Why we should not be married?

Millicent.
But this query,
Abrupt, and so impulsive, furnishes
Sufficient reason. I would have you wait
Until you are a man.

Almund.
To love you better?
Oh, that can never be! You ask too much;
For the boy's adoration cannot wear
On into manhood.

Millicent.
But I dreamed, beloved,
That something fairer would remain, a rose
Of June, when all spring's flickering flowers were shed.
I have so watched you.

Almund.
And the vigilance
Were pardonable in maternal eyes,
But in a wife—

Millicent.
Almund, if I believed
The noble spirit you have made my own
Would not grow riper 'neath my wifely care,
I never would ensheath it in my love.
Dear, I must foster you.

Almund.
I shall not answer
Your foolish dreams; put by your expectations,
And let me play my part: we lived retired,
But my year's kingship has already taught me
I cannot be a vessel to be moulded
By any woman's will. I shall become
Another being as the years increase,
And your fond worship of my youth will vex
As any ancient, lapsed idolatry.
You too must change.

Millicent.
The stream will darken, dear,
Infallibly, if there are clouds o'erhead.

Almund.
I mean, I do not ask you to desire
Always my highest good—you must remember
If you are married to me, we shall meet
Not in elected moments, but in moods
Often discordant; you will find me sullen,
Morose, reserved, and must not diet me
With simples from your herbal: ask no questions,
Imagine nothing: let me find you merry,
If I need merriment, sad, when I grieve.
I speak thus frankly to prevent mistake,
And disappointment after we are married,
As we must be at once. The northern tribes
Have broken on us. I would leave a queen
To guard my kingdom.

Millicent.
Whom you will not trust
To rule your heart.

Almund.
Not the despotic way;
I must be free and irresponsible.
Is it so slight a thing that I can leave you
Sole regent of my kingdom? Would you rather
Sway my caprices than be made the mistress
And governor of all that I possess?
'Tis an unqueenlike choice.

Millicent.
I have not made it;
We must no more interpret what the other
Suffers, or fails to suffer.

Almund.
Many things
Disturb me. Hubert, my supremest soldier,
Is changed and petulant.

Millicent.
What ails your Hubert?

Almund.
He's deep in love.

Millicent.
For the three thousandth time?

Almund.
Once, as death strikes; one cannot tell before!—
The difference 'twixt innocence and guilt,
'Twixt peace and wildest ferment! Hubert loves
A forester's young daughter, and to-morrow
I go to bid her marry him: she's wilful.

Millicent.
You speak from knowledge; you have looked on her.

Almund.
She gave us drink as we rode down the wood.
To see his pride fall off him! He forgot
She was a peasant; the bright, naked feet
Were beautiful to him, and the wild hair,
That brushed one as she stooped,—no pony's mane
Is rougher, and our Hubert loves to see
A lady's tresses subject to her art;
Yet when this woodland lass—

Millicent.
You do not name her.

Almund.
She has no name, one does not think of that;
She carols like a bird—to Hubert's ear;
One holds one's breath to listen. He neglected
To ask her name.

Millicent.
Almund, you are quite certain
That she will love him?

Almund.
'Tis enough for woman
To be beloved; she never must put forth
Her powers of loving; 'tis not to be borne.

Millicent.
Yea, if she love her husband, tho' he slight her,
Unconscious of her worship, she can spend
Her unwooed kisses on her babes, and give
Her womanhood's crown jewels as an alms.
'Tis nobler surely than to wed unloving,
And hate the very moulding of the lip
One feeds from one's own bosom.

Almund.
You forget
How Hubert dotes; the glory of great dames
Grows cloying and monotonous to one
Who once has seen a girl's breast heave with passion,
And watched her wonder at the miracle
That love was working in her. He is changed,
Humbled and changed; but we will do him honour;
He shall be made an earl.

Millicent.
Simply for winning
His heart's desire—such conduct needs reward?
Nay, if the king himself had coveted
This girl—suppose it possible—and yet,
For sake of his pre-contract with a princess,
Renounced her, I indeed should count him worthy
Of gravest admiration. 'Tis not noble
To stoop from our conditions, which involve
Our duties; to forego, for sake of them,
Some pleasure that would tempt us from our place,
Would give a kingly impress to an action
Worthy a woman's deepest reverence,
And worship of a queen. Our bright-lipped Hubert
Is but indifferent to external things;
Yet this is somewhat: let us give to him
The title he despises.—And our wedding—
You wish to speak of it—affairs of state
Demand the form; but for the sacrament?

Almund.
The bond, my princess, never shall be formal.
I leave you for these wild, uncertain wars,
My wife, to be the mother of the son
Our kingdom craves: there is no greater trust.

Millicent.
Than that of regent—guardian too and nurse,
Protective of your treasure? You are weary
To-night and anxious; had I been your lady,
I should have begged you to disburthen, now
You crave but my queen's wisdom I retire,
And leave you to self-healing.

Almund.
Millicent,
'Tis as you took the heliotropes away,
I love the scent of. There are fierce temptations,
And troubles of such sort as candour's self
May not give tongue to; this must be:—the maiden
Is reticent, for nature drops a secret
Most precious in her bosom; but the boy
Turns to wild conflict with the fiends.

Millicent.
A husband
Fights with a strong-armed angel at his side;
You seek such safeguard 'gainst your enemies?
My Almund, it is yours. O lovely brows!
[Stooping and kissing his forehead.]
'Twixt welcome and farewell there is but little
In woman's life, except she be a queen,
As you will make me. Then all's different.

[Exit.]
Almund.
How sweet a majesty is in her steps,
How undeserved a grace! Now she is gone
'Tis as the ordering sunlight were withdrawn,
And each unguided action perilous.
Yet she approves my course, my Hubert's marriage,
Even our own—I am the more confirmed
To keep our contract. Just that little figure
To frighten to conformity. Ah me!

[Exit.]

Scene II.

The Wood.
Enter Almund and Cara.
Cara.
My dear is come, is come!

[They clasp in a long, silent embrace.]
Almund.
O little love,
My woman, pre-elected from the hour
I was conceived a man, yet lost, forbidden!
All the great, germinating force that pushes
A leaf-bud forth has bounded to your mouth
To form that kiss.

Cara.
Down in my heart it lay,
Panting to reach you all this long, long while,
My king, my lover.

Almund.
Ah, to join these names,
As this frank voice is able!—By and bye
I'll face the severing hour. God, we may hold
For just a moment what we may not keep,
And thus conceive our sacrifice.

Cara.
But listen:
I ran and gathered the white, blinking sallows,
The shoots of cuckoo-pint, and fallen cones,
To dress my fountain ready.

Almund.
Is it true
You put these dabbling bunches round the spring
For me? Then they are dearer than the banners
That hailed me king.

Cara
[stooping over the spurges].
I told you he would come,
You tiny flowers, and you would not believe;
Now look at him, and love him. You dear man,
I wonder what I had to think about
Before I saw you. Now I have no time
For sleep; I dare not go to bed at all,
Lest I should find it altered in my heart
When I awake; and sometimes in my bosom
I lose all breath, and dare not think of you,
The world is grown so large.

Almund.
It is the freedom
Of love, that breaks all puny bonds, and rushes
Clean through our being to God's crystal sea.
Kiss me again.

Cara.
But it is not good-bye.
I put my musk-pot in the window-sill,
And all is sweet and warm there in the sun
For hours; and I must do this every day,
If the young plant's to thrive. Again to-morrow,
And every day for ever you will come;
It never will be ended. All the birds
Are singing in me, and the crowds of flowers
Are tossing in my joy. You must not watch me
As you were putting by this happiness,
To think about hereafter. Thousand kisses
Keep growing for my lover; up they spring,
And I could dance to feel them.

Almund.
Little mouth,
Your love were perfect if it kissed to death;
But I am strong; all voices wail in me
I cannot die. The glory of this moment
Is fearful, for it shows how black and small
We are in common life, when Memory
Makes gossip in our ears. Shall she be called
The mother of sweet poetry who fetters
All aspiration, drags us down to earth,
And makes us mortal, petty, scrupulous,
Slaves, cowards, fatalists? I must remember
Hubert will soon be here. Oh, Cara, Cara,
Did he not tell you that I am a king,
And you must never love me?

Cara.
Your false friend,
He said you had a lady.

Almund.
It is true.
Oh, what is hell but truth—a fiery candour!

[Breaks from her.]
Cara.
Why do you cast me out into the wind?
You were my lover. Are you now the king,
The cruel king?

Almund
[throwing himself on the ground and burying his face in the grass].
I cannot bear to hear
The foot-fall of her voice. God! she will come,
And bleat for me;—lambs wander over graves,
And stop, and bleat, and shake their woolly heads.—
I will be buried from her sight.

Cara.
It hurts
Too much to leave off loving suddenly.
That is an early wasp,—they used to sting me
When they settled on my arm. How hard I feel!
I knew it must be terrible to freeze,
And broke the brook—it ached so underneath;
I know now how it ached. I must not love him!
I shall not any more: it is as certain
As that no breath can issue from the dead.
[Shaking Almund.]
Turn back your face. Oh, you are old and changed;
And yet you look as you would live for ever.
I cannot understand.

Almund.
You raised my head
Too soon, before the penal change was over;
It was the moment of my sentence, dearest,
And it was more than I could bear to see
The buds, the ruby twigs, the darting light,
And your loved, early face.

Cara.
You have put death
Far off. . . . I feel that I can never reach
So many miles away. I'm but a child,
And you have left me nothing.

Almund.
God, I know
The pain to come is cruel, brutal, vile.

Cara.
You do not know; you took the cup of water,
And gave it to your friend. You do not love me.

Almund.
I love you far beyond all kissing's pace,
Faster than thought, with every breath I draw.

Cara.
Then keep me, keep me!

Almund.
Little life, I cannot.
There is a lady, who for many years
Has loved me, not like you, but with affection
As strong as the unswerving confidence
She places in my honour.

Cara.
And you love her?

Almund.
Nay, Cara, not a whit. I do not love her,
Yet she shall be my wife.

Cara.
Poor lady!

Almund.
Cara,
If you can feel for her who keeps me from you,
Who severs us, a loving, unloved woman,—
Be yet a little kinder still, and pity
The man who cherishes, and longs for you,
My noble Hubert, who with thoughtless ardour,
As delicate as rash, has yet a way
Of touching like a nurse. My little, wounded,
Piteous Cara, let him take your hand,
And shelter you from loneliness.

Cara.
Oh, cruel!
So base you spoil my love, you hurt it all,
Till I must cry for shame. I am too young,
Too mere a slip, to understand your wishes;
But they are cruel, cruel, and so wicked
That you will talk in vain.

Almund
[aside].
Her chaste resentment
Lashes me like a wind.—Oh, Cara, Cara,
If I can yield to Hubert my dear passion,
My whole delight in you, while you, for me,
Will to my friend resign yourself in marriage,
Shall we not be united? He will join
Together our best goodness on the day
He marries you and owes you to my loss.
Could you but understand!

Cara.
It is too bitter—
All that you say; it falls like flakes of snow.
I'm numb and hopeless, and my merry joys
Are dropping off for ever.

Almund.
O my God!
Can it be rightly done—within her blood
To kill the blessèd life, and make its promise
A scattered vanity? Yet Hubert comes,
And Millicent awaits me, and the power
To gather joy unmerited belongs
In no-wise to my nature. Will you then
Receive from me my friend to be your husband,
To comfort you, to foster? Come, the tears
Are staunched at last; but do not clasp your hands,
And knot them like the little oak above.
Speak to me, Cara.

Cara.
I am humble now.

Almund.
What do you mean?

Cara.
I will obey you, king.

Almund.
How hard and cold your words!

Cara.
For I am dead,
Dead to the spring, and hope, and mating-time.

Almund.
Both blasted, both deformed, God looking on,
And April in the earth! We each are spoiled
For nature's stainless function; but the blight
Is deeper in my girl; for I am strengthened
By bonds and conscience. Hubert comes at last.

[Enter Hubert at a distance.]
Cara
[springing up at Almund].
I'll kill myself unless you promise me,
I'll curse you like a ghost unless you ask him
To let me give you water once a year,
To let me grasp your face into my being,
And hear your wintry voice. I'll curse your wife,
Your friend, and all you love so preciously—
Listen, you king, I'll curse them all unless
You make him vow.

Almund.
Hubert will grant this favour.
[Aside.]
Then there will be one day of resurrection,
One day the grave-clothes will be tenantless—
Oh, heavenly condition!

Hubert.
Have you won,
My Almund?

Almund.
She is yours.

Hubert.
Then come to me,
My king-wooed joy! Almund, she does not stir;
You misinterpret.

Almund.
No; she does but pause
To hear me ask a boon—that you and I
Shall meet her once a year upon the spot
Where first we saw her, by the creeping rill,
And she shall give to me alone a cup
Of the slow-dropping water. Will you grant
This wish of hers and mine? It is some comfort
For her new-aching grief. You understand—
I have been harsh and lofty.

Hubert.
This is little,
A thing scarce worth the asking from a friend,
Who loves you, and who owes you everything,
Even his treasured bride. My Cara, rise,
Come to my arms. I do not ask a smile,
Until we know each other, and are friends
Well-learnt in love. Say, with your woodland voice,
That you are mine.

Cara.
I'll marry you.

Hubert.
Dear child,
You startle me; your voice has lost its tones
Of waking bird-songs; if indeed you care
No tittle for me, I may pine with grief,
But I will leave you happy.

Cara.
Do not go;
Make me your wife.

Hubert.
God witness that I will;
For I have loved these tiny lips, these eyes,
Thrilling with shadowed impulse, and a light
Of new-year sunbeams, loved them hour by hour,
Day after day, have thought of them at dawn,
At noon, and eve.

Almund
[aside.]
I loved her so entirely
I never saw her beauties one by one.

Cara.
When I am married . . .
I will be good and gentle.

Hubert.
Darling!

Cara.
Do not
Believe I shall be disobedient.

Hubert.
I never fear it, and your waywardness
Is lovelier than submission. Put aside
This anxious scanning of your new estate.

Cara.
I will be meek and dutiful.

Hubert.
Hush, hush!
You mind me of a bird whose nest is stolen:
An anguish of re-iteration pours
Sharp on the air. Do not be frightened, Cara,
To leave your home. My friend has given me
This tract of trees, and a lone castle near;
There shall you dwell, and freely as of yore
Shall haunt the spring, and pluck the shady flowers.
A piercing sunbeam strikes across your face;
Trust me, my love, we'll have no formal manners,
But roam the forest, you a woodland countess,
And I a rustic earl. Come, I have won
Your father, while the king was winning you.
You are my bride: bring with you all your graces,
And do not fear men's looks more than the glance
Of jays or critic squirrels; let your movements
Keep their alert caprices, and your voice
Its acrid key, and sudden songfulness.
Be all you were, and be my own besides,
But do not change.

Cara.
I will be good.

Hubert.
Come, come!
No more of that, it pains me. Like a child,
Kiss me to heal the hurt.

Cara.
I will.

Hubert.
The flavour,
The fine, elastic pressure of these lips
Is gone; but I forget, I must have patience,
Till you link Hubert's name with happiness,
With gifts, and life, and bounty. Do not trouble
That I should know how you have set your heart
Unwitting on the king; so loyally
I love him, I could give him even you,
Were he not plighted. We will only live,
Dearest, to do his pleasure.

Almund.
Once a year,—
Never meanwhile,—I meet in frosty March
The good earl's wife.
[Aside, kissing her brow.]
God seals upon their foreheads
Those whom He chooses, His elect. Farewell.

[Exeunt.]