University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

The Wood, by the Spring.
Enter Cara.
Cara.
The little face
Grew hard, I dared not kiss it any more;
And now, unless he come—It is the day.
How the birds quarrel!—I must just return,
And dig the little grimy body up.
All night I listened close down on the turf
If he should call me; but he cannot call
With those hard, alien lips. He seems to hate me,
And I hate him,—I hate, I hate the dead,
I do not want to see them any more,
They are such changelings. When the neighbours came
And looked at the stone image, with no trace
Of want or feebleness, they called it like
The little, tender, playful, tottering lad
I stooped to steady. God could never mould
A baby's dimpling cheek;—it's tears, tears, tears!
He shapes the dead, and alters all the lines
O' the lids and mouth; one cannot find the old,
Sweet spots for kisses. Hubert will return
And pet me. I have seen a dog some stranger
Passes his hand across; it gives no pleasure,
The creature feels it's kind, and then walks off
More wretched. Ah, the baby did not know,
He never tried to comfort. There's no use
For Cara in the world: the old are useless,
But then they are half-dead. I cannot cry,
I know if once I sobbed that I should never
Catch the sweet air again. The leaves are budding,
These chestnut-leaves. Oh, they have woolly wraps,
They're young—quite little ones.

[Enter Almund.]
Almund.
A widowed creature,
With strange, snow-sprinkled hair, and empty eyes.
I dare not startle her,—she stands too nigh
The precipice of death for me to thrill her
With joyful news.

Cara
[turning and springing to him].
Why, he is grown a man!
O Almund, Almund. This is wonderful!
It hurts so at my heart. It must be years
Since it all happened. Do not let me loose;
If you will only stay a little while
'Twill be all over; you can settle then
Whether it's wrong or right. Pull down your curls
For me to play with. Silky, summer hair!
I made his fine like this. Oh, I am happy.
Don't speak, and change it.

Almund.
Cara, listen! Hush!
I am not married to the queen. I'm free.

Cara.
And I am Hubert's wife! It makes me laugh;
It is not true, and a wise king knows better
Than make believe. I had a little son;
God knew the truth; He built him step by step
Like you—a perfect miniature, and yet
With hair less auburn. I was glad to give him
Cara's own hazel threads. He's yours and mine.
You'll see him when you bury me; break open
The tiny coffin; let us lie together.

Almund.
I dare you speak of death; you shall not die
Till you are mine. What is your woman's hunger?
You faint with it; but when a man must fast
His appetite grows eager for revenge.
Now, Cara, you must pay to me the debt
Of love's long-rankling score. Come, cuddle close;
Each stir and change you make is chronicled
Through all my body, and the blessedness
Repeats that I have got you in my arms,
Till I can just believe it. These long years
My life has been a barren sea-shore washed
By surging floods of passion; nothing grew there,
Nothing took root, there was no food, no shelter.
Don't travel far away with those soft eyes!
You're thinking of the child; it maddens me.
Cara, I'm thirsty; give me of love's drink!
Have you forgotten?

Cara.
No, for I remember
A lady loves you. Almund, it is fearful . . .

Almund.
Call me the king.

Cara
[smiling].
I'm used not to the name.
I shouted to my little lad so often
On the brow of the big field where there's the echo,
Simply to hear the name. O Almund, Almund,
There must not be this misery again;
We women cannot bear it. Once I saw her;
She could not speak, but she just pressed my hand,
And kissed me. I will give you back to her,
If you will only stay a little while.
Now say it over to me like a hymn,
How you have always loved me. Do not promise
That you will not forget—I have no fear;
It's graven in your eyes. But those three years
You did not come—before too he was born;
I must not think of it. . . . It hurts again
Here at my heart. O Almund, Almund, Almund!
Something shrieks in me; I must call the child
Across the fields. . . .

[She shrieks and falls back dead.
Almund.
O God, she is a mother.
The small, bleak spirit shrills out in the air
A cry for love, and I am starving here:
'Tis death's strange irony; and once she stood
The red lips kissing me as fast as dew
Is shaken from a thorn. Oh, I shall find
All the great years of hell inadequate
To mourn this mighty error and defeat.—
To put such gift away, and youth and manhood
Stirring within me! I refused her love,
And must cohabit now with lust for ever.
She does not heed me. She is soft, maternal,
And full of heavenly cares. I cannot touch her,
I can but stand here damned and impotent,
Most bitterly aloof, and unremorseful
Of everything save virtue.
[Enter Hubert.]
Take her, Hubert;
Though whether she be yours or mine, I know not—
An ancient gift come back upon my hands
While you were at the wars. I gave her once;
You begged her of me: women are not chattels
To deal with as one's generosity
May prompt or straiten. . . .

Hubert.
Almund, she is dead!
Cara, my little wife,—oh, she has broken
Her tender heart with grieving for our boy.
No babe to fondle, no poor, clumsy Hubert
To light the piteous smile for,—so you asked
Grim death to take you where you might have rest,
You little, weary creature. Why, 'tis something
To see you lying, love, the pretty mouth
Freed from all struggle, and the hazel eyes
Fallen asleep,—they were the dearest eyes
In all the world,—but when they looked so dumb,
When nothing happened in them, and they grew
A prison for the tears, I could but pray
To fall in battle, and forget the pain;
Yet all this while you have been happy, sweet,
And singing with the child. You promised me
You would be happy when the babe was born.
This wavy hair! O Cara, we must smooth it;
You must remember, love, that you are dead,
And we must have some state; the king himself
Will lift you. Almund, I could never rid her
Of that poor, superstitious, fond belief
You loved her: it would please her now to think
You helped to bury her [looking up].
What have you done?
You have not murdered her? I thought you came
To comfort her, to drink the promised cup,
And found her lifeless: but some guilty deed
Is written on your brow.

Almund.
Death came between,
Or you had found me an adulterer.
Now, Hubert, judge me.

Hubert.
Hush, for there are devils
This sweet face must not wot of. You accuse her
To me, her husband, who am sure she loved you
Heart-brokenly as God would have a sinner
Yearn for His favour. Could you misinterpret?
You have fierce, flaming eyes. Oh, it is cruel
To think they fell on her.

Almund.
Yes, I have lusted;
Yet, Hubert, she died quiet in my arms.
I have not wronged you.

Hubert.
But your face is flint,
As when I trusted you to plead for me,
And found my Cara crouching and subdued,
And you a moody tyrant. You've no touch
For such fine natures. You have told her now—
Have you?—that she was wicked and unfaithful,
For loving you.

Almund.
It is irrational
To try to ope one's being to the dead;
And, Hubert, you have never known your friend.
You do not even call by their own names
My sins and my temptations. I must back,
Back to life's dreary offices. Farewell.

[Going.]
Hubert.
The straight, gaunt figures! And how sharp a look
He fixed on the poor outlines! Nay, I'll buy
One more last grace for her. Almund, come back,
And seal these eyes with kisses; they will purge you
Of every evil thought. You stumble.—Almund,
What secret are you hiding from your friend?
Could you not bear her importunity?
It was most innocent—such as the princess,
I mean the lady Millicent herself,
Had scarcely blamed.

Almund.
What, do you lead me to her?
Can she be mine now 'neath the coffin-lid,
And will you never touch her any more,
Nor look upon the face of her young son,
Who bears my features? Will you make a place
For me to lie beside her when I'm dead,
And never come between?—I am her lover.

Hubert.
O Almund, you look young—an exaltation,
A glory in your face; the past unfolds
In all its miracle,—for, ah, how dearly
If you have loved her, have you loved your friend.
Take the brown head to rest upon your knee,
For mine has simply been the nurse's part.
The little one bore piningly, and now
We've found where she belongs.

Almund
[folding Cara in his arms].
Oh, she had drink
For a man's deepest thirst.

Hubert.
Poor, broken trifle—
All that is left to offer to my friend
Amid this cursèd, senseless sacrifice.
How dared you keep your love from her?

Almund.
The princess,
My troth-plight; there were others.

Hubert.
I forgot,
My Almund, you are born that none can live
Without your love; there is no little weed
But will proclaim its birthright to the sun;
You hid from this sweet vetchling, and the leaves
Lost all their sturdy twine.—Ay, there were others.
This blessèd heart, she could not understand
That love can have no empery on earth,
There are so many others. 'Tis but little
That we can do for them, and yet to ease
Their pain there hath been all this tragedy.
I know not if 'tis well.

Almund.
She has the kisses
Of three long years ago; my Hubert knows
How dearly Almund rates him; Millicent
Will in deep-bosomed friendship be my own;
And things are settled on this blithe, green earth
Almost as it were heaven, where happy souls
Ne'er vex themselves with marriage. The young kingcups
Are sprouting lustily, and golden nature
Is full of her fresh joys. Oh, we must learn
To drink life's pleasures if we would be pure,
Deep, holy draughts, and the girl-cupbearer
Must not be set aside.