 | The Lost Son |  |
Scene II.
—The Terrace in front of the House.Enter Bernard and Olive.
Ol.
I was ashamed to weep so, yesterday . . .
And now I seem almost too tired for tears,
And feel as if I could not weep again!
Oh me, he looked so peaceful, I am sure
He thought of you and blessed you ere he died.
Bern.
My father, my dear father!
Ol.
You will take
His place, and comfort us.
Bern.
How thankfully would I
Were I permitted happiness so great . . .
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The holy summer perfume of the morn!
How should a world so beautiful as this
Be wasted on such devils as men are!
Ol.
Bernard!
Bern.
The innocent wild creatures—birds,
And beasts, and happy insect tribes . . . they are not
Unworthy to possess it . . . and some few
Of humankind are too pure to be left
Amongst the rest . . . Oh that the good might die,
And see no more of all the misery here!
Ol.
We seem all in a dream . . . and Lylford too
Is like some new strange place . . .
Enter Annabella.
Bern.
[meeting her.]
Dear, he died happy.
An.
Half of my sweet dream gone—the happy things
I meant to say to him, unsaid for ever!
The friend of all my life—my dear, dear father!
Bern.
Perhaps we are wrong to mourn him . . . had he lived,
Some other sorrow might have come . . .
An.
Ah, Bernard . . .
He had borne the worst.
Bern.
It was not in his nature
To feel keen happiness . . . not even ere
His outward troubles came.
An.
I 'll strive to think
'T is well for him . . . Oh, what should we now be,
Henceforward, without you?
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How hard you make
My duty!
An.
Do not turn away from me—
But let me comfort you.
Bern.
Come apart with me,
I have that to say which needs my heart's whole strength—
Would in some magic word I could sum up
All that the past has left unsaid, and all
The future ought to say. But easier were it
Here at your feet to die than put in words
The passion of my soul past and to come!
Alas, I cannot even in my own
Concentrate all the pain.
An.
And do you grudge
That I should share it with you?
Bern.
Dear, forgive me!
An.
What can I have to forgive?
Bern.
'T is now begins
The insupportable anguish of my task.
An.
Bernard!
Bern.
Oh look not so . . . for it is more
Than I can bear.
An.
But you bewilder me!
Bern.
What would you say . . . were I to tell you this,
That I am bound, irrevocably bound,
To leave . . . you, love, and home and happiness . . .
And . . . there, 't is said!
An.
Leave me!—At such a moment?
At this first anguish of our sudden loss?
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Waits burial?—For a day you mean? How long?
Bern.
I dare not tell you . . . no, nor think. To live
Away from you one moment is heartache—
But a whole life!
An.
Bernard!—Oh me, my folly!
I did believe you meant it—for one instant!
But do not frighten me again.
Bern.
Alas!
It is the simple truth . . . and I must leave you.
You must believe it, dear.
An.
But to go whither?
I cannot understand.
Bern.
But I am sworn
Not to reveal where and to whom I go.
An.
Why, Bernard, you are laughing at me now!
This is a tale, a dream!
Bern.
Ah no, no dream!
I am no more my own . . . I have won leave,
Wrenched as by miracle, from . . . but that's no matter . . .
To snatch one glimpse of all I love on earth,
And then . . . for ever leave it.
An.
Why, why will you
Harp on these dreadful fancies?
Bern.
I have had
That glimpse . . . I bless my God for it . . . and but
For you, dear, and your wounded love . . . alas!
Why did I tell you mine? . . . I should go hence,
Resigned to misery.
An.
Great God! What mean you?
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Is it . . . but no! I will not say that now—
I know you love no other—
Bern.
Love another!
My Annabel! my only love! my wife!
An.
Then, O beloved, cease to say such things!
Or tell me what they mean? What shall I do?
You speak and look as if all this were earnest,
Yet will not tell me why you torture me,
Lest I should show you that some fantasy
Born of past sufferings has unhinged your soul,
And led you to believe some madness—made you
So utterly enamoured of despair,
Your conscience so to misery bigoted,
You see no sacredness but in pain . . . just think
A moment calmly . . . I am calm, you see,
Because I know you have made some strange mistake,
I could explain would you but tell me—speak!
And do not turn away so hopelessly;
For I can bear no more.
Bern.
And do you think
I would say this if there were left to me
One possible loophole of escape?
An.
And I
Standing here in the bright daylight hear you
Talk of such horror as a possible thing?
Are we both mad? The joy of yesterday
All a delusion?
Bern.
It were better far
That we should die; we have known the best and worst,
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For you do love—
An.
To the last beat of my heart!
Bern.
But I must live. For to die now, and so
Escape my fate, in me were baseness past
All baseness. God, duty, and honour call me
Inexorably from you . . . Annabel,
Believe me by the anguish that I should,
But cannot, stifle—by all sacred things,
Believe and pity—
An.
Pity! Is there a name
For what I feel? To live on here in meanless
Safety and luxury . . . and you . . . and you . . .
Banished—I know not why, I know not where—
There is a curse then! Oh, I thought we had known
The worst, and that, our two sad mornings over,
Some good was yet in store for you and me . . .
But if, indeed, I understand you now,
If you are bound to some dark nameless woe,
Something so dire and strange you dare not tell me,
Whilst I go pining, wondering, to my grave . . .
Doubling my grief by night's inventive dreams—
If you must so destroy yourself and me . . .
Is there a God? And wherefore were we born?
Bern.
How can I say that I may not . . . come back?
An.
You do not cheat me—you will come no more.
Oh Bernard! Bernard! Bernard!
[Olive runs up to her.
Ol.
What is it?
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Is it something new?
Bern.
Come in,—I have much to say,—
I would spare you this if I could . . . Let us go in . . .
And help me to be calm.
An.
Calm, oh my God!
[Exeunt omnes,
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