 | The Lost Son |  |
Scene I.
—The Library, Lylford Hall. Sir Hugh Lyle .Enter De Warenne.
Sir Hugh.
Well met, De Warenne.
De War.
Better elsewhere, surely,
Than in this hermit-cell.
Sir Hugh.
It suits me.
De War.
Nay,
Why not put by those papers for an hour,
And join your children on the green plot yonder?
You should be less alone.
Sir Hugh.
I am less so,
When busied thus, than listening to their talk.
I like they should be happy, but care not
To join them.
De War.
Yet you are wrong.
Sir Hugh.
We 'll let that be.
I have had much to think of, and to do,
Of late, in ordering my affairs so far
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As pen and parchment may, trusting to you
Hereafter to interpret to my boy
What pen and parchment cannot.
De War.
Why this now?
You have years and years before you.
Sir Hugh.
Have I? Fewer,
Perhaps, than you may think; and there is something
Still left to say.
De War.
Why, what is this, this fancy?
Nay, what 's your age? What 's fifty years, my friend,
Or a half-dozen over? 'T is a jest.
You straight and strong, too, as the tallest pine
In yonder sturdy grove! So much of life
Is left you still, so much of comfort, too,
Would you but think so!
Sir Hugh.
It may be I have
Too weakly let one sad blot overspread
These ten years all the colouring of life.
Indeed, you know how it has been with me
As well as I myself.
De War.
For God's sake, Hugh,
Speak not of that!
Sir Hugh.
'T is the first time, and shall be,
So help me, God, the last! But such a life
In death as mine has been, is now, I think,
Fast wearing to its close, and I must look
To you—I know you 'll not refuse me this—
To be the guardian of my boy and girl
Through all the years of tutelage, and stand
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To be their friend—and that is saying all.
They could not have a better. Though you seem
Beside me, fresh still in your vigorous prime,
Yet in the school of life you are more trained,
Tried on a wider field, abroad, at home,
Accomplished and approved. And yet your life—
You know it, let me say so—is a house
Whose noblest chambers are untenanted.
I would you had a wife.
De War.
A wife! What, I?
Sir Hugh.
And since I know you will not now go forth
As knightly youth does, far away to seek her,
And since you stand above the need to add
Either lands, wealth, or splendour, or a name,
To that all-perfect ladyhood I wish
To see your home crowned and made happy by—
Nor ever were a worshipper of these—
Have you ne'er thought how near you might be found
E'en such a lady worthy of your suit?
I say not she is lightly to be won;
But hearts unswayed by butterfly caprice,
And honest as the very sun in heaven,
Own their true mates in time. You guess not yet?
She is my daughter now; but when I die,
What home has Annabella then?
De War.
My God!
With whom but me?
Sir Hugh.
With you? Why, stay! Is this so?
You love her, then, already? That is well.
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You win a noble wife, a noble home,
Nor, search the country in its length and breadth,
Would you find statelier beauty than hers, now
In her maturity of womanhood;
At least, to my accustomed eyes it seems so.
De War.
To mine no less.
Sir Hugh.
I am very glad you love her.
De War.
Love her! I said not that . . . though to my thought
No woman equals her . . . but I ne'er dreamed
So to aspire . . . and I must think this over . . .
She is good, she is beautiful, may become homeless—
And would she deign so far . . . but she is proud,
Too proud I think to love. But I 'll not hear you
Talk thus of death, as though at the next corner
You saw him waiting.
Sir Hugh.
And he shall be welcome.
A heavy care your words have something lightened;
And for the comments of the worldly-proud,
If those you heed, at least we have our proofs
That her unknown lost family and name
Can be no mean ones.
De War.
Oh, that would be nothing,
If I should give this thing a serious thought
She is herself alone amongst all women.
But you are weary, Hugh—your voice is faint,
And you grow paler. Let me leave you now.
Sir Hugh.
See me again ere you depart.
De War.
I will.
[Exit.
| The Lost Son | |