Out into the night and storm hurried King Lear, but little he heeded
the darkness or the raging of the elements, for now he was mad--really
mad. Amid the howling of the blast, cataracts of rain, the rattle of
thunder, and blinding flashes of lightning, the old man wandered,
bareheaded, tearing his white locks, and shouting incoherent
exclamations to the whirlwind.
“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!... Spit, fire! Spout,
rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. I tax not you,
you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, called you
children; you owe me nothing; then let fall your horrible pleasure.
Here I stand, your slave, a poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.”
[Illustration: “Blow, winds! Rage! Blow!”]
Then, his mood altering, he called them the servile ministers of two
pernicious daughters, who had joined with them in battle against an
old white head.
So he went on, raving wildly, while all the time the faithful Fool
clung to him, half supporting his tottering steps, and still striving
with his jests to divert the mind of his heart-broken master.
Meanwhile, friends of the King were working on his behalf. Information
had reached the Earl of Kent that there was secret division between
Albany and Cornwall, though the face of it was hidden with mutual
cunning. Word had been carried to France of the harsh way in which
both these sons-in-law had behaved to the old King, and Cordelia was
on her way to rescue her father, and had already landed with an army
at Dover. The Earl of Gloucester also, disgusted with the brutal
behaviour of Regan and her husband, was now on the watch to protect
the old man. After King Lear had been driven out into the storm,
Gloucester overheard a plot to put him to death. He at once made
arrangements to secure his safety, and, setting out in search of the
fugitives, he found them in a wretched little hovel on the heath,
where they had gone for shelter. The poor old man’s wits were now
entirely gone, and his distracted brain could do nothing but brood
over the heartless cruelty of his daughters, which had brought him
to this condition. But he was tenderly humoured and watched over by
the few followers still left to him, and now by their loyalty he was
safely conveyed out of reach of his enemies. Gloucester told Kent
there was a litter waiting ready, and bade him take up his master in
his arms at once, and carry him to it, and then drive instantly to
Dover, where he should receive both welcome and protection. If he
delayed in the slightest degree, the King’s life, and Kent’s, and all
who offered to defend him, would assuredly be lost.
Thanks to the devotion of his faithful friends, the poor old King was
safely conveyed to Dover, but a terrible fate rewarded the loyalty
of the Earl of Gloucester. Finding out the part he had played in the
escape of King Lear, the Duke of Cornwall, with savage barbarity, had
both the eyes of the nobleman put out, and then Regan pitilessly bade
her servants thrust him forth from his own castle.
A just punishment, however, overtook the brutal Earl. One of his own
servants, indignant at his cruelty, refused to perform his bidding.
Cornwall, enraged, fell upon the man, and they fought. Regan, coming
to her husband’s assistance, stabbed the servant from behind, but not
before the man contrived to wound the Earl so seriously that he soon
after died of the injury.
King Lear reached Dover safely, and Cordelia was prepared with the
most tender affection to welcome her old father. But remorse for the
injustice with which he had treated this daughter, and robbed her of
her rights, to bestow them on her worthless sisters, so stung King
Lear’s mind that shame kept him from seeing Cordelia, and he contrived
to make his escape from the French camp. Cordelia sent out in search
of him, and he was presently found wandering about on the cliffs, all
decked out with wild flowers, but still in his madness assuming the
majesty of a King. He was taken back to the camp, and placed in the
care of a skilful doctor, who said that the chief thing needed to
cure his shattered senses was complete repose. The poor old King was
put to bed, and everything was done to aid his recovery; in the tent
where he lay attendants watched so that nothing should disturb him,
and soft music was played. He had a long, refreshing sleep, and when
the moment of awakening came, to the great joy of Cordelia and those
who had followed him so faithfully, it was evident that his reason was
restored.
The first sight on which his eyes opened was the loving face of
Cordelia. For a moment the King thought it must be some spirit
from heaven, and could scarcely believe that it was indeed his own
daughter, in flesh and blood. He thought that his wits must still be
wandering.
“Where have I been? Where am I?” he murmured, looking round with dazed
eyes, while the spectators watched with mute anxiety, to see what turn
his malady would take. “I should die with pity to see another thus. I
know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands; let’s see.
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured of my condition!”
“Oh, look upon me, sir!” entreated Cordelia, with her soft voice. “And
hold your hands in benediction over me. No, sir, you must not kneel.”
“Pray do not mock me,” said Lear in trembling accents. “I am a very
foolish, fond old man, fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less;
and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks
I should know you, and know this man”--he looked round in piteous
appeal--“yet I am doubtful, for I am ignorant what place this is....
Pray do not mock me, for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my
child Cordelia.”
“And so I am, I am,” cried Cordelia, the tears raining from her tender
eyes.
“Are your tears wet?” said Lear, touching her cheeks softly, like a
child. “Yes, faith! I pray, weep not. If you have poison for me, I
will drink it. I know you do not love me, for your sisters have, as I
do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause; they have not.”
“No cause, no cause,” said Cordelia.
“Am I in France?” asked Lear.
“In your own kingdom, sir,” said Kent respectfully.
“Do not abuse me,” pleaded the once haughty King.
The good doctor now interposed; he bade Cordelia be comforted: the
madness was cured, but there was danger in letting the King brood over
what had passed. He must not be troubled with further talking until
his shaken senses were more securely settled.
“Will it please your highness walk?” asked Cordelia, with her sweet
grace of manner.
“You must bear with me,” said the old man humbly. “Pray you, now,
forget and forgive. I am old and foolish.”
And so, subdued in mind and crushed in spirit, clinging to the child
whom he had spurned, the once fiery and impetuous monarch was tenderly
led away by his loving daughter.
* * * * *
It would be pleasant if the story could end here, and if we could
leave the tempest-tossed old King in the cherished keeping of the
gentle Cordelia. But a sadder fate for both was at hand. The King
of France had been suddenly called back to his own land by business
which imported so much fear and danger to the State that his personal
return was absolutely necessary. In his absence the French forces
were attacked by the British troops of Goneril and Regan, under the
command of a treacherous son of the loyal Earl of Gloucester, called
Edmund. Unfortunately, on this occasion the British won the battle,
and Cordelia and King Lear were both captured.
Edmund ordered them away to prison, whither King Lear went joyously
enough, for he was quite happy at being again with his daughter. As
soon as they had gone, Edmund despatched an officer to the prison with
secret instructions, which he ordered him to carry out at once.
Scarcely had this been done when a flourish of trumpets announced
the approach of the Duke of Albany, Goneril, and Regan. The Duke of
Albany, always of a milder and more merciful nature, had for some time
been dissatisfied with the treatment to which the poor old King had
been subjected. He was indignant at the Duke of Cornwall’s barbarity
in putting out the eyes of Gloucester, and was glad to hear that he
had met his just punishment at the hands of the servant whom he had
killed for daring to remonstrate with him.
Albany now demanded that Lear should be handed over to his keeping--a
request which Edmund refused to comply with, giving as pretext that
the question of Cordelia and her father required a fitter place for
discussion. The Duke of Albany ordered Edmund to obey, saying that he
regarded him only as a subject in this war, and not as his brother,
whereupon Regan interposed, and declared that she had invested Edmund
with full authority, therefore he was quite the equal of Albany;
moreover, she intended to marry him.
An angry discussion now arose between the two sisters. Goneril also
had taken a fancy to this Edmund, and had not scrupled to lay a plot
to get her husband killed, so that she might marry him. Knowing
Regan’s designs, she had added to her crimes by secretly poisoning her
sister, in order to get her out of the way, and even while they were
disputing, the drug began to take effect, and in a few minutes Regan
was dead.
Goneril’s husband, however, had discovered the plot against himself,
and now he publicly denounced his wife. In ungovernable fury at the
failure of her schemes, and refusing to give any answer to the Duke of
Albany’s accusations, Goneril hurried away, and took her own life.
Thus miserably perished these two hard-hearted and wicked women.
Edmund in the meanwhile, wounded to death by his own brave
half-brother Edgar, who had appeared as champion to punish Edmund for
his many horrible acts of treachery and wickedness, now confessed
that he and Goneril had given private instructions that Cordelia was
to be hanged in prison, and had intended to lay the blame on her own
despair, which had caused her to do this desperate deed.
Messengers were sent in haste to arrest this fatal order, but, alas!
it was too late. As Edmund was borne away, King Lear entered, bearing
the dead body of Cordelia in his arms. The old man’s reason was again
tottering on the brink of madness, and the spectators could only
listen in pitying sorrow to his frenzied grief over his murdered
child. One moment he mourned her as dead; the next he tried to
persuade himself she was still living. He called for a looking-glass,
to see if her breath would mist or stain it, a proof that she lived;
and held a feather to her lips, and thought it stirred. The Earl
of Kent came and knelt before him, but the King turned from him
impatiently, and bent again over Cordelia, where she lay on the ground.
“Cordelia, Cordelia! Stay a little!” he implored in piteous accents.
“Ha! What is it thou sayest?” He leant his ear to listen, and with
eager self-deception tried to explain his failure to hear a sound.
“Her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low, an excellent thing in
woman.” Then, with a sudden change, he drew himself up, and, looking
round, cried exultingly: “I killed the slave that was a-hanging thee!”
“’Tis true, my lords, he did,” said an officer who was standing by.
“Did I not, fellow?” said the King proudly. “I have seen the time,
with my good biting falchion, I would have made them skip. I am old
now, and these same crosses spoil me.--Who are you? Mine eyes are not
of the best; I’ll tell you in a minute. Are you not Kent?”
“The same--your servant Kent.”
But the King’s last gleam of reason was going, and Kent in vain tried
to make him realise the fact of his own loyal fidelity, and that the
cruel Goneril and Regan were dead. The King’s thoughts were again with
his beloved child.
“And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life!” he wailed in
heart-broken accents. “Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
and thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more--never, never, never,
never, never! Pray, you, undo this button.” He made a choking movement
at the cloak at his throat, and someone stepped forward and gently
unclasped it for him. “Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on
her--look, her lips--look there, look there!” and with a strange cry
of mingled joy and anguish King Lear fell dead on the body of his dear
child Cordelia.
And so, with all his faults and follies, which had assuredly wrought
out their own bitter retribution, the fiery-hearted King passed into
the realm of eternal rest.
[Illustration]