University of Virginia Library

III. PART III.—LOVE.

Scene I.—At Bertha's House.

Cyril—Bertha.
BERTHA
sings.

CYRIL
Was that the song?

BERTHA
Do you forget so soon?
I sang it when I saw you first, and you
So listened with the silence of your eyes
That I sang all for you. But now I find
You were afar, pursuing some swift thought,
And my poor music only fanned your ears,
Passing your busy heart.

CYRIL
You sang for me?
Through all the strain I only heard yourself
Sweeter than music's soul. I do not know
One note—I know the voice. Sung by another
It is another song.

BERTHA
Seems it so now?
Alas, I fear the dew has died from it,
The gem is but a grass-flower! Seems it so?

CYRIL
Look at me—are you Bertha?

BERTHA
Look at me!

CYRIL
I cannot see the half of all I love,
Dazed by its presence—I must glance aside
Like men who watch for mighty stars—or wait
Till some reflecting calm of memory
Makes contemplation possible.

BERTHA
You mock me
With such sonorous love, not like yourself.
I hate professions, poor as showers of gold
Flung in the lap are poor to her who waits
For one soft touch from one belovèd hand.

CYRIL
Dear, when you doubt, must I not needs profess?
We play with our untroubled certainties
Like children who, familiar with their tasks,
Pretend a coaxing ignorance, to catch
The smile of wonder when the words ring out.

BERTHA
Am I so certain?

CYRIL
You have vexed me now.

BERTHA
Nay, but that daily miracle, your love,
Amazes me. If I could find a cause
Why you should choose me, I were more content;
But in me there is only simpleness,
And such sufficiency of tender thoughts
As make me happy when I look at you
But give you nothing. When I see you mount
Like a swift angel up the steeps of fire,
My heart longs after you to call you back,
Fearing the pain; I know that pain is good,
And you are strong, and God is pitiful,
Grieved with our griefs; and yet I shrink for you
(I fancy I could bear it for myself);
And though I pray to cling about your feet,
Going up with you so, healing your wounds
With my weak hands, or by some special grace
Taking sometimes a hurt instead of you,
Yet is this common Earth so sweet to me
That if a flower dies I am sorrowful,
And all sea-moonlights, or processioned clouds,
Or flash and shadow blown about the grass,
Or depths of summer in the nested woods,
Motions of birds, and sounds of shaken leaves,
Perplex and satisfy me with delight;
Therefore I fear I am not made for you,
Not an helpmeet for you—it breaks my heart
To think that you will see me as I am
And turn away; yet, if I bring you down,
Or merely do not help you as I might,
As a wife should, as I should were I fit
To be your wife, then am I bound to wish
That you should drop me from you as you mount;
Then I am bound—O! tell me, am I bound
To take the task upon my faulty self
Who never should have held you, and set free
Your soul, to seek its throne?

CYRIL
Have you confessed?
Are these your sins? O, when I think of heaven
I see you with a lily in your hand
Walk softly through the gate, with robes unstained
And all the morning calmness on your cheeks.
I would not wound your tender soul with praise;
Hear only this, that when I yield you are
My strength, and when I conquer, my delight;
Hope when I faint, refreshment when I fail,
Day to my doubting footsteps everywhere,
Whether I die or live, my truest life.
Beside me that sweet current of your thoughts
Flows like a river by a toilsome road
Where weary feet and dust-bewildered eyes
Rest and are comforted. Were it not too bold
I'd say your soul was made for serving mine
Apt for its utmost needs; yet I were blest
If I could spend myself in serving you
Who need me not, for even these gracious tears
Which your quick conscience trembles at, are strength
To him who feels ‘what matter if I die?
There is no pain since Bertha weeps for me.’

BERTHA
Unkind to take your comfort from my tears!
Why do you talk of Death?

CYRIL
Death is Life's servant;
It follows us, close, faithful, vigilant;
Plucks out, if we receive such ministry,
At every step some thorn or stain of life;
Takes off the mask of Sin, that we may see
What 'tis that tempts us; and with ready breast
Pillows us when the warfare is complete,
When we want rest.

BERTHA
And parts us. Could we go
Together to that beautiful new world
Which we believe in, Death would seem to me
Like a soft call into some fairer room
Where we may look at wonders. But it parts us.
O, Cyril, can you bear it?

CYRIL
Let it pass:
I know not how we came to such a theme;
Press it no further.

BERTHA
Why do you clasp me so?
Why are you pale?

CYRIL
I cannot tell—a fear:
I saw Earth gaping darkly at your feet
For one fierce moment.

BERTHA
'Tis my turn to chide,
Myself, not you, for stirring such a fear.
O Cyril, how you love me! I have done
With doubts which grow from mine unworthiness:
Your love creates what it would find in me;
I have no power to lag behind your trust.
If you so fear to lose me, I am sure
I must be worthy keeping. I have heard
A maze of music from three notes unwound
And ever winding back to these three notes
Telling it's heart out so; even so I harp
On my sweet secret, ‘Cyril, how you love me!’
And ‘how you love me, Cyril!’ nothing else
Till all my life grows music and invests
With all its harmonies that central phrase.
I wonder—

[She stops suddenly.
CYRIL
What?

BERTHA
It is such foolishness
I am ashamed to say it; but I wonder
If when I walk abroad all men perceive
That glory which began upon my face
When you first said you loved me.

CYRIL
Never doubt
'Tis for that cause they turn to look at you
More than at women whom I do not love.
See, while we trifle, Time leaps on. At four
My mother comes.

[Holds up his watch.
BERTHA
'Tis kind. Alas, I wish
I had such state and practice in the world
As she desires! If she but pardons me
For stealing this her jewel from the hand
She meant it for, I'll so entangle her
With harmless guile that she must yield at last
And love me ere I let her go.

CYRIL
She comes
To love you. True, she questioned you, unseen;
She had a scheme which flourished like a flower,
And when she found it rootless, yours the blame;
But, knowing that my heart is fixed, she comes
To grace, not judge you—though to such as you
The stricter judgment brings the surer grace.
You must not fear her.

BERTHA
Nay, I fear her not.
How should I fear your mother? She must be
Tender and wise, with thoughts which cannot wound
A safe heart lying quietly in your hand.

CYRIL
That's bravely said. Yet dearest, yet, I see
An unfamiliar crimson in your cheek
Like a white rose at sunset; do not wrong
Yourself or her by one uneasy pang;
Make your whole heart a welcome.

BERTHA
So it is;
I fear myself a little, but not her;
Whence these unwarrantable blushes come
I know not. Would it were to-morrow!

CYRIL
Why
Hurry the gentle hours that are so fair?
I would keep each for ever, did I not see
The smile of the new-comer.

BERTHA
'Tis my way
To think remembrance sweeter than possession.
When you are by (nay look not grave, I am blest
When you are by), yet is my heart so full
That if I catch a pause between the beats,
I find I long for evening, for a time
To ponder all the meanings of your face,
And tell myself the tender things you looked,
And count the precious words which came like shocks
So that I could not hear how kind they were.
I tremble in the strong grasp of ‘To-day,’
Like a caught bird, which sings not in your hand,
But if you loose it, from the nearest tree
Pours down its vigorous gratitude.

CYRIL
A plea
So lovely, that it only seems to say,
‘Take me again! I am here!’

BERTHA
Take me again
And still again, for if you take me not,
Dumb, desolate, and free, I can but die
Without a home.

CYRIL
My bird, my child, my darling!
Why do you put such pathos in your face,
Making a mist of unaccustomed tears
Around the splendour of my happiness?
You say the very words I long to hear,
You touch me with the glory of your hand,
But those appealing eyes go through my heart,
Which shivers like a harpstring, fit to break
Ere it can answer.

BERTHA
Well, I am to blame;
Let me not move you—talk of something else;
It is my birthday and we should be gay.
See, your ring glitters!

CYRIL
For your birthday, love,
The sweetest gift is that new daughterhood
Which now begins.

BERTHA
I do desire it much.

Scene II.

Enter Markham.
CYRIL
Come in good time! I have a lady here
So timid, that two heroes like ourselves
Are scarce enough to cheer her.

BERTHA
Do not say so;
I shall be scorned.

MARKHAM
No tongue but yours would dare
To couple scorn with your sweet name. For that,
I hold you brave—and for the rest, your fears
Shall fly before a woman's gentle face
Ere you can show them. Two are on the way
To give you courage.

BERTHA
Two?

MARKHAM
With your new mother
(Such you shall find her) a new sister comes,
Eager to win you—nay, there's no escape,
At the first summons you must strike your flag
And take your fetters meekly.

CYRIL
You bring news.
Comes Blanche to grace the meeting? That is kind.

MARKHAM
(looking at Bertha)
Shall I be pardoned if I tell you bluntly
I never saw you look so well?

CYRIL
(looking at her)
I think
I like the lilies better.

MARKHAM
You can choose.
And thus he gives you valour!

BERTHA
O, believe
I do but feel such reasonable doubt
As must beset me, if I match myself
Against the love that chose me. I am forced
To speak of what I should not. Were I such
As in their kindly judgment I shall seem,
I might be surer, but I could not be
Happier than now.

MARKHAM
Be only as you are,
You cannot mend it. Shall I make you now
Confess a fault? You scorned my memory
A week ago, and now I wish you joy
On your remembered birthday!

BERTHA
Are you sure
You did not hear us talking as you came?

MARKHAM
Sceptic, behold the proof!

[Gives her a bracelet.
BERTHA
A miracle
Which I must kneel to. Cyril, look at it!
I cannot find a language for my thanks.

MARKHAM
(to Cyril)
Will you not clasp it?

[Cyril clasps the bracelet on Bertha's arm.
BERTHA
'Tis the perfect size.

MARKHAM
Do not sit here; the shadow touches you.
See, Cyril, when they cross the threshold there
We'll set her like a picture, jour à gauche,
And tell them where to stand.

BERTHA
You make me laugh.

CYRIL
That is his purpose. I commend him for it.

BERTHA
Defend me from these mockers! Two at once!

Scene III.

Enter Mrs. Vere and Lady Blanche.
Mrs. Vere—Lady Blanche—Cyril—Markham—Bertha.
CYRIL
(advances eagerly)
See, mother, we are ready! Not a word—
But take her, for she will not come to me
Unless you give her.

[He puts Bertha's hand into Mrs. Vere's.
MRS. VERE
(ceremoniously)
I am glad to see you,
And sorry that your father keeps his room.

BERTHA
It grieves him that he cannot welcome you.

MRS. VERE
You will not let us miss him. Here you have
A gracious landscape, and a kindly hearth—
Two things to make home charming. It is strange
To come upon this pretty calm, so near
The roar of our confusion. I have heard
You lived here always?

BERTHA
I have yet to learn
If there are other places in the world
As tender to my simpleness as this.

LADY BLANCHE
I'll help to teach you. Must I name myself
Or do you know me? Cyril, is it right
To make me seem so bold?

CYRIL
You blame me well.
I have lost all my manners, in the deep
Of this long-looked-for joy. If one by one
We reach the things we long for, there is time
To ponder them like reasons and be calm.
The man who sees one picture in a day
Takes it to bed among his gentlest thoughts
And in the night beholds it, and at morn
Beholds it still, and grows familiar with it,
Till, seen again, it greets him like a friend
Telling no news, but coming to his heart
With itself only. So my separate loves
Ruled me at leisure; but I go perplexed
About this gallery, scarce discerning yet
Which bright appeal should have its answer first,
Passing where I should pause, at every step
Turning so soothe some beautiful reproach
With tardy homage.

[He takes Blanche's hand.
MARKHAM
Your one picture has
Companions, but no rivals.

MRS. VERE
(perceiving him)
Are you here
To penetrate this poesy with facts?
O keep your friendly office! Cyril needs
A rein—we know it—ever scaling heights
And scorning valleys; covering half the world
For each neglected mile of beaten road.

CYRIL
Aye, mother, is my daily waste so great?
Yet are there rocks about my daily path
Which need a stronger blast than poesy!

MRS. VERE
You do not move them; there's the sorrow, Cyril;
Your cause lies crushed among them, even the cause
For which you flung away your noble life,
While you go harvesting the fruitless winds
Or triumphing over clouds.

CYRIL
Not from the dust
Come the great forces which compel the world;
We build them out of fire and air, because
He that would rule earth must first rise above it.
On our invisible banners stand the words
‘Life risen, and Life hidden.’

MRS. VERE
Mystical
As ever! Now, I wish a Seer would say
Why some draw changes from the years, and some
Carry their childhood always. He was yet [to Bertha

A slender sprite of ten, faced like a girl,
When, if you crossed him with a doubt, he straight
Would toss and tangle you in parables
Till you grew faint.

BERTHA
(to Cyril)
Were you so wise a child?

CYRIL
A pedant in that pre-historic age
Before the twilight of my beard.

MARKHAM
And still
A pedant (so your mother says), complete
With all primæval dragon-slaying arms,
Though now there be no dragons (and what tongue
Shall certify us of the time and place
When as the dogma struck, the dragon died?)
No matter! You can hurl your dogmas still
And hope for living dragons. Is it not strange [to Mrs. Vere

That all his growing glory of young days,
Which we stood by to watch, is rounded thus;
As if a great tree, breaking out in spring
With blossom-torrents, there should stay and cease,
And, in the harvest, like a giant flower
Wither unfruited?

MRS. VERE
If you speak of Cyril,
I should know more than you. I find no cause
To mourn such fruitless promise in his life.
I think you have not seen his work.

MARKHAM
Forgive me!
I meant to make you bless him unaware.

CYRIL
Mother and friend, I must beseech you, choose
A livelier theme. I am no more a child
Called to reluctant stand when strangers come
To test my growth, or show how like I am
To some half-uncle in another world
Whose shadow never touched my thoughts. I hate
To criticise my own biography,
Searching myself with hesitating eyes
To find which flaws are only in the glass,
Which in the face it mirrors. Let me rest
Like a dull book. If we should talk of Blanche
The topic has some grace.

LADY BLANCHE
I'll not allow it.
I could not trust my tender qualities
To such free handling.

MRS. VERE
We seem all adrift.
Shall we have music? (To Bertha.)
I believe you sing?

BERTHA
(looks at Cyril)
I must learn better ere I sing for you;
Must I not, Cyril?

MRS. VERE
Nay, I press you not:
Refuse me if you will. Dear Blanche, I think
Your voice is always ready. Let it flow
To smooth this ruffle of uneasy talk!

BERTHA
(distressed)
I did not mean—

LADY BLANCHE
(kindly)
I will but lead the way,
Use having made me bolder.
(Aside to Mrs. Vere)
Oh! be kind;
See how the tide of blushes ebbs and flows
At every word you speak! I am sorry for her.

MRS. VERE
(aside to Lady Blanche)
For him! For him! Why picked he from the ground
This shred of homespun? Links of virgin gold
Were ready for his neck.

LADY BLANCHE
(aside)
For shame!

MRS. VERE
Enough.
I will constrain myself to softer ways.

BERTHA
(aside to Cyril)
How childish was I not to sing at once!
How shall I please her now?

CYRIL
Sing afterwards!
Be brave—this voice is nothing beside yours.
A dancer's paces on the polished floor
To the airy poise and passage of a nymph
Across the woods!

BERTHA
You cannot make me think so,
But you may think so always if you will.

MRS. VERE
(aside)
Mark her appeals! That way she won him, Blanche!
O to divide this knot!

LADY BLANCHE
I will not hear you.
She preludes and sings.

CYRIL
A bitter song. Have you dropped many hearts
To whisper all their wrongs about your feet?
You should tread lightly.

LADY BLANCHE
'Tis a woman's song.
This kind of crime is only masculine.

CYRIL
Indeed!

MRS. VERE
(to Bertha)
You do not speak?

MARKHAM
Her face speaks for her,
Being full of praise and wonder.

BERTHA
I could listen
Hours into minutes. Will you sing again?

LADY BLANCHE
No, no—your turn is come.

MARKHAM
(to Bertha)
Then let me choose;
Do me so much of honour. Sing for me,
That—nay, I cannot name it—which you sang
In the last twilight, and which seemed to us
A murmur from one mourning in the woods
Ere she goes home; when the lamp came, we looked
To see who had not wept.

BERTHA
That little ballad?
Is't not too sad? Well—bear with it, and me!
BERTHA sings.

MRS. VERE
Sweet but untrained!

LADY BLANCHE
A voice like a wild rose.

CYRIL
O! what a pang of silence follows it!
Yet, Markham, yet, I cannot praise your taste.
Find you a charm in phantasies of pain
To soothe away the substance of your griefs?
I ever held that Art should stand by Truth
To draw the secret beauty out of it
And teach us all we miss; providing us
With havens and reposes, whence, refreshed,
We go back to our toil. Tears are not Rest;
I grudge them to my visions, being sure
My facts will need them.

MARKHAM
Reason goes with you;
But I, who shudder at the depths, can play
Among the shallows.

MRS. VERE
Time demands us now.
Come Blanche. (To Bertha.)
And you must visit me at home?
Have you a day to spare, or shall we fix
When we meet next?

CYRIL
Nay, mother, you forget
Her days are not as yours—she grows i' the shade.

MRS. VERE
I should be sorry if my summons crossed
A fairer project.

BERTHA
'Tis not possible.
I am your servant, if you send for me;
Your child, if you will love me! Let me hope
It shall be so—

MRS. VERE
I never had the skill
To set my pretty sentiments to words;
I know it is a fault. Shall we say Tuesday?
Nay, thank me not, I am content with ‘yes.’ [Gives her hand to Bertha.

'Tis settled. Cyril, do you come with us?

CYRIL
Aye, to the door.

MRS. VERE
No further? So you teach me
My future ere it comes.

[Exit Mrs. Vere.
LADY BLANCHE
She is not well; [To Bertha.

Think nothing of her haste. But you and I
Will learn our sistership at leisure. Take
This kiss as warrant.

[Kisses her, and exit, following Mrs. Vere.
CYRIL
(to Bertha)
Look not sad, my love.

BERTHA
You did not like my song.

CYRIL
Child, is that all? [Exit Markham.

That wound finds speedy healing. All the while
It seemed as if you sang about yourself,
And that soft wailing for the little one
Came back and back again to trouble me
Like some light haunting pain, the seed of death,
Till, angry with unreasonable fears,
I blamed the strain. But, for the rest, it was
Too precious, like a picture in the street
Which we would cover from the wind and dust,
Or chill of eyes neglectful. Are you healed?

BERTHA
Aye, with a word.

Re-enter Markham.
MARKHAM
Now thank me, for I did
Your office nobly and devised excuses
(At least a dozen) why you did it not.

BERTHA
Alas, I fear I am to blame for this!

MARKHAM
You were the sole excuse I did not name.
How have you fared? Come, tell us, will you call
Your terrors treason?

CYRIL
Do not press her now;
She is weary.

MARKHAM
Ah, you should be satisfied.
The lilies that you missed are here again.

BERTHA
Am I so pale?

CYRIL
White as a dream of angels.

BERTHA
I'll rest.

CYRIL
And so farewell. At evening time
I will return.

[Exeunt Cyril and Markham.
BERTHA
(alone)
O yes, at evening time!
But never since I knew of waning lights
Have I so longed for evening. When it comes,
I shall be happy. What a thankless soul!
Now will I set my joy before my soul
And so compel it into happiness.
First then, he loves me. Next—but no, there is
No second to that first, it covers all.
I'll think of it before I fall asleep
That all my dreams may be astir with hope
Of bright awakening. If his mother grieves
That he should look so low, I blame her not;
Yet am I sure of something in myself
Which answers and aspires to what he is;
And if on that sweet upward slope of Time
At which I gaze, she sees me by his side
Giving such comfort as a woman may
To him who loves her, she will pardon me.
But shall I walk beside him? I am tired
And all the Future seems too difficult;
Only at evening-time, when there is light
Shall the way soften and the distance shine.
Goodnight, my love. Come back at evening time.

[She lies down on a couch and sleeps. A pause.
Re-enter Cyril
CYRIL
[He perceives Bertha.
[Throws himself on the body.

Enter Markham.
MARKHAM
What a cry was there! [He starts back appalled.

O, Cyril, Cyril, has your God done this!

CYRIL
(rising from the body)
I think I have not seen your face before,
But you seem pitiful. Look here for me—
You weep and cannot! I am blind myself.
Will no man give a name to this cold sleep?
I want the truth. Friend, is there hope?

MARKHAM
No, No!
Alas, she's dead!

CYRIL
You must not touch her hand,
It's mine. And she—not she—but all I have
Instead of her—friend, for I know you now,
I was to-day the richest soul on earth—
You saw me so. What have I now—my world
Narrowed to this! An empty garment, friend.
I cannot, as some do, look calmly on it
And ask you if it is not beautiful;
I cannot cast it from me—there it lies—
My darkness and my poverty lie there—
What shall I do?

MARKHAM
It is too soon for comfort.

CYRIL
(to the body)
Dear, did you know we were to part so soon?
How could you bear me from you? You have robbed me
Of my last memories! Had I but been here,
O had mine eyes but watched this cruel sleep,
They had not suffered it to slip to death!

MARKHAM
Time lives, while all things die, and lives to soothe.

CYRIL
Time lives, and I must live again in Time;
The certainty is on me that I must;
I am afraid of it. There are the streets
Where I shall walk, the men that I shall meet,
The things that I shall do; but in the midst,
Or in the hollow times that look like rest,
Suddenly I shall feel her in my arms,
And all I see or hear shall fall from me
Like cold mists from a climber, leaving me
Alone upon the summit of my grief;
Then most alone, when I am most with her
Who was the sweetest company on earth.
O for an endless cloister!

MARKHAM
If my pity—
Nay, if my wrath could aid you, they are yours.
Why are we flung so helpless into life
To suffer what we would not? Either God
Rules not at all, and then He is not God,
Or if He rule the world He is not good
Because He makes it vile and miserable,
Vile to the vile, and dreadful to the good
Who serve Him to no purpose!

CYRIL
O, be dumb!
Her angel's here already and is grieved.
Henceforth I go to meet that touch of God
Which we call death; and when, upon my way
I faint, or shrink, or falter among men,
Suddenly I shall feel her in my arms
And all mean thoughts shall drop away from me,
The cloud shall pass, the trouble shall be calm,
The Future shall possess me (having lost
All else), till, mantled in that coming light
Which dwarfs and dims the distances of Earth,
Crowned with unconscious conquests, which she wins,
I reach the perfect Presence, where she waits!
This, this, is what my God has done for me:
I'll own it, though I die.

Enter Mrs. Vere hastily. She falls on Cyril's neck.
MRS. VERE
Oh, my dear son!
I know your loss is great.

CYRIL
Alas, my mother!
Yours is still greater. You missed loving her!