University of Virginia Library

Scene II.—Wytsand, on the Coast of Boulogne.

Becket, John of Salisbury, Herbert of Bosham, attendants.
Bec.
(standing apart from the rest).
I have tried all ways beside: remains but this.
(After a long pause)
The night comes swiftly like a hunted man
Who cloaks his sin; the sea grows black beneath it;
There's not a crest that thunders on these sands
But sounds some seaman's knell.
The wan spume racing o'er the death-hued waters
This way and that way writhes a bickering lip:
As many winds as waves o'er-rush the deep,
Warring like fiends whose life is hate. Alas!
For him, the ship-boy on the drowning deck!
He never knew the weariness of life,
The sickness of the heart, the sin, the sorrow—
Not thus I hoped to face my native land.
What means this sinking strange? Till now my worst
Was when I saw my sister in her shroud.
Death, when it comes, will not be dread as this:
Death is the least of that which lies before me.
This is mine hour of darkness, and ill powers
Usurp upon my manlier faculties,
Which in the void within me faint and fail,
Like stones that loosen in some high-built arch
Then when the keystone crumbles—
I cannot stamp my foot upon the earth:
Where art thou, Power Divine, my hope till now?
To what obscure and unimagined bourne
Beyond the infinitudes of measureless distance
Hast thou withdrawn thyself? This, this remains;
Seeing no more God's glory on my path
To tread it still as blindfold innocence
Walks 'twixt the burning shares.

John of Sal.
(joining Becket).
Beware, my lord! I know King Henry's eye:
Go not to England. He would have you there,
The man who drave you thence.

Bec.
Our ends are diverse;
Not less my way may lie with his.

John of Sal.
How far?

Bec.
It may be to my church of Canterbury;
It may be to the northern transept there;
It may be to that site I honoured ever,
The altar of Saint Benedict. Thus far
Our paths may blend—then part.

John of Sal.
Go not to England!
I mingled with the sailors of yon ship:
Their captain signed to me: then, with both hands
Laid on my shoulders, and wide, staring eyes,
Thus whispered:—‘Lost! undone! Seek ye your deaths?
All men may land in England—none return.’

Bec.
Behold, I give you warning in good time
Lest anger one day pass the bounds of truth:
King Henry never schemed to shed my blood
Dungeons low-vaulted, and a lifelong chain;—
That was the royal dream. Return, my friend.
[John of Salisbury departs.
Thank God, that cloud above my spirit lightens!
Danger, when near, hath still a trumpet's sound:
It may be that I have not lived in vain;
Let me stand once within the young king's presence,
Yea though the traitors should besiege him round,
Close as the birds yon rock—

Arch. of Sens
(arriving).
My lord, God save you!

Bec.
One kind act more; you come to say fare-well.
My brother, and my lord, four years rush back
And choke my heart! We are both too old for weeping:
I am a shade that fleets. May centuries bless
That house so long my home!

Arch.
The see of Sens
Has had you for her guest; our fair cathedral
And yours are sisters: be the omen blest!
Perhaps in future ages men may say,
‘Thomas of Canterbury, Sens' poor William—
These men, so far apart in gifts of grace,
Were one in mutual love.’

Bec.
My lord, in heaven
Not earth alone, that love shall be remembered.
Bear back my homage to your good French king,
That great and joyous Christian gentleman,
Who keeps his youth in age. Firmly he walks
The royal road—faith, hope, and charity,
To throne more royal and a lordlier kingdom.
Pray him to live with Henry from this hour
In peace.

Arch.
The king will ask of your intent.

Bec.
Tell him we play at heads. God rules o'er all.
Farewell!

Arch.
Good friend, and gracious lord, farewell!

[The Archbishop of Sens departs, attended.
Her. of Bos.
(arriving).
As good to go to heaven by sea as land!
Sail we, my lord, this evening?

Bec.
Herbert, Herbert!
Before thou hast trod in England forty days
All that thou hast right gladly wouldst thou give
To stand where now we stand. What sable shape
Is that which sits on yonder rock, alone,
Nor heeds the wild sea-spray?

Her.
My lord, Idonea;
She too makes way to England, and desires
Humbly your Grace's audience.

Bec.
Lead her hither.
[Herbert departs.
Herbert and John—both gone—how few are like them!
They helped me on rough ways. In Herbert still,
So holy and so infant-like his soul,
I found a mountain-spring of Christian love
Upbursting through the rock of fixed resolve,
A spring of healing strength; in John, a mind
That, keener than diplomatists of kings,
Was crafty only 'gainst the wiles of craft,
And, stored with this world's wisdom, scorned to use it
Except for heavenly aims.
The end draws nigh. Nor John nor Herbert sees it.
[His attendants approach with Idonea.
Earth's tenderest spirit and bravest! Welcome, child!
Soft plant in bitter blast! Adieu, my friends;
This maid hath tidings for my private ear.
[The attendants depart.
My message reached you then, my child, at Rouen?
But what is this? Is that the countenance turned
So long to yon dark West?

Ido.
Love reigns o'er all!—
My father, who but you should hear the tale?
I had forsaken that fair Norman home
To seek my English convent, and those shores
Denied me long. The first night of my journey
There came to me a vision. All alone
I roamed, methought, some forest lion-thronged
And dinned all night by breakers of great seas,
Booming far off. In fear I raised my head:
T'ward me there moved two Forms, female in garb,
In stature and in aspect more than human;
The loftier wore a veil.

Bec.
You knew the other?

Ido.
The Empress! In that face, so sad of old,
Was sadness more unlike that former sadness
Than earthly joy could seem. Within it, lived
A peace to earth unknown, and, with that peace,
The hope serene of one whose heaven is sure.
She placed within my hand a shining robe,
And spake:—‘For him whom most thou lov'st on earth:’—
It was a shroud.

Bec.
A shroud?

Ido.
And other none
Than that which, 'mid the snows of Pontigny,
Enswathed your sister, as in death she lay
Amid the waxlight sheen. It bore that cross
I traced in sanguine silk before the burial.
This is, my lord, men say, your day of triumph,
Christ's foes subjected and His rights restored;
Doubtless long years of greatness lie before you:
Perhaps for that cause she, an Empress once,
Knowing that triumph is our chief of dangers,
Sent you that holy warning.

Bec.
I accept it.
Spake not that other?

Ido.
Suddenly a glory
Forth burst that lit huge trunk and gloomiest cave:
That queenlier Presence had upraised her veil.

Bec.
You knew her face?

Ido.
And learned what man shall be
When risen to incorrupt. It was your sister!

Bec.
Great God! I guessed it.

Ido.
In her hand she held
A crown whose radiance quenched the heavenly signs;
The star-crown of the elect who bore the Cross.
With act benign she placed it in my hand,
And spake:—‘For him thou lov'st the most on earth.’
It was her being spake—her total being—
Body and spirit, not her lips alone.
I heard: I saw. That vision by degrees
Ceased from before me;—long the light remained:
A cloudless sun was rising, pale and dim,
In that great glory lost.

Bec.
My daughter, tell me—

Ido.
This storm is nothing; nor a world in storm!
The rage of nations, and the wrath of kings!
God sits above the roaring water-floods:
He in our petty tumults hath His peace,
And we our peace in His. Man's life is good;
Death better far.

Bec.
Was this a dream or vision?

Ido.
A vision and from God. The man who dreams
Makes question none if dream it be or real:
But when he wakes, well knows he that he dreams not:
Thus knew I that I dreamed not.

Bec.
Dream and vision
Are both God's heralds oft—

Ido.
To make us strong
In duteous tasks, not lull the soul, or soften.
That vision past, tenfold in me there burned
The craving once again to tread our England,
Where fiercest is the battle for the Faith.
Thither this night I sail.

Bec.
In three days I.
Ere then a perilous task must be discharged:
The Pope hath passed the sentence of suspension
On two schismatic bishops, London and York.
See you these parchments with the leaded seals?
They must be lodged within the offenders' hands—
Chiefly the hands of York—and lodged moreover
While witnesses are by. Llewellen failed
But late with missives charged of milder sort:
If this time he succeeds, and yet is captured,
Send tidings in his place.

Ido.
Llewellen's known;
Was late in England; all your friends are known.
Those prelates both are now, I think, in London:
On Sunday morning this poor hand of mine
Shall lodge that sentence, ay, and hold it fast,
Within the hand of York.

Bec.
The danger's great:
The habit of a nun might lull suspicion:
Not less, the deed accomplished—

Ido.
Can they find
Dungeon so deep that God will not be there,
And those twain memories which beside me move,
My soul's defence, a mother's and a brother's?
Or death? One fears to live, for life is sin:
One fears not death. Your sister 'mid the snows
Upon this bosom died: she feared not death;
While breath remained she thanked her God, and praised Him.
The Empress on this bosom died; death near,
She was most humbly sad, most sweetly fearful;
But, closer as it drew, her hope rose high,
And all was peace at last.

Bec.
Then go, my child.
You claim a great prize—meet it is you find it.
May He who made, protect you! May His saints,
Fair-flowering and full-fruited in His beam,
Sustain you with their prayers; His angel host
In puissance waft you to your earthly bourne,
In splendour to your heavenly. Earth, I think,
Hath many a destined work for that small hand;—
Sigh not as yet for heaven!

Ido.
I will not, father:
I wait His time.

Bec.
The wind has changed to south:
The sea grows smoother, and a crimson light
Shines on the sobbing sands. Beyond the cliff
The sun sets red. This is the mandate, child;
Farewell, and pray for me!

[Idonea kneels, kisses his hand, and departs.
Her.
(returning with the rest).
Bad rumours thicken—

Bec.
In three days hence I tread my native shores.

Llew.
With what intent?

Bec.
To stamp this foot of mine
Upon the bosom of a waiting grave,
And wake a slumbering realm.

Llew.
May it please your Grace—

Bec.
My friends, seven years of exile are enough:
If into that fair church I served of old
I may not entrance make, a living man,
Let them who loved me o'er its threshold lift
And lay my body dead.