University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

Seaford—Markham.
SEAFORD
Yes, now I see that old face in the new,
That strange, specific, personal difference
Which makes me name you. At first sight you seemed
Vague altogether; by degrees, the touch
Of some remembered thought fell softly on me,
Wakened and held me; then I found the place,
And then the family, and now the name;
You and no other. Did you light on me
By chance?

MARKHAM
Nay, Seaford, there is slighter change
In you than me; I knew you at a glance;
Just thus I dreamed you should be, when as boys
We talked about our future certainties
Making them what we would. Have you attained them?
Methinks you have—I am sure you must have felt
The cultivations of a tender home
To bring you to such smoothness. Are they yours,
The gentle wife, the pleasant competence,
The not too numerous brood of little ones
Making the garden gay, but leaving still
The study tranquil, gracing not disturbing
The leisure of your learning—

SEAFORD
Out upon you!
Comes nothing greater from these early visions?
Was I so tame i' the morning?

MARKHAM
Better grow
From soft beginnings, like a gradual flower,
Than like a star flash out to set in blackness
Nor leave a glimmer on the dismal sky!
How have you sped, in truth?

SEAFORD
Well, you shall see,
If, as I hope, you'll test me. But yourself—
Not only Time's deliberate restlessness
Has stamped your face; I find the mark of toil,
The scar of conquest—tell me—have you reached
Your young ambitions?

MARKHAM
I have done a little;
Less haply than I dreamed, since my slow fame
Knocked never at your door.

SEAFORD
'Tis my dull ear
That failed to note it. Was't in Africa—

MARKHAM
Tush! never mind. Tell me of all our friends—
Lives little Fortescue?

SEAFORD
Lives? I should think so!
Full twice as much as many a bigger man;
He goes about us like the general air,
Or like an evening gnat, in every place
Save where we want to catch him.

MARKHAM
Mark you now
How little change there comes in thirty years!
'Tis said the morrow differs from the day
For ever; count by decades, and you find
There's nothing but foreseen development
Or irresistible decay.

SEAFORD
No, no!
Not thirty years—you shall not say so much.

MARKHAM
There spoke the happy voyager, who sails
With ship so placid and with sea so kind
That the first glimpse of land disheartens him;
Still he looks back, and never thinks of those
Who hunger for the greensward and the streams.
Once more, what news of Grey?

SEAFORD
You throw a blank;
The first.

MARKHAM
What, dead? The youngest of us all,
And such a gentle heart!

SEAFORD
Even such he was.
The cruel wires brought home his fatal name
Two days before a letter, full of laughs,
Which charged his weeping wife to welcome him.

MARKHAM
I could almost weep too to think of it.
Well—I have left the best name to the last—
I know he lives, but tell me how he fares?

SEAFORD
Who?

MARKHAM
Shall I name him? When we dreamed together
Of coming days, and built our lives with words
Like Babels that should break and scatter us,
Was there not one whose face was to the hills,
Who chattered not, but climbed, and closed with Day
Among the shining summits, while we slept?

SEAFORD
I cannot guess his name, unless you speak
Of Cyril—

MARKHAM
But why drop your voice? I'm sure
He lives—you shall not tell me otherwise;
What—Cyril?

SEAFORD
Nay, be satisfied, he lives.
There are so many sorts of life, my friend;
This air that fans us, holds a mighty scale
From insect up to eagle, or some say
Up higher yet, to Angels, which, unseen,
Walk on its fluent waves and find no place
In our class-namings. Not to speak of these,
If I should talk to you of Cyril's life
'Twere just as though some chirper in the hedge
Should gossip about eagles.

MARKHAM
Say you so?
Hath he outsoared the wings of Speech? Come, come,
You tell me fables!

SEAFORD
Sir, I am a man
In my own compass, knowing right from wrong,
Familiarly, doing no hurt to any,
Keeping some general watch upon myself,
Trusting the Hope that shall make up for all,
Not aiming high, but not afraid of death,
And not ashamed of living comfortably;
But, for a minute, look you, for a minute
To see my days beside such days as his
Sends a pale shudder through my puzzled soul
As if I were the vilest thing that breathes;
That's nonsense—but I feel it.

MARKHAM
Well, I know
The world hath dreamers, and they have their place
In the world's work; to keep alive the light
Which others walk by. If he's one of these—

SEAFORD
O! spare your ‘If’—he labours like the sea
Without a pause—what looks afar like Rest
Is but the softer toil which moulds and smooths
After uprooting. He hath made a name;
The People know him. If a whirlwind drops
One of these trenchant ‘Whys’ which pierce the depths
And reach the shallows, so that lip to lip
Tosses amazing words, and all the world
Grows intimate with unsolved mysteries
And fights for things unknown, and builds its towers
To guard no vineyard, but a wilderness
(Our civilised religion hath such broils),
At such a season, men will ask each other
‘But what said Cyril?’ and the answer given
Be more conclusive than a victory;
In truth, a seed of Peace, which, being watered,
Becomes a mighty shelter.

MARKHAM
You surprise me!
I ever deemed his argument too fine
For common fingers; silver threads that slip
Without a knot.

SEAFORD
Nay, but the greatest men
Lay hands on all. They feed us, like the skies,
With light for rich and poor, unjust and just.
One uses it to build, and one to plant,
And one to hunt for farthings—still it shines.

MARKHAM
Tell me his haunts—I want to meet with him.
By all you say, this vigorous noon should hold
Sweet union with its unregretted morn.
I think I should be welcome.

SEAFORD
Doubt it not;
To me, who have but talked away my life,
He comes with such profound and gentle eyes
That I can feel them touch the Thing within,
And I am sure they find some good in it
Whereof I knew not. 'Tis a loving heart.

MARKHAM
Where can I find him?

SEAFORD
You shall come with me.
The Congress sits to-day.

MARKHAM
Translate your news
For unfamiliar ears, receiving not
These new-grown flowers of speech.

SEAFORD
Well then, the Congress
Is—an assemblage—

MARKHAM
So much I could guess.

SEAFORD
But hear the end! We gather and we talk
Of happened evil and imagined good
In all the realms of practice and belief,
Trusting that slow realities of good
Out of our talk shall spring, and fill our fields
Till the weeds find no room.

MARKHAM
A Parliament
That makes no laws. Speaks Cyril in the ranks?

SEAFORD
Aye, from the ranks he speaks, and as he speaks
The leaders change their tactics. Here's the door.
Shall we go in?

MARKHAM
I follow.

[They enter the House of Assembly.