University of Virginia Library

Scene II.—The Drawingroom of Mrs. Vere (Cyril's Mother).

Mrs. Vere—Duchess of Lanslade—Lord Stanerly.
DUCHESS
You shine beneath your lustre of good news
Like a ring stirred in sunlight. If I talk
Till you drop down with listening, half my joy
Is still untold. I knew him from a child;
A month between my soldier's age and his—
Ah, when they went so grievously to school
Who thought the little pale-face had such brains?

MRS. VERE
He was before his elders. I can see
How the class towered around him. I was vexed
Until I found the youngest of his mates
Had two years more of growth.

DUCHESS
My Alfred's height
Served but to make conspicuous idleness—
Well, it becomes him now.

MRS. VERE
He looks so well
In regimentals.

DUCHESS
Make no vain pretence
To grace him with a thought! Me he contents.
(Poor boy, I wish he were beside us now!)
Your themes are greater. When your victor comes
Tell him how glad I am.

MRS. VERE
He has a heart
Quick to discern a friend.

DUCHESS
Blanche told us first;
Rosy and breathless with her news she broke
Upon my toilet—I forgave it her—
All the dear glories of her playfellow
She counts her own. You should have seen the child!

MRS. VERE
(to Lord Stanerly)
You have said nothing yet.

LORD STANERLY
I think the more.
I waited for this day. Now he fulfils
Uttermost hope; 'tis no mere student-crown
Marking a life for leisure; this is power;
I tested and am sure of it—this hand
Will do triumphantly what work it finds.
You'll trust him to me?

MRS. VERE.
Do you ask for him?

LORD STANERLY
Hark in your ear—the chief has heard of him:
Give me one year to pave his working-path,
And it shall lead him to the Cabinet

MRS. VERE
What—a career? You promise it!

LORD STANERLY
I swear it;
You need not thank me; we are proud of him:
I speak with knowledge.

MRS. VERE
All my dreams at once!
I tremble with this weight of joy.

LORD STANERLY
We leave you
To grow familiar with it.

DUCHESS
When he comes
Give him my love. Make him remember Blanche,
Sprung into womanhood, but losing not
The careless magic of those childish hours
When he heaped meadow-gold about her feet
And called her ‘little wife!’

MRS. VERE
You are too kind
With such remembrances.

[They shake hands. Exeunt Duchess and Lord Stanerly.
MRS. VERE
(alone)
His ‘little wife’?
Scarce big enough for such distinction now;
I'll not remind him. Strange that she should like
To mention her inglorious Alfred here;
There's no accounting for these mother-hearts!
I should be lenient—being set, myself,
Above all need or reach of charity.
O! I am happy; in my splendid sky
There's not a threatening finger-breadth of cloud;
I fear to fall asleep, lest I should die
Full-handed in the leisure of my glory
Ere I have quaffed it. See, he should be here! [Looks at her watch.

Ah—the dear step!

Enter Cyril. She hurries to meet him.
MRS. VERE
My king! My pride! My darling!

CYRIL
Dear mother!

[They embrace.
MRS. VERE
You are pale—you have done all,
And have our full permission to be tired!
You must rest now, my Cyril—for a month
You shall lie down in fern and watch the clouds,
And sigh among the singing of the birds,
And see the sweet flower-problems solve themselves
Without your help, and never think at all,
But keep a novel ready by your hand,
Turning no page; so shall you come refreshed
Where that impatient Future waits for you
To mount and rein and ride it.

CYRIL
I am glad
That you are pleased.

MRS. VERE
You are so like a man;
Ashamed to show that you are satisfied:
Are you too proud for this? Come, let me coax you!
Confess your triumph like a fault, and make
Decent excuse; tell us you could not help it
Being born so wise; or say you worked so hard
Because the work was easy; that success
Comes more by chance than merit—talk your fill
Of nonsense, so it smooth you into smiles:
I'll question nothing if I see the smiles,
I'm pining for them.

CYRIL
Mother, be content!
This day is yours—we'll keep it all for joy;
A rose upon the threshold, which we lift
To our hearts, before we enter.

MRS. VERE
Ah, you reach
After new crowns. I know what lies for you
Beyond that threshold. You shall enter, Cyril!
So would I have a man, afire for work!
Women should arm their knights, but times are vile
When the soft hand of service and caress
Is forced to goad the loiterers; you shall find
I have prepared the way.

CYRIL
But, tell me, how?

MRS. VERE
Lord Stanerly was here, your father's friend,
Whose eye has watched you with expectancy
Slow kindling into welcome. You are his,
Nay rather he is yours; among your honours
He too was mastered. He has pledged his word,
He makes you—Cyril, do not laugh at me;
You shall have office while the year is young;
But I pass through the present morning light
To the near noon—you shall be Premier, Cyril;
I say it, I, your mother—ere I am old
All men shall point and whisper where I pass
‘There goes his mother.’

CYRIL
(Aside)
I would fain have waited,
But this involuntary falseness drives me
Against the pain of truth. (Aloud)
Mother, I'll ask you
If I have done my best?

MRS. VERE
Why, you have done
Best of the world.

CYRIL
Then have I wrung from life
This guerdon, say this justice, that my choice
Is free.

MRS. VERE
Your choice? But Fortune lackeys you,
Assiduous, anxious, she forestalls your choice
With more than it dared dream of.

CYRIL
So she does;
But not as you would have her. Dearest mother,
Give me the right to mould my life.

MRS. VERE
What mean you
By this strange harping upon ‘choice’ and ‘right’?

CYRIL
O! not my right, sweet mother, but my need!
I speak because we are alone. I pause
On my first height to draw my breath and gaze—
I see but two things—misery and God.

MRS. VERE
I hear you not aright.

CYRIL
Beside our path
There lies a lovely world; warm distances,
Whose softness penetrates the nearer ways,
Making the tiniest grass-blade at our feet
A promise and a mystery. How full
Is growing Earth of Heaven! There's not a tint
But tells us how the sunshine tempered it;
How all the stems reach upward, uttering
Their protest against Darkness! Everywhere
We tread on revelations and appeals,
And for the soul that sees and construes them
Nothing is wanting. This would be to walk
Through beauty into holiness. But O!
Hosts of blind souls are dying everywhere
Out of the limits of our natural day;
Prostrate in dust, knowing of this sweet earth
Nothing but stains and thorns. They are half the world
For which He died; we, the bright other half,
We on the heights, we in the happy airs,
What can we do but stretch our arms to them?

MRS. VERE
I would not check your generous pity, son;
Give what you will.

CYRIL
But I will give myself!
Little enough; yet it may save a child
Or comfort a worn woman.

MRS. VERE
You are mad!
Was it for this you toiled and won your wreath?
What would you do?

CYRIL
Mother, there is a place
Where little helpless infants work for bread
And old men die without the name of Christ.
You would not wish to keep me from that place
Which cries aloud for me?

MRS. VERE
This is a fever;
It is the too much working of your brain,
You must be soothed and saved from reckless acts
Till you are stronger. Such a heat as this,
In the first blundering ages of the world,
Made monks and foolish hermits.

CYRIL
Nay, not so;
For these recluses were the cowards of God;
They loved, but could not trust Him. They beheld
The tumult of that sea whereon He walks
And fled; but I will cross the waves to Him,
Making my very faithlessness a prayer,
Sure of Him though I sink.

MRS. VERE
Alas, alas!
How shall I reason with you? You have heard
Some strange fanatic. Only grant me this;
Wait for the teaching processes of Time;
You shall convince yourself; your wiser thoughts
Shall temper these conclusions. Test them thus;
If all men dreamed like you, God's goodly world
Would be a desert.

CYRIL
No, a Paradise,
Where those who take His bounty with one hand
Would give it with the other, and grow poor
By making many rich.

MRS. VERE
I would I knew
What man it is who has bewitched you thus!

CYRIL
Why should it seem incredible that God
Who made me, speaks to me? You think He made me?

MRS. VERE
(weeping)
I know what havoc of familiar duty
This wild religion makes! You are too good
For plain commands like honouring your mother!

CYRIL
O gentle mother, never wroth till now,
Now in love only, pardon, as you used
To pardon all our wrongs and waywardness—
The gay ingratitude of childish hearts
Which count no cost because they feel no pang!
No preacher but yourself converted me;
You led me up to God.

MRS. VERE
I, Cyril?

CYRIL
You!
I knew it not till lately, when I found
This, in the silent treasury of gifts
Poured from your ceaseless hand. How long ago
I cannot tell—I see myself a child
To whom infinity, and life, and death
Were like a great lawn in a parable
Beside a pleasant river. As I walked
On our own lawn, half-conscious of such thoughts,
Stirring like sap that shall force out the flower
When the time comes, you caught me from the grass
And showed where I had nearly set my foot
On some slight miracle of tiny life:
‘God made it,’ so you said; ‘destroy it not!’
I, loving that kind lesson, answered you
In wonder, ‘Are all children in the world
Taught to be tender? Or do these things die
Under a thousand careless feet?’ Perchance
I thought, if so, what use in saving one.
But you, with deeper logic, ‘What I say
Is for yourself. You see, and you are taught,
And you must save!’ O, mother, pluck the fruit
Of your own seed—all that I am is yours.
As in the street by venerable walls
Some passer strays, and hears the softened choir,
And takes a sweet psalm-fragment on his lips,
Singing it as he walks, but knowing not
Where it was learnt, till suddenly he wakes
And in the city's heart remembers it,
And fits the tune with holy words, well-pleased
To find himself at worship—such am I.
Out of the music of your heart you gave
One note, which I have murmured till it swells
To a litany of angels.

MRS. VERE
(falls on his neck)
Ah, my son,
Die not from me because you are so good!
Live only, and I cross you not!

CYRIL
Your word
Abides, and I, who see and know, must save
All that I can. If I be any worth
(I dare not think so), mother; if my toil
Have won what you and I suppose a crown,
Nay, not a crown, a sword—we cast it low
At those dear Feet, to take it from those Hands.
Now for the joy of service, and the rest
Of work, and all the breaking lights of Hope
That make a constellation of the sky
While sleepers call it night; so to walk on
Till the Day dawn and all the voices blend
In one vast welcome to our risen Lord!