University of Virginia Library

ACT II

Time.—Three weeks later: night.
Scene.—The same as Act I. Miriam and Martha discovered, Miriam touching mandolin absently. Martha at work on embroidery, a lamp beside her.
Miriam.
[Sings.]

Martha.
What sorrow of the gloaming dost thou sing?

Miriam.
Of some bereaved woman in the Fens.
[Casting aside instrument and coming over to Martha.
O Martha!

Martha.
Well, child—will you help me here?
These eyes begin to fail in lamplight now.

Miriam.
[Kneeling by her.]
Dear Martha!

Martha.
Ah! just here I cannot—well,
Weary of music?

Miriam.
Let me lay my head
Here in thy lap as in the olden days
Then when I was a child.

Martha.
You'd have me idle
As you are,—there, then!

[Taking her face in her hands.
Miriam.
Was I a bad child, Martha?

Martha.
Ah, no! but headlong ever and rash.

Miriam.
Cruel?

Martha.
Not with intention.

Miriam.
Ah, but still
Of others too regardless?

Martha.
As a child is.

Miriam.
I am so happy; let me hide my face
Here.

Martha.
If so happy, child, why so afraid?

Miriam.
No! not afraid.

Martha.
I am glad that you are happy,
That shows me you are humbler, that your heart
Is tamed; thence only cometh happiness.

Miriam.
[Looking up.]
I am not tamed!

Martha.
Well—more at rest then.

Miriam.
Rest!

Martha.
Now you are weeping. Who shall guess your soul,
Miriam? So happy now, and now wild tears.

Miriam.
You know, you know, I would not hurt you, no,
Nor—him, not willingly—never was cruel.

Martha.
You say you would not hurt me nor—

Miriam.
Your brother.

Martha.
Your husband.

Miriam.
No—not willingly—and yet—

Martha.
What would you say?

Miriam.
Nothing. I know not what.
[She again takes up mandolin, then casts it down, coming to Martha again.
Martha, dear Martha, why are you not kind?

Martha.
Kind! you to say I am not kind.

Miriam.
O, kind—
But—but you love me deeply, do you not?

Martha.
What need to ask?

Miriam.
Whate'er I did, me, me
You love?

Martha.
I fear so; but you will do nothing
I could not also love.

Miriam.
I cannot tell.
[Then suddenly.]
Come, give me both your hands. I hold you fast—
You cannot fly—look not on me. I fear,
I fear to be alone with him—the stranger,
Within our gates—cast me not from you yet!

Martha.
[Rising]
If this be true, it is a deadly sin!
The blackest—to your knees and seek your God.
But I'll not think it, cannot imagine, dream it.
'Tis folly, the fruit of too much idleness.
But hearken, Miriam! though it be but folly,
It must be plucked from out of you, flung away,
Else I will seek my brother out, I am
His faithful friend—but 'tis unthinkable!

Enter Mardyke, hurriedly, with a letter in his hand, accompanied by Ratcliffe.
Mardyke.
[To Ratcliffe.]
Summon the council hither, on the instant!
[Exit Ratcliffe.
[Turning to Miriam.]
Idle—still idle! and in time of war!
A night of peril! yet the strings are heard.
Mistress, bestir you! To your household tasks,
And make this dwelling ready for the night!
And then to bed! else will I lock you up:
Provide you bread to eat, water to drink.
I'll starve this fiend of indolence out of you.

Martha.
Brother, you speak not wisely.

Mardyke.
Ah, do you
Sustain her?

Martha.
'Tis not wise to use her thus;
I tell you, 'tis not wise; such roughness makes
All women desperate.

Mardyke.
Wisdom from women!

Martha.
You would not have your way with me thus—nor
Will you with her—your wife.

Mardyke.
Leave us together.
[Exit Martha.
That which I spoke, I spoke it not in jest.
I who have warred, and still do war for God,
Will keep a diligent wife, a quiet house,
Still and severe as fits our sacred cause.
You hear me?

Miriam.
Sir, you hurt my wrist—forbear.

Mardyke.
Remember! To your duties—then to bed!
[Exit Miriam.
Meanwhile the officers enter
How long, sirs, must we tarry idle here?
On all sides are we hemmed; where shall we strike?

Iron.
Where is Sir Hubert Lisle?

Mardyke.
Shut in his room.

Iron.
The peril gathers, yet that vacant chair!
[Murmurs from officers.
Sirs, I will speak no treason, yet we marvel
Why thus we are hemmed in idle. I will voice
The general fear; he who should lead us, faints.
[Murmurs of assent.
Who captains us? One, dazed and dubious.
Sir Hubert Lisle is fallen into a trance.
What purpose hath he, what direction, torn
This way and that, hither and thither blown?
Now he commands, anon he countermands;
Now is he hot for battle, now he cools,
This man, who fell amidst us like a brand.
And all the night he paces to and fro,
Murmuring and wrestling as with one unseen.
What curse lies heavy on him, or what spell?
Now let him wake, or be some other chosen.

[Murmurs.
Mardyke.
Lift we a prayer that heaven restore his mind,

Iron.
Yet, while we pray, is Rupert thundering down.

Enter Lisle, dreamily, with roses in his dress
Lisle.
Forgive, I pray you, sirs, this tardiness.
Sirs, you all frown on me and stare distrust.
I have fallen into a lethargy of spirit
Which even now is passing from me. Friends,
Let me not lose your faith.

Mardyke.
Sir, we but ask
Some guiding from you, and some certain light.
Darker our fortunes grow, on all sides pressed,
And threatened north and west. Where shall we strike?

Iron.
I say, take water northward and relieve
Fairfax in Hull.

Mardyke.
Or threaten suddenly
Newark, where now are horsemen swarming thick
Upon our flank.

Crablove.
And, sir, still Willoughby
In vain beleaguers Castle Bolingbroke.

Mardyke.
Quick flies the night. Shall we aid Willoughby?
Or hurl a force on Newark, or free Hull?

Lisle.
[Hesitatingly.]
To me it seems 'twere wiser here to bide,
[Murmurs.
Holding the Whitton and the Welland line.
Breaking the foe with bog and with morass,
Here let us lie, alert, but not o'er-hot.
We have much need of discipline severe,
Patience and quiet rule and still debate,
Till each man shall attain self-mastery.
Now leave me, sirs; for I must meditate,
And wrestle in spirit lest I be o'ercome.

[Exeunt officers, sullenly shaking their heads.
Mardyke.
[Rising.]
I will go up to the turret-room, and mark
If, in God's book, some chapter or some verse
May give us warning in our present need.

[Mardyke, unlocking case, takes down Bible, and ascends to tower with lighted candle. Lisle sits plunged in gloomy reverie and studying a map distractedly. Miriam passes across the stage hurriedly, with keys at her girdle. Lisle, seeing her, comes forward.
Lisle.
Lady, will you not touch the strings again?
With music lift from me this heaviness?

Miriam.
I may not, sir. I am accused of sloth,
And must about the business of the house.
Here are my keys.

Lisle.
[Seeing her wrist.]
See, you have hurt your wrist.

Miriam.
'Tis nothing.

Lisle.
But 'tis bruised as by a blow!
Miriam!—my heart spoke then. This burning silence,
Secret eye lightnings, and deep mutual sighs,
And darting comprehensions of swift thought,
Must break in words at last.

Miriam.
[Trembling.]
I will not hear them.

Lisle.
Hear them! and then do with me what you will.
When I spurred hither, all on fire for God,
Then did I gallop into human flame.
Cold I had lived, pure, narrow, temperate,
A girded swordsman pressing to the mark.
So rode I through that gate. Then suddenly
Thy beauty like a tempest fell on me;
And in one moment was I rent and riven.
Stunned is my life; I wander, and I grope.
My voice in the council falters; in mid-act
This lifted arm falls at thy floating face.
They waver like to mist, the ranks of war,
They waver and fade; he fades, the armèd man,
And spurring armies in a vision clash.
Or would I pray and upward fling my hands?
To thee I pray, thee, thee, with cries beseeching.
I am lost, lost!

Miriam.
O, I would be to thee
As gentle as the grass above the dead;
And have I been but darkness, and a sword?

Lisle.
No! for a revelation breaks from thee.
Thou hast unlocked the loveliness of earth,
Leading me through thy beauty to all beauty.
Thou hast admitted me to mystery,
Taught me the different souls of all the stars;
Through thee have I inherited this air,
Discovered sudden riches at my feet,
And now on eyes long blinded flames the world.
Thou shattering storm, thou eve of after blue,
Thou deluge, and thou world from deluge risen,
Thou sudden death, and thou life after death!
[A pause while she stands trembling.
You speak not. Give me but a human word.

Miriam.
O, all my life has listened for thy step!

Lisle.
How have I walked in glory unaware!
O, let your dear soul forth; stay it not now!

Miriam.
For thee alone came I into this world,
For thee this very hair grew glorious,
My eyes are of this colour for thy sake.
This moment is a deep inheriting,
And as the solemn coming to a kingdom.

Lisle.
Apart we two did wander inland; now
Listen, the ocean of infinity!
Life hath no more in it.

Miriam.
[Lying in his arms.]
My final peace!

Lisle.
Peace?

Miriam.
Doth the word seem cold? A woman's peace,
It hath all fire in it, and burneth white.

Lisle.
Peace! Is there peace while all—

Miriam.
Wake me not yet,
Not for this moment!

Lisle.
While this dreaming love
Gives you the language of a child or a bird,
Of a light and liquid rapture.

Miriam.
Speak not yet
Too human and too grave.

Lisle.
Yet every way
I look is darkness; for each moment war
May call me off.

Miriam.
Peer not into the dark.

Lisle.
Else will it swallow us. O suddenly
We two must hew us out a path.

Miriam.
Disturb not
This hush and church of passion with the world!

Lisle.
How thy speech wantons, while I stare at life!

Miriam.
Hush! I am lifted even above hope!

Lisle.
He, he—

Miriam.
Thou hast my spirit, be content.
O, all that in me wanders and is wild
Gathers into one wave that breaks on thee!

Lisle.
And I must bide, till this full beauty drop
Which even divinity did flush to dream.
Thou witherest like a virgin at his side.

[A sudden trumpet. They start apart.
Miriam.
Hark!

Lisle.
Tidings from the camp!

Miriam.
I'll leave you, then.

[Sound of hurried steps.
Lisle.
Some business easily dispatched!

Miriam.
I'll walk
Here, on the terrace, till you shall decide
This petty business.

Enter soldier, with letter, accompanied by Finch
Lisle.
A brief “Yes” or “No.”

[Exit Miriam. Lisle takes letter and reads it silently.
Lisle.
Ah!

Finch.
You are stricken, sir; lean on this arm.

Lisle.
[Exit soldier and Finch.
[Reading aloud.

“To Sir Hubert Lisle, Commander

“The Castle of Bolingbroke still bays all
attack. Those whom I have with me are too few:
the breach I have made too slight. Another day
and relief bursts upon us from Newark.

“There is now way but by sudden onslaught,
and that by daybreak. Who then shall lead
this? Whom has thou in the army of such

desperate valour, that, in scorn of life, he will
adventure? For he who shall lead such onslaught,
may already count himself as dead.
Yet, on this hazard, stand our fortunes in this
region. Hast thou a man of such fiery zeal
that others follow him? Then, send him
quickly. Let him know what peril awaits him;
but yet that on his peril hang our hopes.

“Knowing well thine own spirit, I entreat
that thou, thyself, shalt not so adventure; for
thy life is of the worth of many cities. Speed!
Speed!

“Willoughby.”

[Lisle sits down and spreads letter before him under lamp.

Lisle.
And why should I not send him? He is ripe
With such experience as none other hath
In breaches and in onslaughts both in France
And in the foreign fenland; he, I say,
Of all the host is the one only man,
The apparent instrument. I do but send
Him whom the peril asks, by man unblamed.
With God how stand I? Vain to palter there.
I'd have the husband dead that I might clasp
The wife secure. If then behind the deed
The mind can murder, and the heart can kill;
Then this mere silent wish, born of the brain,
Might instantly start up a living thing
And able, without hands, to strike? And I?
What were I better than the lurking thief,
Or hired assassin, stealing from behind
To stab him in the back?
Away the thought!
Let him succumb to the slow hour, or, drop
By sudden death-shot in mid-battle, or sink
In casual fever—I'll not do this thing.
Rather myself will go; leave pure this house,
And hurl this lurèd soul upon the breach.

[He starts to go when Miriam enters softly behind, from moonlit terrace.
Miriam.
Hast thou despatched?

Lisle.
Ah, thou?

Miriam.
Hast thou not yet
Determined?

Lisle.
[Hesitating as he gazes at her.]
No, not yet; there's more in this
Than I had looked for.

Miriam.
[Stretching out her arms for letter.]
May I read it? Oft,
A woman's mind is lightning, where men grope.
[Lisle refuses to give letter to her.
So weighty is it?

Lisle.
Even with life and death.
Nay, more: who knows? with all eternity.

Miriam.
[Quickly.]
Not perilous to thee?

Lisle.
Perhaps! Away!
Thy moonlight loveliness disturbs me.

Miriam.
Words
To make me stay; but, yet, I will not. I
Am heavy with the treasure thou hast given me,
And I will steal within and spread it out.
I long to lock me in and be alone
With these new riches in the dimness.

Lisle.
Ah!
Come back.

Miriam.
[Laughing softly.]
I shall disturb thee.

Lisle.
Yet stay on.
Can you not hear Time rushing past our ears,
With audible, irreparable flight?

Miriam.
[Gazing outward and sighing.]
How e'en the Fenland hath grown fairyland
And all these levels gleam as passionate
As the high gardens of Assyrian kings.
I shall not sleep—I cannot tell thee why—
[Leaning toward him.
Oh, thou dost know! Good night!

Lisle.
Thou shalt not go.
Thy hair hath slipped, and showers round thee. Now,
I hold thee all dishevelled in the moon;
I cannot clasp thy spirit; thee, I ask,
Thus in thy glorious body—thee!

Miriam.
I tremble.

Lisle.
That smile hath made a mist of all the world.

Miriam.
[Starting from him.]
Listen, one cometh on us.

Lisle.
Who?

Miriam.
Alas!

[Rushes from him.
Lisle.
[Coming wildly down from terrace into the room, sees the letter and snatches it up. Steps are heard, and Mardyke is seen slowly descending the stairs. Meanwhile the moon is clouded, and a light rain begins to fall.]
Old man, within this moment hast thou died.

Enter Mardyke, with Bible, which he lays on table
Mardyke.
It seemed, a while since, that a trumpet blew;
Still, by the book I sat; but have not found
Chapter or verse that lights our present need.
What tidings from the camp, what sudden word?

Lisle.
Prepare to spur at once to Bolingbroke.

Mardyke.
Now on the instant?

Lisle.
On the instant. Thou
Art needed there. Grave conference is held.
Thy famed experience in foreign siege
The general asks. Thee only can I send.

Mardyke.
The moon is quenched; yet lighten Thou this dark.
Thou great Taskmaster, if unto Thy service
Me Thou hast called, I go and murmur not.

Lisle.
Arm thee and quickly ere the blinded dawn
Peer on the drizzling levels. Fast! Away!

Mardyke.
With joy I go. I thank Thee, O my Lord,
That Thou hast not discarded me as old,
A cumberer of the ground, a loppèd branch,
But Thou hast service still for these grey hairs.
Light though the task, I'll kindle it with fire,
Restore to these old bones and crampèd limbs
Speed, and the ancient strength of other days
Then when I battled and bled at La Rochelle.
Ratcliffe! at once my armour, and my horse.
[Exit Mardyke.

Lisle.
[Taking pen and writing.]

“I send
you the man fitted for our purpose; of mighty
zeal and valour, and one that can enkindle
others to a hazard. Let him, then, lead this
assault. He knoweth his own peril and wherefore
he is sent. He himself beareth this letter.
He bringeth his life in his hand. Send me
swift news of the assault—and of him.”

[Voices are heard, and the sound of running to and fro. Reënter Mardyke, half-armed, with Ratcliffe, who hastily helps him to finish his arming.
Mardyke.
[To Ratcliffe.]
Buckle me closer there; and, here, more room.

Ratcliffe.
Thy back lies open here!

Mardyke.
In such a cause
I fear no stab in the back; the front is all.

Lisle.
Here is a letter: into Willoughby's hand
Deliver it.

Mardyke.
Shall I be long from home?

Lisle.
I think not—till to-morrow at sunset.

Reënter Miriam from the other side
Miriam.
Whither so suddenly, in the dead night?

Lisle.
Your husband summoned to the camp, straightway.

Mardyke.
Our officers hold conference; no more,
My voice is needed; prattle not—to bed!
Woman hath no concern in this.

Miriam.
But when
Shall you return?

Mardyke.
To-morrow by sunset.
[Lisle goes out on terrace. Miriam watches Mardyke finishing his arming.
My sword, now!

Enter Servant, hurriedly
Servant.
Sir, the horse stands.

Miriam.
[To Mardyke, who goes to the door.]
Sir, good-night!

Mardyke.
There, then— [Kisses her on forehead.]
Such joy have I in buckling me
Again in armour, all things I forget;
Suddenly wife and home are gone from me.

[Miriam goes from him to the door.
Good-night, Sir Hubert. Peace be on this house!

Lisle.
[Coming down.]
Sir, shall I go in place of thee? 'Tis not
Too late!

Mardyke.
Have I not prayed? The Lord hath chosen.

[Exit Mardyke with Ratcliffe. Lisle goes out on terrace—sound of hoofs galloping away into the night. A cold glimmer of dawn appears far off.
Miriam.
When doth the conference end?

Lisle.
To-morrow!

Miriam.
Then,
A little while is ours. So cold? But now—

Lisle.
A moment, Miriam! I must think alone.
I am sore troubled.

Miriam.
Kiss me—I will go.

[Lisle makes movement as though to embrace her, but cannot.
Miriam.
Am I despised, then, that I could not hide
What burned in me? I should have fenced and fenced
And so had reverence—you despise me?

Lisle.
Ah!
The starkness of the dawn is at my heart.

Miriam.
O, how I scorn myself—and yet— —[Putting her hand on his shoulder and looking in his face.]
Good-night!
[Exit Miriam.

Lisle.
I ne'er did love thee so as at this moment.
As he turns, enter Ratcliffe
Who's there?

Ratcliffe.
I, sir.

Lisle.
Well, well?

Ratcliffe.
The holy Book!
I come to lock it safe. Each night it is
My master's custom. Or I'll leave it thus;
If haply you would seek in it some verse
To light our present trouble.

Lisle.
Leave it, then!
[Exit Racliffe. A sallow gleam of dawn falls on the Book, as Lisle opens and reads; and the sound of galloping hoofs is borne back once more on the wind.

“And it came to pass in the morning, that
David wrote a letter to Joab, and sent it by the
hand of Uriah. And he wrote in the letter,
saying, Set ye Uriah in the forefront of the

hottest battle, and retire ye from him, that he
may be smitten, and die.

“And the men of the city went out and
fought with Joab: and there fell some of the
people of the servants of David; and Uriah the
Hittite died also.”

[A faint sound of galloping hoofs is again heard, and then ceases.