The Saint's Tragedy Part 15

Eliz. O G.o.d! More wars? More partings?

Lewis. Nay, my sister-- My trust but longs to glory in its surety: What would'st thou do?

Eliz. What I have done already.

Have I not followed thee, through drought and frost, Through flooded swamps, rough glens, and wasted lands, Even while I panted most with thy dear loan Of double life?

Lewis. My saint! but what if I bid thee To be my seneschal, and here with prayers, With sober thrift, and n.o.ble bounty s.h.i.+ne, Alone and peerless? And suppose--nay, start not-- I only said suppose--the war was long, Our camps far off, and that some winter, love, Or two, pent back this Eden stream, where now Joys upon joys like sunlit ripples pa.s.s, Alike, yet ever new.--What would'st thou do, love?

Eliz. A year? A year! A cold, blank, widowed year!

Strange, that mere words should chill my heart with fear-- This is no hall of doom, No impious Soldan's feast of old, Where o'er the madness of the foaming gold, A fleshless hand its woe on tainted walls enrolled.

Yet by thy wild words raised, In Love's most careless revel, Looms through the future's fog a shade of evil, And all my heart is glazed.-- Alas! What would I do?

I would lie down and weep, and weep, Till the salt current of my tears should sweep My soul, like floating weed, adown a fitful sleep, A lingering half-night through.

Then when the mocking bells did wake My hollow eyes to twilight gray, I would address my spiritless limbs to pray, And nerve myself with stripes to meet the weary day, And labour for thy sake.

Until by vigils, fasts, and tears, The flesh was grown so spare and light, That I could slip its mesh, and flit by night O'er sleeping sea and land to thee--or Christ--till morning light.

Peace! Why these fears?

Life is too short for mean anxieties: Soul! thou must work, though blindfold.

Come, beloved, I must turn robber.--I have begged of late So soft, I fear to ask.--Give me thy purse.

Lewis. No, not my purse:--stay--Where is all that gold I gave you, when the Jews came here from Koln?

Eliz. Oh, those few coins? I spent them all next day On a new chapel on the Eisenthal; There were no choristers but nightingales-- No teachers there save bees: how long is this?

Have you turned n.i.g.g.ard?

Lewis. Nay; go ask my steward-- Take what you will--this purse I want myself.

Eliz. Ah! now I guess. You have some trinket for me-- You promised late to buy no more such baubles-- And now you are ashamed.--Nay, I must see--

[s.n.a.t.c.hes his purse. Lewis hides his face.]

Ah, G.o.d! what's here? A new crusader's cross?

Whose? Nay, nay--turn not from me; I guess all-- You need not tell me; it is very well-- According to the meed of my deserts: Yes--very well.

Lewis. Ah, love!--look not so calm--

Eliz. Fear not--I shall weep soon.

How long is it since you vowed?

Lewis. A week or more.

Eliz. Brave heart! And all that time your tenderness Kept silence, knowing my weak foolish soul. [Weeps.]

O love! O life! Late found, and soon, soon lost!

A bleak sunrise,--a treacherous morning gleam,-- And now, ere mid-day, all my sky is black With whirling drifts once more! The march is fixed For this day month, is't not?

Lewis. Alas, too true!

Eliz. Oh break not, heart!

[Conrad enters.]

Ah! here my master comes.

No weeping before him.

Lewis. Speak to the holy man: He can give strength and comfort, which poor I Need even more than you. Here, saintly master, I leave her to your holy eloquence. Farewell!

G.o.d help us both! [Exit Lewis.]

Eliz [rising]. You know, Sir, that my husband has taken the cross!

Con. I do; all praise to G.o.d!

Eliz. But none to you: Hard-hearted! Am I not enough your slave?

Can I obey you more when he is gone Than now I do? Wherein, pray, has he hindered This holiness of mine, for which you make me Old ere my womanhood? [Conrad offers to go.]

Stay, Sir, and tell me Is this the outcome of your 'father's care'?

Was it not enough to poison all my joys With foulest scruples?--show me nameless sins, Where I, unconscious babe, blessed G.o.d for all things, But you must thus intrigue away my knight And plunge me down this gulf of widowhood!

And I not twenty yet--a girl--an orphan-- That cannot stand alone! Was I too happy?

O G.o.d! what lawful bliss do I not buy And balance with the smart of some sharp penance?

Hast thou no pity? None? Thou drivest me To fiendish doubts: Thou, Jesus' messenger?

Con. This to your master!

Eliz. This to any one Who dares to part me from my love.

Con. 'Tis well-- In pity to your weakness I must deign To do what ne'er I did--excuse myself.

I say, I knew not of your husband's purpose; G.o.d's spirit, not I, moved him: perhaps I sinned In that I did not urge it myself.

Eliz. Thou traitor!

So thou would'st part us?

Con. Aught that makes thee greater I'll dare. This very outburst proves in thee Pa.s.sions unsanctified, and carnal leanings Upon the creatures thou would'st fain transcend.

Thou badest me cure thy weakness. Lo, G.o.d brings thee The tonic cup I feared to mix:--be brave-- Drink it to the lees, and thou shalt find within A pearl of price.

Eliz. 'Tis bitter!

Con. Bitter, truly: Even I, to whom the storm of earthly love Is but a dim remembrance--Courage! Courage!

There's glory in't; fulfil thy sacrifice; Give up thy n.o.blest on the n.o.blest service G.o.d's sun has looked on, since the chosen twelve Went conquering, and to conquer, forth. If he fall--

Eliz. Oh, spare mine ears!

Con. He falls a blessed martyr, To bid thee welcome through the gates of pearl; And next to his shall thine own guerdon be If thou devote him willing to thy G.o.d.

Wilt thou?

Eliz. Have mercy!

Con. Wilt thou? Sit not thus Watching the sightless air: no angel in it But asks thee what I ask: the fiend alone Delays thy coward flesh. Wilt thou devote him?

Eliz. I will devote him;--a crusader's wife!

I'll glory in it. Thou speakest words from G.o.d-- And G.o.d shall have him! Go now--good my master; My poor brain swims. [Exit Conrad.]

Yes--a crusader's wife!

And a crusader's widow!