Part 8 (1/2)
We cannot be together in this world; I cannot live alone and know thee here.
And thou art troubled! I for beneath that garb Thy heart beats ever hot with love for me; For love will not be quell'd by monkish vows.
But all things change in death! so let us die Thus, hand in hand, and so together pa.s.s, And be together thro' eternity!”
There was a struggle in the young monk's breast; He would not meet her pleading eyes and yield, But gazing up to heaven prayed for strength, Strength to resist, and guidance how to act, For death like that with her was luring--sweet-- A strong temptation, but he must resist, And strive to save and show her how to live.
”We cannot make hereafter for ourselves,”
He answered softly; ”all that we can do Is so to live that we shall win reward Of praise, and peace, and happy life to come.
Thy duty lies before thee; so does mine.
Let each return, and toil and watch and pray, Knowing each other's heart is fix'd on heaven.
And do the good we can; not seeking death Nor shunning it, but living pure and true, With conscience clear to meet our G.o.d at last, And win each other for our great reward.”
The moving music of his words sank deep Her alter'd heart thrill'd high to holy thoughts.
”Be thou my guide,” she said. ”My duty now Shall bring me peace; so shall I toil like thee To win the love I yearn for in the end.”
It might not be. The treach'rous, working sand Already clutched their feet, and check'd their speed; And dancing, sparkling, like a joyful thing, A glitt'ring, gla.s.sy wall of foam-fleck'd wave Towards them glided with that fatal speed You cannot mark because it is so swift.
No use to struggle now: no time to fly!
He clasp'd her to him: ”G.o.d hath will'd it thus.
Courage, my sister!” ”Is this death?” she cried.
”Yes, this is death.” ”It is not death, but joy!”
And as she spoke the spot where they were seen Became a wat'ry waste of battling waves: While high above the summer sun shone on-- A pa.s.sing seabird hoa.r.s.ely shriek'd along!
All things were changed, with that vast change which makes It seem as tho' nought else had ever been.
”Well done, Ideala!” said Ralph, patronisingly; ”you certainly have a memory, and are quite as good at patchwork as the author of 'Delysle.'
I could criticise on another count, but taking into consideration time, place, circ.u.mstances, and the female intellect, I refrain. That is the generous sort of creature _I_ am. So, without expressing my own opinion further--except to remark that, though I don't think much of either of them, personally I prefer 'Delysle.' The other is wholesomer, doubtless, for those who like a mild diet. Milk and water doesn't agree with me. But I put it to the vote. Ladies and gentlemen, do you or do you not consider that this lady has won her bet?”
”Oh, won it, most decidedly!” we all agreed.
”By-the-by, what was the bet?” I asked.
”My Pa's gaiters against Ideala's blue stockings. I regret to say that circ.u.mstances over which I have no control”--and he glanced at the unconscious Bishop--”prevent the immediate payment of my debt--unless, indeed, he has a second pair;” and he left the room hurriedly as if to see.
He did not come back to us that evening, but I believe he was to be heard of later at the sign of the ”Billiard and Cue.”
”Well,” said the young sculptor, returning to the old point of departure, ”for my own part, I find much that is elevating in modern works.”
”So do I,” said Ideala; ”I find much that raises me on stilts.”
”But even that eminence would enable you to look over other people's heads and beyond.”
”It would,” she answered, ”if human nature didn't desire a sense of security; but, as it is, when I am artificially set up, I find that all I can do is to look at my own feet, and tremble lest I fall. Modern literature stimulates; it doesn't nourish. It makes you feel like a giant for a moment, but leaves you crushed like a worm, and without faith, without love, without hope. It excites you pleasurably, and when you see life through its medium you never suspect that the vision is distorted. It makes you think the Iconoclast the greatest hero, and causes you to feel that you share his glory when you help him with your approval to overthrow all the images you ever cherished; but when the work of destruction is over, and you look about you once more with sober eyes, you find you have sacrificed your all for nothing. Your false guide fails you when you want him most. He robs you, and leaves you hungry, thirsty, and alone in the wilderness to which he has beguiled you. There is no need for new theories of Life and Religion; all we require is strength and courage to perfect the old ones.
[Footnote: She quite changed her mind upon this subject eventually, and held that there was not only need of new theories, but good hope that we should have them.] What the mind wants is food it can grow upon, not stimulants which inflate it for a time with a fancied sense of power that has no real existence. But I have small hope for our nation when I think of the sparkling trash that the mind of the mult.i.tude daily imbibes and craves for. I mean our novels. What a fine affectation of goodness there is in most of them! And what a perfect moral is tacked on to them!--like the _balayeuse_ at the bottom of a lady's dress; but, like the _balayeuse_, it is only meant to be a protection and a finish, and, however precious it may be, it suffers from contact with the dirt, and sooner or later has to be cut out and cast aside, soiled and useless. Some doggerel a friend of mine scribbled on one book in particular describes dozens of popular novels exactly:
O what a beautiful history!
Think what temptations they pa.s.sed!
Each one more cruelly trying, More tempting, indeed, than the last.
And what a lesson it teaches; No pa.s.sion from evil's exempted-- Whilst admiring the moral it preaches, It makes you quite long to be tempted.