"Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task, Your Excellency; but to whom? I ask."The Governor answered: "To this lady here"And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near.
She came and stood, all blushes, at his side.
The rector paused.The impatient Governor cried:
"This is the lady; do you hesitate?
Then I command you as Chief Magistrate."
The rector read the service loud and clear:
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here,"
And so on to the end.At his command On the fourth finger of her fair left hand The Governor placed the ring; and that was all:
Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall!
INTERLUDE.
Well pleased the audience heard the tale.
The Theologian said: "Indeed, To praise you there is little need;One almost hears the farmers flail Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail A certain freshness, as you said, And sweetness as of home-made bread.
But not less sweet and not less fresh Are many legends that I know, Writ by the monks of long-ago, Who loved to mortify the flesh, So that the soul might purer grow, And rise to a diviner state;And one of these--perhaps of all Most beautiful--I now recall, And with permission will narrate;Hoping thereby to make amends For that grim tragedy of mine, As strong and black as Spanish wine, I told last night, and wish almost It had remained untold, my friends;For Torquemada's awful ghost Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, And in the darkness glared and gleamed Like a great lighthouse on the coast."The Student laughing said: "Far more Like to some dismal fire of bale Flaring portentous on a hill;Or torches lighted on a shore By wreckers in a midnight gale.
No matter; be it as you will, Only go forward with your tale."THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE
THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL
"Hads't thou stayed, I must have fled!"
That is what the Vision said.
In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial;It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone.
Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendor brightened All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone;And he saw the Blessed Vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about him, Like a garment round him thrown.
Not as crucified and slain, Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see;But as in the village street, In the house or harvest-field, Halt and lame and blind he healed, When he walked in Galilee.
In an attitude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, worshipping, adoring, Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.
Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, Who am I, that thus thou deignest To reveal thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the centre Of thy glory thou shouldst enter This poor cell, my guest to be?
Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor With persistent iteration He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour When alike in shine or shower, Winter's cold or summer's heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood;And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knee, Rapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the Vision and the Splendor.
Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration;Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate, Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest, Slight this visitant celestial, For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear As if to the outward ear:
"Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"
Straightway to his feet he started, And with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.
At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close, And of feet that pass them by;Grown familiar with disfavor, Grown familiar with the savor Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they knew not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent sate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure;What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying:
"Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest, That thou doest unto me!"Unto me! but had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loathing.
Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Towards his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.
But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door, For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said, "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"INTERLUDE.
All praised the Legend more or less;
Some liked the moral, some the verse;
Some thought it better, and some worse Than other legends of the past;Until, with ill-concealed distress At all their cavilling, at last The Theologian gravely said:
"The Spanish proverb, then, is right;
Consult your friends on what you do, And one will say that it is white, And others say that it is red."And "Amen!" quoth the Spanish Jew.
