[_Enter_ Death.]
_Treason_. You are unjust to come before the time.
_Death_. The moment and myself are on the stroke.
_Treason_. Thou deemest that this man is soon to die?
_Death_. Death is already in him.
_Treason_. Yea, his body.-- His mind is brighter than it was before.
_Death_. My shadow lights his mind; but it is Death.
_Treason_. How hast thou entered him without a struggle?
_Death_. The struggle was thy work.
_Treason_. Give me some moments.
_Death_. [_Pointing to the door with great dignity._]
The man is mine. Hence! Silence! Obey!
[_Exit_ Treason. Death_ takes _Treason"s_ place by the door._]
_Arnold_. [_Waking._] They deny me the opportunity of honorable death.
This is the twentieth year of sodden waiting.
Fighting by land and sea and soldier"s work, As hot as heart could wish,--boy generals,-- Wars on all hands, in Holland, France, and Spain, With military honors falling thick;-- And I, a Tantalus set in a lake of thirst, Up to my neck in battles all about, Without the power to reach them!
[_Enter_ Mrs. Arnold. _She has a youthful face, and her hair is prematurely white. She pa.s.ses by_ Death _without seeing him. A gesture of surprise and pity as she sees _Arnold_. She kisses him on his forehead, and sits down next him on a lower chair._]
_Mrs. Arnold_. Surely, my husband you have not been forth!
After the sullen fever you have had "Twas most unwise.-- [_Pause._]
You have been grieved, and wear the ashen look.
_Arnold_. Age, and the chafing of a few stern thoughts.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Have I not earned the right to know them?
_Arnold_. Indeed, thou hast! An angel from the sky Accepting the bad bargain of a man, Could not have found a worse. You took me up A battered piece of ordnance, broken in spirit, Accursed to myself and to my kind; And underneath me thou hast held an arm Sustaining as the seraph"s upward look Askance against Apollyon.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Benedict!
You shall not talk so.--
_Arnold_. Next, your mother"s heart Became the mother to my three grown boys, Giving them such devotion and such love As rarely flows from out a mother"s hope To her own children.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Benedict, your words Cut me like knives. Why, why this catalogue?
_Arnold_. Something compels me.--
_Mrs. Arnold_. Where have you been?
Has some insulting taunt Cast by a coward in a public place Where you could not resent it, stung your patience?
These are the pebbles small men throw at great.
_Arnold_. No. "Tis the season for my wounds to ache; And with them aches the rest.--
_Mrs. Arnold_. Where have you been?
_Arnold_. Three hours in his Lordship"s ante-room.
_Mrs. Arnold_. The War Office? And what has been decided?
_Arnold_. I could not see his Lordship. Three hours late.
They sent me word his Lordship was not in.
It is the iteration wears me down.
Year after year,--year after leaden year,-- Kicking my heels in England"s ante-rooms, Where proud men pa.s.s me by: and now and then I catch a glimpse of some American,-- A former pal, a former enemy;-- It is the same, both pal and enemy Give me a fit of trembling. "Twas not so; Yet as the years decline our nerves grow sick: I dread it more and more.
_Mrs. Arnold_. O Benedict, This is the mood that kills us. Have we not A thousand times resolved it, made all plain?
You in your right of conscience chose a course Beside your King, recanting many errors, And following the only light you knew.
The king himself accepted your return And raised you with his hand.
_Arnold_. [_Very quietly._] I was a traitor.
_Mrs. Arnold_. [_With great vehemence._] No, no, no!
You were the n.o.blest hero of them all!
_Arnold_. And now they do not trust me.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Is there a soldier in the British Isles That has a list of battles like your own?
_Arnold_. It may be not.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Then make allowances for jealousy.
To Englishmen, their battles are a sport, With every post of danger dearly prized, Like the crack stations in the shooting field,-- Never enough for all. They bribe and jockey,-- Knife their own brothers to get near the spoil.
And would they not repel a foreigner,-- One they had cause to envy? Englishmen Are very unforgiving of defeat.
It is your glory, the impediment: So gluttonous are soldiers of reward-- So sporting-keen are Englishmen for fame.
_Arnold_. It may be so.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Your temperament is of colossal mould, And sees too simply.
_Arnold_. I was a traitor.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Are you a man to take the common talk, And be its dupe? How often have we spoke Of the returning wars that shall restore The l.u.s.tred fame and power that is your due?
Belated are they; yet to reason"s eye Certain to come. G.o.d keeps such eminence As in your soul exists, to show mankind The height of heroes.
_Arnold_. Error: it is gone out.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Never such light goes out! No smoke of the world-- Sin, error, evil, anguish, touch it not.
It burns forever with ethereal force Beyond pollution. I can see your soul; And never has its aspect been more bright Than on this morn.