The Epic of Saul

by William Cleaver Wilkinson

"Nay, Ruth," said Rachel, "here the yesternight
With Mary and Martha I abode a guest."

"How fresh the wind is," Ruth said, "hither blown
From off the western sea! Us, underneath
The crest of Olivet, it lights upon
Descending, broken, like a breath from heaven.
What a delicious balm!"
"About my brow,"
Said Rachel, "gratefully I feel the air,
Attempered so, soft flowing, as if one
That loved me like a mother gently stroked
My temples to undo a band of pain
Bound round them."
"And, in sooth," the other said,
Now looking narrowly at Rachel's face,
"Thou seemest sad of favor, Rachel. Thou,
Thou too, so young, hast then thy cause to grieve!
It is a sad world and a weary. But—
Forgive me if such quick instinctive fears
Be selfish, I am wife and mother—aught
Of evil tidings bringest thou me? Spare not
To speak. Thou wilt but answer to the dreams
I had this night, portending nameless ill.
Stephen—I fear for him. He yesterday
Left me beyond his wont oppressed in spirit,
And has not since returned. Strange—yet not strange;
Sometimes the livelong night he spends in prayer
Alone upon the top of Olivet
Or in the shadows of Gethsemane."

"Ruth," Rachel said, "the Angel of the Lord
Round His belovéd, like the mountains round
Jerusalem, encampeth ever; he
Of God's belovéd is, and guarded well!"

But Ruth scarce listened; she insisting said:
"Perhaps of Stephen some report thou bringest,
Hint doubtless of new danger threatening him!"

"Nay, Ruth, no longer danger threatens now
Thy husband; that is past, and he is safe."

"Thank God," said Ruth; "but stay, I dare not yet
Thank God. Tell me, have then our rulers ceased
To frown on Stephen preaching Jesus Christ?
Or Stephen, will he cease and preach no more?
This cannot be, for Stephen is such stuff
As never yet did bend to mortal beck;
And that—our rulers surely have not changed
Thus suddenly their mind. Thou art deceived,
They have deceived thee—Stephen is not safe;
It is their guile to make us think him safe,
He off his guard will fall an easier prey
Into their hands. Rachel, it was not kind,
Not faithful in thee so to be deceived.
More love had made thee more suspicious. I
Suspect forever everybody; thee
Now I suspect. Thou keepest something back,
Or haply palterest with a double sense.
Rachel, I charge thee, I adjure thee, speak
And tell me all. Stephen is dead! Say that—
Is dead! Thou meantest that by, 'He is safe.'
They have stoned him, stoned my husband, stoned the man
That was the truest Hebrew of them all!"

Though by her words Ruth challenged frank reply,
Yet by her tones and by her eager looks
She deprecated more what she invoked.
This Rachel saw, and answered not a word.
Then Ruth gainsaid what Rachel would not say:
"They have not done it, could not do it, he—
Rachel, it is not true, unsay it, quick,
It was a cruel jest to tease me so,
Thou art not a wife, thou art not a mother, else
Thou never hadst conceived so ill a jest!"

Rachel was tortured, but she could not speak,
And Ruth, secure in sense of respite yet,
Went on invoking what she would not hear:
"Why art thou silent? Speak, and keep not back
The truth, whatever it may be; there's naught
So soothing and so healing as the truth.
But I will not believe that he is dead.
Thou didst not know my husband. Dead! dead! dead!
I tell thee, Rachel, that is something past
Imagining dreadful, hopeless. To be dead
Is—not to love, and not to speak to those
Who loved and love thee, not to hear them speak,
Saying they loved and love thee and lament
They ever gave thee cause of grief and now
Are different and would die a thousand deaths
To have been different then when thou couldst know—
Death, Rachel,—but of death what canst thou learn,
For thou art but a child and never wast,
Never, to such a husband such a wife—
To vex the noblest heart that ever broke!"

Rachel at first had listened with dismay,
And nothing found to answer to Ruth's words,
Whose words indeed flowed on and made no pause
For answer, as if she in truest truth
Sought not the answer that she seemed to seek,
Would fain postpone it rather, or avert.
But when at length the utterance of Ruth's thought
From converse passed into soliloquy
And the deep secret of her soul revealed,
Then Rachel caught a welcome gleam of hope.
A sign of grace she saw or seemed to see
At work for Ruth within her heart of grief,
Transmuting human sorrow to divine
Repentance, and for pain preparing peace.

"Let us go in together," Rachel said,
For they by this were nigh to Ruth's abode,
"Let us go in where we may be withdrawn
From note of such as here might mark our speech
Or action; I have word from him to thee."
Then they went in, and Ruth bestirred herself
To make a cheer of welcome for her guest.
That momentary truce to troubled thought
For Ruth, and interspace of quietness
From her own words which could not choose but flow
With helpless importunity till then,
Gave Rachel needed chance to speak. She said:
"O Ruth, thy husband fell asleep last night,
And slept a sweeter sleep than thine or mine,
A deep sweet sleep, a happy sleep, a blest.
Thou wouldst not wake him thence for worlds on worlds.
He felt before he slept that he should sleep,
And me, whom God our Father let be nigh,
Stephen bade bear a last good-night to thee.
He did not think the night was very long
Before him for his sleeping, and his wish
Was thou shouldst meet him presently to say
Good-morning. This was his true message, Ruth."