The Poetical Works of George MacDonald in Two Volumes, Volume I by George MacDonald

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_Lilia_
(_half-asleep, wildly_).
If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!--
Julian! Julian!

[_Half-rising_.]

_Julian_
(_forgetting his caution, and going up to her_).
I am here, my Lilia.
Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream,
A terrible dream. Gone now--is it not?

[_She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on
the pillow. He leaves her_.]

How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me!
But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long
She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead
In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced,
And leave her to console my solitude.
Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it!
And what a grief! I will not think of that!
Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own!
O God, I did not know thou wast so rich
In making and in giving; did not know
The gathered glory of this earth of thine.
What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy?
Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take
Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born
In thee, and send it home to dwell with me?

[_He leans on the wall_.]

_Lilia_
(_softly_).
Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad,
As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am.
I see the flashing of ten thousand glories;
I hear the trembling of a thousand wings,
That vibrate music on the murmuring air!
Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool
Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!--
What is it, though, that makes me glad like this?
I knew, but cannot find it--I forget.
It must be here--what was it?--Hark! the fall,
The endless going of the stream of life!--
Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,--I am so thirsty!

[_Querulously_.]

[JULIAN _gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him
again, with large wondering eyes_.]

Ah! now I know--I was so very thirsty!

[_He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He
extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window_.]

_Julian_.
The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless;
With its obtrusive _I am_ written large
Upon its face!

[_Approaches the bed, and gazes on_ LILIA _silently with
clasped hands; then returns to the window_.]

She sleeps so peacefully!
O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep.
Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain.

_Enter_ Nurse.

Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep.
You must be near her when she wakes again.
I think she'll be herself. But do be careful--
Right cautious how you tell her I am here.
Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep!

[JULIAN _goes_.]

_Nurse_.
Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter,
That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks,
And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!--
Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life
From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see
Your shutters open, for I then should know
Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back,
To peep at morning from her own bright windows.
Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her,
To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams
Have but betrayed her secrets honestly!
Will he not give thee love as dear as thine!

SCENE XI.--_A hilly road_. STEPHEN, _trudging alone, pauses to look
around him_.

_Stephen_.
Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound
would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged
good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length--mind
thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not
hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not.
Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.--It is a poor man
that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not
follow thee.

[_Sings_.]

Oh, many a hound is stretching out
His two legs or his four,
And the saddled horses stand about
The court and the castle door,
Till out come the baron, jolly and stout,
To hunt the bristly boar!

The emperor, he doth keep a pack
In his antechambers standing,
And up and down the stairs, good lack!
And eke upon the landing:
A straining leash, and a quivering back,
And nostrils and chest expanding!

The devil a hunter long hath been,
Though Doctor Luther said it:
Of his canon-pack he was the dean,
And merrily he led it:
The old one kept them swift and lean
On faith--that's devil's credit!

Each man is a hunter to his trade,
And they follow one another;
But such a hunter never was made
As the monk that hunted his brother!
And the runaway pig, ere its game be played,
Shall be eaten by its mother!

Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail
monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and
precipices! But the flea _may_ be caught, and so _shall_
the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with
his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally
heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't
keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave
his plaything, and wants it back!--I wonder whereabouts
I am.

SCENE XII.--_The Nurse's room_. LILIA _sitting up in bed_. JULIAN
_seated by her; an open note in his hand_.

_Lilia_.
Tear it up, Julian.

_Julian_.
No; I'll treasure it
As the remembrance of a by-gone grief:
I love it well, because it is _not_ yours.

_Lilia_.
Where have you been these long, long years away?
You look much older. You have suffered, Julian!

_Julian_.
Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much,
Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself,
I'll tell you all you want to know about me.

_Lilia_.
Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong;
It will not hurt me.

_Julian_.
Wait a day or two.
Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all.

_Lilia_.
And I have much to tell you, Julian. I
Have suffered too--not all for my own sake.

[_Recalling something_.]

Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!--
I don't know when it was. It must have been
Before you brought me here! I am sure it was.

_Julian_.
Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards.
You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must.

_Lilia_.
I will obey you, will not speak a word.

_Enter_ Nurse.

_Nurse_.
Blessings upon her! she's near well already.
Who would have thought, three days ago, to see
You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders.

_Julian_.
My art has helped a little, I thank God.--
To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while.

[JULIAN _goes_.]

_Lilia_.
Why does he always wear that curious cap?

_Nurse_.
I don't know. You must sleep.

_Lilia_.
Yes. I forgot.

SCENE XIII.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN _and the_ Steward. _Papers
on the table, which_ JULIAN _has just finished examining_.

_Julian_.
Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me.
You sent that note privately to my friend?

_Steward_.
I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money,
Putting all things in train for his release,
Without appearing in it personally,
Or giving any clue to other hands.
He sent this message by my messenger:
His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it.
He will be secret. For his daughter, she
Is safe with you as with himself; and so
God bless you both! He will expect to hear
From both of you from England.

_Julian_.
Well, again.
What money is remaining in your hands?

_Steward_.
Two bags, three hundred each; that's all.
I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more.

_Julian_.
One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance
Befall us, though I do not fear it much--
have been very secret--is that boat
I had before I left, in sailing trim?

_Steward_.
I knew it was a favorite with my lord;
I've taken care of it. A month ago,
With my own hands I painted it all fresh,
Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail
I'll have replaced immediately; and then
'Twill be as good as new.

_Julian_.
That's excellent.
Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast
To the stone steps behind my garden study.
Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put
The money in the old desk in the study.

_Steward_.
I will, my lord. It will be safe enough.

SCENE XIV.--_A road near the town_. _A_ Waggoner. STEPHEN, _in lay
dress, coming up to him_.

_Stephen_.
Whose castle's that upon the hill, good fellow?

_Waggoner_.
Its present owner's of the Uglii;
They call him Lorenzino.

_Stephen_.
Whose is that
Down in the valley?

_Waggoner_.
That is Count Lamballa's.

_Stephen_.
What is his Christian name?

_Waggoner_.
Omfredo. No,
That was his father's; his is Julian.

_Stephen_.
Is he at home?

_Waggoner_.
No, not for many a day.
His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful
Whether he be alive; and yet his land
Is better farmed than any in the country.

_Stephen_.
He is not married, then?

_Waggoner_.
No. There's a gossip
Amongst the women--but who would heed their talk!--
That love half-crazed, then drove him out of doors,
To wander here and there, like a bad ghost,
Because a silly wench refused him:--fudge!

_Stephen_.
Most probably. I quite agree with you.
Where do you stop?

_Waggoner_.
At the first inn we come to;
You'll see it from the bottom of the hill.
There is a better at the other end,
But here the stabling is by far the best.

_Stephen_.
I must push on. Four legs can never go
Down-hill so fast as two. Good morning, friend.

_Waggoner_.
Good morning, sir.

_Stephen (aside_)
I take the further house.

SCENE XV.--_The Nurse's room_. JULIAN _and_ LILIA _standing near the
window_.

_Julian_.
But do you really love me, Lilia?

_Lilia_.
Why do you make me say it so often, Julian?
You make me say _I love you_, oftener far
Than you say you love me.

_Julian_.
To love you seems
So much a thing of mere necessity!
I can refrain from loving you no more
Than keep from waking when the sun shines full
Upon my face.

_Lilia_.
And yet I love to say
How, how I love you, Julian!

[_Leans her head on his arm_. JULIAN _winces a little. She
raises her head and looks at him_.]

Did I hurt you?
Would you not have me lean my head on you?

_Julian_.
Come on this side, my love; 'tis a slight hurt
Not yet quite healed.

_Lilia_.
Ah, my poor Julian! How--
I am so sorry!--Oh, I _do_ remember!
I saw it all quite plain! It was no dream!
I saw you fighting!--Surely you did not kill him?

_Julian_
(_calmly, but drawing himself up_).
I killed him as I would a dog that bit you.

_Lilia_
(_turning pale, and covering her face with her
hands_.)
Oh, that was dreadful! there is blood on you!

_Julian_.
Shall I go, Lilia?

_Lilia_.
Oh no, no, no, do not.--
I shall be better presently.

_Julian_.
You shrink
As from a murderer!

_Lilia_.
Oh no, I love you--
Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian;
But blood is terrible.

_Julian_
(_drawing her close to him_).
My own sweet Lilia,
'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine,
As it had been a tiger that I killed.
He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling;
His blood lies not on me, but on himself;
I do not feel its stain upon my conscience.

[_A tap at the door_.]

_Enter_ Nurse.

_Nurse_.
My lord, the steward waits on you below.

[JULIAN _goes_.]

You have been standing till you're faint, my lady!
Lie down a little. There!--I'll fetch you something.

SCENE XVI.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN. _The Steward_.

_Julian_.
Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect
To hear from you soon after my arrival.
Is the boat ready?

_Steward_.
Yes, my lord; afloat
Where you directed.

_Julian_.
A strange feeling haunts me,
As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast
The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.

_Steward_.
I will, directly.

[_Goes_.]

_Julian_.
How shall I manage it?
I have her father's leave, but have not dared
To tell her all; and she must know it first!
She fears me half, even now: what will she think
To see my shaven head? My heart is free--
I know that God absolves mistaken vows.
I looked for help in the high search from those
Who knew the secret place of the Most High.
If I had known, would I have bound myself
Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds
Never a lark springs to salute the day?
The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best
Content with goodness growing like moss on stones!
It cannot be God's will I should be such.
But there was more: they virtually condemned
Me in my quest; would have had me content
To kneel with them around a wayside post,
Nor heed the pointing finger at its top?
It was the dull abode of foolishness:
Not such the house where God would train his children!
My very birth into a world of men
Shows me the school where he would have me learn;
Shows me the place of penance; shows the field
Where I must fight and die victorious,
Or yield and perish. True, I know not how
This will fall out: he must direct my way!
But then for her--she cannot see all this;
Words will not make it plain; and if they would,
The time is shorter than the words would need:
This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.--
It _may_ be only vapour, of the heat
Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear
That the fair gladness is too good to live:
The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest,
The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;
But how will she receive it? Will she think
I have been mocking her? How could I help it?
Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,
So strong was I in truth, I never thought
Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.
My love did make her so a part of me,
I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,
Until our talk of yesterday. And now
Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me:
To wed a monk will seem to her the worst
Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.
I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,
Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong.
She loves me--not as I love her. But always
--There's Robert for an instance--I have loved
A life for what it might become, far more
Than for its present: there's a germ in her
Of something noble, much beyond her now:
Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.

This evening must decide it, come what will.

SCENE XVII.--_The inn; the room which had been_ JULIAN'S. STEPHEN,
Host, _and_ Hostess. _Wine on the table_.

_Stephen_.
Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass;
Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband.

_Hostess_.
I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine;
My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say
I am a judge myself.

_Host_.
I'm confident
It needs but to be tasted.

_Stephen_
(_tasting critically, then nodding_).
That is wine!
Let me congratulate you, my good sir,
Upon your exquisite judgment!

_Host_.
Thank you, sir.

_Stephen_
(_to the_ Hostess).
And so this man, you say, was here until
The night the count was murdered: did he leave
Before or after that?

_Hostess_.
I cannot tell;
He left, I know, before it was discovered.
In the middle of the storm, like one possessed,
He rushed into the street, half tumbling me
Headlong down stairs, and never came again.
He had paid his bill that morning, luckily;
So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one!

_Stephen_.
What was he like, fair Hostess?

_Hostess_.
Tall and dark,
And with a lowering look about his brows.
He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil.
One queer thing was, he always wore his hat,
Indoors as well as out. I dare not say
He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange
He always sat at that same window there,
And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if
There were much traffic in the village now;
These are changed times; but I have seen the day--

_Stephen_.
Excuse me; you were saying that the man
Sat at the window--

_Hostess_.
Yes; even after dark
He would sit on, and never call for lights.
The first night, I brought candles, as of course;
He let me set them on the table, true;
But soon's my back was turned, he put them out.

_Stephen_.
Where is the lady?

_Hostess_.
That's the strangest thing
Of all the story: she has disappeared,
As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead,
White as my apron. The whole house was empty,
Just as I told you.

_Stephen_.
Has no search been made?
_Host_.
The closest search; a thousand pieces offered
For any information that should lead
To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother,
Who is his heir, they say, is still in town,
Seeking in vain for some intelligence.

_Stephen_.
'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard
For a long time. Send me a pen and ink;
I have to write some letters.

_Hostess (rising_).
Thank you, sir,
For your kind entertainment.

[_Exeunt Host and Hostess_.]

_Stephen_.
We've found the badger's hole; we'll draw
him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and not
be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and
corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a
wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother
Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away
with a wench at last! Well, there's a downfall! He'll
be for marrying her on the sly, and away!--I know the
old fox!--for her conscience-sake, probably not for his!
Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and no reprieve.
The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old
mother wasn't indulgent enough to the foibles of her
children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her
dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with winking. There's
nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to
marry, and knock one's vows on the head! Therein is
displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable
progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the
cloven foot. _Keep back thy servant_, &c.--Purgatory
couldn't cleanse that; and more, 'twill never have the
chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I'll
go find the new count. The Church shall have the
castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new
count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well
have the thousand pieces as not.

SCENE XVIII.--_Night. The Nurse's room_. LILIA; _to her_ JULIAN.

_Lilia_.
How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble.

_Enter_ JULIAN.

_Julian_.
My Lilia, will you go to England with me?

_Lilia_.
Julian, my father!

_Julian_.
Not without his leave.
He says, God bless us both.

_Lilia_.
Leave him in prison?

_Julian_.
No, Lilia; he's at liberty and safe,
And far from this ere now.

_Lilia_.
You have done this,
My noble Julian! I will go with you
To sunset, if you will. My father gone!
Julian, there's none to love me now but you.
You _will_ love me, Julian?--always?

_Julian_.
I but fear
That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough
To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it.

_Lilia_.
I know why you think that; and I deserve it.
But try me, Julian. I was very silly.
I could not help it. I was ill, you know;
Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian,
How your arm is to-day?

_Julian_.
Almost well, child.
Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid.

_Lilia_.
Never mind that, if it be well again.

_Julian_.
I do not mind it; but when I remember
That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch
Or stain should be upon me--soul, body, yours.
And there are more scars on me now than I
Should like to make you own, without confession.

_Lilia_.
My poor, poor Julian! never think of it;

[_Putting her arms round him_.]

I will but love you more. I thought you had
Already told me suffering enough;
But not the half, it seems, of your adventures.
You have been a soldier!

_Julian_.
I have fought, my Lilia.
I have been down among the horses' feet;
But strange to tell, and harder to believe,
Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood
Save what I lifted from the gory ground.

[_Sighing_.]

My wounds are not of such.

[LILIA, _loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a
kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation_.]

No. Penance, Lilia;
Such penance as the saints of old inflicted
Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know;
As a lord would exalt himself, by making
His willing servants into trembling slaves!
Yet I have borne it.

_Lilia_
(_laying her hand on his arm_).
Ah, alas, my Julian,
You have been guilty!

_Julian_.
Not what men call guilty,
Save it be now; now you will think I sin.
Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.--
Lilia, I have been a monk.

_Lilia_.
A monk?

[_Turningpale_.]

I thought--

[_Faltering_.]

Julian,--I thought you said.... did you not say ... ?

[_Very pale, brokenly_.]

I thought you said ...

[_With an effort_.]

I was to be your wife!

[_Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears_.]

_Julian_
(_speaking low and in pain_).
And so I did.

_Lilia_
(_hopefully, and looking up_).
Then you've had dispensation?

_Julian_.
God has absolved me, though the Church will not.
He knows it was in ignorance I did it.
Rather would he have men to do his will,
Than keep a weight of words upon their souls,
Which they laid there, not graven by his finger.
The vow was made to him--to him I break it.

_Lilia_
(_weeping bitterly_).
I would ... your words were true ... but I do know ...
It never can ... be right to break a vow;
If so, men might be liars every day;
You'd do the same by me, if we were married.

_Julian_
(_in anguish_).
'Tis ever so. Words are the living things!
There is no spirit--save what's born of words!
Words are the bonds that of two souls make one!
Words the security of heart to heart!
God, make me patient! God, I pray thee, God!

_Lilia_
(_not heeding him_).
Besides, we dare not; you would find the dungeon
Gave late repentance; I should weep away
My life within a convent.

_Julian_.
Come to England,
To England, Lilia.

_Lilia_.
Men would point, and say:
_There go the monk and his wife_; if they, in truth,
Called me not by a harder name than that.

_Julian_.
There are no monks in England.

_Lilia_.
But will that
Make right what's wrong?

_Julian_.
Did I say so, my Lilia?
I answered but your last objections thus;
I had a different answer for the first.

_Lilia_.
No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it.

_Julian_.
Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot.
--I would have told you all before, but thought,
Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;--
I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more;
I would not hurt your body, less your soul,
For all the blessedness your love can give:
For love's sake weigh the weight of what I say.
Think not that _must_ be right which you have heard
From infancy--it may----

[_Enter the_ Steward _in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding_.]

_Steward_.
My lord, there's such an uproar in the town!
They call you murderer and heretic.
The officers of justice, with a monk,
And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied
By a fierce mob with torches, howling out
For justice on you, madly cursing you!
They caught a glimpse of me as I returned,
And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm;
But I escaped them, old man as I am,
And was in time to bar the castle-gates.--
Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut
The river from the moat!

[_Distant yells and cries_.]

Escape, my lord!

_Julian_
(_calmly_).
Will the gates hold them out awhile, my Joseph?

_Steward_.
A little while, my lord; but those damned torches!
Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls!

_Julian_.
Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window,
And tell us of their progress.

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