The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1

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.