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

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.

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!

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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!