[Writing.]
To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I
Will see to all the rest. But let her know
Her father is set free; assuredly,
Ere you can say it is, it will be so.
Nurse. How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?
Julian. I have thought of that. There's a deserted room In the old west wing, at the further end Of the oak gallery.
Nurse. Not deserted quite. I ventured, when you left, to make it mine, Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.
Julian. You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though: I found a sliding panel, and a door Into a room behind. I'll show it you. You'll find some musty traces of me yet, When you go in. Now take her to your room, But get the other ready. Light a fire, And keep it burning well for several days. Then, one by one, out of the other rooms, Take everything to make it comfortable; Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter, Bind her to be as secret as yourself. Then put her there. I'll let her father know She is in safety.—I must change attire, And be far off or ever morning break.
[Nurse goes.]
My treasure-room! how little then I thought,
Glad in my secret, one day it would hold
A treasure unto which I dared not come.
Perhaps she'd love me now—a very little!—
But not with even a heavenly gift would I
Go begging love; that should be free as light,
Cleaving unto myself even for myself.
I have enough to brood on, joy to turn
Over and over in my secret heart:—
She lives, and is the better that I live!
Re-enter Nurse.
Nurse. My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving; She's in a dreadful fever. We must send To Arli for the doctor, else her life Will be in danger.
Julian (rising disturbed). Go and fetch your daughter. Between you, take her to my room, yours now. I'll see her there. I think you can together!
Nurse. O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!
[Nurse goes.]
Julian. I ought to know the way to treat a fever, If it be one of twenty. Hers has come Of low food, wasting, and anxiety. I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!
SCENE IX.—The Abbot's room in the monastery. The Abbot.
Abbot. 'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet. One hope remains: that fellow has a head!
Enter STEPHEN.
Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told
You said to-day, if I commissioned you,
You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave.
Stephen. I did, my lord.
Abbot. How would you do it, Stephen?
Stephen. Try one plan till it failed; then try another; Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord: Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever. I have no plan; but, give me time and money, I'll find him out.
Abbot. Stephen, you're just the man I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.
SCENE X.—Towards morning. The Nurse's room. LILIA in bed. JULIAN watching.
Julian. I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then She will do well. What strange things she has spoken! My heart is beating as if it would spend Its life in this one night, and beat it out. And well it may, for there is more of life In one such moment than in many years! Pure life is measured by intensity, Not by the how much of the crawling clock. Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across The window-blind? or is it but a band Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed Upon the other?—'Tis the moon herself, Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this—
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
