meditation. A deed of loveIs stronger than a metaphysic truth;
Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words.
Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it?
How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight—
For life must ever need the shows of life?
How fail to love a man so like thyself,
Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood?
I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones,
But never white flowers, rubied at the heart.
O God, forgive me; it is all my fault.
Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized,
Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty?
Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart,
And I have kept her like a caged seamew
Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead.
O God, my eyes are opening—fearfully:
I know it now—'twas pride, yes, very pride,
That kept me back from speaking all my soul.
I was self-haunted, self-possessed—the worst
Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never
Cast all my being, life and all, on hers,
In burning words of openness and truth?
Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love,
Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not
Have been content to minister and wait;
And if she answered not to my desires,
Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say,
Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower:
I gave not five years to a woman's soul!
Had I not drunk at last old wine of love?
I shut her love back on her lovely heart;
I did not shield her in the wintry day;
And she has withered up and died and gone.
God, let me perish, so thy beautiful
Be brought with gladness and with singing home.
If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow
To be her slave, and serve her with my soul.
I in my hand will take my heart, and burn
Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain.
I, I have ruined her—O God, save thou!
[His bends his head upon his knees. LILY comes running up to him, stumbling over the graves.]
Lily. Why do they make so many hillocks, father? The flowers would grow without them.
Julian. So they would.
Lily. What are they for, then?
Julian (aside). I wish I had not brought her; She will ask questions. I must tell her all.
(Aloud).
'Tis where they lay them when the story's done.
Lily. What! lay the boys and girls?
Julian. Yes, my own child— To keep them warm till it begin again.
Lily. Is it dark down there?
[Clinging to JULIAN, and pointing down.]
Julian. Yes, it is dark; but pleasant—oh, so sweet! For out of there come all the pretty flowers.
Lily. Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk That tries to touch the little frightened clouds?
Julian. It did, my darling.—There's a door down there That leads away to where the church is pointing.
[She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and then up. JULIAN carries her away.]
SCENE XX.—Portsmouth. LORD SEAFORD, partially recovered. Enter LADY GERTRUDE and BERNARD.
Lady Gertrude. I have found an old friend, father. Here he is!
Lord S. Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here!
Bern. I came on Lady Gertrude in the street. I know not which of us was more surprised.
[LADY GERTRUDE goes.]
Bern. Where is the countess?
Lord S. Countess! What do you mean? I do not know.
Bern. The Italian lady.
Lord S. Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me!
Bern. I am glad indeed to know your ignorance; For since I saw the count, I would not have you Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head.
[LORD SEAFORD covers his eyes with his hands.]
You have not then heard the news about yourself?
Such interesting echoes reach the last
A man's own ear. The public has decreed
You and the countess run away together.
'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos,
And that she has been often to your house.
The count believes it—clearly from his face:
The man is dying slowly on his feet.
Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell). O God! what am I? My love burns like hate, Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath!
Bern. What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?
Enter Waiter.
Lord S. Post-chaise for London—four horses—instantly.
[He sinks exhausted in his chair.]
SCENE XXI.—LILY
