The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 29

[_He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear; then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it_.]

_Julian (bursting into tears_).

Father, I am thy _child_.

Forgive me this: Thy poetry is very hard to read.

SCENE XVI.--JULIAN _walking with_ LILY _through one of the squares_.

_Lily_.

Wish we could find her somewhere. 'Tis so sad Not to have any mother! Shall I ask This gentleman if he knows where she is?

_Julian_.

No, no, my love; we'll find her by and by.

BERNARD. and another Gentleman talking together.

_Bernard_.

Have you seen Seaford lately?

_Gentleman_.

No. In fact, He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago.

Sam saw him with a lady in his cab; And if I hear aright, one more is missing-- Just the companion for his lords.h.i.+p's taste.

You've not forgot that fine Italian woman You met there once, some months ago?

_Bern_.

Forgot her!

I have to try though, sometimes--hard enough: Her husband is alive!

_Lily_.

Mother was Italy, father,--was she not?

_Julian_.

Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word.

_Gentleman_.

Oh, yes; no doubt!

But what of that?--a poor half-crazy creature!

_Bern_.

Something quite different, I a.s.sure you, Harry.

Last week I saw him--never to forget him-- Ranging through Seaford's house, like the questing beast.

_Gentleman_.

Better please two than one, he thought--and wisely.

'Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize Worth sinning for a little more than little.

_Lily_ (_whispering_).

Why don't you ask them whether it was mother?

I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it.

_Gentleman_.

Look what a lovely child!

_Bern_.

Harry! Good heavens!

It is the Count Lamballa. Come along.

SCENE XVII.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN. LILY _asleep_.

_Julian_.

I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou, To whom I never lift my soul, in hope To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought Of him in whom I live, who lives in me, And makes me live in him; by whose one thought, Alone, unreachable, the making thought, Infinite and self-bounded, I am here, A living, thinking will, that cannot know The power whereby I am--so blest the more In being thus in thee--Father, thy child.

I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me.

My being shares thy glory: lay on me What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I May do it as my best, my highest joy; For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee.

Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know The power in thee to purify from sin.

But Life _can_ cleanse the life it lived alive.

Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault.

She loves me not, I know--ah, my sick heart!-- I will love her the more, to fill the cup; One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled; For if I love her not, how desolate The poor child will be left! _he_ loves her not.

I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:-- Give me my wife again, that I may watch And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell What loving-kindness I have found in thee; And she will come to thee to make her clean.

Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss, To know a dead one lieth in the house: Let me be near her in that agony, To tend her in the fever of the soul, Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope, Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh; And when I cannot comfort, help her weep.

G.o.d, I would give her love like thine to me, _Because_ I love her, and her need is great.

Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me, And thou art Love down to the deeps of h.e.l.l: Help me to love her with a love like thine.

How shall I find her? It were horrible If the dread hour should come, and I not near.

Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang, One writhing of self-loathing and remorse, For she must hate the evil she has done; Only take not away hope utterly.

_Lily (in her sleep_).

Lily means me--don't throw it over the wall.

_Julian (going to her_).

She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill.

I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless.

To-morrow I will take her to the sea.

[_Returning_.]

If I knew where, I would write to her, and write So tenderly, she could not choose but come.

I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well.

[_He sits down and writes_.]

My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe.

I was alone upon a desolate moor; And the wind blew by fits and died away-- I know not if it was the wind or me.

How long I wandered there, I cannot tell; But some one came and took me by the hand.

I gazed, but could not see the form that led me, And went unquestioning, I cared not whither.

We came into a street I seemed to know, Came to a house that I had seen before.

The shutters were all closed; the house was dead.