LITMIR.BIZ

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God, can she never more be clean? no more,

       Through all the terrible years? Hast thou no well

       In all thy heaven, in all thyself, that can

       Wash her soul clean? Her body will go down

       Into the friendly earth—would it were lying

       There in my arms! for there thy rains will come,

       Fresh from the sky, slow sinking through the sod,

       Summer and winter; and we two should lie

       Mouldering away together, gently washed

       Into the heart of earth; and part would float

       Forth on the sunny breezes that bear clouds

       Through the thin air. But her stained soul, my God!

       Canst thou not cleanse it? Then should we, when death

       Was gone, creep into heaven at last, and sit

       In some still place together, glory-shadowed.

       None would ask questions there. And I should be

       Content to sorrow a little, so I might

       But see her with the darling on her knees,

       And know that must be pure that dwelt within

       The circle of thy glory. Lilia! Lilia!

       I scorn the shame rushing from head to foot;

       I would endure it endlessly, to save

       One thought of thine from his polluting touch;

       Saying ever to myself: this is a part

       Of my own Lilia; and the world to me

       Is nothing since I lost the smiles of her:

       Somehow, I know not how, she faded from me,

       And this is all that's left of her. My wife!

       Soul of my soul! my oneness with myself!

       Come back to me; I will be all to thee:

       Back to my heart; and we will weep together,

       And pray to God together every hour,

       That he would show how strong he is to save.

       The one that made is able to renew—

       I know not how.—I'll hold thy heart to mine,

       So close that the defilement needs must go.

       My love shall ray thee round, and, strong as fire,

       Dart through and through thy soul, till it be cleansed.—

       But if she love him? Oh my heart—beat! beat!

       Grow not so sick with misery and life,

       For fainting will not save thee.—Oh no! no!

       She cannot love him as she must love me.

       Then if she love him not—oh horrible!—oh God!

      [He stands in a stupor for some minutes.]

      What devil whispered that vile word, unclean? I care not—loving more than that can touch. Let me be shamed, ay, perish in my shame, As men call perishing, so she be saved. Saved! my beloved! my Lilia!—Alas, Would she were here! oh, I would make her weep, Till her soul wept itself to purity! Far, far away! where my love cannot reach. No, no; she is not gone!

      [Starting and facing wildly through the room.]

      It is a lie—

       Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love.

       I must do something.—

      [Enter LILY.]

      Ah! there's the precious thing

       That shall entice her back.

      [Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart.]

      My little Lily,

       I have lost your mother.

      Lily. Oh!

      [Beginning to weep.]

      She was so pretty,

       Somebody has stolen her.

      Julian. Will you go with me, And help me look for her?

      Lily. O yes, I will.

      [Clasping him round the neck.]

      But my head aches so! Will you carry me?

      Julian. Yes, my own darling. Come, we'll get your bonnet.

      Lily. Oh! you've been crying, father. You're so white!

      [Putting her finger to his cheek.]

      SCENE XI.—A table in a club-room. Several Gentlemen seated round it. To them enter another.

      1st Gentleman. Why, Bernard, you look heated! what's the matter?

      Bernard. Hot work, as looked at; cool enough, as done.

      2nd G. A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard, But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth Of our impatient curiosity.

      Bernard. Most unexpectedly I found myself Spectator of a scene in a home-drama Worth all stage-tragedies I ever saw.

      All. What was it? Tell us then. Here, take this seat.

      [He sits at the table, and pours out a glass of wine.]

      Bernard. I went to call on Seaford, and was told He had gone to town. So I, as privileged, Went to his cabinet to write a note; Which finished, I came down, and called his valet. Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice— "The Countess Lamballa—is she here to-day?" And looking toward the door, I caught a glimpse Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest In a blue shabby frock down to his knees, And on his left arm sat a little child. The porter gave short answer, with the door For period to the same; when, like a flash, It flew wide open, and the serving man Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs, 'Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned. In walked the visitor; but in the moment Just measured by the closing of the door, Heavens, what a change! He walked erect, as if Heading a column, with an eye and face As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot Up suddenly within his wasted frame. The child sat on his arm quite still and pale, But with a look of triumph in her eyes. He glanced in each room opening from the hall, Set his face for the stair, and came right on— In every motion calm as glacier's flow, Save, now and then, a movement, sudden, quick, Of his right hand across to his left side: 'Twas plain he had been used to carry arms.

      3rd G. Did no one stop him?

      Bernard. Stop him? I'd as soon Have faced a tiger with bare hands. 'Tis easy In passion to meet passion; but it is A daunting thing to look on, when the blood Is going its wonted pace through your own veins. Besides, this man had something in his face, With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended, A self-reliance, and a self-command, That would go right up to its goal, in spite Of any no from any man. I would As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him. Over the porter, lying where he fell, He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go— I listened as it were a ghost that walked With pallid spectre-child upon its arm— Along the corridors, from door to door, Opening and shutting. But at last a sting Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady, And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs. I met him at the top, quiet as at first; The fire had faded from his eyes; the child Held in her tiny hand a lady's glove Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall, He turned him to the porter, who had scarce Recovered what poor wits he had, and saying, "The count Lamballa waited on lord Seaford," Turned him again, and strode into the street.

      1st G. Have you learned anything of what it meant?

      Bernard. Of course he had suspicions of his wife: For all the

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