Within and Without

Evening again slow creeping like a death! And the red sunbeams fading from the wall, On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars Of the poor window-pane that let them in, For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven! Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come. But what is light to me, while I am dark! And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues, Reflected flushes from the Evening’s face, Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched, Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left His chamber in the dim deserted east. Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea! The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light, As the blue globe had by a blow been broken, And the insphered glory bubbled forth! Or the sun were a splendid water-bird, That flying furrowed with its golden feet A flashing wake over the waves, and home! Lo there!⁠—Alas, the dull blank wall!⁠—High up, The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night Come on me like a thief!⁠—Ah, well! the sun Has always made me sad! I’ll go and pray: The terror of the night begins with prayer.

Vesper bell.

Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons; My knees would not so pain me when I kneel, If only at thy voice my prayer awoke. I will not to the chapel. When I find Him, Then will I praise him from the heights of peace; But now my soul is as a speck of life Cast on the deserts of eternity; A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more.

You do not understand me. Without my need, you cannot know my want. You will all night be puzzling to determine With which of the old heretics to class me. But you are honest; will not rouse the cry Against me. I am honest. For the proof, Such as will satisfy a monk, look here! Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here! Did one week’s scourging seam my side like that? I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you, And cannot bear but you should think me true. Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried, And found it has not even unbarred heaven’s gate, Let out one stray beam of its living light, Or humbled that proud I that knows not God! You are my friend:⁠—if you should find this cell Empty some morning, do not be afraid That any ill has happened.

Robert

Well, perhaps ’Twere better you should go. I cannot help you, But I can keep your secret. God be with you. Goes.

Julian

Amen.⁠—A good man; but he has not waked, And seen the Sphinx’s stony eyes fixed on him. God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks; And so he does, as possible for him. How he will wonder when he looks for heaven! He thinks me an enthusiast, because I seek to know God, and to hear his voice Talk to my heart in silence; as of old The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed, He lay communing with his heart; and God With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until In his light he saw light. God speaks to men. My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms, And waits expectant.

I have faced worse storms than you. They struggle. Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force, He stabs him. Your ribs will not mail your heart! Nembroni falls dead. Julian wipes his dagger on the dead man’s coat. If men will be devils, They are better in hell than here. Lightning flashes on the blade. What a night For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven! Approaches the lady within. Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope It will not pass too soon. It is not far To the half-hidden door in my own fence, And that is well. If I step carefully, Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints. What! blood? He does not bleed much, I should think! Oh, I see! it is mine⁠—he has wounded me. That’s awkward now. Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window. Pardon me, dear lady; Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm. ’Tis not to save my blood I would defile Even your handkerchief. Coming towards the door, carrying her. I am pleased to think Ten monkish months have not ta’en all my strength. Looking out of the window on the landing. For once, thank darkness! ’Twas sent for us, not him. He goes down the stair.

Lilia

A monk? Turningpale. I thought⁠—Faltering. Julian⁠—I thought you said⁠ ⁠… did you not say⁠ ⁠… ? Very pale, brokenly. I thought you said⁠ ⁠… With an effort. I was to be your wife! Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears.

Julian

Speaking low and in pain.

And so I did.

Lilia

Hopefully, and looking up.

Then you’ve had dispensation?

Julian

God has absolved me, though the Church will not. He knows it was in ignorance I did it. Rather would he have men to do his will, Than keep a weight of words upon their souls, Which they laid there, not graven by his finger. The vow was made to him⁠—to him I break it.

Lilia

Weeping bitterly.

I would⁠ ⁠… your words were true⁠ ⁠… but I do know⁠ ⁠… It never can⁠ ⁠… be right to break a vow; If so, men might be liars every day; You’d do the same by me, if we were married.

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.

Third Gentleman

Did no one stop him?