Within and Without

would have had me content
To kneel with them around a wayside post,
Nor heed the pointing finger at its top?
It was the dull abode of foolishness:
Not such the house where God would train his children!
My very birth into a world of men
Shows me the school where he would have me learn;
Shows me the place of penance; shows the field
Where I must fight and die victorious,
Or yield and perish. True, I know not how
This will fall out: he must direct my way!
But then for her⁠—she cannot see all this;
Words will not make it plain; and if they would,
The time is shorter than the words would need:
This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.⁠—
It may be only vapour, of the heat
Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear
That the fair gladness is too good to live:
The wider prospect from the steep hill’s crest,
The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;
But how will she receive it? Will she think
I have been mocking her? How could I help it?
Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,
So strong was I in truth, I never thought
Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.
My love did make her so a part of me,
I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,
Until our talk of yesterday. And now
Her horror at Nembroni’s death confirms me:
To wed a monk will seem to her the worst
Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.
I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,
Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong.
She loves me⁠—not as I love her. But always
—There’s Robert for an instance⁠—I have loved
A life for what it might become, far more
Than for its present: there’s a germ in her
Of something noble, much beyond her now:
Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.
This evening must decide it, come what will.

Scene XVII

The inn; the room which had been Julian’s. Stephen, Host, and Hostess. Wine on the table.

Stephen	Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass; Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband.
Hostess	I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine; My husband’s choice is praised. I cannot say I am a judge myself.
Host	I’m confident It needs but to be tasted.
Stephen	Tasting critically, then nodding. That is wine! Let me congratulate you, my good sir, Upon your exquisite judgment!
Host	Thank you, sir.
Stephen	To the Hostess. And so this man, you say, was here until The night the count was murdered: did he leave Before or after that?
Hostess	I cannot tell; He left, I know, before it was discovered. In the middle of the storm, like one possessed, He rushed into the street, half tumbling me Headlong downstairs, and never came again. He had paid his bill that morning, luckily; So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one!
Stephen	What was he like, fair Hostess?
Hostess	Tall and dark, And with a lowering look about his brows. He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil. One queer thing was, he always wore his hat, Indoors as well as out. I dare not say He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange He always sat at that same window there, And looked into the street. ’Tis not as if There were much traffic in the village now; These are changed times; but I have seen the day⁠—
Stephen	Excuse me; you were saying that the man Sat at the window⁠—
Hostess	Yes; even after dark He would sit on, and never call for lights. The first night, I brought candles, as of course; He let me set them on the table, true; But soon’s my back was turned, he put them out.
Stephen	Where is the lady?
Hostess	That’s the strangest thing Of all the story: she has disappeared, As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead, White as my apron. The whole house was empty, Just as I told you.
Stephen	Has no search been made?
Host	The closest search; a thousand pieces offered For any information that should lead To the murderer’s capture. I believe his brother, Who is his heir, they say, is still in town, Seeking in vain for some intelligence.
Stephen	’Tis very odd; the oddest thing I’ve heard For a long time. Send me a pen and ink; I have to write some letters.
Hostess	Rising. Thank you, sir, For your kind entertainment. Exeunt Host and Hostess.
Stephen	We’ve found the badger’s hole; we’ll draw him next. He couldn’t have gone far with her and not be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away with a wench at last! Well, there’s a downfall! He’ll be for marrying her on the sly, and away!⁠—I know the old fox!⁠—for her conscience-sake, probably not for his! Well, one comfort is, it’s damnation and no reprieve. The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old mother wasn’t indulgent enough to the foibles of her children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her dutiful sons, that she’s nearly blind with winking. There’s nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to marry, and knock one’s vows on the head! Therein is displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the cloven foot. “Keep back thy servant,” etc.⁠—Purgatory couldn’t cleanse that; and more, ’twill never have the chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I’ll go find the new count. The Church shall have the castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well have the thousand pieces as not.

Scene XVIII

Night. The Nurse’s room. Lilia; to her Julian.

Lilia	How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble.
	Enter Julian.
Julian	My Lilia, will you go to England with me?
Lilia	Julian, my father!
Julian	Not without his leave. He says, God bless us both.
Lilia	Leave him in prison?
Julian	No, Lilia; he’s at liberty and safe, And far from