PART II.
Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense!
It is thy Duty waiting thee without.
Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt;
A hand doth pull thee—it is Providence;
Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence;
Go forth into the tumult and the shout;
Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about:
Of noise alone is born the inward sense
Of silence; and from action springs alone
The inward knowledge of true love and faith.
Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath,
And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan:
One day upon His bosom, all thine own, Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death.
SCENE I.—A room in Julian's castle. JULIAN and the old Nurse.
Julian. Nembroni? Count Nembroni?—I remember: A man about my height, but stronger built? I have seen him at her father's. There was something I did not like about him:—ah! I know: He had a way of darting looks at you, As if he wished to know you, but by stealth.
Nurse. The same, my lord. He is the creditor. The common story is, he sought the daughter, But sought in vain: the lady would not wed. 'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble, Which caused much wonder, for the family Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni Contrived to be the only creditor, And so imprisoned him.
Julian. Where is the lady? Nurse. Down in the town. Julian. But where? Nurse. If you turn left, When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house Upon this side the way. An honest couple, Who once were almost pensioners of hers, Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis A wretched change for her.
Julian. Hm! ah! I see. What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse?
Nurse. Here he is little known. His title comes From an estate, they say, beyond the hills. He looks ungracious: I have seen the children Run to the doors when he came up the street.
Julian. Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay—one thing more: Have any of my people seen me?
Nurse. None But me, my lord.
Julian. And can you keep it secret?— know you will for my sake. I will trust you. Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.] Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid His plans for nothing further! I will watch him. Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake. Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father, Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame; My love had no claim on like love from thee.—How the old tide comes rushing to my heart!
I know not what I can do yet but watch.
I have no hold on him. I cannot go,
Say, I suspect; and, Is it so or not? I should but injure them by doing so. True, I might pay her father's debts; and will, If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well During my absence. I have not spent much. But still she'd be in danger from this man, If not permitted to betray himself; And I, discovered, could no more protect. Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt Her footsteps like an angel, not for long Should I remain unseen of other eyes, That peer from under cowls—not angel-eyes— Hunting me out, over the stormy earth. No; I must watch. I can do nothing better.
SCENE II.—A poor cottage. An old Man and Woman sitting together.
Man. How's the poor lady now?
Woman. She's poorly still. I fancy every day she's growing thinner. I am sure she's wasting steadily.
Man. Has the count Been here again to-day?
Woman. No. And I think He will not come again. She was so proud The last time he was here, you would have thought She was a queen at least.
Man. Remember, wife, What she has been. Trouble like that throws down The common folk like us all of a heap: With folks like her, that are high bred and blood, It sets the mettle up.
Woman. All very right; But take her as she was, she might do worse Than wed the Count Nembroni.
Man. Possible. But are you sure there is no other man Stands in his way?
Woman. How can I tell? So be, He should be here to help her. What she'll do I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her. And for her work, she does it far too well To earn a living by it. Her times are changed— She should not give herself such prideful airs.
Man. Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard On one another! You speak fair for men, And make allowances; but when a woman Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her. But where is this you're going then to-night? Do they want me to go as well as you?
Woman. Yes, you must go, or else it is no use. They cannot give the money to me, except My husband go with me. He told me so.
Man. Well, wife, it's worth the going—but to see: I don't expect a groat to come of it.
SCENE III.—Kitchen of a small inn. Host and Hostess.
Host. That's a queer customer you've got upstairs! What the deuce is he?
Hostess. What is that to us? He always pays his way, and handsomely. I wish there were more like him.
Host. Has he been At home all day?
Hostess. He has not stirred a foot Across the threshold. That's his only fault— He's always in the way.
Host. What does he do?
Hostess. Paces about the room, or sits at the window. I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard, To see what he's about: he looks annoyed, But does not speak a word. Host. He must be crazed, Or else in hiding for some scrape or other.
Hostess. He has a wild look in his eye sometimes; But sure he would not sit so much in the dark, If he were mad, or anything on his conscience; And though he does not say much, when he speaks A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way.
Host. Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come?
SCENE IV.—The inn; a room upstairs. JULIAN at the window, half hidden by the curtain.
Julian. With what profusion her white fingers spend Delicate motions on the insensate cloth! It was so late this morning ere she came! I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale! Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely. Do I not love he? more than when that beauty Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond The confines of her wondrous face and form, And animated with a present power Her garment's folds, even to the very hem!
Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest
In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door,
As for her husband. Something will follow this.
And here he comes, all in his best like her.
They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk,
With short steps down the street. Now I must wake
The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes!
SCENE