The poetical works of George MacDonald - LightNovelsOnl.com
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I, I have ruined her--O G.o.d, save thou!
[_His bends his head upon his knees_. LILY _comes running up to him, stumbling over the graves_.]
_Lily_.
Why do they make so many hillocks, father?
The flowers would grow without them.
_Julian_.
So they would.
_Lily_.
What are they for, then?
_Julian (aside_).
I wish I had not brought her; She _will_ ask questions. I must tell her all.
(_Aloud_).
'Tis where they lay them when the story's done.
_Lily_.
What! lay the boys and girls?
_Julian_.
Yes, my own child-- To keep them warm till it begin again.
_Lily_.
Is it dark down there?
[_Clinging to_ JULIAN, _and pointing down_.]
_Julian_.
Yes, it is dark; but pleasant--oh, so sweet!
For out of there come all the pretty flowers.
_Lily_.
Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk That tries to touch the little frightened clouds?
_Julian_.
It did, my darling.--There's a door down there That leads away to where the church is pointing.
[_She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and then up_. JULIAN _carries her away_.]
SCENE XX.--_Portsmouth_. LORD SEAFORD, _partially recovered. Enter_ LADY GERTRUDE _and_ BERNARD.
_Lady Gertrude_.
I have found an old friend, father. Here he is!
_Lord S_.
Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here!
_Bern_.
I came on Lady Gertrude in the street.
I know not which of us was more surprised.
[LADY GERTRUDE _goes_.]
_Bern_.
Where is the countess?
_Lord S_.
Countess! What do you mean? I do not know.
_Bern_.
The Italian lady.
_Lord S_.
Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me!
_Bern_.
I am glad indeed to know your ignorance; For since I saw the count, I would not have you Wrong one gray hair upon his n.o.ble head.
[LORD SEAFORD _covers his eyes with his hands_.]
You have not then heard the news about yourself?
Such interesting echoes reach the last A man's own ear. The public has decreed You and the countess run away together.
'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos, And that she has been often to your house.
The count believes it--clearly from his face: The man is dying slowly on his feet.
_Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell_).
O G.o.d! what am I? My love burns like hate, Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath!
_Bern_.
What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?
_Enter_ Waiter.
_Lord S_.
Post-chaise for London--four horses--instantly.
[_He sinks exhausted in his chair_.]
SCENE XXI.--_LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her_.
_Lily_.
O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me.
Another story is very nearly done.
