Читать книгу The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1 - George MacDonald - Страница 20

  Julian.

  Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.

  You have put your charge to bed?

  Nurse.

  Yes, my dear lord.

  Julian.

  And has she spoken yet?

  Nurse.

                        After you left,

  Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:

  Where am I, mother?—then she looked at me,

  And her eyes wandered over all my face,

  Till half in comfort, half in weariness,

  They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is

  As feeble as a child.

  Julian.

                            Under your care

  She'll soon be well again. Let no one know

  She is in the house:—blood has been shed for her.

  Nurse.

  Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.

  Julian.

  That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.

  Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.

  Nurse.

  Leave?

  Julian.

  Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again

  Over the earth and sea. She must not know

  I have been here. You must contrive to keep

  My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke

  When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.

  She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;

  Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.

  Let her on no pretense guess where she is,

  Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.

  When she is well and wishes to be gone,

  Then write to this address—but under cover

      To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I

      Will see to all the rest. But let her know

      Her father is set free; assuredly,

      Ere you can say it is, it will be so.

  Nurse.

  How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?

  Julian.

  I have thought of that. There's a deserted room

  In the old west wing, at the further end

  Of the oak gallery.

  Nurse.

                     Not deserted quite.

  I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,

  Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.

  Julian.

  You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:

  I found a sliding panel, and a door

  Into a room behind. I'll show it you.

  You'll find some musty traces of me yet,

  When you go in. Now take her to your room,

  But get the other ready. Light a fire,

  And keep it burning well for several days.

  Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,

  Take everything to make it comfortable;

  Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,

  Bind her to be as secret as yourself.

  Then put her there. I'll let her father know

  She is in safety.—I must change attire,

  And be far off or ever morning break.

  My treasure-room! how little then I thought,

  Glad in my secret, one day it would hold

  A treasure unto which I dared not come.

  Perhaps she'd love me now—a very little!—

  But not with even a heavenly gift would I

  Go begging love; that should be free as light,

  Cleaving unto myself even for myself.

  I have enough to brood on, joy to turn

  Over and over in my secret heart:—

  She lives, and is the better that I live!

  Nurse.

  My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving;

  She's in a dreadful fever. We must send

  To Arli for the doctor, else her life

  Will be in danger.

  Julian

  (rising disturbed).

                    Go and fetch your daughter.

  Between you, take her to my room, yours now.

  I'll see her there. I think you can together!

  Nurse.

  O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!

  Julian.

  I ought to know the way to treat a fever,

  If it be one of twenty. Hers has come

  Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.

  I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!