Chapter 25

_Julian_. Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect To hear from you soon after my arrival. Is the boat ready?

_Steward_. Yes, my lord; afloat Where you directed.

_Julian_. A strange feeling haunts me, As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.

_Steward_. I will, directly.

[_Goes_.]

_Julian_. How shall I manage it? I have her father's leave, but have not dared To tell her all; and she must know it first! She fears me half, even now: what will she think To see my shaven head? My heart is free-- I know that God absolves mistaken vows. I looked for help in the high search from those Who knew the secret place of the Most High. If I had known, would I have bound myself Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds Never a lark springs to salute the day? The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best Content with goodness growing like moss on stones! It cannot be God's will I should be such. But there was more: they virtually condemned Me in my quest; 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.