IV

The Public House.  MORRIS and JEAN.

Jean.  O, you are come again!

Morris. 
     Has he been here,
That blackguard, with some insolence to you?

Jean.  Who?

Morris. 
     Why, that Hamish.

Jean. 
     Hamish?  No, not he.

Morris.  I thought—­you seemed so breathless—­

Jean. 
     But you’ve come
Again!  May I not be glad of your coming? 
Yes, and a little breathless?—­Did you come
Only because you thought I might be bullied?

Morris.  O, no, no, no, Only for you I came.

Jean.  And that’s what I was hoping.

Morris. 
     If you could know
How it has been with me, since I saw you!

Jean.

What can I know of your mind?—­For my own
Is hard enough to know,—­save that I’m glad
You’ve come again,—­and that I should have cried
If you’d not kept your word.

Morris. 
     My word?—­to see
Hamish does nothing to you?

Jean. 
     The fiend take Hamish! 
Do you think I’ld be afraid of him?—­It’s you
I ought to be afraid of, were I wise.

Morris.  Good God, she’s crying!

Jean. 
     Cannot you understand?

Morris.  O darling, is it so?  I prayed for this All night, and yet it’s unbelievable.

Jean.  You too, Morris?

Morris. 
     There’s nothing living in me
But love for you, my sweetheart.

Jean. 
     And you are mine,
My sweetheart!—­And now, Morris, now you know Why you are the man that ought to frighten me!—­ Morris, I love you so!

Morris. 
     O, but better than this,
Jean, you must love me.  You must never think I’m like the heartless men you wait on here, Whose love is all a hunger that cares naught How hatefully endured its feasting must be By her who fills it, so it be well glutted!

Jean.  I did not say I was afraid of you; But only that, perhaps, I ought to be.

Morris. 
No, no, you never ought.  My love is one
That will not have its passion venturous;
It knows itself too fine a ceremony
To risk its whole perfection even by one
Unruly thought of the luxury in love. 
Nay, rather it is the quietness of power,
That knows there is no turbulence in life
Dare the least questioning hindrance set against
The onward of its going,—­therefore quiet,
All gentle.  But strong, Jean, wondrously strong!

Jean.  Yes, love is strong.  I have well thought of that.  It drops as fiercely down on us as if We were to be its prey.  I’ve seen a gull That hovered with beak pointing and eyes fixt Where, underneath its swaying flight, some fish Was trifling, fooling in the waves:  then, souse!  And the gull has fed.  And love on us has fed.