Giovanna, my dear lady, in this same battle
We had been beaten--they were ten to one.
The trumpets of the fight had echo'd down,
I and Filippo here had done our best,
And, having passed unwounded from the field,
Were seated sadly at a fountain side,
Our horses grazing by us, when a troop,
Laden with booty and with a flag of ours
Ta'en in the fight----
FILIPPO.
Ay, but we fought for it back,
And kill'd----
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
COUNT.
A troop of horse----
FILIPPO.
Five hundred!
COUNT.
Say fifty!
FILIPPO.
And we kill'd 'em by the score!
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
FILIPPO.
Well, well, well! I bite my tongue.
COUNT.
We may have left their fifty less by five.
However, staying not to count how many,
But anger'd at their flaunting of our flag,
We mounted, and we dash'd into the heart of 'em.
I wore the lady's chaplet round my neck;
It served me for a blessed rosary.
I am sure that more than one brave fellow owed
His death to the charm in it.
ELISABETTA.
Hear that, my lady!
COUNT.
I cannot tell how long we strove before
Our horses fell beneath us; down we went
Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled underfoot. The night,
As some cold-manner'd friend may strangely do us
The truest service, had a touch of frost
That help'd to check the flowing of the blood.
My last sight ere I swoon'd was one sweet face
Crown'd with the wreath. _That_ seem'd to come and go.
They left us there for dead!
ELISABETTA.
Hear that, my lady!
FILIPPO.
Ay, and I left two fingers there for dead. See, my lady!
(_Showing his hand_.)
LADY GIOVANNA.
I see, Filippo!
FILIPPO.
And I have small hope of the gentleman gout in my great toe.
LADY GIOVANNA.
And why, Filippo? [_Smiling absently_.
FILIPPO.
I left him there for dead too!
ELISABETTA.
She smiles at him--how hard the woman is!
My lady, if your ladyship were not
Too proud to look upon the garland, you
Would find it stain'd----
COUNT (_rising_).
Silence, Elisabetta!
ELISABETTA.
Stain'd with the blood of the best heart that ever
Beat for one woman. [_Points to wreath on chair_.
LADY GIOVANNA (_rising slowly_).
I can eat no more!
COUNT.
You have but trifled with our homely salad,
But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf;
Not eaten anything.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Nay, nay, I cannot.
You know, my lord, I told you I was troubled.
My one child Florio lying still so sick,
I bound myself, and by a solemn vow,
That I would touch no flesh till he were well
Here, or else well in Heaven, where all is well.
[ELISABETTA _clears table of bird and salad_; FILIPPO _snatches
up the plate of prunes and holds them to_ LADY GIOVANNA.
FILIPPO.
But the prunes, my lady, from the tree that his lordship----
LADY GIOVANNA.
Not now, Filippo. My lord Federigo,
Can I not speak with you once more alone?
COUNT.
You hear, Filippo? My good fellow, go!
FILIPPO.
But the prunes that your lordship----
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
COUNT.
Ay, prune our company of thine own and go!
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
FILIPPO (_turning_).
Well, well! the women!
[Exit.
COUNT.
And thou too leave us, my dear nurse, alone.
ELISABETTA (_folding up cloth and going_).
And me too! Ay, the dear nurse will leave you alone;
but, for all that, she that has eaten the yolk is scarce
like to swallow the shell.
[_Turns and curtseys stiffly to_ LADY GIOVANNA, _then
exit_. LADY GIOVANNA _takes out diamond necklace from casket_.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I have anger'd your good nurse; these old-world servants
Are all but flesh and blood with those they serve.
My lord, I have a present to return you,
And afterwards a boon to crave of you.
COUNT.
No, my most honour'd and long-worshipt lady,
Poor Federigo degli Alberighi
Takes nothing in return from you except
Return of his affection--can deny
Nothing to you that you require of him.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Then I require you to take back your diamonds--
[_Offering necklace_.
I doubt not they are yours. No other heart
Of such magnificence in courtesy
Beats--out of heaven. They seem'd too rich a prize
To trust with any messenger. I came
In person to return them. [_Count draws back_.
If the phrase
'Return' displease you, we will say--exchange them
For your--for your----
COUNT (_takes a step toward her and then back_).
For mine--and what of mine?
LADY GIOVANNA.
Well, shall we say this wreath and your sweet rhymes?
COUNT.
But have you ever worn my diamonds?
LADY GIOVANNA.
No!
For that would seem accepting of your love.
I cannot brave my brother--but be sure
That I shall never marry again, my lord!
COUNT.
Sure?
LADY GIOVANNA.
Yes!
COUNT.
Is this your brother's order?
LADY GIOVANNA.
No!
For he would marry me to the richest man
In Florence; but I think you know the saying--
'Better a man without riches, than riches without a man.'
COUNT.
A noble saying--and acted on would yield
A nobler breed of men and women. Lady,
I find you a shrewd bargainer. The wreath
That once you wore outvalues twentyfold
The diamonds that you never deign'd to wear.
But lay them there for a moment!
[_Points to table_. LADY GIOVANNA _places necklace on table_.
And be you
Gracious enough to let me know the boon
By granting which, if aught be mine to grant,
I should be made more happy than I hoped
Ever to be again.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Then keep your wreath,
But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still.
I cannot keep your diamonds, for the gift
I ask for, to my mind and at this present
Outvalues all the jewels upon earth.
COUNT.
It should be love that thus outvalues all.
You speak like love, and yet you love me not.
I have nothing in this world but love for you.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Love? it _is_ love, love for my dying boy,
Moves me to ask it of you.
COUNT.
What? my time?
Is it my time? Well, I can give my time
To him that is a part of you, your son.
Shall I return to the castle with you? Shall I
Sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales,
Sing him my songs? You know that I can touch
The ghittern to some purpose.
LADY GIOVANNA.
No, not that!
I thank you heartily for that--and you,
I doubt not from your nobleness of nature,
Will pardon me for asking what I ask.
COUNT.
Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once
The wildest of the random youth of Florence
Before I saw you--all my nobleness
Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws
From you, and from my constancy to you.
No more, but speak.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I will. You know sick people,
More specially sick children, have strange fancies,
Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood
May work them grievous harm at times, may even
Hasten their end. I would you had a son!
It might be easier then for you to make
Allowance for a mother--her--who comes
To rob you of your one delight on earth.
How often has my sick boy yearn'd for this!
I have put him off as often; but to-day
I dared not--so much weaker, so much worse
For last day's journey. I was weeping for him:
He gave me his hand: 'I should be well again
If the good Count would give me----
COUNT.
Give me.
LADY GIOVANNA.
His falcon.
COUNT (_starts back_).
My falcon!
LADY GIOVANNA.
Yes, your falcon, Federigo!
COUNT.
Alas, I cannot!
LADY GIOVANNA.
Cannot? Even so!
I fear'd as much. O this unhappy world!
How shall I break it to him? how shall I tell him?
The boy may die: more blessed were the rags
Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms
For her sick son, if he were like to live,
Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die.
I was to blame--the love you said you bore me--
My lord, we thank you for your entertainment,
[_With a stately curtsey_.
And so return--Heaven help him!--to our son.
[_Turns--_
COUNT (_rushes forward_).
Stay, stay, I am most unlucky, most unhappy.
You never had look'd in on me before,
And when you came and dipt your sovereign head
Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to eat with me.
I had but emptiness to set before you,
No not a draught of milk, no not an egg,
Nothing but my brave bird, my noble falcon,
My comrade of the house, and of the field.
She had to die for it--she died for you.
Perhaps I thought with those of old, the nobler
The victim was, the more acceptable
Might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce
Will thank me for your entertainment now.
LADY GIOVANNA (_returning_).
I bear with him no longer.
COUNT.
No, Madonna!
And he will have to bear with it as he may.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I break with him for ever!
COUNT.
Yes, Giovanna,
But he will keep his love to you for ever!
LADY GIOVANNA.
You? you? not you! My brother! my hard brother!
O Federigo, Federigo, I love you!
Spite of ten thousand brothers, Federigo.
[_falls at his feet_.
COUNT (_impetuously_).
Why then the dying of my noble bird
Hath served me better than her living--then
[_Takes diamonds from table_.
These diamonds are both yours and mine--have won
Their value again--beyond all markets--there
I lay them for the first time round your neck.
[_Lays necklace round her neck_.
And then this chaplet--No more feuds, but peace,
Peace and conciliation! I will make
Your brother love me. See, I tear away
The leaves were darken'd by the battle--
[_Pulls leaves off and throws them down_.
--crown you
Again with the same crown my Queen of Beauty.
[_Places wreath on her head_.
Rise--I could almost think that the dead garland
Will break once more into the living blossom.
Nay, nay, I pray you rise.
[_Raises her with both hands_.
We two together
Will help to heal your son--your son and mine--
We shall do it--we shall do it. [_Embraces her_.
The purpose of my being is accomplish'd,
And I am happy!
LADY GIOVANNA.
And I too, Federigo.
THE PROMISE OF MAY
'A surface man of theories, true to none.'
_DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
FARMER DOBSON.
Mr. PHILIP EDGAR (_afterwards_ Mr. HAROLD).
FARMER STEER (DORA _and_ EVA'S _Father_).
Mr. WILSON (_a Schoolmaster_).
HIGGINS |
JAMES |
DAN SMITH | _Farm Labourers_.
JACKSON |
ALLEN |
DORA STEER.
EVA STEER.
SALLY ALLEN |
MILLY | _Farm Servants_.
_Farm Servants, Labourers, etc_.
THE PROMISE OF MAY
ACT I.
SCENE.--_Before Farmhouse_.
Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, &c., Women carrying
baskets of knives and forks, &c.
1ST FARMING MAN.
Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn?
2ND FARMING MAN.
Ay, to be sewer! Be thou?
1ST FARMING MAN.
Why, o' coorse, fur it be the owd man's birthdaäy. He be heighty this
very daäy, and 'e telled all on us to be i' the long barn by one
o'clock, fur he'll gie us a big dinner, and haäfe th' parish'll be
theer, an' Miss Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all!
2ND FARMING MAN.
Miss Dora be coomed back, then?
1ST FARMING MAN.
Ay, haäfe an hour ago. She be in theer, now. (_Pointing to house_.)
Owd Steer wur afeärd she wouldn't be back i' time to keep his
birthdaäy, and he wur in a tew about it all the murnin'; and he sent
me wi' the gig to Littlechester to fetch 'er; and 'er an' the owd man
they fell a kissin' o' one another like two sweet-'arts i' the poorch
as soon as he clapt eyes of 'er.
2ND FARMING MAN.
Foälks says he likes Miss Eva the best.
1ST FARMING MAN.
Naäy, I knaws nowt o' what foälks says, an' I caäres nowt neither.
Foälks doesn't hallus knaw thessens; but sewer I be, they be two o'
the purtiest gels ye can see of a summer murnin'.
2ND FARMING MAN.
Beänt Miss Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' laäte?
1ST FARMING MAN.
Noä, not a bit.
2ND FARMING MAN.
Why coöm awaäy, then, to the long barn.
[_Exeunt_.
DORA _looks out of window. Enter_ DOBSON.
DORA (_singing_).
The town lay still in the low sun-light,
The hen cluckt late by the white farm gate,
The maid to her dairy came in from the cow,
The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of night,
The blossom had open'd on every bough;
O joy for the promise of May, of May,
O joy for the promise of May.
(_Nodding at_ DOBSON.) I'm coming down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen Eva
yet. Is she anywhere in the garden?
DOBSON.
Noä, Miss. I ha'n't seed 'er neither.
DORA (_enters singing_).
But a red fire woke in the heart of the town,
And a fox from the glen ran away with the hen,
And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the cheese;
And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt down,
And a salt wind burnt the blossoming trees;
O grief for the promise of May, of May,
O grief for the promise of May.
I don't know why I sing that song; I don't love it.
DOBSON.
Blessings on your pretty voice, Miss Dora. Wheer did they larn ye
that?
DORA.
In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON.
An' how did ye leäve the owd uncle i' Coomberland?
DORA.
Getting better, Mr. Dobson. But he'll never be the same man again.
DOBSON.
An' how d'ye find the owd man 'ere?
DORA.
As well as ever. I came back to keep his birthday.
DOBSON.
Well, I be coomed to keep his birthdaäy an' all. The owd man be
heighty to-daäy, beänt he?
DORA.
Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the day's bright like a friend, but the wind east
like an enemy. Help me to move this bench for him into the sun. (_They
move bench_.) No, not that way--here, under the apple tree. Thank you.
Look how full of rosy blossom it is.
[_Pointing to apple tree_.
DOBSON.
Theer be redder blossoms nor them, Miss Dora.
DORA.
Where do they blow, Mr. Dobson?
DOBSON.
Under your eyes, Miss Dora.
DORA.
Do they?
DOBSON.
And your eyes be as blue as----
DORA.
What, Mr. Dobson? A butcher's frock?
DOBSON.
Noä, Miss Dora; as blue as----
DORA.
Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, succory, forget-me-not?
DOBSON.
Noä, Miss Dora; as blue as----
DORA.
The sky? or the sea on a blue day?
DOBSON.
Naäy then. I meän'd they be as blue as violets.
DORA.
Are they?
DOBSON.
Theer ye goäs ageän, Miss, niver believing owt I says to ye--hallus
a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knaws I love ye. I warrants ye'll think moor
o' this young Squire Edgar as ha' coomed among us--the Lord knaws how
--ye'll think more on 'is little finger than hall my hand at the
haltar.
DORA.
Perhaps, Master Dobson. I can't tell, for I have never seen him. But
my sister wrote that he was mighty pleasant, and had no pride in him.
DOBSON.
He'll be arter you now, Miss Dora.
DORA.
Will he? How can I tell?
DOBSON.
He's been arter Miss Eva, haän't he?
DORA.
Not that I know.
DOBSON.
Didn't I spy 'em a-sitting i' the woodbine harbour togither?
DORA.
What of that? Eva told me that he was taking her likeness. He's an
artist.
DOBSON.
What's a hartist? I doänt believe he's iver a 'eart under his
waistcoat. And I tells ye what, Miss Dora: he's no respect for the
Queen, or the parson, or the justice o' peace, or owt. I ha' heärd 'im
a-gawin' on 'ud make your 'air--God bless it!--stan' on end. And wuss
nor that. When theer wur a meeting o' farmers at Littlechester t'other
daäy, and they was all a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms up, and
he calls out among our oän men, 'The land belongs to the
people!'
DORA.
And what did _you_ say to that?
DOBSON.
Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the land, and you says it belongs to the
parish, and theer be a thousand i' the parish, taäkin' in the women
and childer; and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it among 'em, why
there wudn't be a dinner for nawbody, and I should ha' lost the pig.
DORA.
And what did he say to that?
DOBSON.
Nowt--what could he saäy? But I taäkes 'im fur a bad lot and a burn
fool, and I haätes the very sight on him.
DORA. (_Looking at_ DOBSON.)
Master Dobson, you are a comely man to look at.
DOBSON.
I thank you for that, Miss Dora, onyhow.
DORA.
Ay, but you turn right ugly when you're in an ill temper; and I
promise you that if you forget yourself in your behaviour to this
gentleman, my father's friend, I will never change word with you
again.
_Enter_ FARMING MAN _from barn_.
FARMING MAN.
Miss, the farming men 'ull hev their dinner i' the long barn, and the
master 'ud be straänge an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that
all be right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he coöm.
[_Exit_.
DORA.
I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what I said?
DOBSON.
Yeas, yeas! I'll not meddle wi' 'im if he doänt meddle wi' meä.
(_Exit_ DORA.) Coomly, says she. I niver thowt o' mysen i' that waäy;
but if she'd taäke to ma i' that waäy, or ony waäy, I'd slaäve out my
life fur 'er. 'Coomly to look at,' says she--but she said it
spiteful-like. To look at--yeas, 'coomly'; and she mayn't be so fur out
theer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. (_Looking off
stage_.) Schoolmaster! Why if Steer han't haxed schoolmaster to
dinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus ageän heving schoolmaster i' the
parish! fur him as be handy wi' a book bean't but haäfe a hand at a
pitchfork.
_Enter_ WILSON.
Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o' thine i' the pinfold ageän as I
wur a-coomin' 'ere.
WILSON.
Very likely, Mr. Dobson. She _will_ break fence.
I can't keep her in order.
DOBSON.
An' if tha can't keep thy one cow i' horder, how can tha keep all thy
scholards i' horder? But let that goä by. What dost a knaw o' this Mr.
Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? I coom'd upon 'im t'other daäy lookin'
at the coontry, then a-scrattin upon a bit o' paäper, then a-lookin'
ageän; and I taäked 'im fur soom sort of a land-surveyor--but a beänt.
WILSON.
He's a Somersetshire man, and a very civil-spoken gentleman.
DOBSON.
Gentleman! What be he a-doing here ten mile an' moor fro' a raäil? We
laäys out o' the waäy fur gentlefoälk altogither--leastwaäys they
niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as
far as Littlechester. But 'e doänt fish neither.
WILSON.
Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not to fish.
DOBSON.
Noa, but I haätes 'im.
WILSON.
Better step out of his road, then, for he's walking to us, and with a
book in his hand.
DOBSON.
An' I haätes booöks an' all, fur they puts foälk off the owd waäys.
_Enter_ EDGAR, _reading--not seeing_ DOBSON _and_ WILSON.
EDGAR.
This author, with his charm of simple style
And close dialectic, all but proving man
An automatic series of sensations,
Has often numb'd me into apathy
Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough road
That breaks off short into the abysses--made me
A Quietist taking all things easily.
DOBSON. (_Aside_.)
There mun be summut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doänt understan' it.
WILSON. (_Aside_.)
Nor I either, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON. (_Scornfully_.)
An' thou doänt understan' it neither--and thou schoolmaster an' all.
EDGAR.
What can a man, then, live for but sensations,
Pleasant ones? men of old would undergo
Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones
Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties waiting
To clasp their lovers by the golden gates.
For me, whose cheerless Houris after death
Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones--the while--
If possible, here! to crop the flower and pass.
DOBSON.
Well, I never 'eard the likes o' that afoor.
WILSON. (_Aside_.)
But I have, Mr. Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 'Let us eat and
drink, for to-morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never
comes to church, I thought better of him.
EDGAR.
'What are we,' says the blind old man in Lear?
'As flies to the Gods; they kill us for their sport.'
DOBSON. (_Aside_.)
Then the owd man i' Lear should be shaämed of hissen, but noän o' the
parishes goä's by that naäme 'ereabouts.
EDGAR.
The Gods! but they, the shadows of ourselves,
Have past for ever. It is Nature kills,
And not for _her_ sport either. She knows nothing.
Man only knows, the worse for him! for why
Cannot _he_ take his pastime like the flies?
And if my pleasure breed another's pain,
Well--is not that the course of Nature too,
From the dim dawn of Being--her main law
Whereby she grows in beauty--that her flies
Must massacre each other? this poor Nature!
DOBSON.
Natur! Natur! Well, it be i' _my_ natur to knock 'im o' the 'eäd now;
but I weänt.
EDGAR.
A Quietist taking all things easily--why--
Have I been dipping into this again
To steel myself against the leaving her?
(_Closes book, seeing_ WILSON.)
Good day!
WILSON.
Good day, sir.
(DOBSON _looks hard at_ EDGAR.)
EDGAR. (_To_ DOBSON.)
Have I the pleasure, friend, of knowing you?
DOBSON.
Dobson.
EDGAR.
Good day, then, Dobson. [_Exit_.
DOBSON.
'Good daäy then, Dobson!' Civil-spoken i'deed! Why, Wilson, tha 'eärd
'im thysen--the feller couldn't find a Mister in his mouth fur me, as
farms five hoonderd haäcre.
WILSON.
You never find one for me, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON.
Noä, fur thou be nobbut schoolmaster; but I taäkes 'im fur a Lunnun
swindler, and a burn fool.
WILSON.
He can hardly be both, and he pays me regular
every Saturday.
DOBSON.
Yeas; but I haätes 'im.
_Enter_ STEER, FARM MEN _and_ WOMEN.
STEER. (_Goes and sits under apple tree_.)
Hev' ony o' ye seen Eva?
DOBSON.
Noä, Mr. Steer.
STEER.
Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine cider-crop to-year if the blossom
'owds. Good murnin', neighbours, and the saäme to you, my men. I
taäkes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed--what's the
newspaäper word, Wilson?--celebrate--to celebrate my birthdaäy i' this
fashion. Niver man 'ed better friends, and I will saäy niver master
'ed better men: fur thaw I may ha' fallen out wi' ye sometimes, the
fault, mebbe, wur as much mine as yours; and, thaw I says it mysen,
niver men 'ed a better master--and I knaws what men be, and what
masters be, fur I wur nobbut a laäbourer, and now I be a landlord--
burn a plowman, and now, as far as money goäs, I be a gentleman, thaw
I beänt naw scholard, fur I 'ednt naw time to maäke mysen a scholard
while I wur maäkin' mysen a gentleman, but I ha taäen good care to
turn out boäth my darters right down fine laädies.
DOBSON.
An' soä they be.
1ST FARMING MAN.
Soä they be! soä they be!
2ND FARMING MAN.
The Lord bless boäth on 'em!
3RD FARMING MAN.
An' the saäme to you, Master.
4TH FARMING MAN.
And long life to boäth on 'em. An' the saäme to you, Master Steer,
likewise.
STEER.
Thank ye!
_Enter_ EVA.
Wheer 'asta been?
EVA. (_Timidly_.)
Many happy returns of the day, father.
STEER.
They can't be many, my dear, but I 'oäpes they'll be 'appy.
DOBSON.
Why, tha looks haäle anew to last to a hoonderd.
STEER.
An' why shouldn't I last to a hoonderd? Haäle! why shouldn't I be
haäle? fur thaw I be heighty this very daäy, I niver 'es sa much as
one pin's prick of paäin; an' I can taäke my glass along wi' the
youngest, fur I niver touched a drop of owt till my oän wedding-daäy,
an' then I wur turned huppads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I be haäle? I
ha' plowed the ten-aäcre--it be mine now--afoor ony o' ye wur burn--ye
all knaws the ten-aäcre--I mun ha' plowed it moor nor a hoonderd
times; hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plow straäit as a line
right i' the faäce o' the sun, then back ageän, a-follering my oän
shadder--then hup ageän i' the faäce o' the sun. Eh! how the sun 'ud
shine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daäys, and the smell o' the
mou'd an' all. Eh! if I could ha' gone on wi' the plowin' nobbut the
smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' maäde ma live as long as Jerusalem.
EVA.
Methusaleh, father.
STEER.
Ay, lass, but when thou be as owd as me thou'll put one word fur
another as I does.
DOBSON.
But, Steer, thaw thou be haäle anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just now
wi' the roomatics i' the knee.
STEER.
Roomatics! Noä; I laäme't my knee last night running arter a thief.
Beänt there house-breäkers down i' Littlechester, Dobson--doänt ye
hear of ony?
DOBSON.
Ay, that there be. Immanuel Goldsmiths was broke into o' Monday night,
and ower a hoonderd pounds worth o' rings stolen.
STEER.
So I thowt, and I heärd the winder--that's the winder at the end o'
the passage, that goäs by thy chaumber. (_Turning to_ EVA.) Why, lass,
what maäakes tha sa red? Did 'e git into thy chaumber?
EVA.
Father!
STEER.
Well, I runned arter thief i' the dark, and fell ageän coalscuttle and
my kneeä gev waäy or I'd ha' cotched 'im, but afoor I coomed up he got
thruff the winder ageän.
EVA.
Got thro' the window again?
STEER.
Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot i' the flowerbed; now theer be
noän o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were Dan
Smith, fur I cotched 'im once a-stealin' coäls an' I sent fur 'im, an'
I measured his foot wi' the mark i' the bed, but it wouldn't fit--
seeäms to me the mark wur maäde by a Lunnun boot. (_Looks at_ EVA.)
Why, now, what maäkes tha sa white?
EVA.
Fright, father!
STEER.
Maäke thysen eäsy. I'll hev the winder naäiled up, and put Towser
under it.
EVA. (_Clasping her hands_.)
No, no, father! Towser'll tear him all to pieces.
STEER.
Let him keep awaäy, then; but coom, coom! let's be gawin. They ha'
broached a barrel of aäle i' the long barn, and the fiddler be theer,
and the lads and lasses 'ull hev a dance.
EVA. (_Aside_.)
Dance! small heart have I to dance. I should seem to be dancing upon a
grave.
STEER.
Wheer be Mr. Edgar? about the premises?
DOBSON.
Hallus about the premises!
STEER.
So much the better, so much the better. I likes 'im, and Eva likes
'im. Eva can do owt wi' 'im; look for 'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the
barn. He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll git 'im to speechify for us
arter dinner.
EVA.
Yes, father! [_Exit_.
STEER.
Coom along then, all the rest o' ye! Churchwarden be a coomin, thaw me
and 'im we niver 'grees about the tithe; and Parson mebbe, thaw he
niver mended that gap i' the glebe fence as I telled 'im; and
Blacksmith, thaw he niver shoes a herse to my likings; and Baäker,
thaw I sticks to hoäm-maäde--but all on 'em welcome, all on 'em
welcome; and I've hed the long barn cleared out of all the machines,
and the sacks, and the taäters, and the mangles, and theer'll be room
anew for all o' ye. Foller me.
ALL.
Yeas, yeas! Three cheers for Mr. Steer!
[_All exeunt except_ DOBSON _into barn_.
_Enter_ EDGAR.
DOBSON (_who is going, turns_).
Squire!--if so be you be a squire.
EDGAR.
Dobbins, I think.
DOBSON.
Dobbins, you thinks; and I thinks ye weärs a Lunnun boot.
EDGAR.
Well?
DOBSON.
And I thinks I'd like to taäke the measure o' your foot.
EDGAR.
Ay, if you'd like to measure your own length upon the grass.
DOBSON.
Coom, coom, that's a good un. Why, I could throw four o' ye; but I
promised one of the Misses I wouldn't meddle wi' ye, and I weänt.
[_Exit into barn_.
EDGAR.
Jealous of me with Eva! Is it so?
Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, that I
Have worn, to such a clod, yet that might be
The best way out of it, if the child could keep
Her counsel. I am sure I wish her happy.
But I must free myself from this entanglement.
I have all my life before me--so has she--
Give her a month or two, and her affections
Will flower toward the light in some new face.
Still I am half-afraid to meet her now.
She will urge marriage on me. I hate tears.
Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate
Traditions, ever since my narrow father,
After my frolic with his tenant's girl,
Made younger elder son, violated the whole
Tradition of our land, and left his heir,
Born, happily, with some sense of art, to live
By brush and pencil. By and by, when Thought
Comes down among the crowd, and man perceives that
The lost gleam of an after-life but leaves him
A beast of prey in the dark, why then the crowd
May wreak my wrongs upon my wrongers. Marriage!
That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, old Harold,
Who leaves me all his land at Littlechester,
He, too, would oust me from his will, if I
Made such a marriage. And marriage in itself--
The storm is hard at hand will sweep away
Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, marriage
One of the feeblest! Then the man, the woman,
Following their best affinities, will each
Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears;
Good wishes, not reproaches; with no fear
Of the world's gossiping clamour, and no need
Of veiling their desires.
Conventionalism,
Who shrieks by day at what she does by night,
Would call this vice; but one time's vice may be
The virtue of another; and Vice and Virtue
Are but two masks of self; and what hereafter
Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in the gulf
Of never-dawning darkness?
_Enter_ EVA.
My sweet Eva,
Where have you lain in ambush all the morning?
They say your sister, Dora, has return'd,
And that should make you happy, if you love her!
But you look troubled.
EVA.
Oh, I love her so,
I was afraid of her, and I hid myself.
We never kept a secret from each other;
She would have seen at once into my trouble,
And ask'd me what I could not answer. Oh, Philip,
Father heard you last night. Our savage mastiff,
That all but kill'd the beggar, will be placed
Beneath the window, Philip.
EDGAR.
Savage, is he?
What matters? Come, give me your hand and kiss me
This beautiful May-morning.
EVA.
The most beautiful
May we have had for many years!
EDGAR.
And here
Is the most beautiful morning of this May.
Nay, you must smile upon me! There--you make
The May and morning still more beautiful,
You, the most beautiful blossom of the May.
EVA.
Dear Philip, all the world is beautiful
If we were happy, and could chime in with it.
EDGAR.
True; for the senses, love, are for the world;
That for the senses.
EVA.
Yes.
EDGAR.
And when the man,
The child of evolution, flings aside
His swaddling-bands, the morals of the tribe,
He, following his own instincts as his God,
Will enter on the larger golden age;
No pleasure then taboo'd: for when the tide
Of full democracy has overwhelm'd
This Old world, from that flood will rise the New,
Like the Love-goddess, with no bridal veil,
Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked Nature
In all her loveliness.
EVA.
What are you saying?
EDGAR.
That, if we did not strain to make ourselves
Better and higher than Nature, we might be
As happy as the bees there at their honey
In these sweet blossoms.
EVA.
Yes; how sweet they smell!
EDGAR.
There! let me break some off for you.
[_Breaking branch off_.
EVA.
My thanks.
But, look, how wasteful of the blossom you are!
One, two, three, four, five, six--you have robb'd poor father
Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to tell you
He wishes you to dine along with us,
And speak for him after--you that are so clever!
EDGAR.
I grieve I cannot; but, indeed--
EVA.
What is it?
EDGAR.
Well, business. I must leave you, love, to-day.
EVA.
Leave me, to-day! And when will you return?
EDGAR.
I cannot tell precisely; but--
EVA.
But what?
EDGAR.
I trust, my dear, we shall be always friends.
EVA.
After all that has gone between us--friends!
What, only friends? [_Drops branch_.
EDGAR.
All that has gone between us
Should surely make us friends.
EVA.
But keep us lovers.
EDGAR.
Child, do you love me now?
EVA.
Yes, now and ever.
EDGAR.
Then you should wish us both to love for ever.
But, if you _will_ bind love to one for ever,
Altho' at first he take his bonds for flowers,
As years go on, he feels them press upon him,
Begins to flutter in them, and at last
Breaks thro' them, and so flies away for ever;
While, had you left him free use of his wings,
Who knows that he had ever dream'd of flying?
EVA.
But all that sounds so wicked and so strange;
'Till death us part'--those are the only words,
The true ones--nay, and those not true enough,
For they that love do not believe that death
Will part them. Why do you jest with me, and try
To fright me? Tho' you are a gentleman,
I but a farmer's daughter--
EDGAR.
Tut! you talk
Old feudalism. When the great Democracy
Makes a new world--
EVA.
And if you be not jesting,
Neither the old world, nor the new, nor father,
Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more.
EDGAR (_moved_).
Then--(_aside_) Shall I say it?--(_aloud_) fly with me to-day.
EVA.
No! Philip, Philip, if you do not marry me,
I shall go mad for utter shame and die.
EDGAR.
Then, if we needs must be conventional,
When shall your parish-parson bawl our banns
Before your gaping clowns?
EVA.
Not in our church--
I think I scarce could hold my head up there.
Is there no other way?
EDGAR.
Yes, if you cared
To fee an over-opulent superstition,
Then they would grant you what they call a licence
To marry. Do you wish it?
EVA.
_Do_ I wish it?
EDGAR.
In London.
EVA.
You will write to me?
EDGAR.
I will.
EVA.
And I will fly to you thro' the night, the storm--
Yes, tho' the fire should run along the ground,
As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you see,
I was just out of school, I had no mother--
My sister far away--and you, a gentleman,
Told me to trust you: yes, in everything--
_That_ was the only _true_ love; and I trusted--
Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for you.
How could you--Oh, how could you?--nay, how could I?
But now you will set all right again, and I
Shall not be made the laughter of the village,
And poor old father not die miserable.
DORA (_singing in the distance_).
'O joy for the promise of May, of May,
O joy for the promise of May.'
EDGAR.
Speak not so loudly; that must be your sister.
You never told her, then, of what has past
Between us.
EVA.
Never!
EDGAR.
Do not till I bid you.
EVA.
No, Philip, no. [_Turns away_.
EDGAR (_moved_).
How gracefully there she stands
Weeping--the little Niobe! What! we prize
The statue or the picture all the more
When we have made them ours! Is she less loveable,
Less lovely, being wholly mine? To stay--
Follow my art among these quiet fields,
Live with these honest folk--
And play the fool!
No! she that gave herself to me so easily
Will yield herself as easily to another.
EVA.
Did you speak, Philip?
EDGAR.
Nothing more, farewell.
[_They embrace_.
DORA (_coming nearer_).
'O grief for the promis May, of May,
O grief for the promise of May.'
EDGAR (_still embracing her_).
Keep up your heart until we meet again.
EVA.
If that should break before we meet again?
EDGAR.
Break! nay, but call for Philip when you will,
And he returns.
EVA.
Heaven hears you, Philip Edgar!
EDGAR (_moved_).
And _he_ would hear you even from the grave.
Heaven curse him if he come not at your call!
[_Exit_.
_Enter_ DORA.
DORA.
Well, Eva!
EVA.
Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have been away from home! Oh, how often I
have wished for you! It seemed to me that we were parted for ever.
DORA.
For ever, you foolish child! What's come over you? We parted like the
brook yonder about the alder island, to come together again in a
moment and to go on together again, till one of us be married. But
where is this Mr. Edgar whom you praised so in your first letters? You
haven't even mentioned him in your last?
EVA.
He has gone to London.
DORA.
Ay, child; and you look thin and pale. Is it for his absence? Have you
fancied yourself in love with him? That's all nonsense, you know, such
a baby as you are. But you shall tell me all about it.
EVA.
Not now--presently. Yes, I have been in trouble, but I am happy--I
think, quite happy now.
DORA (_taking EVA'S hand_).
Come, then, and make them happy in the long barn, for father is in
his glory, and there is a piece of beef like a house-side, and a
plum-pudding as big as the round haystack. But see they are coming
out for the dance already. Well, my child, let us join them.
_Enter all from barn laughing_. EVA _sits reluctantly
under apple tree_. STEER _enters smoking, sits by_ EVA.
_Dance_.
ACT II.
Five years have elapsed between Acts I. and II.
SCENE.--_A meadow. On one side a pathway going over
a rustic bridge. At back the farmhouse among
trees. In the distance a church spire_.
DOBSON _and_ DORA.
DOBSON.
So the owd uncle i' Coomberland be deäd, Miss Dora, beänt he?
DORA.
Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been attending on his death-bed and his burial.
DOBSON.
It be five year sin' ye went afoor to him, and it seems to me nobbut
t'other day. Hesn't he left ye nowt?
DORA.
No, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON.
But he were mighty fond o' ye, warn't he?
DORA.
Fonder of poor Eva--like everybody else.
DOBSON (_handing_ DORA _basket of roses_).
Not like me, Miss Dora; and I ha' browt these roses to ye--I forgits
what they calls 'em, but I hallus gi'ed soom on 'em to Miss Eva at
this time o' year. Will ya taäke 'em? fur Miss Eva, she set the bush
by my dairy winder afoor she went to school at Littlechester--so I
allus browt soom on 'em to her; and now she be gone, will ye taäke
'em, Miss Dora?
DORA.
I thank you. They tell me that yesterday you mentioned her name too
suddenly before my father. See that you do not do so again!
DOBSON.
Noä; I knaws a deal better now. I seed how the owd man wur vext.
DORA.
I take them, then, for Eva's sake.
[_Takes basket, places some in her dress_.
DOBSON.
Eva's saäke. Yeas. Poor gel, poor gel! I can't abeär to think on 'er
now, fur I'd ha' done owt fur 'er mysen; an' ony o' Steer's men, an'
ony o' my men 'ud ha' done owt fur 'er, an' all the parish 'ud ha'
done owt fur 'er, fur we was all on us proud on 'er, an' them theer be
soom of her oän roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony on 'em--the Lord
bless 'er--'er oän sen; an' weänt ye taäke 'em now, Miss Dora, fur 'er
saäke an' fur my saäke an' all?
DORA.
Do you want them back again?
DOBSON.
Noä, noä! Keep 'em. But I hed a word to saäy to ye.
DORA.
Why, Farmer, you should be in the hayfield looking after your men; you
couldn't have more splendid weather.
DOBSON.
I be a going theer; but I thowt I'd bring tha them roses fust. The
weather's well anew, but the glass be a bit shaäky. S'iver we've led
moäst on it.
DORA.
Ay! but you must not be too sudden with it either, as you were last
year, when you put it in green, and your stack caught fire.
DOBSON.
I were insured, Miss, an' I lost nowt by it. But I weänt be too sudden
wi' it; and I feel sewer, Miss Dora, that I ha' been noän too sudden
wi' you, fur I ha' sarved for ye well nigh as long as the man sarved
for 'is sweet'art i' Scriptur'. Weänt ye gi'e me a kind answer at
last?
DORA.
I have no thought of marriage, my friend. We have been in such grief
these five years, not only on my sister's account, but the ill success
of the farm, and the debts, and my father's breaking down, and his
blindness. How could I think of leaving him?
DOBSON.
Eh, but I be well to do; and if ye would nobbut hev me, I would taäke
the owd blind man to my oän fireside. You should hev him allus wi' ye.
DORA.
You are generous, but it cannot be. I cannot love you; nay, I think I
never can be brought to love any man. It seems to me that I hate men,
ever since my sister left us. Oh, see here. (_Pulls out a letter_.) I
wear it next my heart. Poor sister, I had it five years ago. 'Dearest
Dora,--I have lost myself, and am lost for ever to you and my poor
father. I thought Mr. Edgar the best of men, and he has proved himself
the worst. Seek not for me, or you may find me at the bottom of the
river.--EVA.'
DOBSON.
Be that my fault?
DORA.
No; but how should I, with this grief still at my heart, take to the
milking of your cows, the fatting of your calves, the making of your
butter, and the managing of your poultry?
DOBSON.
Naä'y, but I hev an owd woman as 'ud see to all that; and you should
sit i' your oän parlour quite like a laädy, ye should!
DORA.
It cannot be.
DOBSON.
And plaäy the pianner, if ye liked, all daäy long, like a laädy, ye
should an' all.
DORA.
It cannot be.
DOBSON.
And I would loove tha moor nor ony gentleman 'ud I loove tha.
DORA.
No, no; it cannot be.
DOBSON.
And p'raps ye hears 'at I soomtimes taäkes a drop too much; but that
be all along o' you, Miss, because ye weänt hev me; but, if ye would,
I could put all that o' one side eäsy anew.
DORA.
Cannot you understand plain words, Mr. Dobson? I tell you, it cannot
be.
DOBSON.
Eh, lass! Thy feyther eddicated his darters to marry gentlefoälk, and
see what's coomed on it.
DORA.
That is enough, Farmer Dobson. You have shown me that, though fortune
had born _you_ into the estate of a gentleman, you would still have
been Farmer Dobson. You had better attend to your hayfield. Good
afternoon.
[_Exit_.
DOBSON.
'Farmer Dobson'! Well, I be Farmer Dobson; but I thinks Farmer
Dobson's dog 'ud ha' knaw'd better nor to cast her sister's misfortin
inter 'er teeth arter she'd been a-readin' me the letter wi' 'er voice
a-shaäkin', and the drop in 'er eye. Theer she goäs! Shall I foller
'er and ax 'er to maäke it up? Noä, not yet. Let 'er cool upon it; I
likes 'er all the better fur taäkin' me down, like a laädy, as she be.
Farmer Dobson! I be Farmer Dobson, sewer anew; but if iver I cooms
upo' Gentleman Hedgar ageän, and doänt laäy my cartwhip athurt 'is
shou'ders, why then I beänt Farmer Dobson, but summun else--blaäme't
if I beänt!
_Enter_ HAYMAKERS _with a load of hay_.
The last on it, eh?
1ST HAYMAKER.
Yeas.
DOBSON.
Hoäm wi' it, then. [_Exit surlily_.
1ST HAYMAKER.
Well, it be the last loäd hoäm.
2ND HAYMAKER.
Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be glad on it. What maäkes 'im allus sa
glum?
SALLY ALLEN.
Glum! he be wus nor glum. He coom'd up to me yisterdaäy i' the
haäyfield, when meä and my sweet'art was a workin' along o' one side
wi' one another, and he sent 'im awaäy to t'other end o' the field;
and when I axed 'im why, he telled me 'at sweet'arts niver worked well
togither; and I telled _'im_ 'at sweet'arts allus worked best
togither; and then he called me a rude naäme, and I can't abide 'im.
JAMES.
Why, lass, doänt tha knaw he be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she weänt
sa much as look at 'im? And wheniver 'e sees two sweet'arts togither
like thou and me, Sally, he be fit to bust hissen wi' spites and
jalousies.
SALLY.
Let 'im bust hissen, then, for owt _I_ cares.
1ST HAYMAKER.
Well but, as I said afoor, it be the last loäd hoäm; do thou and thy
sweet'art sing us hoäm to supper--'The Last Loäd Hoäm.'
ALL.
Ay! 'The Last Loäd Hoäm.'
_Song_.
What did ye do, and what did ye saäy,
Wi' the wild white rose, an' the woodbine sa gaä'y,
An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue--
What did ye saäy, and what did ye do,
When ye thowt there were nawbody watchin' o' you,
And you an' your Sally was forkin' the haäy,
At the end of the daäy,
For the last loäd hoäm?
What did we do, and what did we saäy,
Wi' the briar sa green, an' the willer sa graäy,
An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue--
Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to you,
What we mowt saäy, and what we mowt do,
When me an' my Sally was forkin' the haäy,
At the end of the daäy,
For the last loäd hoäm?
But what did ye saäy, and what did ye do,
Wi' the butterflies out, and the swallers at plaä'y,
An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue?
Why, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell it to you;
For me an' my Sally we swear'd to be true,
To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy,
Till the end of the daäy
And the last loäd hoäm.
ALL.
Well sung!
JAMES.
Fanny be the naäme i' the song, but I swopt it fur _she_.
[_Pointing to_ SALLY.
SALLY.
Let ma aloän afoor foälk, wilt tha?
1ST HAYMAKER.
Ye shall sing that ageän to-night, fur owd Dobson'll gi'e us a bit o'
supper.
SALLY.
I weänt goä to owd Dobson; he wur rude to me i' tha haäyfield, and
he'll be rude to me ageän to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his grass
down and wants a hand, and I'll goä to him.
1ST HAYMAKER.
Owd Steer gi'es nubbut cowd tea to '_is_ men, and owd Dobson gi'es
beer.
SALLY.
But I'd like owd Steer's cowd tea better nor Dobson's beer. Good-bye.
[Going.
JAMES.
Gi'e us a buss fust, lass.
SALLY.
I tell'd tha to let ma aloän!
JAMES.
Why, wasn't thou and me a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o' the
haäycock, when owd Dobson coom'd upo' us? I can't let tha aloän if I
would, Sally.
[Offering to kiss her.
SALLY.
Git along wi' ye, do! [_Exit_.
[_All laugh; exeunt singing_.
'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy,
Till the end o' the daä'y
An' the last loäd hoäm.'
_Enter_ HAROLD.
HAROLD.
Not Harold! 'Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar!'
Her phantom call'd me by the name she loved.
I told her I should hear her from the grave.
Ay! yonder is her casement. I remember
Her bright face beaming starlike down upon me
Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left her
Here weeping, I have ranged the world, and sat
Thro' every sensual course of that full feast
That leaves but emptiness.
_Song_.
'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy,
To the end o' the daä'y
An' the last loäd hoäm.'
HAROLD.
Poor Eva! O my God, if man be only
A willy-nilly current of sensations--
Reaction needs must follow revel--yet--
Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he must have
Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny?
Remorse then is a part of Destiny,
Nature a liar, making us feel guilty
Of her own faults.
My grandfather--of him
They say, that women--
O this mortal house,
Which we are born into, is haunted by
The ghosts of the dead passions of dead men;
And these take flesh again with our own flesh,
And bring us to confusion.
He was only
A poor philosopher who call'd the mind
Of children a blank page, a tabula rasa.
There, there, is written in invisible inks
'Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft,
Cowardice, Murder'--and the heat and fire
Of life will bring them out, and black enough,
So the child grow to manhood: better death
With our first wail than life--
Song (further off).
'Till the end o' the daäy
An' the last loäd hoäm,
Load hoäm.'
This bridge again! (Steps on the bridge.)
How often have I stood
With Eva here! The brook among its flowers!
Forget-me-not, meadowsweet, willow-herb.
I had some smattering of science then,
Taught her the learned names, anatomized
The flowers for her--and now I only wish
This pool were deep enough, that I might plunge
And lose myself for ever.
_Enter_ DAN SMITH (_singing_).
Gee oop! whoä! Gee oop! whoä!
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goä
Thruf slush an' squad
When roäds was bad,
But hallus ud stop at the Vine-an'-the-Hop,
Fur boäth on 'em knaw'd as well as mysen
That beer be as good fur 'erses as men.
Gee oop! whoä! Gee oop! whoä!
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goä.
The beer's gotten oop into my 'eäd. S'iver I mun git along back to the
farm, fur she tell'd ma to taäke the cart to Littlechester.
_Enter_ DORA.
Half an hour late! why are you loitering here? Away with you at once.
[_Exit_ DAN SMITH.
(_Seeing_ HAROLD _on bridge_.)
Some madman, is it, Gesticulating there upon the bridge? I am half
afraid to pass.
HAROLD.
Sometimes I wonder,
When man has surely learnt at last that all
His old-world faith, the blossom of his youth,
Has faded, falling fruitless--whether then
All of us, all at once, may not be seized
With some fierce passion, not so much for Death
As against Life! all, all, into the dark--
No more!--and science now could drug and balm us
Back into nescience with as little pain
As it is to fall asleep.
This beggarly life,
This poor, flat, hedged-in field--no distance--this
Hollow Pandora-box,
With all the pleasures flown, not even Hope
Left at the bottom!
Superstitious fool,
What brought me here? To see her grave? her ghost?
Her ghost is everyway about me here.
DORA (_coming forward_).
Allow me, sir, to pass you.
HAROLD.
Eva!
DORA.
Eva!
HAROLD.
What are you? Where do you come from?
DORA.
From the farm
Here, close at hand.
HAROLD.
Are you--you are--that Dora,
The sister. I have heard of you. The likeness
Is very striking.
DORA.
You knew Eva, then?
HAROLD.
Yes--I was thinking of her when--O yes,
Many years back, and never since have met
Her equal for pure innocence of nature,
And loveliness of feature.
DORA.
No, nor I.
HAROLD.
Except, indeed, I have found it once again
In your own self.
DORA.
You flatter me. Dear Eva
Was always thought the prettier.
HAROLD.
And _her_ charm
Of voice is also yours; and I was brooding
Upon a great unhappiness when you spoke.
DORA.
Indeed, you seem'd in trouble, sir.
HAROLD.
And you
Seem my good angel who may help me from it.
DORA (_aside_).
How worn he looks, poor man! who is it, I wonder.
How can I help him? (_Aloud_.) Might I ask your name?
HAROLD.
Harold.
DORA.
I never heard her mention you.
HAROLD.
I met her first at a farm in Cumberland--
Her uncle's.
DORA.
She was there six years ago.
HAROLD.
And if she never mention'd me, perhaps
The painful circumstances which I heard--
I will not vex you by repeating them--
Only last week at Littlechester, drove me
From out her memory. She has disappear'd,
They told me, from the farm--and darker news.
DORA.
She has disappear'd, poor darling, from the world--
Left but one dreadful line to say, that we
Should find her in the river; and we dragg'd
The Littlechester river all in vain:
Have sorrow'd for her all these years in vain.
And my poor father, utterly broken down
By losing her--she was his favourite child--
Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear,
But for the slender help that I can give,
Fall into ruin. Ah! that villain, Edgar,
If he should ever show his face among us,
Our men and boys would hoot him, stone him, hunt him
With pitchforks off the farm, for all of them
Loved her, and she was worthy of all love.
HAROLD.
They say, we should forgive our enemies.
DORA.
Ay, if the wretch were dead I might forgive him;
We know not whether he be dead or living.
HAROLD.
What Edgar?
DORA.
Philip Edgar of Toft Hall
In Somerset. Perhaps you know him?
HAROLD.
Slightly.
(_Aside_.) Ay, for how slightly have I known myself.
DORA.
This Edgar, then, is living?
HAROLD.
Living? well--
One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in Somerset
Is lately dead.
DORA.
Dead!--is there more than one?
HAROLD.
Nay--now--not one, (_aside_) for I am Philip Harold.
DORA.
That one, is he then--dead!
HAROLD.
(_Aside_.) My father's death,
Let her believe it mine; this, for the moment,
Will leave me a free field.
DORA.
Dead! and this world
Is brighter for his absence as that other
Is darker for his presence.
HAROLD.
Is not this
To speak too pitilessly of the dead?
DORA.
My five-years' anger cannot die at once,
Not all at once with death and him. I trust
I shall forgive him--by-and-by--not now.
O sir, you seem to have a heart; if you
Had seen us that wild morning when we found
Her bed unslept in, storm and shower lashing
Her casement, her poor spaniel wailing for her,
That desolate letter, blotted with her tears,
Which told us we should never see her more--
Our old nurse crying as if for her own child,
My father stricken with his first paralysis,
And then with blindness--had you been one of us
And seen all this, then you would know it is not
So easy to forgive--even the dead.
HAROLD.
But sure am I that of your gentleness
You will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'd
A miracle of gentleness--would not blur
A moth's wing by the touching; would not crush
The fly that drew her blood; and, were she living,
Would not--if penitent--have denied him _her_
Forgiveness. And perhaps the man himself,
When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'd
More than we know. But wherefore waste your heart
In looking on a chill and changeless Past?
Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the Past
Remains the Past. But you are young, and--pardon me--
As lovely as your sister. Who can tell
What golden hours, with what full hands, may be
Waiting you in the distance? Might I call
Upon your father--I have seen the world--
And cheer his blindness with a traveller's tales?
DORA.
Call if you will, and when you will. I cannot
Well answer for my father; but if you
Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva
When in her brighter girlhood, I at least
Will bid you welcome, and will listen to you.
Now I must go.
HAROLD.
But give me first your hand:
I do not dare, like an old friend, to shake it.
I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege
When you shall know me better.
DORA.
(_Aside_.) How beautiful
His manners are, and how unlike the farmer's!
You are staying here?
HAROLD.
Yes, at the wayside inn
Close by that alder-island in your brook,
'The Angler's Home.'
DORA.
Are _you_ one?
HAROLD.
No, but I
Take some delight in sketching, and the country
Has many charms, altho' the inhabitants
Seem semi-barbarous.
DORA.
I am glad it pleases you;
Yet I, born here, not only love the country,
But its inhabitants too; and you, I doubt not,
Would take to them as kindly, if you cared
To live some time among them.
HAROLD.
If I did,
Then one at least of its inhabitants
Might have more charm for me than all the country.
DORA.
That one, then, should be grateful for your preference.
HAROLD.
I cannot tell, tho' standing in her presence.
(_Aside_.) She colours!
DORA.
Sir!
HAROLD.
Be not afraid of me,
For these are no conventional flourishes.
I do most earnestly assure you that
Your likeness--
[_Shouts and cries without_.
DORA.
What was that? my poor blind father--
_Enter_ FARMING MAN.
FARMING MAN.
Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart hes runned ower a laädy i' the holler
laäne, and they ha' ta'en the body up inter your chaumber, and they be
all a-callin' for ye.
DORA.
The body!--Heavens! I come!
HAROLD.
But you are trembling.
Allow me to go with you to the farm. [_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ DOBSON.
DOBSON.
What feller wur it as 'a' been a-talkin' fur haäfe an hour wi' my
Dora? (_Looking after him_.) Seeäms I ommost knaws the back on 'im--
drest like a gentleman, too. Damn all gentlemen, says I! I should ha'
thowt they'd hed anew o' gentlefoälk, as I telled 'er to-daäy when she
fell foul upo' me.
Minds ma o' summun. I could sweär to that; but that be all one, fur I
haätes 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer! he turns round. Philip
Hedgar o' Soomerset! Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset!--Noä--yeas--thaw the
feller's gone and maäde such a litter of his faäce.
Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip tha! a-plaäyin' the saäme gaäme wi'
my Dora--I'll Soomerset tha.
I'd like to drag 'im thruff the herse-pond, and she to be a-lookin' at
it. I'd like to leather 'im black and blue, and she to be a-laughin'
at it. I'd like to fell 'im as deäd as a bullock! (_Clenching his
fist_.) But what 'ud she saäy to that? She telled me once not to
meddle wi' 'im, and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at
'er.
It mun be _him_. Noä! Fur she'd niver 'a been talkin' haäfe an hour
wi' the divil 'at killed her oän sister, or she beänt Dora Steer.
Yeas! Fur she niver knawed 'is faäce when 'e wur 'ere afoor; but I'll
maäke 'er knaw! I'll maäke 'er knaw!
_Enter_ HAROLD.
Naäy, but I mun git out on 'is waäy now, or I shall be the death on
'im. [_Exit_.
HAROLD.
How the clown glared at me! that Dobbins, is it,
With whom I used to jar? but can he trace me
Thro' five years' absence, and my change of name,
The tan of southern summers and the beard?
I may as well avoid him.
Ladylike!
Lilylike in her stateliness and sweetness!
How came she by it?--a daughter of the fields,
This Dora!
She gave her hand, unask'd, at the farm-gate;
I almost think she half return'd the pressure
Of mine. What, I that held the orange blossom
Dark as the yew? but may not those, who march
Before their age, turn back at times, and make
Courtesy to custom? and now the stronger motive,
Misnamed free-will--the crowd would call it conscience--
Moves me--to what? I am dreaming; for the past
Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' her's--
A spell upon me! Surely I loved Eva
More than I knew! or is it but the past
That brightens in retiring? Oh, last night,
Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester,
I dozed upon the bridge, and the black river
Flow'd thro' my dreams--if dreams they were. She rose
From the foul flood and pointed toward the farm,
And her cry rang to me across the years,
'I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar!
Come, you will set all right again, and father
Will not die miserable.' I could make his age
A comfort to him--so be more at peace
With mine own self. Some of my former friends
Would find my logic faulty; let them. Colour
Flows thro' my life again, and I have lighted
On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must
Move in the line of least resistance when
The stronger motive rules.
But she hates Edgar.
May not this Dobbins, or some other, spy
Edgar in Harold? Well then, I must make her
Love Harold first, and then she will forgive
Edgar for Harold's sake. She said herself
She would forgive him, by-and-by, not now--
For her own sake _then_, if not for mine--not now--
But by-and-by.
_Enter_ DOBSON _behind_.
DOBSON.
By-and-by--eh, lad, dosta knaw this paäper? Ye dropt it upo' the road.
'Philip Edgar, Esq.' Ay, you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, I
hev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw what tha meäns wi' by-and-by? Fur if ye be
goin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved our Eva--then, by-and-by, if she
weänt listen to me when I be a-tryin' to saäve 'er--if she weänt--look
to thysen, for, by the Lord, I'd think na moor o' maäkin' an end o'
tha nor a carrion craw--noä--thaw they hanged ma at 'Size fur it.
HAROLD.
Dobbins, I think!
DOBSON.
I beänt Dobbins.
HAROLD.
Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow.
DOBSON.
Tha lies! What hasta been saäyin' to _my_ Dora?
HAROLD.
I have been telling her of the death of one Philip Edgar of Toft Hall,
Somerset.
DOBSON.
Tha lies!
HAROLD (_pulling out a newspaper_).
Well, my man, it seems that you can read. Look there--under the deaths.
DOBSON.
'O' the 17th, Philip Edgar, o' Toft Hall, Soomerset.' How coom thou to
be sa like 'im, then?
HAROLD.
Naturally enough; for I am closely related to the dead man's family.
DOBSON.
An 'ow coom thou by the letter to 'im?
HAROLD.
Naturally again; for as I used to transact all his business for him, I
had to look over his letters. Now then, see these (_takes out
letters_). Half a score of them, all directed to me--Harold.
DOBSON.
'Arold! 'Arold! 'Arold, so they be.
HAROLD.
My name is Harold! Good day, Dobbins!
[_Exit_.
DOBSON.
'Arold! The feller's cleän daäzed, an' maäzed, an' maäted, an' muddled
ma. Deäd! It mun be true, fur it wur i' print as black as owt. Naäay,
but 'Good daäy, Dobbins.' Why, that wur the very twang on 'im. Eh,
lad, but whether thou be Hedgar, or Hedgar's business man, thou hesn't
naw business 'ere wi' _my_ Dora, as I knaws on, an' whether thou calls
thysen Hedgar or Harold, if thou stick to she I'll stick to thee--
stick to tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. Ay! and I'd like to
shoot tha like a rabbit an' all. 'Good daäy, Dobbins.' Dang tha!
ACT III.
SCENE.--_A room in_ STEER'S _House. Door leading into bedroom at the
back_.
DORA (_ringing a handbell_).
Milly!
_Enter_ MILLY.
MILLY.
The little 'ymn? Yeäs, Miss; but I wur so ta'en up wi' leädin' the owd
man about all the blessed murnin' 'at I ha' nobbut larned mysen haäfe
on it.
'O man, forgive thy mortal foe,
Nor ever strike him blow for blow;
For all the souls on earth that live
To be forgiven must forgive.
Forgive him seventy times and seven:
For all the blessed souls in Heaven
Are both forgivers and forgiven.'
But I'll git the book ageän, and larn mysen the rest, and saäy it to
ye afoor dark; ye ringed fur that, Miss, didn't ye?
DORA.
No, Milly; but if the farming-men be come for their wages, to send
them up to me.
MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss. [_Exit.
DORA (_sitting at desk counting money_).
Enough at any rate for the present. (_Enter_ FARMING MEN.) Good
afternoon, my friends. I am sorry Mr. Steer still continues too unwell
to attend to you, but the schoolmaster looked to the paying you your
wages when I was away, didn't he?
MEN.
Yeäs; and thanks to ye.
DORA.
Some of our workmen have left us, but he sent me an alphabetical list
of those that remain, so, Allen, I may as well begin with you.
ALLEN (_with his hand to his ear_).
Halfabitical! Taäke one o' the young 'uns fust, Miss, fur I be a bit
deaf, and I wur hallus scaäred by a big word; leästwaäys, I should be
wi' a lawyer.
DORA.
I spoke of your names, Allen, as they are arranged here (_shows
book_)--according to their first letters.
ALLEN.
Letters! Yeas, I sees now. Them be what they larns the childer' at
school, but I were burn afoor schoolin-time.
DORA.
But, Allen, tho' you can't read, you could whitewash that cottage of
yours where your grandson had the fever.
ALLEN.
I'll hev it done o' Monday.
DORA.
Else if the fever spread, the parish will have to thank you for it.
ALLEN.
Meä? why, it be the Lord's doin', noän o' mine; d'ye think _I'd_ gi'e
'em the fever? But I thanks ye all the saäme, Miss. (_Takes money_.)
DORA (_calling out names_).
Higgins, Jackson, Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, Skipworth! (_All take
money_.) Did you find that you worked at all the worse upon the cold
tea than you would have done upon the beer?
HIGGINS.
Noä, Miss; we worked naw wuss upo' the cowd tea; but we'd ha' worked
better upo' the beer.
DORA.
Come, come, you worked well enough, and I am much obliged to all of
you. There's for you, and you, and you. Count the money and see if
it's all right.
MEN.
All right, Miss; and thank ye kindly.
[_Exeunt_ LUSCOMBE, NOKES, OLDHAM, SKIPWORTH.
DORA.
Dan Smith, my father and I forgave you stealing our coals.
[DAN SMITH _advances to_ DORA.
DAN SMITH (_bellowing_).
Whoy, O lor, Miss! that wur sa long back, and the walls sa thin, and
the winders brokken, and the weather sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin'
ower 'er lyin'-in.
DORA.
Didn't I say that we had forgiven you? But, Dan Smith, they tell me
that you--and you have six children--spent all your last Saturday's
wages at the ale-house; that you were stupid drunk all Sunday, and so
ill in consequence all Monday, that you did not come into the
hayfield. Why should I pay you your full wages?
DAN SMITH.
I be ready to taäke the pledge.
DORA.
And as ready to break it again. Besides it was you that were driving
the cart--and I fear you were tipsy then, too--when you lamed the lady
in the hollow lane.
DAN SMITH (_bellowing_).
O lor, Miss! noä, noä, noä! Ye sees the holler laäne be hallus sa dark
i' the arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi'es
a turn like, and 'ow should I see to laäme the laädy, and meä coomin'
along pretty sharp an' all?
DORA.
Well, there are your wages; the next time you waste them at a pothouse
you get no more from me. (_Exit_ DAN SMITH.) Sally Allen, you worked
for Mr. Dobson, didn't you?
SALLY (_advancing_).
Yeäs, Miss; but he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im.
DORA.
Why should he be rough with you? You are as good as a man in the
hayfield. What's become of your brother?
SALLY.
'Listed for a soädger, Miss, i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery.
DORA.
And your sweetheart--when are you and he to be married?
SALLY.
At Michaelmas, Miss, please God.
DORA.
You are an honest pair. I will come to your wedding.
SALLY.
An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waäge.
(_Going--returns_.)
'A cotched ma about the waäist, Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axed
ma to be 'is little sweet-art, an soä I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im
ageän an I telled feyther on 'im.
DORA.
What is all this, Allen?
ALLEN.
Why, Miss Dora, meä and my maätes, us three, we wants to hev three
words wi' ye.
HIGGINS.
That be 'im, and meä, Miss.
JACKSON.
An' meä, Miss.
ALLEN.
An' we weänt mention naw naämes, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoor
ye as 'im, fur they says the master goäs cleän off his 'eäd when he
'eärs the naäme on 'im; but us three, arter Sally'd telled us on 'im,
we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock,
upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, wi' your leave, we wants to
leather 'im.
DORA.
Who?
ALLEN.
Him as did the mischief here, five year' sin'.
DORA.
Mr. Edgar?
ALLEN.
Theer, Miss! You ha' naämed 'im--not me.
DORA.
He's dead, man--dead; gone to his account--dead and buried.
ALLEN.
I beä'nt sa sewer o' that, fur Sally knaw'd 'im; Now then?
DORA.
Yes; it was in the Somersetshire papers.
ALLEN.
Then yon mun be his brother, an'--we'll leather '_im_.
DORA.
I never heard that he had a brother. Some foolish mistake of Sally's;
but what! would you beat a man for his brother's fault? That were a
wild justice indeed. Let bygones be bygones. Go home.' Goodnight!
(_All exeunt_.) I have once more paid them all. The work of the farm
will go on still, but for how long? We are almost at the bottom of the
well: little more to be drawn from it--and what then? Encumbered as we
are, who would lend us anything? We shall have to sell all the land,
which Father, for a whole life, has been getting together, again, and
that, I am sure, would be the death of him. What am I to do? Farmer
Dobson, were I to marry him, has promised to keep our heads above
water; and the man has doubtless a good heart, and a true and lasting
love for me: yet--though I can be sorry for him--as the good Sally
says, 'I can't abide him'--almost brutal, and matched with my Harold
is like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. But then, he, too--will he
ever be of one faith with his wife? which is my dream of a true
marriage. Can I fancy him kneeling with me, and uttering the same
prayer; standing up side by side with me, and singing the same hymn? I
fear not. Have I done wisely, then, in accepting him? But may not a
girl's love-dream have too much romance in it to be realised all at
once, or altogether, or anywhere but in Heaven? And yet I had once a
vision of a pure and perfect marriage, where the man and the woman,
only differing as the stronger and the weaker, should walk hand in
hand together down this valley of tears, as they call it so truly, to
the grave at the bottom, and lie down there together in the darkness
which would seem but for a moment, to be wakened again together by the
light of the resurrection, and no more partings for ever and for ever.
(_Walks up and down. She sings_.)
'O happy lark, that warblest high
Above thy lowly nest,
O brook, that brawlest merrily by
Thro' fields that once were blest,
O tower spiring to the sky,
O graves in daisies drest,
O Love and Life, how weary am I,
And how I long for rest.'
There, there, I am a fool! Tears! I have sometimes been moved to tears
by a chapter of fine writing in a novel; but what have I to do with
tears now? All depends on me--Father, this poor girl, the farm,
everything; and they both love me--I am all in all to both; and he
loves me too, I am quite sure of that. Courage, courage! and all will
go well. (_Goes to bedroom door; opens it_.) How dark your room is!
Let me bring you in here where there is still full daylight. (_Brings_
EVA _forward_.) Why, you look better.
EVA.
And I feel so much better that I trust I may be able by-and-by to help
you in the business of the farm; but I must not be known yet. Has
anyone found me out, Dora?
DORA.
Oh, no; you kept your veil too close for that when they carried you
in; since then, no one has seen you but myself.
EVA.
Yes--this Milly.
DORA.
Poor blind Father's little guide, Milly, who came to us three years
after you were gone, how should she know you? But now that you have
been brought to us as it were from the grave, dearest Eva, and have
been here so long, will you not speak with Father today?
EVA.
Do you think that I may? No, not yet. I am not equal to it yet.
DORA.
Why? Do you still suffer from your fall in the hollow lane?
EVA.
Bruised; but no bones broken.
DORA.
I have always told Father that the huge old ashtree there would cause
an accident some day; but he would never cut it down, because one of
the Steers had planted it there in former times.
EVA.
If it had killed one of the Steers there the other day, it might have
been better for her, for him, and for you.
DORA.
Come, come, keep a good heart! Better for me! That's good. How better
for me?
EVA.
You tell me you have a lover. Will he not fly from you if he learn the
story of my shame and that I am still living?
DORA.
No; I am sure that when we are married he will be willing that you and
Father should live with us; for, indeed, he tells me that he met you
once in the old times, and was much taken with you, my dear.
EVA.
Taken with me; who was he? Have you told him I am here?
DORA.
No; do you wish it?
EVA.
See, Dora; you yourself are ashamed of me (_weeps_), and I do not
wonder at it.
DORA.
But I should wonder at myself if it were so. Have we not been all in
all to one another from the time when we first peeped into the bird's
nest, waded in the brook, ran after the butterflies, and prattled to
each other that we would marry fine gentlemen, and played at being
fine ladies?
EVA.
That last was my Father's fault, poor man. And this lover of yours--
this Mr. Harold--is a gentleman?
DORA.
That he is, from head to foot. I do believe I lost my heart to him the
very first time we met, and I love him so much--
EVA.
Poor Dora!
DORA.
That I dare not tell him how much I love him.
EVA.
Better not. Has he offered you marriage, this gentleman?
DORA
Could I love him else?
EVA.
And are you quite sure that after marriage this gentleman will not be
shamed of his poor farmer's daughter among the ladies in his
drawing-room?
DORA.
Shamed of me in a drawing-room! Wasn't Miss Vavasour, our
schoolmistress at Littlechester, a lady born? Were not our
fellow-pupils all ladies? Wasn't dear mother herself at least by one
side a lady? Can't I speak like a lady; pen a letter like a lady; talk
a little French like a lady; play a little like a lady? Can't a girl
when she loves her husband, and he her, make herself anything he
wishes her to be? Shamed of me in a drawing-room, indeed! See here! 'I
hope your Lordship is quite recovered of your gout?' (_Curtsies_.)
'Will your Ladyship ride to cover to-day? (_Curtsies_.) I can
recommend our Voltigeur.' 'I am sorry that we could not attend your
Grace's party on the 10th!' (_Curtsies_.) There, I am glad my nonsense
has made you smile!
EVA.
I have heard that 'your Lordship,' and 'your Ladyship,' and 'your
Grace' are all growing old-fashioned!
DORA.
But the love of sister for sister can never be old-fashioned. I have
been unwilling to trouble you with questions, but you seem somewhat
better to-day. We found a letter in your bedroom torn into bits. I
couldn't make it out. What was it?
EVA.
From him! from him! He said we had been most happy together, and he
trusted that some time we should meet again, for he had not forgotten
his promise to come when I called him. But that was a mockery, you
know, for he gave me no address, and there was no word of marriage;
and, O Dora, he signed himself 'Yours gratefully'--fancy, Dora,
'gratefully'! 'Yours gratefully'!
DORA.
Infamous wretch! (_Aside_.) Shall I tell her he is dead? No; she is
still too feeble.
EVA.
Hark! Dora, some one is coming. I cannot and I will not see anybody.
DORA.
It is only Milly.
_Enter_ MILLY, _with basket of roses_.
DORA.
Well, Milly, why do you come in so roughly? The sick lady here might
have been asleep.
MILLY.
Pleäse, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me to saäy he's browt some of Miss
Eva's roses for the sick laädy to smell on.
DORA.
Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady thanks him! Is he here?
MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss; and he wants to speäk to ye partic'lar,
DORA.
Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet.
MILLY.
Yea's, Miss; but he says he wants to tell ye summut very partic'lar.
DORA.
Not to-day. What are you staying for?
MILLY.
Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-sweäring like onythink.
DORA.
And what harm will that do you, so that you do not copy his bad
manners? Go, child. (_Exit_ MILLY.) But, Eva, why did you write 'Seek
me at the bottom of the river'?
EVA.
Why? because I meant it!--that dreadful night! that lonely walk to
Littlechester, the rain beating in my face all the way, dead midnight
when I came upon the bridge; the river, black, slimy, swirling under
me in the lamplight, by the rotten wharfs--but I was so mad, that I
mounted upon the parapet--
DORA.
You make me shudder!
EVA.
To fling myself over, when I heard a voice, 'Girl, what are you doing
there? It was a Sister of Mercy, come from the death-bed of a pauper,
who had died in his misery blessing God, and the Sister took me to her
house, and bit by bit--for she promised secrecy--I told her all.
DORA.
And what then?
EVA.
She would have persuaded me to come back here, but I couldn't. Then
she got me a place as nursery governess, and when the children grew
too old for me, and I asked her once more to help me, once more she
said, 'Go home;' but I hadn't the heart or face to do it. And then--
what would Father say? I sank so low that I went into service--the
drudge of a lodging-house--and when the mistress died, and I appealed
to the Sister again, her answer--I think I have it about me--yes,
there it is!
DORA (_reads_).
'My dear Child,--I can do no more for you. I
have done wrong in keeping your secret; your Father
must be now in extreme old age. Go back to him and
ask his forgiveness before he dies.--SISTER AGATHA.'
Sister Agatha is right. Don't you long for Father's
forgiveness?
EVA.
I would almost die to have it!
DORA.
And he may die before he gives it; may drop off any day, any hour. You
must see him at once. (_Rings bell. Enter_ MILLY.) Milly, my dear, how
did you leave Mr. Steer?
MILLY.
He's been a-moänin' and a-groänin' in 'is sleep, but I thinks he be
wakkenin' oop.
DORA.
Tell him that I and the lady here wish to see him. You see she is
lamed, and cannot go down to him.
MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss, I will. [_Exit_ MILLY.
DORA.
I ought to prepare you. You must not expect to find our Father as he
was five years ago. He is much altered; but I trust that your return--
for you know, my dear, you were always his favourite--will give him,
as they say, a new lease of life.
EVA (_clinging to_ DORA).
Oh, Dora, Dora!
_Enter_ STEER, _led by_ MILLY.
STEER.
Hes the cow cawved?
DORA.
No. Father.
STEER.
Be the colt deäd?
DORA.
No, Father.
STEER.
He wur sa bellows'd out wi' the wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em to
gallop 'im. Be he deäd?
DORA.
Not that I know.
STEER.
That hasta sent fur me, then, fur?
DORA (_taking_ STEER'S _arm_).
Well, Father, I have a surprise for you.
STEER.
I ha niver been surprised but once i' my life, and I went blind
upon it.
DORA.
Eva has come home.
STEER.
Hoäm? fro' the bottom o' the river?
DORA.
No, Father, that was a mistake. She's here again.
STEER.
The Steers was all gentlefoälks i' the owd times, an' I worked early
an' laäte to maäke 'em all gentle-foälks ageän. The land belonged to
the Steers i' the owd times, an' it belongs to the Steers ageän: I
bowt it back ageän; but I couldn't buy my darter back ageän when she
lost hersen, could I? I eddicated boäth on em to marry gentlemen, an'
one on 'em went an' lost hersen i' the river.
DORA.
No, father, she's here.
STEER.
Here! she moänt coom here. What would her mother saäy? If it be her
ghoäst, we mun abide it. We can't keep a ghoäst out.
EVA (_falling at his feet_).
O forgive me! forgive me!
STEER.
Who said that? Taäke me awaäy, little gell. It be one o' my bad daäys.
[_Exit_ STEER _led by_ MILLY.
DORA (_smoothing_ EVA'S _forehead_).
Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You heard him say it was one of his
bad days. He will be sure to know you to-morrow.
EVA.
It is almost the last of my bad days, I think. I am very faint. I must
lie down. Give me your arm. Lead me back again.
[DORA _takes_ EVA _into inner room_.
_Enter_ MILLY.
MILLY.
Miss Dora! Miss Dora!
DORA (_returning and leaving the bedroom door ajar_).
Quiet! quiet! What is it?
MILLY.
Mr. 'Arold, Miss.
DORA.
Below?
MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss. He be saäyin' a word to the owd man, but he'll coom up if
ye lets 'im.
DORA.
Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for him.
MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss.
[_Exit_. DORA _sits pensively and waits_.
_Enter_ HAROLD.
HAROLD.
You are pale, my Dora! but the ruddiest cheek
That ever charm'd the plowman of your wolds
Might wish its rose a lily, could it look
But half as lovely. I was speaking with
Your father, asking his consent--you wish'd me--
That we should marry: he would answer nothing,
I could make nothing of him; but, my flower,
You look so weary and so worn! What is it
Has put you out of heart?
DORA.
It puts me in heart
Again to see you; but indeed the state
Of my poor father puts me out of heart.
Is yours yet living?
HAROLD.
No--I told you.
DORA.
When?
HAROLD.
Confusion!--Ah well, well! the state we all
Must come to in our spring-and-winter world
If we live long enough! and poor Steer looks
The very type of Age in a picture, bow'd
To the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to,
Beneath the burthen of years.
DORA.
More like the picture
Of Christian in my 'Pilgrim's Progress' here,
Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen of sin.
HAROLD.
Sin! What sin?
DORA.
Not his own.
HAROLD.
That nursery-tale
Still read, then?
DORA.
Yes; our carters and our shepherds
Still find a comfort there.
HAROLD.
Carters and shepherds!
DORA.
Scorn! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion--
My mother used to say that such a one
Was without rudder, anchor, compass--might be
Blown everyway with every gust and wreck
On any rock; and tho' you are good and gentle,
Yet if thro' any want--
HAROLD.
Of this religion?
Child, read a little history, you will find
The common brotherhood of man has been
Wrong'd by the cruelties of his religions
More than could ever have happen'd thro' the want
Of any or all of them.
DORA.
--But, O dear friend,
If thro' the want of any--I mean the true one--
And pardon me for saying it--you should ever
Be tempted into doing what might seem
Not altogether worthy of you, I think
That I should break my heart, for you have taught me
To love you.
HAROLD.
What is this? some one been stirring
Against me? he, your rustic amourist,
The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here,
This Dobson of your idyll?
DORA.
No, Sir, no!
Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy,
Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and would say anything?
Did _I_ not promise not to listen to him,
Not ev'n to see the man?
HAROLD.
Good; then what is it
That makes you talk so dolefully?
DORA.
I told you--
My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now,
One that has been much wrong'd, whose griefs are
mine,
Was warning me that if a gentleman
Should wed a farmer's daughter, he would be
Sooner or later shamed of her among
The ladies, born his equals.
HAROLD.
More fool he!
What I that have been call'd a Socialist,
A Communist, a Nihilist--what you will!--
DORA.
What are all these?
HAROLD.
Utopian idiotcies.
They did not last three Junes. Such rampant weeds
Strangle each other, die, and make the soil
For Caesars, Cromwells, and Napoleons
To root their power in. I have freed myself
From all such dreams, and some will say because
I have inherited my Uncle. Let them.
But--shamed of you, my Empress! I should prize
The pearl of Beauty, 'even if I found it
Dark with the soot of slums.
DORA.
But I can tell you,
We Steers are of old blood, tho' we be fallen.
See there our shield. (_Pointing to arms on mantelpiece_.)
For I have heard the Steers
Had land in Saxon times; and your own name
Of Harold sounds so English and so old
I am sure you must be proud of it.
HAROLD.
Not I!
As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took it
For some three thousand acres. I have land now
And wealth, and lay both at your feet.
DORA.
And _what_ was
Your name before?
HAROLD.
Come, come, my girl, enough
Of this strange talk. I love you and you me.
True, I have held opinions, hold some still,
Which you would scarce approve of: for all that,
I am a man not prone to jealousies,
Caprices, humours, moods; but very ready
To make allowances, and mighty slow
To feel offences. Nay, I do believe
I could forgive--well, almost anything--
And that more freely than your formal priest,
Because I know more fully than _he_ can
What poor earthworms are all and each of us,
Here crawling in this boundless Nature. Dora,
If marriage ever brought a woman happiness
I doubt not I can make you happy.
DORA.
You make me
Happy already.
HAROLD.
And I never said
As much before to any woman living.
DORA.
No?
HAROLD.
No! by this true kiss, _you_ are the first
I ever have loved truly. [_They kiss each other_.
EVA (_with a wild cry_).
Philip Edgar!
HAROLD.
The phantom cry! _You_--did _you_ hear a cry?
DORA.
She must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep.
HAROLD.
Who must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep?
DORA.
Your pardon for a minute. She must be waked.
HAROLD
Who must be waked?
DORA.
I am not deaf: you fright me.
What ails you?
HAROLD.
Speak.
DORA.
You know her, Eva.
HAROLD.
Eva!
[EVA _opens the door and stands in the entry_.
She!
EVA.
Make her happy, then, and I forgive you.
[_Falls dead_.
DORA.
Happy! What? Edgar? Is it so? Can it be?
They told me so. Yes, yes! I see it all now.
O she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sister!
He is yours again--he will love _you_ again;
I give him back to you again. Look up!
One word, or do but smile! Sweet, do you hear me?
[_Puts her hand on_ EVA'S _heart_.
There, there--the heart, O God!--the poor young heart
Broken at last--all still--and nothing left
To live for.
[_Falls on body of her sister_.
HAROLD.
Living ... dead ... She said 'all still.
Nothing to live for.'
She--she knows me--now ...
(_A pause_.)
She knew me from the first, she juggled with me,
She hid this sister, told me she was dead--
I have wasted pity on her--not dead now--
No! acting, playing on me, both of them.
_They_ drag the river for her! no, not they!
Playing on me--not dead now--a swoon--a scene--
Yet--how she made her wail as for the dead!
_Enter_ MILLY.
MILLY.
Pleäse, Mister 'Arold.
HAROLD (_roughly_).
Well?
MlLLY.
The owd man's coom'd ageän to 'issen, an' wants
To hev a word wi' ye about the marriage.
HAROLD.
The what?
MILLY.
The marriage.
HAROLD.
The marriage?
MILLY.
Yeäs, the marriage.
Granny says marriages be maäde i' 'eaven.
HAROLD.
She lies! They are made in Hell. Child, can't you see?
Tell them to fly for a doctor.
MILLY.
O law--yeäs, Sir!
I'll run fur 'im mysen. [_Exit_.
HAROLD.
All silent there,
Yes, deathlike! Dead? I dare not look: if dead,
Were it best to steal away, to spare myself,
And her too, pain, pain, pain?
My curse on all
This world of mud, on all its idiot gleams
Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities
That blast our natural passions into pains!
_Enter_ DOBSON.
DOBSON.
You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or whativer
They calls ye, for I warrants that ye goäs
By haäfe a scoor o' naämes--out o' the chaumber.
[_Dragging him past the body_.
HAROLD.
Not that way, man! Curse on your brutal strength!
I cannot pass that way.
DOBSON.
Out o' the chaumber!
I'll mash tha into nowt.
HAROLD.
The mere wild-beast!
DOBSON.
Out o' the chaumber, dang tha!
HAROLD.
Lout, churl, clown!
[_While they are shouting and struggling_ DORA
_rises and comes between them_.
DORA (_to_ DOBSON).
Peace, let him be: it is the chamber of Death!
Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman,
A hundred times more worth a woman's love,
Than this, this--but I waste no words upon him:
His wickedness is like my wretchedness--
Beyond all language.
(_To_ HAROLD.)
You--you see her there!
Only fifteen when first you came on her,
And then the sweetest flower of all the wolds,
So lovely in the promise of her May,
So winsome in her grace and gaiety,
So loved by all the village people here,
So happy in herself and in her home--
DOBSON (_agitated_).
Theer, theer! ha' done. I can't abeär to see her.
[_Exit_.
DORA.
A child, and all as trustful as a child!
Five years of shame and suffering broke the heart
That only beat for you; and he, the father,
Thro' that dishonour which you brought upon us,
Has lost his health, his eyesight, even his mind.
HAROLD (_covering his face_).
Enough!
DORA.
It seem'd so; only there was left
A second daughter, and to her you came
Veiling one sin to act another.
HAROLD.
No!
You wrong me there! hear, hear me! I wish'd, if you-- [_Pauses_.
DORA.
If I--
HAROLD.
Could love me, could be brought to love me
As I loved you--
DORA.
What then?
HAROLD.
I wish'd, I hoped
To make, to make--
DORA.
_What_ did you hope to make?
HAROLD.
'Twere best to make an end of my lost life.
O Dora, Dora!
DORA.
_What_ did you hope to make?
HAROLD.
Make, make! I cannot find the word--forgive it--
Amends.
DORA.
For what? to whom?
HAROLD.
To him, to you!
[_Falling at her feet_.
DORA.
To _him_! to _me_!
No, not with all your wealth,
Your land, your life! Out in the fiercest storm
That ever made earth tremble--he, nor I--
The shelter of _your_ roof--not for one moment--
Nothing from _you_!
Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism,
Push'd from all doors as if we bore the plague,
Smitten with fever in the open field,
Laid famine-stricken at the gates of Death--
Nothing from you!
But she there--her last word
Forgave--and I forgive you. If you ever
Forgive yourself, you are even lower and baser
Than even I can well believe you. Go!
[_He lies at her feet. Curtain falls_.
End of Project Gutenberg's Becket and other plays, by Alfred Lord Tennyson