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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!