ACT III.
SCENE.—A room inSTEER'SHouse. Door leading into bedroom at theback.
DORA (ringing a handbell).Milly!EnterMILLY.MILLY.The little 'ymn? Yeäs, Miss; but I wur so ta'en up wi' leädin' the owdman about all the blessed murnin' 'at I ha' nobbut larned mysen haäfeon it.'O man, forgive thy mortal foe,Nor ever strike him blow for blow;For all the souls on earth that liveTo be forgiven must forgive.Forgive him seventy times and seven:For all the blessed souls in HeavenAre both forgivers and forgiven.'But I'll git the book ageän, and larn mysen the rest, and saäy it toye afoor dark; ye ringed fur that, Miss, didn't ye?DORA.No, Milly; but if the farming-men be come for their wages, to sendthem up to me.MILLY.Yeäs, Miss. [Exit.DORA (sitting at desk counting money).Enough at any rate for the present. (EnterFARMING MEN.) Goodafternoon, my friends. I am sorry Mr. Steer still continues too unwellto attend to you, but the schoolmaster looked to the paying you yourwages when I was away, didn't he?MEN.Yeäs; and thanks to ye.DORA.Some of our workmen have left us, but he sent me an alphabetical listof those that remain, so, Allen, I may as well begin with you.ALLEN (with his hand to his ear).Halfabitical! Taäke one o' the young 'uns fust, Miss, fur I be a bitdeaf, and I wur hallus scaäred by a big word; leästwaäys, I should bewi' a lawyer.DORA.I spoke of your names, Allen, as they are arranged here (showsbook)—according to their first letters.ALLEN.Letters! Yeas, I sees now. Them be what they larns the childer' atschool, but I were burn afoor schoolin-time.DORA.But, Allen, tho' you can't read, you could whitewash that cottage ofyours where your grandson had the fever.ALLEN.I'll hev it done o' Monday.DORA.Else if the fever spread, the parish will have to thank you for it.ALLEN.Meä? why, it be the Lord's doin', noän o' mine; d'ye thinkI'dgi'e'em the fever? But I thanks ye all the saäme, Miss. (Takes money.)DORA (calling out names).Higgins, Jackson, Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, Skipworth! (All takemoney.) Did you find that you worked at all the worse upon the coldtea than you would have done upon the beer?HIGGINS.Noä, Miss; we worked naw wuss upo' the cowd tea; but we'd ha' workedbetter upo' the beer.DORA.Come, come, you worked well enough, and I am much obliged to all ofyou. There's for you, and you, and you. Count the money and see ifit's all right.MEN.All right, Miss; and thank ye kindly.[ExeuntLUSCOMBE, NOKES, OLDHAM, SKIPWORTH.DORA.Dan Smith, my father and I forgave you stealing our coals.[DAN SMITHadvances toDORA.DAN SMITH (bellowing).Whoy, O lor, Miss! that wur sa long back, and the walls sa thin, andthe winders brokken, and the weather sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin'ower 'er lyin'-in.DORA.Didn't I say that we had forgiven you? But, Dan Smith, they tell methat you—and you have six children—spent all your last Saturday'swages at the ale-house; that you were stupid drunk all Sunday, and soill in consequence all Monday, that you did not come into thehayfield. Why should I pay you your full wages?DAN SMITH.I be ready to taäke the pledge.DORA.And as ready to break it again. Besides it was you that were drivingthe cart—and I fear you were tipsy then, too—when you lamed the ladyin the hollow lane.DAN SMITH (bellowing).O lor, Miss! noä, noä, noä! Ye sees the holler laäne be hallus sa darki' the arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi'esa turn like, and 'ow should I see to laäme the laädy, and meä coomin'along pretty sharp an' all?DORA.Well, there are your wages; the next time you waste them at a pothouseyou get no more from me. (ExitDAN SMITH.) Sally Allen, you workedfor Mr. Dobson, didn't you?SALLY (advancing).Yeäs, Miss; but he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im.DORA.Why should he be rough with you? You are as good as a man in thehayfield. What's become of your brother?SALLY.'Listed for a soädger, Miss, i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery.DORA.And your sweetheart—when are you and he to be married?SALLY.At Michaelmas, Miss, please God.DORA.You are an honest pair. I will come to your wedding.SALLY.An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waäge.(Going—returns.)'A cotched ma about the waäist, Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axedma to be 'is little sweet-art, an soä I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'imageän an I telled feyther on 'im.DORA.What is all this, Allen?ALLEN.Why, Miss Dora, meä and my maätes, us three, we wants to hev threewords wi' ye.HIGGINS.That be 'im, and meä, Miss.JACKSON.An' meä, Miss.ALLEN.An' we weänt mention naw naämes, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoorye as 'im, fur they says the master goäs cleän off his 'eäd when he'eärs the naäme on 'im; but us three, arter Sally'd telled us on 'im,we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock,upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, wi' your leave, we wants toleather 'im.DORA.Who?ALLEN.Him as did the mischief here, five year' sin'.DORA.Mr. Edgar?ALLEN.Theer, Miss! You ha' naämed 'im—not me.DORA.He's dead, man—dead; gone to his account—dead and buried.ALLEN.I beä'nt sa sewer o' that, fur Sally knaw'd 'im; Now then?DORA.Yes; it was in the Somersetshire papers.ALLEN.Then yon mun be his brother, an'—we'll leather 'im.DORA.I never heard that he had a brother. Some foolish mistake of Sally's;but what! would you beat a man for his brother's fault? That were awild justice indeed. Let bygones be bygones. Go home.' Goodnight!(All exeunt.) I have once more paid them all. The work of the farmwill go on still, but for how long? We are almost at the bottom of thewell: little more to be drawn from it—and what then? Encumbered as weare, who would lend us anything? We shall have to sell all the land,which Father, for a whole life, has been getting together, again, andthat, I am sure, would be the death of him. What am I to do? FarmerDobson, were I to marry him, has promised to keep our heads abovewater; and the man has doubtless a good heart, and a true and lastinglove for me: yet—though I can be sorry for him—as the good Sallysays, 'I can't abide him'—almost brutal, and matched with my Haroldis like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. But then, he, too—will heever be of one faith with his wife? which is my dream of a truemarriage. Can I fancy him kneeling with me, and uttering the sameprayer; standing up side by side with me, and singing the same hymn? Ifear not. Have I done wisely, then, in accepting him? But may not agirl's love-dream have too much romance in it to be realised all atonce, or altogether, or anywhere but in Heaven? And yet I had once avision of a pure and perfect marriage, where the man and the woman,only differing as the stronger and the weaker, should walk hand inhand together down this valley of tears, as they call it so truly, tothe grave at the bottom, and lie down there together in the darknesswhich would seem but for a moment, to be wakened again together by thelight of the resurrection, and no more partings for ever and for ever.(Walks up and down. She sings.)'O happy lark, that warblest highAbove thy lowly nest,O brook, that brawlest merrily byThro' fields that once were blest,O tower spiring to the sky,O graves in daisies drest,O Love and Life, how weary am I,And how I long for rest.'There, there, I am a fool! Tears! I have sometimes been moved to tearsby a chapter of fine writing in a novel; but what have I to do withtears now? All depends on me—Father, this poor girl, the farm,everything; and they both love me—I am all in all to both; and heloves me too, I am quite sure of that. Courage, courage! and all willgo well. (Goes to bedroom door; opens it.) How dark your room is!Let me bring you in here where there is still full daylight. (BringsEVAforward.) Why, you look better.EVA.And I feel so much better that I trust I may be able by-and-by to helpyou in the business of the farm; but I must not be known yet. Hasanyone found me out, Dora?DORA.Oh, no; you kept your veil too close for that when they carried youin; since then, no one has seen you but myself.EVA.Yes—this Milly.DORA.Poor blind Father's little guide, Milly, who came to us three yearsafter you were gone, how should she know you? But now that you havebeen brought to us as it were from the grave, dearest Eva, and havebeen here so long, will you not speak with Father today?EVA.Do you think that I may? No, not yet. I am not equal to it yet.DORA.Why? Do you still suffer from your fall in the hollow lane?EVA.Bruised; but no bones broken.DORA.I have always told Father that the huge old ashtree there would causean accident some day; but he would never cut it down, because one ofthe Steers had planted it there in former times.EVA.If it had killed one of the Steers there the other day, it might havebeen better for her, for him, and for you.DORA.Come, come, keep a good heart! Better for me! That's good. How betterfor me?EVA.You tell me you have a lover. Will he not fly from you if he learn thestory of my shame and that I am still living?DORA.No; I am sure that when we are married he will be willing that you andFather should live with us; for, indeed, he tells me that he met youonce in the old times, and was much taken with you, my dear.EVA.Taken with me; who was he? Have you told him I am here?DORA.No; do you wish it?EVA.See, Dora; you yourself are ashamed of me (weeps), and I do notwonder at it.DORA.But I should wonder at myself if it were so. Have we not been all inall to one another from the time when we first peeped into the bird'snest, waded in the brook, ran after the butterflies, and prattled toeach other that we would marry fine gentlemen, and played at beingfine ladies?EVA.That last was my Father's fault, poor man. And this lover of yours—this Mr. Harold—is a gentleman?DORA.That he is, from head to foot. I do believe I lost my heart to him thevery first time we met, and I love him so much—EVA.Poor Dora!DORA.That I dare not tell him how much I love him.EVA.Better not. Has he offered you marriage, this gentleman?DORACould I love him else?EVA.And are you quite sure that after marriage this gentleman will not beshamed of his poor farmer's daughter among the ladies in hisdrawing-room?DORA.Shamed of me in a drawing-room! Wasn't Miss Vavasour, ourschoolmistress at Littlechester, a lady born? Were not ourfellow-pupils all ladies? Wasn't dear mother herself at least by oneside a lady? Can't I speak like a lady; pen a letter like a lady; talka little French like a lady; play a little like a lady? Can't a girlwhen she loves her husband, and he her, make herself anything hewishes her to be? Shamed of me in a drawing-room, indeed! See here! 'Ihope your Lordship is quite recovered of your gout?' (Curtsies.)'Will your Ladyship ride to cover to-day? (Curtsies.) I canrecommend our Voltigeur.' 'I am sorry that we could not attend yourGrace's party on the 10th!' (Curtsies.) There, I am glad my nonsensehas made you smile!EVA.I have heard that 'your Lordship,' and 'your Ladyship,' and 'yourGrace' are all growing old-fashioned!DORA.But the love of sister for sister can never be old-fashioned. I havebeen unwilling to trouble you with questions, but you seem somewhatbetter to-day. We found a letter in your bedroom torn into bits. Icouldn't make it out. What was it?EVA.From him! from him! He said we had been most happy together, and hetrusted that some time we should meet again, for he had not forgottenhis promise to come when I called him. But that was a mockery, youknow, for he gave me no address, and there was no word of marriage;and, O Dora, he signed himself 'Yours gratefully'—fancy, Dora,'gratefully'! 'Yours gratefully'!DORA.Infamous wretch! (Aside.) Shall I tell her he is dead? No; she isstill too feeble.EVA.Hark! Dora, some one is coming. I cannot and I will not see anybody.DORA.It is only Milly.EnterMILLY,with basket of roses.DORA.Well, Milly, why do you come in so roughly? The sick lady here mighthave been asleep.MILLY.Pleäse, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me to saäy he's browt some of MissEva's roses for the sick laädy to smell on.DORA.Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady thanks him! Is he here?MILLY.Yeäs, Miss; and he wants to speäk to ye partic'lar,DORA.Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet.MILLY.Yea's, Miss; but he says he wants to tell ye summut very partic'lar.DORA.Not to-day. What are you staying for?MILLY.Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-sweäring like onythink.DORA.And what harm will that do you, so that you do not copy his badmanners? Go, child. (ExitMILLY.) But, Eva, why did you write 'Seekme at the bottom of the river'?EVA.Why? because I meant it!—that dreadful night! that lonely walk toLittlechester, the rain beating in my face all the way, dead midnightwhen I came upon the bridge; the river, black, slimy, swirling underme in the lamplight, by the rotten wharfs—but I was so mad, that Imounted upon the parapet—DORA.You make me shudder!EVA.To fling myself over, when I heard a voice, 'Girl, what are you doingthere? It was a Sister of Mercy, come from the death-bed of a pauper,who had died in his misery blessing God, and the Sister took me to herhouse, and bit by bit—for she promised secrecy—I told her all.DORA.And what then?EVA.She would have persuaded me to come back here, but I couldn't. Thenshe got me a place as nursery governess, and when the children grewtoo old for me, and I asked her once more to help me, once more shesaid, 'Go home;' but I hadn't the heart or face to do it. And then—what would Father say? I sank so low that I went into service—thedrudge of a lodging-house—and when the mistress died, and I appealedto the Sister again, her answer—I think I have it about me—yes,there it is!DORA (reads).'My dear Child,—I can do no more for you. Ihave done wrong in keeping your secret; your Fathermust be now in extreme old age. Go back to him andask his forgiveness before he dies.—SISTER AGATHA.'Sister Agatha is right. Don't you long for Father'sforgiveness?EVA.I would almost die to have it!DORA.And he may die before he gives it; may drop off any day, any hour. Youmust see him at once. (Rings bell. EnterMILLY.) Milly, my dear, howdid you leave Mr. Steer?MILLY.He's been a-moänin' and a-groänin' in 'is sleep, but I thinks he bewakkenin' oop.DORA.Tell him that I and the lady here wish to see him. You see she islamed, and cannot go down to him.MILLY.Yeäs, Miss, I will. [ExitMILLY.DORA.I ought to prepare you. You must not expect to find our Father as hewas five years ago. He is much altered; but I trust that your return—for you know, my dear, you were always his favourite—will give him,as they say, a new lease of life.EVA (clinging toDORA).Oh, Dora, Dora!EnterSTEER,led byMILLY.STEER.Hes the cow cawved?DORA.No. Father.STEER.Be the colt deäd?DORA.No, Father.STEER.He wur sa bellows'd out wi' the wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em togallop 'im. Be he deäd?DORA.Not that I know.STEER.That hasta sent fur me, then, fur?DORA (takingSTEER'Sarm).Well, Father, I have a surprise for you.STEER.I ha niver been surprised but once i' my life, and I went blindupon it.DORA.Eva has come home.STEER.Hoäm? fro' the bottom o' the river?DORA.No, Father, that was a mistake. She's here again.STEER.The Steers was all gentlefoälks i' the owd times, an' I worked earlyan' laäte to maäke 'em all gentle-foälks ageän. The land belonged tothe Steers i' the owd times, an' it belongs to the Steers ageän: Ibowt it back ageän; but I couldn't buy my darter back ageän when shelost hersen, could I? I eddicated boäth on em to marry gentlemen, an'one on 'em went an' lost hersen i' the river.DORA.No, father, she's here.STEER.Here! she moänt coom here. What would her mother saäy? If it be herghoäst, we mun abide it. We can't keep a ghoäst out.EVA (falling at his feet).O forgive me! forgive me!STEER.Who said that? Taäke me awaäy, little gell. It be one o' my bad daäys.[ExitSTEERled byMILLY.DORA (smoothingEVA'Sforehead).Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You heard him say it was one of hisbad days. He will be sure to know you to-morrow.EVA.It is almost the last of my bad days, I think. I am very faint. I mustlie down. Give me your arm. Lead me back again.[DORAtakesEVAinto inner room.EnterMILLY.MILLY.Miss Dora! Miss Dora!DORA (returning and leaving the bedroom door ajar).Quiet! quiet! What is it?MILLY.Mr. 'Arold, Miss.DORA.Below?MILLY.Yeäs, Miss. He be saäyin' a word to the owd man, but he'll coom up ifye lets 'im.DORA.Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for him.MILLY.Yeäs, Miss.[Exit. DORAsits pensively and waits.EnterHAROLD.HAROLD.You are pale, my Dora! but the ruddiest cheekThat ever charm'd the plowman of your woldsMight wish its rose a lily, could it lookBut half as lovely. I was speaking withYour father, asking his consent—you wish'd me—That we should marry: he would answer nothing,I could make nothing of him; but, my flower,You look so weary and so worn! What is itHas put you out of heart?DORA.It puts me in heartAgain to see you; but indeed the stateOf my poor father puts me out of heart.Is yours yet living?HAROLD.No—I told you.DORA.When?HAROLD.Confusion!—Ah well, well! the state we allMust come to in our spring-and-winter worldIf we live long enough! and poor Steer looksThe very type of Age in a picture, bow'dTo the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to,Beneath the burthen of years.DORA.More like the pictureOf Christian in my 'Pilgrim's Progress' here,Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen of sin.HAROLD.Sin! What sin?DORA.Not his own.HAROLD.That nursery-taleStill read, then?DORA.Yes; our carters and our shepherdsStill find a comfort there.HAROLD.Carters and shepherds!DORA.Scorn! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion—My mother used to say that such a oneWas without rudder, anchor, compass—might beBlown everyway with every gust and wreckOn any rock; and tho' you are good and gentle,Yet if thro' any want—HAROLD.Of this religion?Child, read a little history, you will findThe common brotherhood of man has beenWrong'd by the cruelties of his religionsMore than could ever have happen'd thro' the wantOf any or all of them.DORA.—But, O dear friend,If thro' the want of any—I mean the true one—And pardon me for saying it—you should everBe tempted into doing what might seemNot altogether worthy of you, I thinkThat I should break my heart, for you have taught meTo love you.HAROLD.What is this? some one been stirringAgainst me? he, your rustic amourist,The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here,This Dobson of your idyll?DORA.No, Sir, no!Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy,Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and would say anything?DidInot promise not to listen to him,Not ev'n to see the man?HAROLD.Good; then what is itThat makes you talk so dolefully?DORA.I told you—My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now,One that has been much wrong'd, whose griefs aremine,Was warning me that if a gentlemanShould wed a farmer's daughter, he would beSooner or later shamed of her amongThe ladies, born his equals.HAROLD.More fool he!What I that have been call'd a Socialist,A Communist, a Nihilist—what you will!—DORA.What are all these?HAROLD.Utopian idiotcies.They did not last three Junes. Such rampant weedsStrangle each other, die, and make the soilFor Caesars, Cromwells, and NapoleonsTo root their power in. I have freed myselfFrom all such dreams, and some will say becauseI have inherited my Uncle. Let them.But—shamed of you, my Empress! I should prizeThe pearl of Beauty, 'even if I found itDark with the soot of slums.DORA.But I can tell you,We Steers are of old blood, tho' we be fallen.See there our shield. (Pointing to arms on mantelpiece.)For I have heard the SteersHad land in Saxon times; and your own nameOf Harold sounds so English and so oldI am sure you must be proud of it.HAROLD.Not I!As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took itFor some three thousand acres. I have land nowAnd wealth, and lay both at your feet.DORA.AndwhatwasYour name before?HAROLD.Come, come, my girl, enoughOf this strange talk. I love you and you me.True, I have held opinions, hold some still,Which you would scarce approve of: for all that,I am a man not prone to jealousies,Caprices, humours, moods; but very readyTo make allowances, and mighty slowTo feel offences. Nay, I do believeI could forgive—well, almost anything—And that more freely than your formal priest,Because I know more fully thanhecanWhat poor earthworms are all and each of us,Here crawling in this boundless Nature. Dora,If marriage ever brought a woman happinessI doubt not I can make you happy.DORA.You make meHappy already.HAROLD.And I never saidAs much before to any woman living.DORA.No?HAROLD.No! by this true kiss,youare the firstI ever have loved truly. [They kiss each other.EVA (with a wild cry).Philip Edgar!HAROLD.The phantom cry!You—didyouhear a cry?DORA.She must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep.HAROLD.Who must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep?DORA.Your pardon for a minute. She must be waked.HAROLDWho must be waked?DORA.I am not deaf: you fright me.What ails you?HAROLD.Speak.DORA.You know her, Eva.HAROLD.Eva![EVAopens the door and stands in the entry.She!EVA.Make her happy, then, and I forgive you.[Falls dead.DORA.Happy! What? Edgar? Is it so? Can it be?They told me so. Yes, yes! I see it all now.O she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sister!He is yours again—he will loveyouagain;I give him back to you again. Look up!One word, or do but smile! Sweet, do you hear me?[Puts her hand onEVA'Sheart.There, there—the heart, O God!—the poor young heartBroken at last—all still—and nothing leftTo live for.[Falls on body of her sister.HAROLD.Living ... dead ... She said 'all still.Nothing to live for.'She—she knows me—now ...(A pause.)She knew me from the first, she juggled with me,She hid this sister, told me she was dead—I have wasted pity on her—not dead now—No! acting, playing on me, both of them.Theydrag the river for her! no, not they!Playing on me—not dead now—a swoon—a scene—Yet—how she made her wail as for the dead!EnterMILLY.MILLY.Pleäse, Mister 'Arold.HAROLD (roughly).Well?MlLLY.The owd man's coom'd ageän to 'issen, an' wantsTo hev a word wi' ye about the marriage.HAROLD.The what?MILLY.The marriage.HAROLD.The marriage?MILLY.Yeäs, the marriage.Granny says marriages be maäde i' 'eaven.HAROLD.She lies! They are made in Hell. Child, can't you see?Tell them to fly for a doctor.MILLY.O law—yeäs, Sir!I'll run fur 'im mysen. [Exit.HAROLD.All silent there,Yes, deathlike! Dead? I dare not look: if dead,Were it best to steal away, to spare myself,And her too, pain, pain, pain?My curse on allThis world of mud, on all its idiot gleamsOf pleasure, all the foul fatalitiesThat blast our natural passions into pains!EnterDOBSON.DOBSON.You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or whativerThey calls ye, for I warrants that ye goäsBy haäfe a scoor o' naämes—out o' the chaumber.[Dragging him past the body.HAROLD.Not that way, man! Curse on your brutal strength!I cannot pass that way.DOBSON.Out o' the chaumber!I'll mash tha into nowt.HAROLD.The mere wild-beast!DOBSON.Out o' the chaumber, dang tha!HAROLD.Lout, churl, clown![While they are shouting and strugglingDORArises and comes between them.DORA (toDOBSON).Peace, let him be: it is the chamber of Death!Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman,A hundred times more worth a woman's love,Than this, this—but I waste no words upon him:His wickedness is like my wretchedness—Beyond all language.(ToHAROLD.)You—you see her there!Only fifteen when first you came on her,And then the sweetest flower of all the wolds,So lovely in the promise of her May,So winsome in her grace and gaiety,So loved by all the village people here,So happy in herself and in her home—DOBSON (agitated).Theer, theer! ha' done. I can't abeär to see her.[Exit.DORA.A child, and all as trustful as a child!Five years of shame and suffering broke the heartThat only beat for you; and he, the father,Thro' that dishonour which you brought upon us,Has lost his health, his eyesight, even his mind.HAROLD (covering his face).Enough!DORA.It seem'd so; only there was leftA second daughter, and to her you cameVeiling one sin to act another.HAROLD.No!You wrong me there! hear, hear me! I wish'd, if you— [Pauses.DORA.If I—HAROLD.Could love me, could be brought to love meAs I loved you—DORA.What then?HAROLD.I wish'd, I hopedTo make, to make—DORA.Whatdid you hope to make?HAROLD.'Twere best to make an end of my lost life.O Dora, Dora!DORA.Whatdid you hope to make?HAROLD.Make, make! I cannot find the word—forgive it—Amends.DORA.For what? to whom?HAROLD.To him, to you![Falling at her feet.DORA.Tohim! tome!No, not with all your wealth,Your land, your life! Out in the fiercest stormThat ever made earth tremble—he, nor I—The shelter ofyourroof—not for one moment—Nothing fromyou!Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism,Push'd from all doors as if we bore the plague,Smitten with fever in the open field,Laid famine-stricken at the gates of Death—Nothing from you!But she there—her last wordForgave—and I forgive you. If you everForgive yourself, you are even lower and baserThan even I can well believe you. Go![He lies at her feet. Curtain falls.