'A surface man of theories, true to none.'
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.FARMER DOBSON.Mr. PHILIP EDGAR (afterwardsMr. HAROLD).FARMER STEER (DORAandEVA'SFather).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 carryingbaskets 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 thisvery daäy, and 'e telled all on us to be i' the long barn by oneo'clock, fur he'll gie us a big dinner, and haäfe th' parish'll betheer, 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 hisbirthdaäy, and he wur in a tew about it all the murnin'; and he sentme wi' the gig to Littlechester to fetch 'er; and 'er an' the owd manthey fell a kissin' o' one another like two sweet-'arts i' the poorchas 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.DORAlooks out of window. EnterDOBSON.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 atDOBSON.) I'm coming down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen Evayet. 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 yethat?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 beheighty to-daäy, beänt he?DORA.Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the day's bright like a friend, but the wind eastlike an enemy. Help me to move this bench for him into the sun. (Theymove 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—hallusa-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knaws I love ye. I warrants ye'll think mooro' 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 thehaltar.DORA.Perhaps, Master Dobson. I can't tell, for I have never seen him. Butmy 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 anartist.DOBSON.What's a hartist? I doänt believe he's iver a 'eart under hiswaistcoat. And I tells ye what, Miss Dora: he's no respect for theQueen, or the parson, or the justice o' peace, or owt. I ha' heärd 'ima-gawin' on 'ud make your 'air—God bless it!—stan' on end. And wussnor that. When theer wur a meeting o' farmers at Littlechester t'otherdaäy, and they was all a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms up, andhe calls out among our oän men, 'The land belongs to thepeople!'DORA.And what didyousay to that?DOBSON.Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the land, and you says it belongs to theparish, and theer be a thousand i' the parish, taäkin' in the womenand childer; and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it among 'em, whythere 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 burnfool, and I haätes the very sight on him.DORA. (Looking atDOBSON.)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 Ipromise you that if you forget yourself in your behaviour to thisgentleman, my father's friend, I will never change word with youagain.EnterFARMING MANfrom barn.FARMING MAN.Miss, the farming men 'ull hev their dinner i' the long barn, and themaster 'ud be straänge an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and see thatall 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.(ExitDORA.) 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 mylife fur 'er. 'Coomly to look at,' says she—but she said itspiteful-like. To look at—yeas, 'coomly'; and she mayn't be so fur outtheer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. (Looking offstage.) Schoolmaster! Why if Steer han't haxed schoolmaster todinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus ageän heving schoolmaster i' theparish! fur him as be handy wi' a book bean't but haäfe a hand at apitchfork.EnterWILSON.Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o' thine i' the pinfold ageän as Iwur a-coomin' 'ere.WILSON.Very likely, Mr. Dobson. Shewillbreak 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 thyscholards 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? Welaäys out o' the waäy fur gentlefoälk altogither—leastwaäys theyniver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd asfar 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 abook in his hand.DOBSON.An' I haätes booöks an' all, fur they puts foälk off the owd waäys.EnterEDGAR,reading—not seeingDOBSONandWILSON.EDGAR.This author, with his charm of simple styleAnd close dialectic, all but proving manAn automatic series of sensations,Has often numb'd me into apathyAgainst the unpleasant jolts of this rough roadThat breaks off short into the abysses—made meA 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 undergoUnpleasant for the sake of pleasant onesHereafter, like the Moslem beauties waitingTo clasp their lovers by the golden gates.For me, whose cheerless Houris after deathAre 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 anddrink, for to-morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he nevercomes 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' theparishes 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 forhersport either. She knows nothing.Man only knows, the worse for him! for whyCannothetake 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 lawWhereby she grows in beauty—that her fliesMust massacre each other? this poor Nature!DOBSON.Natur! Natur! Well, it be i'mynatur to knock 'im o' the 'eäd now;but I weänt.EDGAR.A Quietist taking all things easily—why—Have I been dipping into this againTo steel myself against the leaving her?(Closes book, seeingWILSON.)Good day!WILSON.Good day, sir.(DOBSONlooks hard atEDGAR.)EDGAR. (ToDOBSON.)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, asfarms 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 Lunnunswindler, and a burn fool.WILSON.He can hardly be both, and he pays me regularevery Saturday.DOBSON.Yeas; but I haätes 'im.EnterSTEER, FARM MENandWOMEN.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. Itaäkes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed—what's thenewspaäper word, Wilson?—celebrate—to celebrate my birthdaäy i' thisfashion. Niver man 'ed better friends, and I will saäy niver master'ed better men: fur thaw I may ha' fallen out wi' ye sometimes, thefault, 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 whatmasters 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, thawI beänt naw scholard, fur I 'ednt naw time to maäke mysen a scholardwhile I wur maäkin' mysen a gentleman, but I ha taäen good care toturn 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!EnterEVA.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 behaäle? fur thaw I be heighty this very daäy, I niver 'es sa much asone pin's prick of paäin; an' I can taäke my glass along wi' theyoungest, 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? Iha' plowed the ten-aäcre—it be mine now—afoor ony o' ye wur burn—yeall knaws the ten-aäcre—I mun ha' plowed it moor nor a hoonderdtimes; hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plow straäit as a lineright i' the faäce o' the sun, then back ageän, a-follering my oänshadder—then hup ageän i' the faäce o' the sun. Eh! how the sun 'udshine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daäys, and the smell o' themou'd an' all. Eh! if I could ha' gone on wi' the plowin' nobbut thesmell 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 furanother as I does.DOBSON.But, Steer, thaw thou be haäle anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just nowwi' 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 yehear 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 toEVA.) 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 andmy kneeä gev waäy or I'd ha' cotched 'im, but afoor I coomed up he gotthruff the winder ageän.EVA.Got thro' the window again?STEER.Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot i' the flowerbed; now theer benoän o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were DanSmith, 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 atEVA.)Why, now, what maäkes tha sa white?EVA.Fright, father!STEER.Maäke thysen eäsy. I'll hev the winder naäiled up, and put Towserunder 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 agrave.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 thebarn. He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll git 'im to speechify for usarter dinner.EVA.Yes, father! [Exit.STEER.Coom along then, all the rest o' ye! Churchwarden be a coomin, thaw meand 'im we niver 'grees about the tithe; and Parson mebbe, thaw heniver mended that gap i' the glebe fence as I telled 'im; andBlacksmith, thaw he niver shoes a herse to my likings; and Baäker,thaw I sticks to hoäm-maäde—but all on 'em welcome, all on 'emwelcome; 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 roomanew for all o' ye. Foller me.ALL.Yeas, yeas! Three cheers for Mr. Steer![All exeunt exceptDOBSONinto barn.EnterEDGAR.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 Ipromised 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 IHave worn, to such a clod, yet that might beThe best way out of it, if the child could keepHer 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 affectionsWill 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 hateTraditions, ever since my narrow father,After my frolic with his tenant's girl,Made younger elder son, violated the wholeTradition of our land, and left his heir,Born, happily, with some sense of art, to liveBy brush and pencil. By and by, when ThoughtComes down among the crowd, and man perceives thatThe lost gleam of an after-life but leaves himA beast of prey in the dark, why then the crowdMay 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 IMade such a marriage. And marriage in itself—The storm is hard at hand will sweep awayThrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, marriageOne of the feeblest! Then the man, the woman,Following their best affinities, will eachBid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears;Good wishes, not reproaches; with no fearOf the world's gossiping clamour, and no needOf veiling their desires.Conventionalism,Who shrieks by day at what she does by night,Would call this vice; but one time's vice may beThe virtue of another; and Vice and VirtueAre but two masks of self; and what hereafterShall mark out Vice from Virtue in the gulfOf never-dawning darkness?EnterEVA.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 placedBeneath the window, Philip.EDGAR.Savage, is he?What matters? Come, give me your hand and kiss meThis beautiful May-morning.EVA.The most beautifulMay we have had for many years!EDGAR.And hereIs the most beautiful morning of this May.Nay, you must smile upon me! There—you makeThe May and morning still more beautiful,You, the most beautiful blossom of the May.EVA.Dear Philip, all the world is beautifulIf 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 asideHis 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 tideOf full democracy has overwhelm'dThis Old world, from that flood will rise the New,Like the Love-goddess, with no bridal veil,Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked NatureIn all her loveliness.EVA.What are you saying?EDGAR.That, if we did not strain to make ourselvesBetter and higher than Nature, we might beAs happy as the bees there at their honeyIn 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 fatherOf ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to tell youHe 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 usShould 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 youwillbind 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 lastBreaks 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 deathWill part them. Why do you jest with me, and tryTo fright me? Tho' you are a gentleman,I but a farmer's daughter—EDGAR.Tut! you talkOld feudalism. When the great DemocracyMakes 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 bannsBefore 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 caredTo fee an over-opulent superstition,Then they would grant you what they call a licenceTo marry. Do you wish it?EVA.DoI 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—Thatwas the onlytruelove; 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 IShall 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 pastBetween us.EVA.Never!EDGAR.Do not till I bid you.EVA.No, Philip, no. [Turns away.EDGAR (moved).How gracefully there she standsWeeping—the little Niobe! What! we prizeThe statue or the picture all the moreWhen 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 easilyWill 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).Andhewould hear you even from the grave.Heaven curse him if he come not at your call![Exit.EnterDORA.DORA.Well, Eva!EVA.Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have been away from home! Oh, how often Ihave 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 thebrook yonder about the alder island, to come together again in amoment and to go on together again, till one of us be married. Butwhere is this Mr. Edgar whom you praised so in your first letters? Youhaven'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 youfancied yourself in love with him? That's all nonsense, you know, sucha 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—Ithink, quite happy now.DORA (taking EVA'S hand).Come, then, and make them happy in the long barn, for father is inhis glory, and there is a piece of beef like a house-side, and aplum-pudding as big as the round haystack. But see they are comingout for the dance already. Well, my child, let us join them.Enter all from barn laughing. EVAsits reluctantlyunder apple tree. STEERenters smoking, sits byEVA.Dance.
ACT II.
Five years have elapsed between Acts I. and II.SCENE.—A meadow. On one side a pathway going overa rustic bridge. At back the farmhouse amongtrees. In the distance a church spire.DOBSONandDORA.
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 nobbutt'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 (handingDORAbasket of roses).Not like me, Miss Dora; and I ha' browt these roses to ye—I forgitswhat they calls 'em, but I hallus gi'ed soom on 'em to Miss Eva atthis time o' year. Will ya taäke 'em? fur Miss Eva, she set the bushby my dairy winder afoor she went to school at Littlechester—so Iallus 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 toosuddenly 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 'ernow, 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 besoom of her oän roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony on 'em—the Lordbless 'er—'er oän sen; an' weänt ye taäke 'em now, Miss Dora, fur 'ersaäke 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; youcouldn't have more splendid weather.DOBSON.I be a going theer; but I thowt I'd bring tha them roses fust. Theweather's well anew, but the glass be a bit shaäky. S'iver we've ledmoäst on it.DORA.Ay! but you must not be too sudden with it either, as you were lastyear, 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 suddenwi' it; and I feel sewer, Miss Dora, that I ha' been noän too suddenwi' you, fur I ha' sarved for ye well nigh as long as the man sarvedfor 'is sweet'art i' Scriptur'. Weänt ye gi'e me a kind answer atlast?DORA.I have no thought of marriage, my friend. We have been in such griefthese five years, not only on my sister's account, but the ill successof the farm, and the debts, and my father's breaking down, and hisblindness. How could I think of leaving him?DOBSON.Eh, but I be well to do; and if ye would nobbut hev me, I would taäkethe 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 Inever 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.) Iwear it next my heart. Poor sister, I had it five years ago. 'DearestDora,—I have lost myself, and am lost for ever to you and my poorfather. I thought Mr. Edgar the best of men, and he has proved himselfthe worst. Seek not for me, or you may find me at the bottom of theriver.—EVA.'DOBSON.Be that my fault?DORA.No; but how should I, with this grief still at my heart, take to themilking of your cows, the fatting of your calves, the making of yourbutter, and the managing of your poultry?DOBSON.Naä'y, but I hev an owd woman as 'ud see to all that; and you shouldsit 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, yeshould 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 thatbe 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 cannotbe.DOBSON.Eh, lass! Thy feyther eddicated his darters to marry gentlefoälk, andsee what's coomed on it.DORA.That is enough, Farmer Dobson. You have shown me that, though fortunehad bornyouinto the estate of a gentleman, you would still havebeen Farmer Dobson. You had better attend to your hayfield. Goodafternoon.[Exit.DOBSON.'Farmer Dobson'! Well, I be Farmer Dobson; but I thinks FarmerDobson's dog 'ud ha' knaw'd better nor to cast her sister's misfortininter 'er teeth arter she'd been a-readin' me the letter wi' 'er voicea-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; Ilikes '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 coomsupo' Gentleman Hedgar ageän, and doänt laäy my cartwhip athurt 'isshou'ders, why then I beänt Farmer Dobson, but summun else—blaäme'tif I beänt!EnterHAYMAKERSwith 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 saglum?SALLY ALLEN.Glum! he be wus nor glum. He coom'd up to me yisterdaäy i' thehaäyfield, when meä and my sweet'art was a workin' along o' one sidewi' 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 welltogither; and I telled'im'at sweet'arts allus worked besttogither; 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 weäntsa much as look at 'im? And wheniver 'e sees two sweet'arts togitherlike thou and me, Sally, he be fit to bust hissen wi' spites andjalousies.SALLY.Let 'im bust hissen, then, for owtIcares.1ST HAYMAKER.Well but, as I said afoor, it be the last loäd hoäm; do thou and thysweet'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 daäyAnd the last loäd hoäm.ALL.Well sung!JAMES.Fanny be the naäme i' the song, but I swopt it furshe.[Pointing toSALLY.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, andhe'll be rude to me ageän to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his grassdown and wants a hand, and I'll goä to him.1ST HAYMAKER.Owd Steer gi'es nubbut cowd tea to 'ismen, and owd Dobson gi'esbeer.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' thehaäycock, when owd Dobson coom'd upo' us? I can't let tha aloän if Iwould, 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'yAn' the last loäd hoäm.'EnterHAROLD.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 rememberHer bright face beaming starlike down upon meThro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left herHere weeping, I have ranged the world, and satThro' every sensual course of that full feastThat leaves but emptiness.Song.'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy,To the end o' the daä'yAn' the last loäd hoäm.'HAROLD.Poor Eva! O my God, if man be onlyA willy-nilly current of sensations—Reaction needs must follow revel—yet—Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he must haveMoved in the iron grooves of Destiny?Remorse then is a part of Destiny,Nature a liar, making us feel guiltyOf her own faults.My grandfather—of himThey say, that women—O this mortal house,Which we are born into, is haunted byThe ghosts of the dead passions of dead men;And these take flesh again with our own flesh,And bring us to confusion.He was onlyA poor philosopher who call'd the mindOf children a blank page, a tabula rasa.There, there, is written in invisible inks'Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft,Cowardice, Murder'—and the heat and fireOf life will bring them out, and black enough,So the child grow to manhood: better deathWith our first wail than life—Song (further off).'Till the end o' the daäyAn' the last loäd hoäm,Load hoäm.'This bridge again! (Steps on the bridge.)How often have I stoodWith 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, anatomizedThe flowers for her—and now I only wishThis pool were deep enough, that I might plungeAnd lose myself for ever.EnterDAN SMITH (singing).Gee oop! whoä! Gee oop! whoä!Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goäThruf slush an' squadWhen roäds was bad,But hallus ud stop at the Vine-an'-the-Hop,Fur boäth on 'em knaw'd as well as mysenThat 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 thefarm, fur she tell'd ma to taäke the cart to Littlechester.EnterDORA.Half an hour late! why are you loitering here? Away with you at once.[ExitDAN SMITH.(SeeingHAROLDon bridge.)Some madman, is it, Gesticulating there upon the bridge? I am halfafraid to pass.HAROLD.Sometimes I wonder,When man has surely learnt at last that allHis old-world faith, the blossom of his youth,Has faded, falling fruitless—whether thenAll of us, all at once, may not be seizedWith some fierce passion, not so much for DeathAs against Life! all, all, into the dark—No more!—and science now could drug and balm usBack into nescience with as little painAs it is to fall asleep.This beggarly life,This poor, flat, hedged-in field—no distance—thisHollow Pandora-box,With all the pleasures flown, not even HopeLeft 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 farmHere, close at hand.HAROLD.Are you—you are—that Dora,The sister. I have heard of you. The likenessIs very striking.DORA.You knew Eva, then?HAROLD.Yes—I was thinking of her when—O yes,Many years back, and never since have metHer equal for pure innocence of nature,And loveliness of feature.DORA.No, nor I.HAROLD.Except, indeed, I have found it once againIn your own self.DORA.You flatter me. Dear EvaWas always thought the prettier.HAROLD.AndhercharmOf voice is also yours; and I was broodingUpon a great unhappiness when you spoke.DORA.Indeed, you seem'd in trouble, sir.HAROLD.And youSeem 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, perhapsThe painful circumstances which I heard—I will not vex you by repeating them—Only last week at Littlechester, drove meFrom 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 weShould find her in the river; and we dragg'dThe Littlechester river all in vain:Have sorrow'd for her all these years in vain.And my poor father, utterly broken downBy 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 himWith pitchforks off the farm, for all of themLoved 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 HallIn 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 SomersetIs 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 worldIs brighter for his absence as that otherIs darker for his presence.HAROLD.Is not thisTo speak too pitilessly of the dead?DORA.My five-years' anger cannot die at once,Not all at once with death and him. I trustI shall forgive him—by-and-by—not now.O sir, you seem to have a heart; if youHad seen us that wild morning when we foundHer bed unslept in, storm and shower lashingHer 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 usAnd seen all this, then you would know it is notSo easy to forgive—even the dead.HAROLD.But sure am I that of your gentlenessYou will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'dA miracle of gentleness—would not blurA moth's wing by the touching; would not crushThe fly that drew her blood; and, were she living,Would not—if penitent—have denied himherForgiveness. And perhaps the man himself,When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'dMore than we know. But wherefore waste your heartIn looking on a chill and changeless Past?Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the PastRemains the Past. But you are young, and—pardon me—As lovely as your sister. Who can tellWhat golden hours, with what full hands, may beWaiting you in the distance? Might I callUpon 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 cannotWell answer for my father; but if youCan tell me anything of our sweet EvaWhen in her brighter girlhood, I at leastWill 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 privilegeWhen you shall know me better.DORA.(Aside.) How beautifulHis manners are, and how unlike the farmer's!You are staying here?HAROLD.Yes, at the wayside innClose by that alder-island in your brook,'The Angler's Home.'DORA.Areyouone?HAROLD.No, but ITake some delight in sketching, and the countryHas many charms, altho' the inhabitantsSeem 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 caredTo live some time among them.HAROLD.If I did,Then one at least of its inhabitantsMight 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 thatYour likeness—[Shouts and cries without.DORA.What was that? my poor blind father—EnterFARMING MAN.FARMING MAN.Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart hes runned ower a laädy i' the hollerlaäne, and they ha' ta'en the body up inter your chaumber, and they beall 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.EnterDOBSON.DOBSON.What feller wur it as 'a' been a-talkin' fur haäfe an hour wi' myDora? (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 shefell foul upo' me.Minds ma o' summun. I could sweär to that; but that be all one, fur Ihaätes 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer! he turns round. PhilipHedgar o' Soomerset! Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset!—Noä—yeas—thaw thefeller'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' atit. 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 hisfist.) But what 'ud she saäy to that? She telled me once not tomeddle wi' 'im, and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at'er.It mun behim. Noä! Fur she'd niver 'a been talkin' haäfe an hourwi' 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'llmaäke 'er knaw! I'll maäke 'er knaw!EnterHAROLD.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 meThro' 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 pressureOf mine. What, I that held the orange blossomDark as the yew? but may not those, who marchBefore their age, turn back at times, and makeCourtesy 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 pastLook'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' her's—A spell upon me! Surely I loved EvaMore than I knew! or is it but the pastThat brightens in retiring? Oh, last night,Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester,I dozed upon the bridge, and the black riverFlow'd thro' my dreams—if dreams they were. She roseFrom 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 fatherWill not die miserable.' I could make his ageA comfort to him—so be more at peaceWith mine own self. Some of my former friendsWould find my logic faulty; let them. ColourFlows thro' my life again, and I have lightedOn a new pleasure. Anyhow we mustMove in the line of least resistance whenThe stronger motive rules.But she hates Edgar.May not this Dobbins, or some other, spyEdgar in Harold? Well then, I must make herLove Harold first, and then she will forgiveEdgar for Harold's sake. She said herselfShe would forgive him, by-and-by, not now—For her own sakethen, if not for mine—not now—But by-and-by.EnterDOBSONbehind.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, Ihev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw what tha meäns wi' by-and-by? Fur if ye begoin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved our Eva—then, by-and-by, if sheweänt listen to me when I be a-tryin' to saäve 'er—if she weänt—lookto 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' tomyDora?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 tobe 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, Ihad to look over his letters. Now then, see these (takes outletters). 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' muddledma. 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'tnaw business 'ere wi'myDora, as I knaws on, an' whether thou callsthysen 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 toshoot tha like a rabbit an' all. 'Good daäy, Dobbins.' Dang tha!