Enter PUBLIUS and SOLDIERS.

Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye not before?

PUBLIUS. Why come we now? Whom shall we seize upon?

SYNORIX (pointing to the body of SINNATUS). The body of that dead traitor Sinnatus. Bear him away.

Music and Singing in Temple.



ACT II

SCENE.—Interior of the Temple of Artemis. Small gold gates on platform in front of the veil before the colossal statue of the Goddess, and in the centre of the Temple a tripod altar, on which is a lighted lamp. Lamps (lighted) suspended between each pillar. Tripods, vases, garlands of flowers, etc., about stage. Altar at back close to Goddess, with two cups. Solemn music. Priestesses decorating the Temple.

(The Chorus of PRIESTESSES sing as they enter.)

Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, hear us, and bless us! Artemis, thou that art life to the wind, to the wave, to the glebe, to the fire! Hear thy people who praise thee! O help us from all that oppress us! Hear thy priestesses hymn thy glory! O yield them all their desire!

PRIESTESS. Phoebe, that man from Synorix, who has been So oft to see the Priestess, waits once more Before the Temple.

PHOEBE. We will let her know. [Signs to one of the Priestesses, who goes out. Since Camma fled from Synorix to our Temple, And for her beauty, stateliness, and power, Was chosen Priestess here, have you not mark'd Her eyes were ever on the marble floor? To-day they are fixt and bright—they look straight out. Hath she made up her mind to marry him?

PRIESTESS. To marry him who stabb'd her Sinnatus. You will not easily make me credit that.

PHOEBE. Ask her.

Enter CAMMA as Priestess (in front of the curtains).

PRIESTESS. You will not marry Synorix?

CAMMA. My girl, I am the bride of Death, and only Marry the dead.

PRIESTESS. Not Synorix then?

CAMMA.

My girl, At times this oracle of great Artemis Has no more power than other oracles To speak directly.

PHOEBE. Will you speak to him, The messenger from Synorix who waits Before the Temple?

CAMMA. Why not? Let him enter. [_Comes forward on to step by tripod.

Enter a_ MESSENGER.

MESSENGER (kneels). Greeting and health from Synorix! More than once You have refused his hand. When last I saw you, You all but yielded. He entreats you now For your last answer. When he struck at Sinnatus— As I have many a time declared to you— He knew not at the moment who had fasten'd About his throat—he begs you to forget it. As scarce his act:—a random stroke: all else Was love for you: he prays you to believe him.

CAMMA. I pray him to believe—that I believe him.

MESSENGER. Why that is well. You mean to marry him?

CAMMA. I mean to marry him—if that be well.

MESSENGER. This very day the Romans crown him king For all his faithful services to Rome. He wills you then this day to marry him, And so be throned together in the sight Of all the people, that the world may know You twain are reconciled, and no more feuds Disturb our peaceful vassalage to Rome.

CAMMA. To-day? Too sudden. I will brood upon it. When do they crown him?

MESSENGER. Even now.

CAMMA. And where?

MESSENGER. Here by your temple.

CAMMA.

Come once more to me Before the crowning,—I will answer you.

[Exit Messenger.

PHOEBE. Great Artemis! O Camma, can it be well, Or good, or wise, that you should clasp a hand Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus?

CAMMA. Good! mine own dagger driven by Synorix found All good in the true heart of Sinnatus, And quench'd it there for ever. Wise! Life yields to death and wisdom bows to Fate, Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man Speak well? We cannot fight imperial Rome, But he and I are both Galatian-born, And tributary sovereigns, he and I Might teach this Rome—from knowledge of our people— Where to lay on her tribute—heavily here And lightly there. Might I not live for that, And drown all poor self-passion in the sense Of public good?

PHOEBE. I am sure you will not marry him.

CAMMA. Are you so sure? I pray you wait and see.

[Shouts (from the distance), 'Synorix! Synorix!'

CAMMA. Synorix, Synorix! So they cried Sinnatus Not so long since—they sicken me. The One Who shifts his policy suffers something, must Accuse himself, excuse himself; the Many Will feel no shame to give themselves the lie.

PHOEBE. Most like it was the Roman soldier shouted.

CAMMA. Their shield-borne patriot of the morning star Hang'd at mid-day, their traitor of the dawn The clamour'd darling of their afternoon! And that same head they would have play'd at ball with And kick'd it featureless—they now would crown.

[Flourish of trumpets.

Enter a Galatian NOBLEMAN with crown on a cushion.

NOBLE (kneels). Greeting and health from Synorix. He sends you This diadem of the first Galatian Queen, That you may feed your fancy on the glory of it, And join your life this day with his, and wear it Beside him on his throne. He waits your answer.

CAMMA. Tell him there is one shadow among the shadows, One ghost of all the ghosts—as yet so new, So strange among them—such an alien there, So much of husband in it still—that if The shout of Synorix and Camma sitting Upon one throne, should reach it, it would rise He!... HE, with that red star between the ribs, And my knife there—and blast the king and me, And blanch the crowd with horror. I dare not, sir! Throne him—and then the marriage—ay and tell him That I accept the diadem of Galatia— [All are amazed. Yea, that ye saw me crown myself withal. [Puts on the crown. I wait him his crown'd queen.

NOBLE. So will I tell him.

[Exit.

Music. Two Priestesses go up the steps before the shrine, draw the curtains on either side (discovering the Goddess), then open the gates and remain on steps, one on either side, and kneel. A priestess goes off and returns with a veil of marriage, then assists Phoebe to veil Camma. At the same time Priestesses enter and stand on either side of the Temple. Camma and all the Priestesses kneel, raise their hands to the Goddess, and bow down.

[Shouts, 'Synorix! Synorix!' All rise.

CAMMA. Fling wide the doors, and let the new-made children Of our imperial mother see the show.

[Sunlight pours through the doors.

I have no heart to do it. (To Phoebe). Look for me!

[Crouches. PHOEBE looks out.

[Shouts, 'Synorix! Synorix!'

PHOEBE. He climbs the throne. Hot blood, ambition, pride So bloat and redden his face—O would it were His third last apoplexy! O bestial! O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus.

CAMMA (on the ground). You wrong him surely; far as the face goes A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus.

PHOEBE (aside). How dare she say it? I could hate her for it But that she is distracted. [A flourish of trumpets.

CAMMA. Is he crown'd?

PHOEBE. Ay, there they crown him.

[Crowd without shout, 'Synorix! Synorix!'

[A Priestess brings a box of spices to CAMMA, who throws them on the altar-flame.

CAMMA. Rouse the dead altar-flame, fling in the spices, Nard, Cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. Let all the air reel into a mist of odour, As in the midmost heart of Paradise. Lay down the Lydian carpets for the king. The king should pace on purple to his bride, And music there to greet my lord the king. [Music. (To Phoebe). Dost thou remember when I wedded Sinnatus? Ay, thou wast there—whether from maiden fears Or reverential love for him I loved, Or some strange second-sight, the marriage cup Wherefrom we make libation to the Goddess So shook within my hand, that the red wine Ran down the marble and lookt like blood, like blood.

PHOEBE. I do remember your first-marriage fears.

CAMMA. I have no fears at this my second marriage. See here—I stretch my hand out—hold it there. How steady it is!

PHOEBE. Steady enough to stab him!

CAMMA. O hush! O peace! This violence ill becomes The silence of our Temple. Gentleness, Low words best chime with this solemnity.

Enter a procession of Priestesses and Children bearing garlands and golden goblets, and strewing flowers.

Enter SYNORIX (as King, with gold laurel-wreath crown and purple robes), followed by ANTONIUS, PUBLIUS, Noblemen, Guards, and the Populace.

CAMMA.

Hail, King!

SYNORIX.

Hail, Queen! The wheel of Fate has roll'd me to the top. I would that happiness were gold, that I Might cast my largess of it to the crowd! I would that every man made feast to-day Beneath the shadow of our pines and planes! For all my truer life begins to-day. The past is like a travell'd land now sunk Below the horizon—like a barren shore That grew salt weeds, but now all drown'd in love And glittering at full tide—the bounteous bays And havens filling with a blissful sea. Nor speak I now too mightily, being King And happy! happiest, Lady, in my power To make you happy.

CAMMA. Yes, sir.

SYNORIX. Our Antonius, Our faithful friend of Rome, tho' Rome may set A free foot where she will, yet of his courtesy Entreats he may be present at our marriage.

CAMMA. Let him come—a legion with him, if he will. (To ANTONIUS.) Welcome, my lord Antonius, to our Temple. (To SYNORIX.) You on this side the altar. (To ANTONIUS.) You on that. Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix.

[All face the Goddess. Priestesses, Children, Populace, and Guards kneel—the others remain standing.

SYNORIX. O Thou, that dost inspire the germ with life, The child, a thread within the house of birth, And give him limbs, then air, and send him forth The glory of his father—Thou whose breath Is balmy wind to robe our hills with grass, And kindle all our vales with myrtle-blossom, And roll the golden oceans of our grain, And sway the long grape-bunches of our vines, And fill all hearts with fatness and the lust Of plenty—make me happy in my marriage!

CHORUS (chanting).

Artemis, Artemis, hear him, Ionian Artemis!

CAMMA. O Thou that slayest the babe within the womb Or in the being born, or after slayest him As boy or man, great Goddess, whose storm-voice Unsockets the strong oak, and rears his root Beyond his head, and strows our fruits, and lays Our golden grain, and runs to sea and makes it Foam over all the fleeted wealth of kings And peoples, hear. Whose arrow is the plague—whose quick flash splits The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower to the rock, And hurls the victor's column down with him That crowns it, hear. Who causest the safe earth to shudder and gape, And gulf and flatten in her closing chasm Domed cities, hear. Whose lava-torrents blast and blacken a province To a cinder, hear. Whose winter-cataracts find a realm and leave it A waste of rock and ruin, hear. I call thee To make my marriage prosper to my wish!

CHORUS. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Ephesian Artemis!

CAMMA. Artemis, Artemis, hear me, Galatian Artemis! I call on our own Goddess in our own Temple.

CHORUS.

Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Galatian Artemis!

[Thunder. All rise.

SYNORIX (aside). Thunder! Ay, ay, the storm was drawing hither Across the hills when I was being crown'd. I wonder if I look as pale as she?

CAMMA. Art thou—still bent—on marrying?

SYNORIX. Surely—yet These are strange words to speak to Artemis.

CAMMA. Words are not always what they seem, my King. I will be faithful to thee till thou die.

SYNORIX. I thank thee, Camma,—I thank thee.

CAMMA (turning to ANTONIUS). Antonius, Much graced are we that our Queen Rome in you Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms.

[Turns, goes up steps to altar before the Goddess. Takes a cup from off the altar. Holds it towards ANTONIUS. ANTONIUS goes up to the foot of the steps, opposite to SYNORIX.

You see this cup, my lord. [Gives it to him.

ANTONIUS. Most curious! The many-breasted mother Artemis Emboss'd upon it.

CAMMA. It is old, I know not How many hundred years. Give it me again. It is the cup belonging our own Temple.

[Puts it back on altar, and takes up the cup of Act I. Showing it to ANTONIUS.

Here is another sacred to the Goddess, The gift of Synorix; and the Goddess, being For this most grateful, wills, thro' me her Priestess, In honour of his gift and of our marriage, That Synorix should drink from his own cup.

SYNORIX. I thank thee, Camma,—I thank thee.

CAMMA. For—my lord— It is our ancient custom in Galatia That ere two souls be knit for life and death, They two should drink together from one cup, In symbol of their married unity, Making libation to the Goddess. Bring me The costly wines we use in marriages.

[They bring in a large jar of wine. CAMMA pours wine into cup.

(To SYNORIX.) See here, I fill it. (To ANTONIUS.) Will you drink, my lord?

ANTONIUS. I? Why should I? I am not to be married.

CAMMA. But that might bring a Roman blessing on us.

ANTONIUS (refusing cup). Thy pardon, Priestess!

CAMMA. Thou art in the right. This blessing is for Synorix and for me. See first I make libation to the Goddess, [Makes libation. And now I drink. [Drinks and fills the cup again. Thy turn, Galatian King. Drink and drink deep—our marriage will be fruitful. Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt make me happy.

[SYNORIX goes up to her. She hands him the cup. He drinks.

SYNORIX. There, Gamma! I have almost drain'd the cup— A few drops left.

CAMMA. Libation to the Goddess.

[He throws the remaining drops on the altar and gives CAMMA the cup.

CAMMA (placing the cup on the altar). Why then the Goddess hears. [Comes down and forward to tripod. ANTONIUS follows. Antonius, Where wast thou on that morning when I came To plead to thee for Sinnatus's life, Beside this temple half a year ago?

ANTONIUS. I never heard of this request of thine.

SYNORIX (coming forward hastily to foot of tripod steps). I sought him and I could not find him. Pray you, Go on with the marriage rites.

CAMMA. Antonius—— 'Camma!' who spake?

ANTONIUS. Not I.

PHOEBE. Nor any here.

CAMMA. I am all but sure that some one spake. Antonius, If you had found him plotting against Rome, Would you have tortured Sinnatus to death?

ANTONIUS. No thought was mine of torture or of death, But had I found him plotting, I had counsell'd him To rest from vain resistance. Rome is fated To rule the world. Then, if he had not listen'd, I might have sent him prisoner to Rome.

SYNORIX. Why do you palter with the ceremony? Go on with the marriage rites.

CAMMA. They are finish'd.

SYNORIX. How!

CAMMA. Thou hast drunk deep enough to make me happy. Dost thou not feel the love I bear to thee Glow thro' thy veins?

SYNORIX. The love I bear to thee Glows thro' my veins since first I look'd on thee. But wherefore slur the perfect ceremony? The sovereign of Galatia weds his Queen. Let all be done to the fullest in the sight Of all the Gods. Nay, rather than so clip The flowery robe of Hymen, we would add Some golden fringe of gorgeousness beyond Old use, to make the day memorial, when Synorix, first King, Camma, first Queen o' the Realm, Drew here the richest lot from Fate, to live And die together. This pain—what is it?—again? I had a touch of this last year—in—Rome. Yes, yes. (To ANTONIUS.) Your arm—a moment—It will pass. I reel beneath the weight of utter joy— This all too happy day, crown—queen at once. [Staggers. O all ye Gods—Jupiter!—Jupiter! [Falls backward.

CAMMA. Dost thou cry out upon the Gods of Rome? Thou art Galatian-born. Our Artemis Has vanquish'd their Diana.

SYNORIX (on the ground). I am poison'd. She—close the Temple door. Let her not fly.

CAMMA (leaning on tripod). Have I not drunk of the same cup with thee?

SYNORIX. Ay, by the Gods of Rome and all the world, She too—she too—the bride! the Queen! and I— Monstrous! I that loved her.

CAMMA. I loved him.

SYNORIX. O murderous mad-woman! I pray you lift me And make me walk awhile. I have heard these poisons May be walk'd down. [ANTONIUS and PUBLIUS raise him up. My feet are tons of lead, They will break in the earth—I am sinking—hold me— Let me alone. [They leave him; he sinks down on ground. Too late—thought myself wise— A woman's dupe. Antonius, tell the Senate I have been most true to Rome—would have been true To her—if—if—— [Falls as if dead.

CAMMA (coming and leaning over him). So falls the throne of an hour.

SYNORIX (half rising). Throne? is it thou? the Fates are throned, not we— Not guilty of ourselves—thy doom and mine— Thou—coming my way too—Camma—good-night. [Dies.

CAMMA (upheld by weeping Priestesses). Thy way? poor worm, crawl down thine own black hole To the lowest Hell. Antonius, is he there? I meant thee to have follow'd—better thus. Nay, if my people must be thralls of Rome, He is gentle, tho' a Roman. [Sinks back into the arms of the Priestesses.

ANTONIUS. Thou art one With thine own people, and tho' a Roman I Forgive thee, Camma.

CAMMA (raising herself). 'CAMMA!'—why there again I am most sure that some one call'd. O women, Ye will have Roman masters. I am glad I shall not see it. Did not some old Greek Say death was the chief good? He had my fate for it, Poison'd. (Sinks back again.) Have I the crown on? I will go To meet him, crown'd! crown'd victor of my will— On my last voyage—but the wind has fail'd— Growing dark too—but light enough to row. Row to the blessed Isles! the blessed Isles!— Sinnatus! Why comes he not to meet me? It is the crown Offends him—and my hands are too sleepy To lift it off. [PHOEBE takes the crown off. Who touch'd me then? I thank you. [Rises, with outspread arms. There—league on league of ever-shining shore Beneath an ever-rising sun—I see him— 'Camma, Camma!' Sinnatus, Sinnatus! [Dies.



THE FALCON



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

The Count Federigo Degli Alberighi. Filippo, Count's foster-brother. The lady Giovanna. Elisabetta, the Count's nurse.



THE FALCON

SCENE.—An Italian Cottage. Castle and Mountains seen through Window.

Elisabetta discovered seated on stool in window darning. The Count with Falcon on his hand comes down through the door at back. A withered wreath on the wall.

ELISABETTA. So, my lord, the Lady Giovanna, who hath been away so long, came back last night with her son to the castle.

COUNT. Hear that, my bird! Art thou not jealous of her? My princess of the cloud, my plumed purveyor, My far-eyed queen of the winds—thou that canst soar Beyond the morning lark, and howsoe'er Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop down upon him Eagle-like, lightning-like—strike, make his feathers Glance in mid heaven. [Crosses to chair. I would thou hadst a mate! Thy breed will die with thee, and mine with me: I am as lone and loveless as thyself. [Sits in chair. Giovanna here! Ay, ruffle thyself—be jealous! Thou should'st be jealous of her. Tho' I bred thee The full-train'd marvel of all falconry, And love thee and thou me, yet if Giovanna Be here again—No, no! Buss me, my bird! The stately widow has no heart for me. Thou art the last friend left me upon earth— No, no again to that. [Rises and turns. My good old nurse, I had forgotten thou wast sitting there.

ELISABETTA. Ay, and forgotten thy foster-brother too.

COUNT. Bird-babble for my falcon! Let it pass. What art thou doing there?

ELISABETTA. Darning your lordship. We cannot flaunt it in new feathers now: Nay, if we will buy diamond necklaces To please our lady, we must darn, my lord. This old thing here (points to necklace round her neck), they are but blue beads—my Piero, God rest his honest soul, he bought 'em for me, Ay, but he knew I meant to marry him. How couldst thou do it, my son? How couldst thou do it?

COUNT. She saw it at a dance, upon a neck Less lovely than her own, and long'd for it.

ELISABETTA. She told thee as much?

COUNT. No, no—a friend of hers.

ELISABETTA. Shame on her that she took it at thy hands, She rich enough to have bought it for herself!

COUNT. She would have robb'd me then of a great pleasure.

ELISABETTA. But hath she yet return'd thy love?

COUNT. Not yet!

ELISABETTA. She should return thy necklace then.

COUNT. Ay, if She knew the giver; but I bound the seller To silence, and I left it privily At Florence, in her palace.

ELISABETTA. And sold thine own To buy it for her. She not know? She knows There's none such other——

COUNT. Madman anywhere. Speak freely, tho' to call a madman mad Will hardly help to make him sane again.

Enter FILIPPO.

FILIPPO. Ah, the women, the women! Ah, Monna Giovanna, you here again! you that have the face of an angel and the heart of a—that's too positive! You that have a score of lovers and have not a heart for any of them— that's positive-negative: you that have not the head of a toad, and not a heart like the jewel in it—that's too negative; you that have a cheek like a peach and a heart like the stone in it—that's positive again—that's better!

ELISABETTA. Sh—sh—Filippo!

FILIPPO (turns half round). Here has our master been a-glorifying and a-velveting and a-silking himself, and a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch her eye for a dozen year, till he hasn't an eye left in his own tail to flourish among the peahens, and all along o' you, Monna Giovanna, all along o' you!

ELISABETTA. Sh—sh—Filippo! Can't you hear that you are saying behind his back what you see you are saying afore his face?

COUNT. Let him—he never spares me to my face!

FILIPPO. No, my lord, I never spare your lordship to your lordship's face, nor behind your lordship's back, nor to right, nor to left, nor to round about and back to your lordship's face again, for I'm honest, your lordship.

COUNT. Come, come, Filippo, what is there in the larder? [ELISABETTA crosses to fireplace and puts on wood.

FILIPPO. Shelves and hooks, shelves and hooks, and when I see the shelves I am like to hang myself on the hooks.

COUNT. No bread?

FILIPPO. Half a breakfast for a rat!

COUNT, Milk?

FILIPPO. Three laps for a cat!

COUNT. Cheese?

FILIPPO. A supper for twelve mites.

COUNT. Eggs?

FILIPPO. One, but addled.

COUNT. No bird?

FILIPPO. Half a tit and a hern's bill.

COUNT. Let be thy jokes and thy jerks, man! Anything or nothing?

FILIPPO. Well, my lord, if all-but-nothing be anything, and one plate of dried prunes be all-but-nothing, then there is anything in your lordship's larder at your lordship's service, if your lordship care to call for it.

COUNT. Good mother, happy was the prodigal son, For he return'd to the rich father; I But add my poverty to thine. And all Thro' following of my fancy. Pray thee make Thy slender meal out of those scraps and shreds Filippo spoke of. As for him and me, There sprouts a salad in the garden still. (To the Falcon?) Why didst thou miss thy quarry yester-even? To-day, my beauty, thou must dash us down Our dinner from the skies. Away, Filippo! [Exit, followed by FILIPPO.

ELISABETTA. I knew it would come to this. She has beggared him. I always knew it would come to this! (Goes up to table as if to resume darning, and looks out of window.) Why, as I live, there is Monna Giovanna coming down the hill from the castle. Stops and stares at our cottage. Ay, ay! stare at it: it's all you have left us. Shame upon you! She beautiful! sleek as a miller's mouse! Meal enough, meat enough, well fed; but beautiful—bah! Nay, see, why she turns down the path through our little vineyard, and I sneezed three times this morning. Coming to visit my lord, for the first time in her life too! Why, bless the saints! I'll be bound to confess her love to him at last. I forgive her, I forgive her! I knew it would come to this—I always knew it must come to this! (Going up to door during latter part of speech and opens it.) Come in, Madonna, come in. (Retires to front of table and curtseys as the LADY GIOVANNA enters, then moves chair towards the hearth.) Nay, let me place this chair for your ladyship.

[LADY GIOVANNA moves slowly down stage, then crosses to chair, looking about her, bows as she sees the Madonna over fireplace, then sits in chair.

LADY GIOVANNA. Can I speak with the Count?

ELISABETTA. Ay, my lady, but won't you speak with the old woman first, and tell her all about it and make her happy? for I've been on my knees every day for these half-dozen years in hope that the saints would send us this blessed morning; and he always took you so kindly, he always took the world so kindly. When he was a little one, and I put the bitters on my breast to wean him, he made a wry mouth at it, but he took it so kindly, and your ladyship has given him bitters enough in this world, and he never made a wry mouth at you, he always took you so kindly— which is more than I did, my lady, more than I did—and he so handsome—and bless your sweet face, you look as beautiful this morning as the very Madonna her own self—and better late than never— but come when they will—then or now—it's all for the best, come when they will—they are made by the blessed saints—these marriages. [Raises her hands.

LADY GIOVANNA. Marriages? I shall never marry again!

ELISABETTA (rises and turns). Shame on her then!

LADY GIOVANNA. Where is the Count?

ELISABETTA. Just gone To fly his falcon.

LADY GIOVANNA. Call him back and say I come to breakfast with him.

ELISABETTA. Holy mother! To breakfast! Oh sweet saints! one plate of prunes! Well, Madam, I will give your message to him. [Exit.

LADY GIOVANNA. His falcon, and I come to ask for his falcon, The pleasure of his eyes—boast of his hand— Pride of his heart—the solace of his hours— His one companion here—nay, I have heard That, thro' his late magnificence of living And this last costly gift to mine own self, [Shows diamond necklace. He hath become so beggar'd, that his falcon Ev'n wins his dinner for him in the field. That must be talk, not truth, but truth or talk, How can I ask for his falcon? [Rises and moves as she speaks. O my sick boy! My daily fading Florio, it is thou Hath set me this hard task, for when I say What can I do—what can I get for thee? He answers, 'Get the Count to give me his falcon, And that will make me well.' Yet if I ask, He loves me, and he knows I know he loves me! Will he not pray me to return his love— To marry him?—(pause)—I can never marry him. His grandsire struck my grandsire in a brawl At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'd him there. The feud between our houses is the bar I cannot cross; I dare not brave my brother, Break with my kin. My brother hates him, scorns The noblest-natured man alive, and I— Who have that reverence for him that I scarce Dare beg him to receive his diamonds back— How can I, dare I, ask him for his falcon? [Puts diamonds in her casket.

Re-enter COUNT and FILIPPO. COUNT turns to FILIPPO.

COUNT. Do what I said; I cannot do it myself.

FILIPPO. Why then, my lord, we are pauper'd out and out.

COUNT. Do what I said! [Advances and bows low. Welcome to this poor cottage, my dear lady.

LADY GIOVANNA. And welcome turns a cottage to a palace.

COUNT. 'Tis long since we have met!

LADY GIOVANNA. To make amends I come this day to break my fast with you.

COUNT.

I am much honour'd—yes— [Turns to FILIPPO. Do what I told thee. Must I do it myself?

FlLIPPO. I will, I will. (Sighs.) Poor fellow! [Exit.

COUNT. Lady, you bring your light into my cottage Who never deign'd to shine into my palace. My palace wanting you was but a cottage; My cottage, while you grace it, is a palace.

LADY GIOVANNA. In cottage or in palace, being still Beyond your fortunes, you are still the king Of courtesy and liberality.

COUNT. I trust I still maintain my courtesy; My liberality perforce is dead Thro' lack of means of giving.

LADY GIOVANNA. Yet I come To ask a gift. [Moves toward him a little.

COUNT. It will be hard, I fear, To find one shock upon the field when all The harvest has been carried.

LADY GIOVANNA. But my boy— (Aside.) No, no! not yet—I cannot!

COUNT. Ay, how is he, That bright inheritor of your eyes—your boy?

LADY GIOVANNA. Alas, my Lord Federigo, he hath fallen Into a sickness, and it troubles me.

COUNT. Sick! is it so? why, when he came last year To see me hawking, he was well enough: And then I taught him all our hawking-phrases.

LADY GIOVANNA. Oh yes, and once you let him fly your falcon.

COUNT. How charm'd he was! what wonder?—A gallant boy, A noble bird, each perfect of the breed.

LADY GIOVANNA (sinks in chair). What do you rate her at?

COUNT. My bird? a hundred Gold pieces once were offer'd by the Duke. I had no heart to part with her for money.

LADY GIOVANNA. No, not for money. [COUNT turns away and sighs. Wherefore do you sigh?

COUNT. I have lost a friend of late.

LADY GIOVANNA. I could sigh with you For fear of losing more than friend, a son; And if he leave me—all the rest of life— That wither'd wreath were of more worth to me. [Looking at wreath on wall.

COUNT. That wither'd wreath is of more worth to me Than all the blossom, all the leaf of this New-wakening year. [Goes and takes down wreath.

LADY GIOVANNA. And yet I never saw The land so rich in blossom as this year.

COUNT (holding wreath toward her). Was not the year when this was gather'd richer?

LADY GIOVANNA.

How long ago was that?

COUNT. Alas, ten summers! A lady that was beautiful as day Sat by me at a rustic festival With other beauties on a mountain meadow, And she was the most beautiful of all; Then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. The mountain flowers grew thickly round about. I made a wreath with some of these; I ask'd A ribbon from her hair to bind it with; I whisper'd, Let me crown you Queen of Beauty, And softly placed the chaplet on her head. A colour, which has colour'd all my life, Flush'd in her face; then I was call'd away; And presently all rose, and so departed. Ah! she had thrown my chaplet on the grass, And there I found it. [Lets his hands fall, holding wreath despondingly.

LADY GIOVANNA (after pause). How long since do you say?

COUNT. That was the very year before you married.

LADY GIOVANNA. When I was married you were at the wars.

COUNT. Had she not thrown my chaplet on the grass, It may be I had never seen the wars. [Replaces wreath whence he had taken it.

LADY GIOVANNA. Ah, but, my lord, there ran a rumour then That you were kill'd in battle. I can tell you True tears that year were shed for you in Florence.

COUNT. It might have been as well for me. Unhappily I was but wounded by the enemy there And then imprison'd.

LADY GIOVANNA. Happily, however, I see you quite recover'd of your wound.

COUNT. No, no, not quite, Madonna, not yet, not yet.

Re-enter FILIPPO.

FILIPPO. My lord, a word with you.

COUNT. Pray, pardon me!

[LADY GIOVANNA crosses, and passes behind chair and takes down wreath; then goes to chair by table.

COUNT (to FILIPPO). What is it, Filippo?

FILIPPO. Spoons, your lordship.

COUNT. Spoons!

FILIPPO. Yes, my lord, for wasn't my lady born with a golden spoon in her ladyship's mouth, and we haven't never so much as a silver one for the golden lips of her ladyship.

COUNT. Have we not half a score of silver spoons?

FILIPPO. Half o' one, my lord!

COUNT. How half of one?

FILIPPO. I trod upon him even now, my lord, in my hurry, and broke him.

COUNT. And the other nine?

FILIPPO. Sold! but shall I not mount with your lordship's leave to her ladyship's castle, in your lordship's and her ladyship's name, and confer with her ladyship's seneschal, and so descend again with some of her ladyship's own appurtenances?

COUNT. Why—no, man. Only see your cloth be clean.

[Exit FILIPPO.

LADY GIOVANNA. Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the mode In Florence ten years back. What's here? a scroll Pinned to the wreath. My lord, you have said so much Of this poor wreath that I was bold enough To take it down, if but to guess what flowers Had made it; and I find a written scroll That seems to run in rhymings. Might I read?

COUNT.

Ay, if you will.

LADY GIOVANNA. It should be if you can. (Reads.) 'Dead mountain.' Nay, for who could trace a hand So wild and staggering?

COUNT. This was penn'd, Madonna, Close to the grating on a winter morn In the perpetual twilight of a prison, When he that made it, having his right hand Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left.

LADY GIOVANNA. O heavens! the very letters seem to shake With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner! Well, Tell me the words—or better—for I see There goes a musical score along with them, Repeat them to their music.

COUNT. You can touch No chord in me that would not answer you In music.

LADY GIOVANNA. That is musically said.

[COUNT takes guitar. LADY GIOVANNA sits listening with wreath in her hand, and quietly removes scroll and places it on table at the end of the song.

COUNT (sings, playing guitar).

'Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers, Dearer than when you made your mountain gay, Sweeter than any violet of to-day, Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.'

Enter ELISABETTA with cloth.

ELISABETTA. A word with you, my lord!

COUNT (singing). 'O mountain flowers!'

ELISABETTA. A word, my lord! (Louder).

COUNT (sings). 'Dead flowers!'

ELISABETTA. A word, my lord! (Louder).

COUNT. I pray you pardon me again!

[LADY GIOVANNA looking at wreath.

(COUNT to ELISABETTA.) What is it?

ELISABETTA. My lord, we have but one piece of earthenware to serve the salad in to my lady, and that cracked!

COUNT. Why then, that flower'd bowl my ancestor Fetch'd from the farthest east—we never use it For fear of breakage—but this day has brought A great occasion. You can take it, nurse!

ELISABETTA. I did take it, my lord, but what with my lady's coming that had so flurried me, and what with the fear of breaking it, I did break it, my lord: it is broken!

COUNT. My one thing left of value in the world! No matter! see your cloth be white as snow!

ELISABETTA (pointing thro' window). White? I warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder on the very tip-top o' the mountain.

COUNT. And yet to speak white truth, my good old mother, I have seen it like the snow on the moraine.

ELISABETTA: How can your lordship say so? There my lord! [Lays cloth. O my dear son, be not unkind to me. And one word more. [Going—returns.

COUNT (touching guitar). Good! let it be but one.

ELISABETTA. Hath she return'd thy love?

COUNT. Not yet!

ELISABETTA. And will she?

COUNT (looking at LADY GIOVANNA). I scarce believe it!

ELISABETTA. Shame upon her then! [Exit.

COUNT (sings).

'Dead mountain flowers'—— Ah well, my nurse has broken The thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken My china bowl. My memory is as dead. [Goes and replaces guitar. Strange that the words at home with me so long Should fly like bosom friends when needed most. So by your leave if you would hear the rest, The writing.

LADY GIOVANNA (holding wreath toward him). There! my lord, you are a poet, And can you not imagine that the wreath, Set, as you say, so lightly on her head, Fell with her motion as she rose, and she, A girl, a child, then but fifteen, however Flutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of her, Was yet too bashful to return for it?

COUNT. Was it so indeed? was it so? was it so?

[Leans forward to take wreath, and touches LADY GIOVANNA'S hand, which she withdraws hastily; he places wreath on corner of chair.

LADY GIOVANNA (with dignity). I did not say, my lord, that it was so; I said you might imagine it was so.

Enter FILIPPO with bowl of salad, which he places on table.

FILIPPO. Here's a fine salad for my lady, for tho' we have been a soldier, and ridden by his lordship's side, and seen the red of the battle-field, yet are we now drill-sergeant to his lordship's lettuces, and profess to be great in green things and in garden-stuff.

LADY GIOVANNA. I thank thee, good Filippo. [Exit FILIPPO.

Enter ELISABETTA with bird on a dish which she places on table.

ELISABETTA (close to table). Here's a fine fowl for my lady; I had scant time to do him in. I hope he be not underdone, for we be undone in the doing of him.

LADY GIOVANNA. I thank you, my good nurse.

FILIPPO (re-entering with plate of prunes). And here are fine fruits for my lady—prunes, my lady, from the tree that my lord himself planted here in the blossom of his boyhood—and so I, Filippo, being, with your ladyship's pardon, and as your ladyship knows, his lordship's own foster-brother, would commend them to your ladyship's most peculiar appreciation. [Puts plate on table.

ELISABETTA. Filippo!

LADY GIOVANNA (COUNT leads her to table). Will you not eat with me, my lord?

COUNT. I cannot, Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have broken My fast already. I will pledge you. Wine! Filippo, wine!

[Sits near table; FILIPPO brings flask, fills the COUNT'S goblet, then LADY GIOVANNA'S; ELISABETTA stands at the back of LADY GIOVANNA'S chair.

COUNT. It is but thin and cold, Not like the vintage blowing round your castle. We lie too deep down in the shadow here. Your ladyship lives higher in the sun.

[They pledge each other and drink.

LADY GIOVANNA. If I might send you down a flask or two Of that same vintage? There is iron in it. It has been much commended as a medicine. I give it my sick son, and if you be Not quite recover'd of your wound, the wine Might help you. None has ever told me yet The story of your battle and your wound.

FILIPPO (coming forward). I can tell you, my lady, I can tell you.

ELISABETTA. Filippo! will you take the word out of your master's own mouth?

FILIPPO. Was it there to take? Put it there, my lord.

COUNT. Giovanna, my dear lady, in this same battle We had been beaten—they were ten to one. The trumpets of the fight had echo'd down, I and Filippo here had done our best, And, having passed unwounded from the field, Were seated sadly at a fountain side, Our horses grazing by us, when a troop, Laden with booty and with a flag of ours Ta'en in the fight——

FILIPPO. Ay, but we fought for it back, And kill'd——

ELISABETTA. Filippo!

COUNT. A troop of horse——

FILIPPO. Five hundred!

COUNT. Say fifty!

FILIPPO. And we kill'd 'em by the score!

ELISABETTA. Filippo!

FILIPPO. Well, well, well! I bite my tongue.

COUNT. We may have left their fifty less by five. However, staying not to count how many, But anger'd at their flaunting of our flag, We mounted, and we dash'd into the heart of 'em. I wore the lady's chaplet round my neck; It served me for a blessed rosary. I am sure that more than one brave fellow owed His death to the charm in it.

ELISABETTA. Hear that, my lady!

COUNT. I cannot tell how long we strove before Our horses fell beneath us; down we went Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled underfoot. The night, As some cold-manner'd friend may strangely do us The truest service, had a touch of frost That help'd to check the flowing of the blood. My last sight ere I swoon'd was one sweet face Crown'd with the wreath. That seem'd to come and go. They left us there for dead!

ELISABETTA. Hear that, my lady!

FILIPPO. Ay, and I left two fingers there for dead. See, my lady! (Showing his hand.)

LADY GIOVANNA. I see, Filippo!

FILIPPO. And I have small hope of the gentleman gout in my great toe.

LADY GIOVANNA. And why, Filippo? [Smiling absently.

FILIPPO. I left him there for dead too!

ELISABETTA. She smiles at him—how hard the woman is! My lady, if your ladyship were not Too proud to look upon the garland, you Would find it stain'd——

COUNT (rising). Silence, Elisabetta!

ELISABETTA. Stain'd with the blood of the best heart that ever Beat for one woman. [Points to wreath on chair.

LADY GIOVANNA (rising slowly). I can eat no more!

COUNT. You have but trifled with our homely salad, But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf; Not eaten anything.

LADY GIOVANNA. Nay, nay, I cannot. You know, my lord, I told you I was troubled. My one child Florio lying still so sick, I bound myself, and by a solemn vow, That I would touch no flesh till he were well Here, or else well in Heaven, where all is well.

[ELISABETTA clears table of bird and salad; FILIPPO snatches up the plate of prunes and holds them to LADY GIOVANNA.

FILIPPO. But the prunes, my lady, from the tree that his lordship——

LADY GIOVANNA. Not now, Filippo. My lord Federigo, Can I not speak with you once more alone?

COUNT. You hear, Filippo? My good fellow, go!

FILIPPO. But the prunes that your lordship——

ELISABETTA. Filippo!

COUNT. Ay, prune our company of thine own and go!

ELISABETTA. Filippo!

FILIPPO (turning). Well, well! the women! [Exit.

COUNT. And thou too leave us, my dear nurse, alone.

ELISABETTA (folding up cloth and going).

And me too! Ay, the dear nurse will leave you alone; but, for all that, she that has eaten the yolk is scarce like to swallow the shell.

[Turns and curtseys stiffly to LADY GIOVANNA, then exit. LADY GIOVANNA takes out diamond necklace from casket.

LADY GIOVANNA. I have anger'd your good nurse; these old-world servants Are all but flesh and blood with those they serve. My lord, I have a present to return you, And afterwards a boon to crave of you.

COUNT. No, my most honour'd and long-worshipt lady, Poor Federigo degli Alberighi Takes nothing in return from you except Return of his affection—can deny Nothing to you that you require of him.

LADY GIOVANNA. Then I require you to take back your diamonds— [Offering necklace. I doubt not they are yours. No other heart Of such magnificence in courtesy Beats—out of heaven. They seem'd too rich a prize To trust with any messenger. I came In person to return them. [Count draws back. If the phrase 'Return' displease you, we will say—exchange them For your—for your——

COUNT (takes a step toward her and then back). For mine—and what of mine?

LADY GIOVANNA. Well, shall we say this wreath and your sweet rhymes?

COUNT. But have you ever worn my diamonds?

LADY GIOVANNA. No! For that would seem accepting of your love. I cannot brave my brother—but be sure That I shall never marry again, my lord!

COUNT. Sure?

LADY GIOVANNA. Yes!

COUNT. Is this your brother's order?

LADY GIOVANNA. No! For he would marry me to the richest man In Florence; but I think you know the saying— 'Better a man without riches, than riches without a man.'

COUNT. A noble saying—and acted on would yield A nobler breed of men and women. Lady, I find you a shrewd bargainer. The wreath That once you wore outvalues twentyfold The diamonds that you never deign'd to wear. But lay them there for a moment!

[Points to table. LADY GIOVANNA places necklace on table.

And be you Gracious enough to let me know the boon By granting which, if aught be mine to grant, I should be made more happy than I hoped Ever to be again.

LADY GIOVANNA. Then keep your wreath, But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still. I cannot keep your diamonds, for the gift I ask for, to my mind and at this present Outvalues all the jewels upon earth.

COUNT. It should be love that thus outvalues all. You speak like love, and yet you love me not. I have nothing in this world but love for you.

LADY GIOVANNA.

Love? it is love, love for my dying boy, Moves me to ask it of you.

COUNT. What? my time? Is it my time? Well, I can give my time To him that is a part of you, your son. Shall I return to the castle with you? Shall I Sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales, Sing him my songs? You know that I can touch The ghittern to some purpose.

LADY GIOVANNA. No, not that! I thank you heartily for that—and you, I doubt not from your nobleness of nature, Will pardon me for asking what I ask.

COUNT. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once The wildest of the random youth of Florence Before I saw you—all my nobleness Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws From you, and from my constancy to you. No more, but speak.

LADY GIOVANNA. I will. You know sick people, More specially sick children, have strange fancies, Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood May work them grievous harm at times, may even Hasten their end. I would you had a son! It might be easier then for you to make Allowance for a mother—her—who comes To rob you of your one delight on earth. How often has my sick boy yearn'd for this! I have put him off as often; but to-day I dared not—so much weaker, so much worse For last day's journey. I was weeping for him: He gave me his hand: 'I should be well again If the good Count would give me——

COUNT. Give me.

LADY GIOVANNA. His falcon.

COUNT (starts back). My falcon!

LADY GIOVANNA. Yes, your falcon, Federigo!

COUNT. Alas, I cannot!

LADY GIOVANNA. Cannot? Even so! I fear'd as much. O this unhappy world! How shall I break it to him? how shall I tell him? The boy may die: more blessed were the rags Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms For her sick son, if he were like to live, Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die. I was to blame—the love you said you bore me— My lord, we thank you for your entertainment, [With a stately curtsey. And so return—Heaven help him!—to our son. [Turns—

COUNT (rushes forward). Stay, stay, I am most unlucky, most unhappy. You never had look'd in on me before, And when you came and dipt your sovereign head Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to eat with me. I had but emptiness to set before you, No not a draught of milk, no not an egg, Nothing but my brave bird, my noble falcon, My comrade of the house, and of the field. She had to die for it—she died for you. Perhaps I thought with those of old, the nobler The victim was, the more acceptable Might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce Will thank me for your entertainment now.

LADY GIOVANNA (returning). I bear with him no longer.

COUNT. No, Madonna! And he will have to bear with it as he may.

LADY GIOVANNA. I break with him for ever!

COUNT. Yes, Giovanna, But he will keep his love to you for ever!

LADY GIOVANNA. You? you? not you! My brother! my hard brother! O Federigo, Federigo, I love you! Spite of ten thousand brothers, Federigo. [falls at his feet.

COUNT (impetuously). Why then the dying of my noble bird Hath served me better than her living—then [Takes diamonds from table. These diamonds are both yours and mine—have won Their value again—beyond all markets—there I lay them for the first time round your neck. [Lays necklace round her neck. And then this chaplet—No more feuds, but peace, Peace and conciliation! I will make Your brother love me. See, I tear away The leaves were darken'd by the battle— [Pulls leaves off and throws them down. —crown you Again with the same crown my Queen of Beauty. [Places wreath on her head. Rise—I could almost think that the dead garland Will break once more into the living blossom. Nay, nay, I pray you rise. [Raises her with both hands. We two together Will help to heal your son—your son and mine— We shall do it—we shall do it. [Embraces her. The purpose of my being is accomplish'd, And I am happy!

LADY GIOVANNA. And I too, Federigo.



THE PROMISE OF MAY

'A surface man of theories, true to none.'



_DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

FARMER DOBSON. Mr. PHILIP EDGAR (afterwards Mr. HAROLD). FARMER STEER (DORA and EVA'S Father). Mr. WILSON (a Schoolmaster). HIGGINS JAMES DAN SMITH Farm Labourers. JACKSON ALLEN DORA STEER. EVA STEER. SALLY ALLEN MILLY Farm Servants.

Farm Servants, Labourers, etc.



THE PROMISE OF MAY



ACT I.

SCENE.—Before Farmhouse.

Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, &c., Women carrying baskets of knives and forks, &c.

1ST FARMING MAN. Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn?

2ND FARMING MAN. Ay, to be sewer! Be thou?

1ST FARMING MAN. Why, o' coorse, fur it be the owd man's birthdaaey. He be heighty this very daaey, 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 haaefe 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, haaefe an hour ago. She be in theer, now. (Pointing to house.) Owd Steer wur afeaerd she wouldn't be back i' time to keep his birthdaaey, 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. Foaelks says he likes Miss Eva the best.

1ST FARMING MAN. Naaey, I knaws nowt o' what foaelks says, an' I caaeres nowt neither. Foaelks 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. Beaent Miss Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' laaete?

1ST FARMING MAN. Noae, not a bit.

2ND FARMING MAN. Why cooem awaaey, 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. Noae, 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 leaeve 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 birthdaaey an' all. The owd man be heighty to-daaey, beaent 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. Noae, Miss Dora; as blue as——

DORA. Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, succory, forget-me-not?

DOBSON. Noae, Miss Dora; as blue as——

DORA. The sky? or the sea on a blue day?

DOBSON. Naaey then. I meaen'd they be as blue as violets.

DORA. Are they?

DOBSON. Theer ye goaes ageaen, 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, haaen'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 doaent 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' heaerd '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 daaey, and they was all a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms up, and he calls out among our oaen 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, taaekin' 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 saaey? But I taaekes 'im fur a bad lot and a burn fool, and I haaetes 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 straaenge an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that all be right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he cooem. [Exit.

DORA. I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what I said?

DOBSON. Yeas, yeas! I'll not meddle wi' 'im if he doaent meddle wi' meae. (Exit DORA.) Coomly, says she. I niver thowt o' mysen i' that waaey; but if she'd taaeke to ma i' that waaey, or ony waaey, I'd slaaeve 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 ageaen heving schoolmaster i' the parish! fur him as be handy wi' a book bean't but haaefe a hand at a pitchfork.

Enter WILSON.

Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o' thine i' the pinfold ageaen 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 goae by. What dost a knaw o' this Mr. Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? I coom'd upon 'im t'other daaey lookin' at the coontry, then a-scrattin upon a bit o' paaeper, then a-lookin' ageaen; and I taaeked 'im fur soom sort of a land-surveyor—but a beaent.

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 raaeil? We laaeys out o' the waaey fur gentlefoaelk altogither—leastwaaeys they niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as far as Littlechester. But 'e doaent fish neither.

WILSON. Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not to fish.

DOBSON. Noa, but I haaetes '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 haaetes boooeks an' all, fur they puts foaelk off the owd waaeys.

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 doaent understan' it.

WILSON. (Aside.) Nor I either, Mr. Dobson.

DOBSON. (Scornfully.) An' thou doaent 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 shaaemed of hissen, but noaen o' the parishes goae's by that naaeme '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 'eaed now; but I weaent.

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 daaey then, Dobson!' Civil-spoken i'deed! Why, Wilson, tha 'eaerd 'im thysen—the feller couldn't find a Mister in his mouth fur me, as farms five hoonderd haaecre.

WILSON. You never find one for me, Mr. Dobson.

DOBSON. Noae, fur thou be nobbut schoolmaster; but I taaekes '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 haaetes 'im.

Enter STEER, FARM MEN and WOMEN.

STEER. (Goes and sits under apple tree.) Hev' ony o' ye seen Eva?

DOBSON. Noae, Mr. Steer.

STEER. Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine cider-crop to-year if the blossom 'owds. Good murnin', neighbours, and the saaeme to you, my men. I taaekes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed—what's the newspaaeper word, Wilson?—celebrate—to celebrate my birthdaaey i' this fashion. Niver man 'ed better friends, and I will saaey 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 laaebourer, and now I be a landlord— burn a plowman, and now, as far as money goaes, I be a gentleman, thaw I beaent naw scholard, fur I 'ednt naw time to maaeke mysen a scholard while I wur maaekin' mysen a gentleman, but I ha taaeen good care to turn out boaeth my darters right down fine laaedies.

DOBSON. An' soae they be.

1ST FARMING MAN. Soae they be! soae they be!

2ND FARMING MAN. The Lord bless boaeth on 'em!

3RD FARMING MAN. An' the saaeme to you, Master.

4TH FARMING MAN. And long life to boaeth on 'em. An' the saaeme 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 'oaepes they'll be 'appy.

DOBSON. Why, tha looks haaele anew to last to a hoonderd.

STEER. An' why shouldn't I last to a hoonderd? Haaele! why shouldn't I be haaele? fur thaw I be heighty this very daaey, I niver 'es sa much as one pin's prick of paaein; an' I can taaeke my glass along wi' the youngest, fur I niver touched a drop of owt till my oaen wedding-daaey, an' then I wur turned huppads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I be haaele? I ha' plowed the ten-aaecre—it be mine now—afoor ony o' ye wur burn—ye all knaws the ten-aaecre—I mun ha' plowed it moor nor a hoonderd times; hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plow straaeit as a line right i' the faaece o' the sun, then back ageaen, a-follering my oaen shadder—then hup ageaen i' the faaece o' the sun. Eh! how the sun 'ud shine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daaeys, 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' maaede 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 haaele anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just now wi' the roomatics i' the knee.

STEER. Roomatics! Noae; I laaeme't my knee last night running arter a thief. Beaent there house-breaekers down i' Littlechester, Dobson—doaent 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 heaerd the winder—that's the winder at the end o' the passage, that goaes by thy chaumber. (Turning to EVA.) Why, lass, what maaeakes tha sa red? Did 'e git into thy chaumber?

EVA. Father!

STEER. Well, I runned arter thief i' the dark, and fell ageaen coalscuttle and my kneeae gev waaey or I'd ha' cotched 'im, but afoor I coomed up he got thruff the winder ageaen.

EVA. Got thro' the window again?

STEER. Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot i' the flowerbed; now theer be noaen o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, fur I cotched 'im once a-stealin' coaels an' I sent fur 'im, an' I measured his foot wi' the mark i' the bed, but it wouldn't fit— seeaems to me the mark wur maaede by a Lunnun boot. (Looks at EVA.) Why, now, what maaekes tha sa white?

EVA. Fright, father!

STEER. Maaeke thysen eaesy. I'll hev the winder naaeiled up, and put Towser under it.

EVA. (Clasping her hands.) No, no, father! Towser'll tear him all to pieces.

STEER. Let him keep awaaey, then; but coom, coom! let's be gawin. They ha' broached a barrel of aaele 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 Baaeker, thaw I sticks to hoaem-maaede—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 taaeters, 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 weaers a Lunnun boot.

EDGAR. Well?

DOBSON. And I thinks I'd like to taaeke 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 weaent. [Exit into barn.

EDGAR. Jealous of me with Eva! Is it so? Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, that I Have worn, to such a clod, yet that might be The best way out of it, if the child could keep Her counsel. I am sure I wish her happy. But I must free myself from this entanglement. I have all my life before me—so has she— Give her a month or two, and her affections Will flower toward the light in some new face. Still I am half-afraid to meet her now. She will urge marriage on me. I hate tears. Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate Traditions, ever since my narrow father, After my frolic with his tenant's girl, Made younger elder son, violated the whole Tradition of our land, and left his heir, Born, happily, with some sense of art, to live By brush and pencil. By and by, when Thought Comes down among the crowd, and man perceives that The lost gleam of an after-life but leaves him A beast of prey in the dark, why then the crowd May wreak my wrongs upon my wrongers. Marriage! That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, old Harold, Who leaves me all his land at Littlechester, He, too, would oust me from his will, if I Made such a marriage. And marriage in itself— The storm is hard at hand will sweep away Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, marriage One of the feeblest! Then the man, the woman, Following their best affinities, will each Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears; Good wishes, not reproaches; with no fear Of the world's gossiping clamour, and no need Of veiling their desires. Conventionalism, Who shrieks by day at what she does by night, Would call this vice; but one time's vice may be The virtue of another; and Vice and Virtue Are but two masks of self; and what hereafter Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in the gulf Of never-dawning darkness?

Enter EVA.

My sweet Eva, Where have you lain in ambush all the morning? They say your sister, Dora, has return'd, And that should make you happy, if you love her! But you look troubled.

EVA. Oh, I love her so, I was afraid of her, and I hid myself. We never kept a secret from each other; She would have seen at once into my trouble, And ask'd me what I could not answer. Oh, Philip, Father heard you last night. Our savage mastiff, That all but kill'd the beggar, will be placed Beneath the window, Philip.

EDGAR. Savage, is he? What matters? Come, give me your hand and kiss me This beautiful May-morning.

EVA. The most beautiful May we have had for many years!

EDGAR. And here Is the most beautiful morning of this May. Nay, you must smile upon me! There—you make The May and morning still more beautiful, You, the most beautiful blossom of the May.

EVA. Dear Philip, all the world is beautiful If we were happy, and could chime in with it.

EDGAR. True; for the senses, love, are for the world; That for the senses.

EVA. Yes.

EDGAR. And when the man, The child of evolution, flings aside His swaddling-bands, the morals of the tribe, He, following his own instincts as his God, Will enter on the larger golden age; No pleasure then taboo'd: for when the tide Of full democracy has overwhelm'd This Old world, from that flood will rise the New, Like the Love-goddess, with no bridal veil, Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked Nature In all her loveliness.

EVA. What are you saying?

EDGAR. That, if we did not strain to make ourselves Better and higher than Nature, we might be As happy as the bees there at their honey In these sweet blossoms.

EVA. Yes; how sweet they smell!

EDGAR. There! let me break some off for you. [Breaking branch off.

EVA. My thanks. But, look, how wasteful of the blossom you are! One, two, three, four, five, six—you have robb'd poor father Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to tell you He wishes you to dine along with us, And speak for him after—you that are so clever!

EDGAR. I grieve I cannot; but, indeed—

EVA. What is it?

EDGAR. Well, business. I must leave you, love, to-day.

EVA. Leave me, to-day! And when will you return?

EDGAR. I cannot tell precisely; but—

EVA. But what?

EDGAR. I trust, my dear, we shall be always friends.

EVA. After all that has gone between us—friends! What, only friends? [Drops branch.

EDGAR. All that has gone between us Should surely make us friends.

EVA. But keep us lovers.

EDGAR. Child, do you love me now?

EVA. Yes, now and ever.

EDGAR. Then you should wish us both to love for ever. But, if you will bind love to one for ever, Altho' at first he take his bonds for flowers, As years go on, he feels them press upon him, Begins to flutter in them, and at last Breaks thro' them, and so flies away for ever; While, had you left him free use of his wings, Who knows that he had ever dream'd of flying?

EVA. But all that sounds so wicked and so strange; 'Till death us part'—those are the only words, The true ones—nay, and those not true enough, For they that love do not believe that death Will part them. Why do you jest with me, and try To fright me? Tho' you are a gentleman, I but a farmer's daughter—

EDGAR. Tut! you talk Old feudalism. When the great Democracy Makes a new world—

EVA. And if you be not jesting, Neither the old world, nor the new, nor father, Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more.

EDGAR (moved). Then—(aside) Shall I say it?—(aloud) fly with me to-day.

EVA. No! Philip, Philip, if you do not marry me, I shall go mad for utter shame and die.

EDGAR. Then, if we needs must be conventional, When shall your parish-parson bawl our banns Before your gaping clowns?

EVA. Not in our church— I think I scarce could hold my head up there. Is there no other way?

EDGAR. Yes, if you cared To fee an over-opulent superstition, Then they would grant you what they call a licence To marry. Do you wish it?

EVA. Do I wish it?

EDGAR. In London.

EVA. You will write to me?

EDGAR. I will.

EVA. And I will fly to you thro' the night, the storm— Yes, tho' the fire should run along the ground, As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you see, I was just out of school, I had no mother— My sister far away—and you, a gentleman, Told me to trust you: yes, in everything— That was the only true love; and I trusted— Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for you. How could you—Oh, how could you?—nay, how could I? But now you will set all right again, and I Shall not be made the laughter of the village, And poor old father not die miserable.

DORA (singing in the distance).

'O joy for the promise of May, of May, O joy for the promise of May.'

EDGAR. Speak not so loudly; that must be your sister. You never told her, then, of what has past Between us.

EVA. Never!

EDGAR. Do not till I bid you.

EVA. No, Philip, no. [Turns away.

EDGAR (moved). How gracefully there she stands Weeping—the little Niobe! What! we prize The statue or the picture all the more When we have made them ours! Is she less loveable, Less lovely, being wholly mine? To stay— Follow my art among these quiet fields, Live with these honest folk— And play the fool! No! she that gave herself to me so easily Will yield herself as easily to another.

EVA. Did you speak, Philip?

EDGAR. Nothing more, farewell.

[They embrace.

DORA (coming nearer).

'O grief for the promis May, of May, O grief for the promise of May.'

EDGAR (still embracing her). Keep up your heart until we meet again.

EVA. If that should break before we meet again?

EDGAR. Break! nay, but call for Philip when you will, And he returns.

EVA. Heaven hears you, Philip Edgar!

EDGAR (moved). And he would hear you even from the grave. Heaven curse him if he come not at your call! [Exit.

Enter DORA.

DORA. Well, Eva!

EVA. Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have been away from home! Oh, how often I have wished for you! It seemed to me that we were parted for ever.

DORA. For ever, you foolish child! What's come over you? We parted like the brook yonder about the alder island, to come together again in a moment and to go on together again, till one of us be married. But where is this Mr. Edgar whom you praised so in your first letters? You haven't even mentioned him in your last?

EVA. He has gone to London.

DORA. Ay, child; and you look thin and pale. Is it for his absence? Have you fancied yourself in love with him? That's all nonsense, you know, such a baby as you are. But you shall tell me all about it.

EVA. Not now—presently. Yes, I have been in trouble, but I am happy—I think, quite happy now.

DORA (taking EVA'S hand). Come, then, and make them happy in the long barn, for father is in his glory, and there is a piece of beef like a house-side, and a plum-pudding as big as the round haystack. But see they are coming out for the dance already. Well, my child, let us join them.

Enter all from barn laughing. EVA sits reluctantly under apple tree. STEER enters smoking, sits by EVA.

Dance.



ACT II.

Five years have elapsed between Acts I. and II.

SCENE.—A meadow. On one side a pathway going over a rustic bridge. At back the farmhouse among trees. In the distance a church spire.

DOBSON and DORA.

DOBSON. So the owd uncle i' Coomberland be deaed, Miss Dora, beaent 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 taaeke '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 taaeke '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. Noae; 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 saaeke. Yeas. Poor gel, poor gel! I can't abeaer 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 oaen roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony on 'em—the Lord bless 'er—'er oaen sen; an' weaent ye taaeke 'em now, Miss Dora, fur 'er saaeke an' fur my saaeke an' all?

DORA. Do you want them back again?

DOBSON. Noae, noae! Keep 'em. But I hed a word to saaey 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 shaaeky. S'iver we've led moaest 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 weaent be too sudden wi' it; and I feel sewer, Miss Dora, that I ha' been noaen too sudden wi' you, fur I ha' sarved for ye well nigh as long as the man sarved for 'is sweet'art i' Scriptur'. Weaent 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 taaeke the owd blind man to my oaen 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. Naae'y, but I hev an owd woman as 'ud see to all that; and you should sit i' your oaen parlour quite like a laaedy, ye should!

DORA. It cannot be.

DOBSON. And plaaey the pianner, if ye liked, all daaey long, like a laaedy, 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 taaekes a drop too much; but that be all along o' you, Miss, because ye weaent hev me; but, if ye would, I could put all that o' one side eaesy 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 gentlefoaelk, 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-shaaekin', and the drop in 'er eye. Theer she goaes! Shall I foller 'er and ax 'er to maaeke it up? Noae, not yet. Let 'er cool upon it; I likes 'er all the better fur taaekin' me down, like a laaedy, as she be. Farmer Dobson! I be Farmer Dobson, sewer anew; but if iver I cooms upo' Gentleman Hedgar ageaen, and doaent laaey my cartwhip athurt 'is shou'ders, why then I beaent Farmer Dobson, but summun else—blaaeme't if I beaent!

Enter HAYMAKERS with a load of hay.

The last on it, eh?

1ST HAYMAKER. Yeas.

DOBSON. Hoaem wi' it, then. [Exit surlily.

1ST HAYMAKER. Well, it be the last loaed hoaem.

2ND HAYMAKER. Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be glad on it. What maaekes 'im allus sa glum?

SALLY ALLEN. Glum! he be wus nor glum. He coom'd up to me yisterdaaey i' the haaeyfield, when meae and my sweet'art was a workin' along o' one side wi' one another, and he sent 'im awaaey 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 naaeme, and I can't abide 'im.

JAMES. Why, lass, doaent tha knaw he be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she weaent 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 loaed hoaem; do thou and thy sweet'art sing us hoaem to supper—'The Last Loaed Hoaem.'

ALL. Ay! 'The Last Loaed Hoaem.'

Song.

What did ye do, and what did ye saaey, Wi' the wild white rose, an' the woodbine sa gaae'y, An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue— What did ye saaey, and what did ye do, When ye thowt there were nawbody watchin' o' you, And you an' your Sally was forkin' the haaey, At the end of the daaey, For the last loaed hoaem?

What did we do, and what did we saaey, Wi' the briar sa green, an' the willer sa graaey, 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 saaey, and what we mowt do, When me an' my Sally was forkin' the haaey, At the end of the daaey, For the last loaed hoaem?

But what did ye saaey, and what did ye do, Wi' the butterflies out, and the swallers at plaae'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 maaey, Till the end of the daaey And the last loaed hoaem.

ALL. Well sung!

JAMES. Fanny be the naaeme i' the song, but I swopt it fur she. [Pointing to SALLY.

SALLY. Let ma aloaen afoor foaelk, wilt tha?

1ST HAYMAKER. Ye shall sing that ageaen to-night, fur owd Dobson'll gi'e us a bit o' supper.

SALLY. I weaent goae to owd Dobson; he wur rude to me i' tha haaeyfield, and he'll be rude to me ageaen to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his grass down and wants a hand, and I'll goae 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 aloaen!

JAMES. Why, wasn't thou and me a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o' the haaeycock, when owd Dobson coom'd upo' us? I can't let tha aloaen 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 maaey, Till the end o' the daae'y An' the last loaed hoaem.'

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 maaey, To the end o' the daae'y An' the last loaed hoaem.'

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 daaey An' the last loaed hoaem, Load hoaem.'

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! whoae! Gee oop! whoae! Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goae Thruf slush an' squad When roaeds was bad, But hallus ud stop at the Vine-an'-the-Hop, Fur boaeth on 'em knaw'd as well as mysen That beer be as good fur 'erses as men. Gee oop! whoae! Gee oop! whoae! Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goae.

The beer's gotten oop into my 'eaed. S'iver I mun git along back to the farm, fur she tell'd ma to taaeke 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 laaedy i' the holler laaene, 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 haaefe an hour wi' my Dora? (Looking after him.) Seeaems 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' gentlefoaelk, as I telled 'er to-daaey when she fell foul upo' me.