Minds ma o' summun. I could sweaer to that; but that be all one, fur I haaetes 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer! he turns round. Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset! Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset!—Noae—yeas—thaw the feller's gone and maaede such a litter of his faaece.

Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip tha! a-plaaeyin' the saaeme gaaeme wi' my Dora—I'll Soomerset tha.

I'd like to drag 'im thruff the herse-pond, and she to be a-lookin' at it. I'd like to leather 'im black and blue, and she to be a-laughin' at it. I'd like to fell 'im as deaed as a bullock! (Clenching his fist.) But what 'ud she saaey to that? She telled me once not to meddle wi' 'im, and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at 'er.

It mun be him. Noae! Fur she'd niver 'a been talkin' haaefe an hour wi' the divil 'at killed her oaen sister, or she beaent Dora Steer.

Yeas! Fur she niver knawed 'is faaece when 'e wur 'ere afoor; but I'll maaeke 'er knaw! I'll maaeke 'er knaw!

Enter HAROLD.

Naaey, but I mun git out on 'is waaey now, or I shall be the death on 'im. [Exit.

HAROLD. How the clown glared at me! that Dobbins, is it, With whom I used to jar? but can he trace me Thro' five years' absence, and my change of name, The tan of southern summers and the beard? I may as well avoid him. Ladylike! Lilylike in her stateliness and sweetness! How came she by it?—a daughter of the fields, This Dora! She gave her hand, unask'd, at the farm-gate; I almost think she half return'd the pressure Of mine. What, I that held the orange blossom Dark as the yew? but may not those, who march Before their age, turn back at times, and make Courtesy to custom? and now the stronger motive, Misnamed free-will—the crowd would call it conscience— Moves me—to what? I am dreaming; for the past Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' her's— A spell upon me! Surely I loved Eva More than I knew! or is it but the past That brightens in retiring? Oh, last night, Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester, I dozed upon the bridge, and the black river Flow'd thro' my dreams—if dreams they were. She rose From the foul flood and pointed toward the farm, And her cry rang to me across the years, 'I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar! Come, you will set all right again, and father Will not die miserable.' I could make his age A comfort to him—so be more at peace With mine own self. Some of my former friends Would find my logic faulty; let them. Colour Flows thro' my life again, and I have lighted On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must Move in the line of least resistance when The stronger motive rules. But she hates Edgar. May not this Dobbins, or some other, spy Edgar in Harold? Well then, I must make her Love Harold first, and then she will forgive Edgar for Harold's sake. She said herself She would forgive him, by-and-by, not now— For her own sake then, if not for mine—not now— But by-and-by.

Enter DOBSON behind.

DOBSON. By-and-by—eh, lad, dosta knaw this paaeper? Ye dropt it upo' the road. 'Philip Edgar, Esq.' Ay, you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, I hev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw what tha meaens wi' by-and-by? Fur if ye be goin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved our Eva—then, by-and-by, if she weaent listen to me when I be a-tryin' to saaeve 'er—if she weaent—look to thysen, for, by the Lord, I'd think na moor o' maaekin' an end o' tha nor a carrion craw—noae—thaw they hanged ma at 'Size fur it.

HAROLD. Dobbins, I think!

DOBSON. I beaent Dobbins.

HAROLD. Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow.

DOBSON. Tha lies! What hasta been saaeyin' to my Dora?

HAROLD. I have been telling her of the death of one Philip Edgar of Toft Hall, Somerset.

DOBSON. Tha lies!

HAROLD (pulling out a newspaper). Well, my man, it seems that you can read. Look there—under the deaths.

DOBSON. 'O' the 17th, Philip Edgar, o' Toft Hall, Soomerset.' How coom thou to be sa like 'im, then?

HAROLD. Naturally enough; for I am closely related to the dead man's family.

DOBSON. An 'ow coom thou by the letter to 'im?

HAROLD. Naturally again; for as I used to transact all his business for him, I had to look over his letters. Now then, see these (takes out letters). Half a score of them, all directed to me—Harold.

DOBSON. 'Arold! 'Arold! 'Arold, so they be.

HAROLD. My name is Harold! Good day, Dobbins! [Exit. DOBSON. 'Arold! The feller's cleaen daaezed, an' maaezed, an' maaeted, an' muddled ma. Deaed! It mun be true, fur it wur i' print as black as owt. Naaeay, but 'Good daaey, Dobbins.' Why, that wur the very twang on 'im. Eh, lad, but whether thou be Hedgar, or Hedgar's business man, thou hesn't naw business 'ere wi' my Dora, as I knaws on, an' whether thou calls thysen Hedgar or Harold, if thou stick to she I'll stick to thee— stick to tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. Ay! and I'd like to shoot tha like a rabbit an' all. 'Good daaey, Dobbins.' Dang tha!



ACT III.

SCENE.—A room in STEER'S House. Door leading into bedroom at the back.

DORA (ringing a handbell). Milly!

Enter MILLY.

MILLY. The little 'ymn? Yeaes, Miss; but I wur so ta'en up wi' leaedin' the owd man about all the blessed murnin' 'at I ha' nobbut larned mysen haaefe on it.

'O man, forgive thy mortal foe, Nor ever strike him blow for blow; For all the souls on earth that live To be forgiven must forgive. Forgive him seventy times and seven: For all the blessed souls in Heaven Are both forgivers and forgiven.'

But I'll git the book ageaen, and larn mysen the rest, and saaey it to ye afoor dark; ye ringed fur that, Miss, didn't ye?

DORA. No, Milly; but if the farming-men be come for their wages, to send them up to me.

MILLY. Yeaes, Miss. [_Exit.

DORA (sitting at desk counting money). Enough at any rate for the present. (Enter FARMING MEN.) Good afternoon, my friends. I am sorry Mr. Steer still continues too unwell to attend to you, but the schoolmaster looked to the paying you your wages when I was away, didn't he?

MEN. Yeaes; and thanks to ye.

DORA. Some of our workmen have left us, but he sent me an alphabetical list of those that remain, so, Allen, I may as well begin with you.

ALLEN (with his hand to his ear). Halfabitical! Taaeke one o' the young 'uns fust, Miss, fur I be a bit deaf, and I wur hallus scaaered by a big word; leaestwaaeys, I should be wi' a lawyer.

DORA. I spoke of your names, Allen, as they are arranged here (shows book)—according to their first letters.

ALLEN. Letters! Yeas, I sees now. Them be what they larns the childer' at school, but I were burn afoor schoolin-time.

DORA. But, Allen, tho' you can't read, you could whitewash that cottage of yours where your grandson had the fever.

ALLEN. I'll hev it done o' Monday.

DORA. Else if the fever spread, the parish will have to thank you for it.

ALLEN. Meae? why, it be the Lord's doin', noaen o' mine; d'ye think I'd gi'e 'em the fever? But I thanks ye all the saaeme, Miss. (Takes money.)

DORA (calling out names). Higgins, Jackson, Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, Skipworth! (All take money.) Did you find that you worked at all the worse upon the cold tea than you would have done upon the beer?

HIGGINS. Noae, Miss; we worked naw wuss upo' the cowd tea; but we'd ha' worked better upo' the beer.

DORA. Come, come, you worked well enough, and I am much obliged to all of you. There's for you, and you, and you. Count the money and see if it's all right.

MEN. All right, Miss; and thank ye kindly.

[Exeunt LUSCOMBE, NOKES, OLDHAM, SKIPWORTH.

DORA. Dan Smith, my father and I forgave you stealing our coals.

[DAN SMITH advances to DORA.

DAN SMITH (bellowing). Whoy, O lor, Miss! that wur sa long back, and the walls sa thin, and the winders brokken, and the weather sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin' ower 'er lyin'-in.

DORA. Didn't I say that we had forgiven you? But, Dan Smith, they tell me that you—and you have six children—spent all your last Saturday's wages at the ale-house; that you were stupid drunk all Sunday, and so ill in consequence all Monday, that you did not come into the hayfield. Why should I pay you your full wages?

DAN SMITH. I be ready to taaeke the pledge.

DORA. And as ready to break it again. Besides it was you that were driving the cart—and I fear you were tipsy then, too—when you lamed the lady in the hollow lane.

DAN SMITH (bellowing). O lor, Miss! noae, noae, noae! Ye sees the holler laaene be hallus sa dark i' the arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi'es a turn like, and 'ow should I see to laaeme the laaedy, and meae coomin' along pretty sharp an' all?

DORA. Well, there are your wages; the next time you waste them at a pothouse you get no more from me. (Exit DAN SMITH.) Sally Allen, you worked for Mr. Dobson, didn't you?

SALLY (advancing). Yeaes, Miss; but he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im.

DORA. Why should he be rough with you? You are as good as a man in the hayfield. What's become of your brother?

SALLY. 'Listed for a soaedger, Miss, i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery.

DORA. And your sweetheart—when are you and he to be married?

SALLY. At Michaelmas, Miss, please God.

DORA. You are an honest pair. I will come to your wedding.

SALLY. An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waaege.

(Going—returns.)

'A cotched ma about the waaeist, Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axed ma to be 'is little sweet-art, an soae I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im ageaen an I telled feyther on 'im.

DORA. What is all this, Allen?

ALLEN. Why, Miss Dora, meae and my maaetes, us three, we wants to hev three words wi' ye.

HIGGINS. That be 'im, and meae, Miss.

JACKSON. An' meae, Miss.

ALLEN. An' we weaent mention naw naaemes, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the master goaes cleaen off his 'eaed when he 'eaers the naaeme on 'im; but us three, arter Sally'd telled us on 'im, we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, wi' your leave, we wants to leather 'im.

DORA. Who?

ALLEN. Him as did the mischief here, five year' sin'.

DORA. Mr. Edgar?

ALLEN. Theer, Miss! You ha' naaemed 'im—not me.

DORA. He's dead, man—dead; gone to his account—dead and buried.

ALLEN. I beae'nt sa sewer o' that, fur Sally knaw'd 'im; Now then?

DORA. Yes; it was in the Somersetshire papers.

ALLEN. Then yon mun be his brother, an'—we'll leather 'im.

DORA. I never heard that he had a brother. Some foolish mistake of Sally's; but what! would you beat a man for his brother's fault? That were a wild justice indeed. Let bygones be bygones. Go home.' Goodnight! (All exeunt.) I have once more paid them all. The work of the farm will go on still, but for how long? We are almost at the bottom of the well: little more to be drawn from it—and what then? Encumbered as we are, who would lend us anything? We shall have to sell all the land, which Father, for a whole life, has been getting together, again, and that, I am sure, would be the death of him. What am I to do? Farmer Dobson, were I to marry him, has promised to keep our heads above water; and the man has doubtless a good heart, and a true and lasting love for me: yet—though I can be sorry for him—as the good Sally says, 'I can't abide him'—almost brutal, and matched with my Harold is like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. But then, he, too—will he ever be of one faith with his wife? which is my dream of a true marriage. Can I fancy him kneeling with me, and uttering the same prayer; standing up side by side with me, and singing the same hymn? I fear not. Have I done wisely, then, in accepting him? But may not a girl's love-dream have too much romance in it to be realised all at once, or altogether, or anywhere but in Heaven? And yet I had once a vision of a pure and perfect marriage, where the man and the woman, only differing as the stronger and the weaker, should walk hand in hand together down this valley of tears, as they call it so truly, to the grave at the bottom, and lie down there together in the darkness which would seem but for a moment, to be wakened again together by the light of the resurrection, and no more partings for ever and for ever. (Walks up and down. She sings.)

'O happy lark, that warblest high Above thy lowly nest, O brook, that brawlest merrily by Thro' fields that once were blest, O tower spiring to the sky, O graves in daisies drest, O Love and Life, how weary am I, And how I long for rest.'

There, there, I am a fool! Tears! I have sometimes been moved to tears by a chapter of fine writing in a novel; but what have I to do with tears now? All depends on me—Father, this poor girl, the farm, everything; and they both love me—I am all in all to both; and he loves me too, I am quite sure of that. Courage, courage! and all will go well. (Goes to bedroom door; opens it.) How dark your room is! Let me bring you in here where there is still full daylight. (Brings EVA forward.) Why, you look better.

EVA. And I feel so much better that I trust I may be able by-and-by to help you in the business of the farm; but I must not be known yet. Has anyone found me out, Dora?

DORA. Oh, no; you kept your veil too close for that when they carried you in; since then, no one has seen you but myself.

EVA. Yes—this Milly.

DORA. Poor blind Father's little guide, Milly, who came to us three years after you were gone, how should she know you? But now that you have been brought to us as it were from the grave, dearest Eva, and have been here so long, will you not speak with Father today?

EVA. Do you think that I may? No, not yet. I am not equal to it yet.

DORA. Why? Do you still suffer from your fall in the hollow lane?

EVA. Bruised; but no bones broken.

DORA. I have always told Father that the huge old ashtree there would cause an accident some day; but he would never cut it down, because one of the Steers had planted it there in former times.

EVA. If it had killed one of the Steers there the other day, it might have been better for her, for him, and for you.

DORA. Come, come, keep a good heart! Better for me! That's good. How better for me?

EVA. You tell me you have a lover. Will he not fly from you if he learn the story of my shame and that I am still living?

DORA. No; I am sure that when we are married he will be willing that you and Father should live with us; for, indeed, he tells me that he met you once in the old times, and was much taken with you, my dear.

EVA. Taken with me; who was he? Have you told him I am here?

DORA. No; do you wish it?

EVA. See, Dora; you yourself are ashamed of me (weeps), and I do not wonder at it.

DORA. But I should wonder at myself if it were so. Have we not been all in all to one another from the time when we first peeped into the bird's nest, waded in the brook, ran after the butterflies, and prattled to each other that we would marry fine gentlemen, and played at being fine ladies?

EVA. That last was my Father's fault, poor man. And this lover of yours— this Mr. Harold—is a gentleman?

DORA. That he is, from head to foot. I do believe I lost my heart to him the very first time we met, and I love him so much—

EVA. Poor Dora!

DORA. That I dare not tell him how much I love him.

EVA. Better not. Has he offered you marriage, this gentleman?

DORA Could I love him else?

EVA. And are you quite sure that after marriage this gentleman will not be shamed of his poor farmer's daughter among the ladies in his drawing-room?

DORA. Shamed of me in a drawing-room! Wasn't Miss Vavasour, our schoolmistress at Littlechester, a lady born? Were not our fellow-pupils all ladies? Wasn't dear mother herself at least by one side a lady? Can't I speak like a lady; pen a letter like a lady; talk a little French like a lady; play a little like a lady? Can't a girl when she loves her husband, and he her, make herself anything he wishes her to be? Shamed of me in a drawing-room, indeed! See here! 'I hope your Lordship is quite recovered of your gout?' (Curtsies.) 'Will your Ladyship ride to cover to-day? (Curtsies.) I can recommend our Voltigeur.' 'I am sorry that we could not attend your Grace's party on the 10th!' (Curtsies.) There, I am glad my nonsense has made you smile!

EVA. I have heard that 'your Lordship,' and 'your Ladyship,' and 'your Grace' are all growing old-fashioned!

DORA. But the love of sister for sister can never be old-fashioned. I have been unwilling to trouble you with questions, but you seem somewhat better to-day. We found a letter in your bedroom torn into bits. I couldn't make it out. What was it?

EVA. From him! from him! He said we had been most happy together, and he trusted that some time we should meet again, for he had not forgotten his promise to come when I called him. But that was a mockery, you know, for he gave me no address, and there was no word of marriage; and, O Dora, he signed himself 'Yours gratefully'—fancy, Dora, 'gratefully'! 'Yours gratefully'!

DORA. Infamous wretch! (Aside.) Shall I tell her he is dead? No; she is still too feeble.

EVA. Hark! Dora, some one is coming. I cannot and I will not see anybody.

DORA. It is only Milly.

Enter MILLY, with basket of roses.

DORA. Well, Milly, why do you come in so roughly? The sick lady here might have been asleep.

MILLY. Pleaese, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me to saaey he's browt some of Miss Eva's roses for the sick laaedy to smell on.

DORA. Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady thanks him! Is he here?

MILLY. Yeaes, Miss; and he wants to speaek to ye partic'lar,

DORA. Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet.

MILLY. Yea's, Miss; but he says he wants to tell ye summut very partic'lar.

DORA. Not to-day. What are you staying for?

MILLY. Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-sweaering like onythink.

DORA. And what harm will that do you, so that you do not copy his bad manners? Go, child. (Exit MILLY.) But, Eva, why did you write 'Seek me at the bottom of the river'?

EVA. Why? because I meant it!—that dreadful night! that lonely walk to Littlechester, the rain beating in my face all the way, dead midnight when I came upon the bridge; the river, black, slimy, swirling under me in the lamplight, by the rotten wharfs—but I was so mad, that I mounted upon the parapet—

DORA. You make me shudder!

EVA. To fling myself over, when I heard a voice, 'Girl, what are you doing there? It was a Sister of Mercy, come from the death-bed of a pauper, who had died in his misery blessing God, and the Sister took me to her house, and bit by bit—for she promised secrecy—I told her all.

DORA. And what then?

EVA. She would have persuaded me to come back here, but I couldn't. Then she got me a place as nursery governess, and when the children grew too old for me, and I asked her once more to help me, once more she said, 'Go home;' but I hadn't the heart or face to do it. And then— what would Father say? I sank so low that I went into service—the drudge of a lodging-house—and when the mistress died, and I appealed to the Sister again, her answer—I think I have it about me—yes, there it is!

DORA (reads). 'My dear Child,—I can do no more for you. I have done wrong in keeping your secret; your Father must be now in extreme old age. Go back to him and ask his forgiveness before he dies.—SISTER AGATHA.' Sister Agatha is right. Don't you long for Father's forgiveness?

EVA. I would almost die to have it!

DORA. And he may die before he gives it; may drop off any day, any hour. You must see him at once. (Rings bell. Enter MILLY.) Milly, my dear, how did you leave Mr. Steer?

MILLY. He's been a-moaenin' and a-groaenin' in 'is sleep, but I thinks he be wakkenin' oop.

DORA. Tell him that I and the lady here wish to see him. You see she is lamed, and cannot go down to him.

MILLY. Yeaes, Miss, I will. [Exit MILLY.

DORA. I ought to prepare you. You must not expect to find our Father as he was five years ago. He is much altered; but I trust that your return— for you know, my dear, you were always his favourite—will give him, as they say, a new lease of life.

EVA (clinging to DORA). Oh, Dora, Dora!

Enter STEER, led by MILLY.

STEER. Hes the cow cawved?

DORA. No. Father.

STEER. Be the colt deaed?

DORA. No, Father.

STEER. He wur sa bellows'd out wi' the wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em to gallop 'im. Be he deaed?

DORA. Not that I know.

STEER. That hasta sent fur me, then, fur?

DORA (taking STEER'S arm). Well, Father, I have a surprise for you.

STEER. I ha niver been surprised but once i' my life, and I went blind upon it.

DORA. Eva has come home.

STEER. Hoaem? fro' the bottom o' the river?

DORA. No, Father, that was a mistake. She's here again.

STEER. The Steers was all gentlefoaelks i' the owd times, an' I worked early an' laaete to maaeke 'em all gentle-foaelks ageaen. The land belonged to the Steers i' the owd times, an' it belongs to the Steers ageaen: I bowt it back ageaen; but I couldn't buy my darter back ageaen when she lost hersen, could I? I eddicated boaeth on em to marry gentlemen, an' one on 'em went an' lost hersen i' the river.

DORA. No, father, she's here.

STEER. Here! she moaent coom here. What would her mother saaey? If it be her ghoaest, we mun abide it. We can't keep a ghoaest out.

EVA (falling at his feet). O forgive me! forgive me!

STEER. Who said that? Taaeke me awaaey, little gell. It be one o' my bad daaeys. [Exit STEER led by MILLY.

DORA (smoothing EVA'S forehead). Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You heard him say it was one of his bad days. He will be sure to know you to-morrow.

EVA. It is almost the last of my bad days, I think. I am very faint. I must lie down. Give me your arm. Lead me back again. [DORA takes EVA into inner room.

Enter MILLY.

MILLY. Miss Dora! Miss Dora!

DORA (returning and leaving the bedroom door ajar). Quiet! quiet! What is it?

MILLY. Mr. 'Arold, Miss.

DORA. Below?

MILLY. Yeaes, Miss. He be saaeyin' a word to the owd man, but he'll coom up if ye lets 'im.

DORA. Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for him.

MILLY. Yeaes, Miss. [Exit. DORA sits pensively and waits.

Enter HAROLD.

HAROLD. You are pale, my Dora! but the ruddiest cheek That ever charm'd the plowman of your wolds Might wish its rose a lily, could it look But half as lovely. I was speaking with Your father, asking his consent—you wish'd me— That we should marry: he would answer nothing, I could make nothing of him; but, my flower, You look so weary and so worn! What is it Has put you out of heart?

DORA. It puts me in heart Again to see you; but indeed the state Of my poor father puts me out of heart. Is yours yet living?

HAROLD. No—I told you.

DORA. When?

HAROLD. Confusion!—Ah well, well! the state we all Must come to in our spring-and-winter world If we live long enough! and poor Steer looks The very type of Age in a picture, bow'd To the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to, Beneath the burthen of years.

DORA. More like the picture Of Christian in my 'Pilgrim's Progress' here, Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen of sin.

HAROLD. Sin! What sin?

DORA. Not his own.

HAROLD. That nursery-tale Still read, then?

DORA. Yes; our carters and our shepherds Still find a comfort there.

HAROLD. Carters and shepherds!

DORA. Scorn! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion— My mother used to say that such a one Was without rudder, anchor, compass—might be Blown everyway with every gust and wreck On any rock; and tho' you are good and gentle, Yet if thro' any want—

HAROLD. Of this religion? Child, read a little history, you will find The common brotherhood of man has been Wrong'd by the cruelties of his religions More than could ever have happen'd thro' the want Of any or all of them.

DORA. —But, O dear friend, If thro' the want of any—I mean the true one— And pardon me for saying it—you should ever Be tempted into doing what might seem Not altogether worthy of you, I think That I should break my heart, for you have taught me To love you.

HAROLD. What is this? some one been stirring Against me? he, your rustic amourist, The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here, This Dobson of your idyll?

DORA. No, Sir, no! Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy, Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and would say anything? Did I not promise not to listen to him, Not ev'n to see the man?

HAROLD. Good; then what is it That makes you talk so dolefully?

DORA. I told you— My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now, One that has been much wrong'd, whose griefs are mine,

Was warning me that if a gentleman Should wed a farmer's daughter, he would be Sooner or later shamed of her among The ladies, born his equals.

HAROLD. More fool he! What I that have been call'd a Socialist, A Communist, a Nihilist—what you will!—

DORA. What are all these?

HAROLD. Utopian idiotcies. They did not last three Junes. Such rampant weeds Strangle each other, die, and make the soil For Caesars, Cromwells, and Napoleons To root their power in. I have freed myself From all such dreams, and some will say because I have inherited my Uncle. Let them. But—shamed of you, my Empress! I should prize The pearl of Beauty, 'even if I found it Dark with the soot of slums.

DORA. But I can tell you, We Steers are of old blood, tho' we be fallen. See there our shield. (Pointing to arms on mantelpiece.) For I have heard the Steers Had land in Saxon times; and your own name Of Harold sounds so English and so old I am sure you must be proud of it.

HAROLD. Not I! As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took it For some three thousand acres. I have land now And wealth, and lay both at your feet.

DORA. And what was Your name before?

HAROLD. Come, come, my girl, enough Of this strange talk. I love you and you me. True, I have held opinions, hold some still, Which you would scarce approve of: for all that, I am a man not prone to jealousies, Caprices, humours, moods; but very ready To make allowances, and mighty slow To feel offences. Nay, I do believe I could forgive—well, almost anything— And that more freely than your formal priest, Because I know more fully than he can What poor earthworms are all and each of us, Here crawling in this boundless Nature. Dora, If marriage ever brought a woman happiness I doubt not I can make you happy.

DORA. You make me Happy already.

HAROLD. And I never said As much before to any woman living.

DORA. No?

HAROLD. No! by this true kiss, you are the first I ever have loved truly. [They kiss each other.

EVA (with a wild cry). Philip Edgar!

HAROLD. The phantom cry! You—did you hear a cry?

DORA. She must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep.

HAROLD. Who must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep?

DORA. Your pardon for a minute. She must be waked.

HAROLD Who must be waked?

DORA. I am not deaf: you fright me. What ails you?

HAROLD. Speak.

DORA. You know her, Eva.

HAROLD. Eva! [EVA opens the door and stands in the entry. She!

EVA. Make her happy, then, and I forgive you. [Falls dead.

DORA. Happy! What? Edgar? Is it so? Can it be? They told me so. Yes, yes! I see it all now. O she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sister! He is yours again—he will love you again; I give him back to you again. Look up! One word, or do but smile! Sweet, do you hear me? [Puts her hand on EVA'S heart. There, there—the heart, O God!—the poor young heart Broken at last—all still—and nothing left To live for. [Falls on body of her sister.

HAROLD. Living ... dead ... She said 'all still. Nothing to live for.' She—she knows me—now ... (A pause.) She knew me from the first, she juggled with me, She hid this sister, told me she was dead— I have wasted pity on her—not dead now— No! acting, playing on me, both of them. They drag the river for her! no, not they! Playing on me—not dead now—a swoon—a scene— Yet—how she made her wail as for the dead!

Enter MILLY.

MILLY. Pleaese, Mister 'Arold.

HAROLD (roughly). Well?

MlLLY. The owd man's coom'd ageaen to 'issen, an' wants To hev a word wi' ye about the marriage.

HAROLD. The what?

MILLY. The marriage.

HAROLD. The marriage?

MILLY. Yeaes, the marriage. Granny says marriages be maaede i' 'eaven.

HAROLD. She lies! They are made in Hell. Child, can't you see? Tell them to fly for a doctor.

MILLY. O law—yeaes, Sir! I'll run fur 'im mysen. [Exit.

HAROLD. All silent there, Yes, deathlike! Dead? I dare not look: if dead, Were it best to steal away, to spare myself, And her too, pain, pain, pain? My curse on all This world of mud, on all its idiot gleams Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities That blast our natural passions into pains!

Enter DOBSON.

DOBSON. You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or whativer They calls ye, for I warrants that ye goaes By haaefe a scoor o' naaemes—out o' the chaumber. [Dragging him past the body.

HAROLD. Not that way, man! Curse on your brutal strength! I cannot pass that way.

DOBSON. Out o' the chaumber! I'll mash tha into nowt.

HAROLD. The mere wild-beast!

DOBSON. Out o' the chaumber, dang tha!

HAROLD. Lout, churl, clown!

[While they are shouting and struggling DORA rises and comes between them.

DORA (to DOBSON). Peace, let him be: it is the chamber of Death! Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman, A hundred times more worth a woman's love, Than this, this—but I waste no words upon him: His wickedness is like my wretchedness— Beyond all language. (To HAROLD.) You—you see her there! Only fifteen when first you came on her, And then the sweetest flower of all the wolds, So lovely in the promise of her May, So winsome in her grace and gaiety, So loved by all the village people here, So happy in herself and in her home—

DOBSON (agitated). Theer, theer! ha' done. I can't abeaer to see her. [Exit.

DORA. A child, and all as trustful as a child! Five years of shame and suffering broke the heart That only beat for you; and he, the father, Thro' that dishonour which you brought upon us, Has lost his health, his eyesight, even his mind.

HAROLD (covering his face). Enough!

DORA. It seem'd so; only there was left A second daughter, and to her you came Veiling one sin to act another.

HAROLD. No! You wrong me there! hear, hear me! I wish'd, if you— [Pauses.

DORA. If I—

HAROLD. Could love me, could be brought to love me As I loved you—

DORA. What then?

HAROLD. I wish'd, I hoped To make, to make—

DORA. What did you hope to make?

HAROLD. 'Twere best to make an end of my lost life. O Dora, Dora!

DORA. What did you hope to make?

HAROLD. Make, make! I cannot find the word—forgive it— Amends.

DORA. For what? to whom?

HAROLD. To him, to you! [Falling at her feet.

DORA. To him! to me! No, not with all your wealth, Your land, your life! Out in the fiercest storm That ever made earth tremble—he, nor I— The shelter of your roof—not for one moment— Nothing from you! Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, Push'd from all doors as if we bore the plague, Smitten with fever in the open field, Laid famine-stricken at the gates of Death— Nothing from you! But she there—her last word Forgave—and I forgive you. If you ever Forgive yourself, you are even lower and baser Than even I can well believe you. Go!

[He lies at her feet. Curtain falls.

THE END