Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  In looking on a chill and changeless Past?

  Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the Past

  Remains the Past. But you are young, and — pardon me —

  As lovely as your sister. Who can tell

  What golden hours, with what full hands, may be

  Waiting you in the distance? Might I call

  Upon your father — I have seen the world —

  And cheer his blindness with a traveller’s tales?

  DORA.

  Call if you will, and when you will. I cannot

  Well answer for my father; but if you

  Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva

  When in her brighter girlhood, I at least

  Will bid you welcome, and will listen to you.

  Now I must go.

  HAROLD.

  But give me first your hand:

  I do not dare, like an old friend, to shake it.

  I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege

  When you shall know me better.

  DORA.

  (Aside.) How beautiful

  His manners are, and how unlike the farmer’s!

  You are staying here?

  HAROLD.

  Yes, at the wayside inn

  Close by that alder-island in your brook,

  ‘The Angler’s Home.’

  DORA.

  Are you one?

  HAROLD.

  No, but I

  Take some delight in sketching, and the country

  Has many charms, altho’ the inhabitants

  Seem semi-barbarous.

  DORA.

  I am glad it pleases you;

  Yet I, born here, not only love the country,

  But its inhabitants too; and you, I doubt not,

  Would take to them as kindly, if you cared

  To live some time among them.

  HAROLD.

  If I did,

  Then one at least of its inhabitants

  Might have more charm for me than all the country.

  DORA.

  That one, then, should be grateful for your preference.

  HAROLD.

  I cannot tell, tho’ standing in her presence.

  (Aside.) She colours!

  DORA.

  Sir!

  HAROLD.

  Be not afraid of me,

  For these are no conventional flourishes.

  I do most earnestly assure you that

  Your likeness —

  [Shouts and cries without.

  DORA.

  What was that? my poor blind father —

  Enter FARMING MAN.

  FARMING MAN.

  Miss Dora, Dan Smith’s cart hes runned ower a laädy i’ the holler laäne, and they ha’ ta’en the body up inter your chaumber, and they be all a-callin’ for ye.

  DORA.

  The body! — Heavens! I come!

  HAROLD.

  But you are trembling.

  Allow me to go with you to the farm.

  [Exeunt.

  Enter DOBSON.

  DOBSON.

  What feller wur it as ‘a’ been a-talkin’ fur haäfe an hour wi’ my Dora? (Looking after him.) Seeäms I ommost knaws the back on ‘im — drest like a gentleman, too. Damn all gentlemen, says I! I should ha’ thowt they’d hed anew o’ gentlefoälk, as I telled ‘er to-daäy when she fell foul upo’ me.

  Minds ma o’ summun. I could sweär to that; but that be all one, fur I haätes ‘im afoor I knaws what ‘e be. Theer! he turns round. Philip Hedgar o’ Soomerset! Philip Hedgar o’ Soomerset! — Noä — yeas — thaw the feller’s gone and maäde such a litter of his faäce.

  Eh lad, if it be thou, I’ll Philip tha! a-plaäyin’ the saäme gaäme wi’ my Dora — I’ll Soomerset tha.

  I’d like to drag ‘im thruff the herse-pond, and she to be a-lookin’ at it. I’d like to leather ‘im black and blue, and she to be a-laughin’ at it. I’d like to fell ‘im as deäd as a bullock! (Clenching his fist.)

  But what ‘ud she saäy to that? She telled me once not to meddle wi’ ‘im, and now she be fallen out wi’ ma, and I can’t coom at ‘er.

  It mun be him. Noä! Fur she’d niver ‘a been talkin’ haäfe an hour wi’ the divil ‘at killed her oän sister, or she beänt Dora Steer.

  Yeas! Fur she niver knawed ‘is faäce when ‘e wur ‘ere afoor; but I’ll maäke ‘er knaw! I’ll maäke ‘er knaw!

  Enter HAROLD.

  Naäy, but I mun git out on ‘is waäy now, or I shall be the death on ‘im.

  [Exit.

  HAROLD.

  How the clown glared at me! that Dobbins, is it,

  With whom I used to jar? but can he trace me

  Thro’ five years’ absence, and my change of name,

  The tan of southern summers and the beard?

  I may as well avoid him.

  Ladylike!

  Lilylike in her stateliness and sweetness!

  How came she by it? — a daughter of the fields,

  This Dora!

  She gave her hand, unask’d, at the farm-gate;

  I almost think she half return’d the pressure

  Of mine. What, I that held the orange blossom

  Dark as the yew? but may not those, who march

  Before their age, turn back at times, and make

  Courtesy to custom? and now the stronger motive,

  Misnamed free-will — the crowd would call it conscience —

  Moves me — to what? I am dreaming; for the past

  Look’d thro’ the present, Eva’s eyes thro’ her’s —

  A spell upon me! Surely I loved Eva

  More than I knew! or is it but the past

  That brightens in retiring? Oh, last night,

  Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester,

  I dozed upon the bridge, and the black river

  Flow’d thro’ my dreams — if dreams they were. She rose

  From the foul flood and pointed toward the farm,

  And her cry rang to me across the years,

  ‘I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar!

  Come, you will set all right again, and father

  Will not die miserable.’ I could make his age

  A comfort to him — so be more at peace

  With mine own self. Some of my former friends

  Would find my logic faulty; let them. Colour

  Flows thro’ my life again, and I have lighted

  On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must

  Move in the line of least resistance when

  The stronger motive rules.

  But she hates Edgar.

  May not this Dobbins, or some other, spy

  Edgar in Harold? Well then, I must make her

  Love Harold first, and then she will forgive

  Edgar for Harold’s sake. She said herself

  She would forgive him, by-and-by, not now —

  For her own sake then, if not for mine — not now —

  But by-and-by.

  Enter DOBSON behind.

  DOBSON.

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

  HAROLD.

  Dobbins, I think!

  DOBSON.

  I beänt Dobbins.

  HAROLD.

  Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow.

  DOBSON.

  Tha lies! What hasta been saäyin’ to my Dora?

  HAROLD.

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

  DOBSON.

  Tha lies!

  HAROLD (pulling out a newspa
per).

  Well, my man, it seems that you can read. Look there — under the deaths.

  DOBSON.

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

  HAROLD.

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

  DOBSON.

  An ‘ow coom thou by the letter to ‘im?

  HAROLD.

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

  DOBSON.

  ‘Arold! ‘Arold! ‘Arold, so they be.

  HAROLD.

  My name is Harold! Good day, Dobbins!

  [Exit.

  DOBSON.

  ‘Arold! The feller’s cleän daäzed, an’ maäzed, an’ maäted, an’ muddled ma. Deäd! It mun be true, fur it wur i’ print as black as owt. Naäay, but ‘Good daäy, Dobbins.’ Why, that wur the very twang on ‘im. Eh, lad, but whether thou be Hedgar, or Hedgar’s business man, thou hesn’t naw business ‘ere wi’ my Dora, as I knaws on, an’ whether thou calls thysen Hedgar or Harold, if thou stick to she I’ll stick to thee — stick to tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. Ay! and I’d like to shoot tha like a rabbit an’ all. ‘Good daäy, Dobbins.’ Dang tha!

  Act III

  A room in STEER’S House. Door leading into bedroom at the back.

  DORA (ringing a handbell).

  Milly!

  Enter MILLY.

  MILLY.

  The little ‘ymn? Yeäs, Miss; but I wur so ta’en up wi’ leädin’ the owd man about all the blessed murnin’ ‘at I ha’ nobbut larned mysen haäfe 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 ageän, and larn mysen the rest, and saäy 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.

  Yeäs, 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.

  Yeäs; 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! Taäke one o’ the young ‘uns fust, Miss, fur I be a bit deaf, and I wur hallus scaäred by a big word; leästwaäys, 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.

  Meä? why, it be the Lord’s doin’, noän o’ mine; d’ye think I’d gi’e ‘em the fever? But I thanks ye all the saäme, Miss. (Takes money.)

  DORA (calling out names).

  Higgins, Jackson, Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, Skipworth! (All 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.

  Noä, 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 taäke 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! noä, noä, noä! Ye sees the holler laäne 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 laäme the laädy, and meä coomin’ along pretty sharp an’ all?

  DORA.

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

  SALLY (advancing).

  Yeäs, Miss; but he wur so rough wi’ ma, I couldn’t abide ‘im.

  DORA.

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

  SALLY.

  ‘Listed for a soädger, Miss, i’ the Queen’s Real Hard Tillery.

  DORA.

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

  SALLY.

  At Michaelmas, Miss, please God.

  DORA.

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

  SALLY.

  An’ I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waäge.

  (Going — returns.)

  ‘A cotched ma about the waäist, Miss, when ‘e wur ‘ere afoor, an’ axed ma to be ‘is little sweet-art, an soä I knaw’d ‘im when I seed ‘im ageän an I telled feyther on ‘im.

  DORA.

  What is all this, Allen?

  ALLEN.

  Why, Miss Dora, meä and my maätes, us three, we wants to hev three words wi’ ye.

  HIGGINS.

  That be ‘im, and meä, Miss.

  JACKSON.

  An’ meä, Miss.

  ALLEN.

  An’ we weänt mention naw naämes, we’d as lief talk o’ the Divil afoor ye as ‘im, fur they says the master goäs cleän off his ‘eäd when he ‘eärs the naäme on ‘im; but us three, arter Sally’d telled us on ‘im, we fun’ ‘im out a-walkin’ i’ West Field wi’ a white ‘at, nine o’clock, upo’ Tuesday murnin’, and all on us, wi’ your leave, we wants to leather ‘im.

  DORA.

  Who?

  ALLEN.

  Him as did the mischief here, five year’ sin’.

  DORA.

  Mr. Edgar?

  ALLEN.

  Theer, Miss! You ha’ naämed ‘im — not me.

  DORA.

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

  ALLEN.

  I beä’nt sa sewer o’ that, fur Sally knaw’d ‘im; Now then?

  DOR
A.

  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?