Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series
Page 176
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.
Pleäse, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me to saäy he’s browt some of Miss Eva’s roses for the sick laädy to smell on.
DORA.
Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady thanks him! Is he here?
MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss; and he wants to speäk to ye partic’lar,
DORA.
Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet.
MILLY.
Yea’s, Miss; but he says he wants to tell ye summut very partic’lar.
DORA.
Not to-day. What are you staying for?
MILLY.
Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-sweäring like onythink.
DORA.
And what harm will that do you, so that you do not copy his 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-moänin’ and a-groänin’ 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.
Yeäs, 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 (clin
ging to DORA).
Oh, Dora, Dora!
Enter STEER, led by MILLY.
STEER.
Hes the cow cawved?
DORA.
No. Father.
STEER.
Be the colt deäd?
DORA.
No, Father.
STEER.
He wur sa bellows’d out wi’ the wind this murnin’, ‘at I tell’d ‘em to gallop ‘im. Be he deäd?
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.
Hoäm? fro’ the bottom o’ the river?
DORA.
No, Father, that was a mistake. She’s here again.
STEER.
The Steers was all gentlefoälks i’ the owd times, an’ I worked early an’ laäte to maäke ‘em all gentle-foälks ageän. The land belonged to the Steers i’ the owd times, an’ it belongs to the Steers ageän: I bowt it back ageän; but I couldn’t buy my darter back ageän when she lost hersen, could I? I eddicated boäth on em to marry gentlemen, an’ one on ‘em went an’ lost hersen i’ the river.
DORA.
No, father, she’s here.
STEER.
Here! she moänt coom here. What would her mother saäy? If it be her ghoäst, we mun abide it. We can’t keep a ghoäst out.
EVA (falling at his feet).
O forgive me! forgive me!
STEER.
Who said that? Taäke me awaäy, little gell. It be one o’ my bad daäys.
[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.
Yeäs, Miss. He be saäyin’ 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.
Yeäs, 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 Cæsars, 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 wa
s
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,