LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER AND THE PROMISE OF MAY LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER ETC. BY ALFRED LORD TENNYSON P.L., D.C.L. NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1887 ?^ TRANSfER 98 f:C 194!. x)rd EH vision y of Coo0rM8 k TO MY WIFE )J IDctiicate THIS DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE AND THE POEMS WHICH FOLLOW i-9f1i; CONTENTS. PAGE LocKSLEY Hall Sixty Years after . . . i The Fleet 38 Opening of the Indian and Colonial Exhibi- tion BY THE Queen 42 The Promise of May 45 LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER. Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts, Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts, Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call, I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall. 4 LOCKSLEY HALL So — your happy suit was blasted — she the fault- less, the divine ; And you liken — boyish babble— this boy-love ot yours with mine. I myself have often babbled doubtless of a fool- ish past ; Babble, babble ; our old England may go down in babble at last. " Curse him !" curse your fellow-victim ? call him dotard in your rage? Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age. Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier.? yet perhaps she was not wise ; I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eves. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 5 In the hall there hangs a painting — Amy's arms about my neck — Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck. In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown ; I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone. Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake ? You, not you ! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make. Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me. Amy was a timid child ; But your Judith — but your worldling — s/ie had never driven me wild. 6 LOCKSLEY HALL She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring, She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring. She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life, While she vows " till death shall part us," she the would-be-widow wife. She the worldling born of worldlings — father, mother — be content, Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is some- thing in descent. Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground, Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 7 Crossed ! for once he saiFd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride ; Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died. Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood. Gazing for one pensive moment on that found- er of our blood. There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer, Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley — there. All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled. Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the moth- er, dead the child. 8 LOCKS LEY HALL Dead — and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now, I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow. Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears, Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years. Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away. Gold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below tlie chancel stones, All his virtues— I forgive them — black in white above his bones. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 9 Gone the comrades of my bivouaCj some in fight against the foe. Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go. Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran, She with all the charm of woman, she with all the breadth of man, Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, loyal, lowly, sweet, Feminine to her inmost heart, and feminine to her tender feet, Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind. She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind. lo LOCKSLEY HALL Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wancler'd down the coast, Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost. Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea ; Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me. Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be • * left alone, Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own. Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave ; Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave, SIXTY YEARS AFTER. ii Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all, Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall ! Eeautiful was death in him who saw the death but kept the deck, Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck. Gone forever! Ever? no — for since our dying race began, Ever, ever, and forever was the leading light of man. Those that in barbarian burials kilPd the slave, and slew the wife. Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life. 12 LOCKSLEY HALL Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting-grounds be3'ond the night ; Ev'n the bLack Australian, dying, hopes he shall return, a white. Truth for truth, and good for good ! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just ; Take the charm " Forever " from them, and they crumble into dust. Gone the cry of " Forward, Forward," lost within a growing gloom ; Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb. Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space, Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into com monest commonplace ! SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 13 " Forward " rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one. Let us hush this cry of "Forward" till ten thou- sand years have gone. Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings would flay Cnptives vv'hom they caught in battle — iron- hearted victors they. Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls, Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls. Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of no- blest English names, Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd Christian into flames. 14 LOCKSLEY HALL Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great ; Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate. From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse ! Rome of Cassar, Rome of Peter, which was cruel- ler? which was worse? France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good ; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood. Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun Crovvn'd with sunlight— over darkness — from the still unrisen sun. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 15 Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan ? "Kill your enemy, for you hate him," still, "your enemy " was a man. Have we sunk below them ? peasants main the helpless horse, and drive Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kind- lier brutes alive. Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers — burnt at midnight, found at morn, Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, born-unborn. Clinging to the silent Mother! Are we devils? are we men "> Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again. i6 LOCKSLEY HALL He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers Sisters, brothers — and the beasts — whose pains are hardly less than ours ! Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! who can tell how all will end ! Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend. Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daugh- ter of the Past, Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last. Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise : When was age so cramm'd with menace t mad- ness? written, spoken lies? SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 17 Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn. Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, "Ye are equals, equal-born." Equal-born ? Oh, yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat. Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat. Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated lan- guage loom Larger than the Lion,— Demos end in working its own doom. Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her? shall we yield ? Pause, before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field. 2 i8 . LOCKSLEY HALL Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now, Shall we hold them ? shall we loose them ? take the suffrage of the plough. Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you, Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true. Ploughmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find. Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind, Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar; So the Higher wields the Lower, while the Lower is the Higher. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 19 Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine ; Here and there my lord is lower than bis oxen or his swine. Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once again the sickening game ; Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name. Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all ; Step by step we rose to greatness,— thro' the tonguesters we may fall. You that woo the Voices— tell them " old experi- ence is a fool," Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule. 26 LOCKSLEY HALL Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place ; Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her fiice. Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street, Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet. Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope. Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the slope. Authors — atheist, essayist, novelist, realist, rhyme- ster, play your part. Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 21 Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare ; Down with Reticence, down with Reverence — for- ward — naked — let them stare. Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drain- age of your sewer ; Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure. Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism, — * Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm. Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the ris- ing race of men ; Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again ? 22 LOCKS LEY HALL Only "dust to dust" for me that sicken at your lawless din, Dust in wholesome old-woiid dust before the newer world begin. Heated am I ? you — you wonder — well, it scarce becomes mine age — Patience ! let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage. Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall asleep? Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep ? Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray : After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May ? SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 23 After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and Jacquerie, Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see? When the schemes and all the systems, Kingdoms and Republics fall, Something kindlier, higher, holier— all for each and each for all ? All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth ; All the millions one at length, with all the visions of my youth ? All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf, or blind ; Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind ? 24 LOCKS LEY HALL Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue, I have seen her far away — for is not Earth as yet so young? — Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent pas- sion kill'd, Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd, Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles, Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles. Warless? when her tens are thousands, and her thousands millions, then — All her harvest all too narrow — who can fancy warless men? SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 25 Warless ? war will die out late then. Will it ever ? late or soon ? Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon ? Dead the new astronomy calls her. ... On this day and at this hour, In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower, Here we met, our latest meeting— Amy— sixty years ago — She and I— the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow, Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now — Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-deathless vow. ... 26 LOCKSLEY HALL Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass ! Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass. Venus near her ! smiling downward at this earlh- lier earth of ours. Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fad- ing flowers. Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all good things. All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. Hesper — Venus — were we native to that splendor or in Mars, We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 27 Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite, Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light? Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair. Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, " Would to God that we were there ?" Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the im- measurable sea, Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me. All the suns— are these but symbols of innumer- able man, Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan ? 28 LOCKS LEY HALL Is there evil but on earth ? or pain in every peo- pled sphere ? Well be grateful for the sounding watchword, " Evolution " here. Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good, And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud. \A'hat are men that He should heed us ? cried the king of sacred song ; Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong, "While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way, All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a dav. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 29 Many an ^on moulded earth before her highest, man, was born. Many an ^on too may pass when earth is man- less and forlorn, Earth so huge, and yet so bounded — pools of salt, and plots of land — Shallow skin of green and azure — chains of moun- tain, grains of sand ! Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by, Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye. Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul. Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless out- ward, in the Whole. 30 LOCKS LEY HALL Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion -guarded gate. Not to-night in Locksley Hall — to-morrow — yon, you come so late. Wreck'd — your train — or all but wreck'd ? a shat- ter'd wheel ? a vicious boy ! Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy ? Is it well that while we range with Science, glory- ing in the Time, City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime ? There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet, Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thou- sand on the street. SIXTY YEARS AFTER, 31 There the ]\Iastcr scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread, There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor, And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor. Na}', your pardon, cry your " forward," yours are hope and youth, but I — Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry, Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night; Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the li^ht. 32 LOCKS LEY HALL Light the fading gleam of Even ? light the glim- mer of the dawn ? Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withrawn. Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me. Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best, Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest ? Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve. Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 33 Not the Hall to-night, my grandson ! Death and Silence hold their own. Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone. Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and hon- est, rustic Squire, Kindly landlord, boon companion— youthful jeal- ousy is a liar. Cast the poison from your bosom, oust the mad- ness from your brain. Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain. Youthful ! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school. Nor is he the wisest man who never proved him- self a fool. 3 34 LOCKSLEY HALL Yonder lies our young sea-village — Art and Grace are less and less ; Science grows and Beauty dwindles — roofs of slated hideousness ! There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield, Till the peasant cow shall butt the " Lion pas- sant" from his field. Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing hence, ]n the common deluge drowning old political common-sense ! Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that have fled ! All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my steps are on the dead. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 35 All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom disappears, Forward far and far from here is all the hope of eighty years. In this Hostel — I remember — I repent it o'er his grave — Like a clown — by chance he met me — I refused the hand he gave. From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks — I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child of six, While I shelter'd in this archway from a day of driving showers — Peept the v/insome face of Edith like a flower amons: the flowers. 36 LOCKS LEY HALL Here to-night ! the Hall to-morrow, when they toll the Chapel bell ! Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, " I have loved thee well." Then a peal that shakes the portal — one has come to claim his bride, Her that shrank, and put me from her, shriek'd, and started from my side — Silent echoes ! yon, my Leonard, use and not abuse your day. Move among your people, know them, follow him who led the way, Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his home- lier brother men. Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised the school, and drain'd the fen. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 37 Hears he now the Voice that wrong'd him ? who shall swear it cannot be ? Earth would never touch her worst, were one in fifty such as he. Ere she gain her Heavenly - best, a God must mingle with the game : Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither see nor name, Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers of 111, Strowing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains of the Will. Follow you the Star that light? a desert pathway, yours or mine. Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature is divine. 38 LOCKSLEY HALL Follow Light, and do the Right— for man can half- control his doom — Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb. Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past. I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at the last. Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you will bear the pall ; Then I leave thee Lord and Master, latest Lord of Locksley Hall. THE FLEET. I. You, you, ?/" you shall fail to understand What England is, and what her all-in-all, On you will come the curse of all the land, Should this old England fall Which Nelson left so great. 'The speaker said that "he should like to be assured that other outlying portions of the Empire, the Crown colonies, and important coaling stations were being as promptly and as thoroughly fortified as the various capitals of the self-governing colonies. He was credibly informed this was not so. It was impossible, also, not to feel some degree of anxiety about the efficacy of present provision to defend and protect, by means of swift, well-armed cruisers, the immense mercantile fleet of the Empire. A third source 40 THE FLEET. II. His isle, the mightiest Ocean-power on earth, Our own fair isle, the lord of every sea — Her fuller franchise — what would that be worth — Her ancient fame of Free — Were she ... a fallen state ? of anxiety, so far as the colonies were concerned, was the apparently insufficient provision for the rapid manufacture of armaments and their prompt despatch when ordered to their colonial destination. Hence the necessity for manu- facturing appliances equal to the requirements, not of Great Britain alone, but of the whole Empire. But the keystone of the whole was the necessity for an overwhelmingly power- ful fleet and efficient defence for all necessary coaling stations. This was as essential for the colonies as for Great Britain. It was the one condition for the continuance of the Empire. All that Continental Powers did with respect to armies England should effect with her navy. It was essentially a defensive force, and could be moved rapidly from point to point, but it should be equal to all that was expected from it. It was to strengthen the fleet that colonists would first readily tax themselves, because they realized how essential a powerful fleet was to the safety, not only of that extensive commerce sailing in every sea, but ultimately to the security THE FLEET. 4I III. Her dauntless army scatter'd, and so small, Her island-myriads fed from alien lands — The fleet of England is her all-in-all; Her fleet is in your hands, And in her fleet her Fate. IV. You, you, that have the ordering of her fleet. If you. should only compass her disgrace. When all men starve, the wild mob's million feet Will kick you from your place, But then too late, too late. of the distant portions of the Empire. Who could estimato the loss involved in even a brief period of disaster to the Imperial Navy ? Any amount of money timely expended in preparation would be quite insignificant when compared with the possible calamity he referred to." — Extract from Sir Graham Berry's Speech at the Colonial Institute, ^th Novem- ber, 1 886. OPENING OF THE INDIAN AND COLONIAL EXHIBITION BY THE QUEEN. Welcome, welcome with one voice ! In your welfare we rejoice, Sons and brothers that have sent, From isle and cape and continent, Produce of your field and flood. Mount and mine, and primal wood ; Works of subtle brain and hand, And splendors of the morning land. Gifts from every British zone ; Britons, hold your own ! OPENING OF THE EXHIBITION 43 II. May we find, as ages run, The mother featured in the son ; And may yours forever be That old strength and constancy Which has made your fathers great In our ancient island State, And wherever her flag fly, Glorying between sea and sky, Makes the might of Britain known ; Britons hold your own ! III. Britain fought her sons of yore — Britain failed ; and never more, Careless of our growing kin. Shall we sin our fathers' sin, Men that in a narrower day— 44 OPENING OF THE EXHIBITION Unprophetic rulers ihey — Drove from out the mother's nest That young eagle of the West To forage for herself alone ; Britons, hold your own ! IV. Sharers of our glorious past, Brothers, must we part at last ? Shall we not thro' good and ill Cleave to one another still ? Britain's myriad voices call, " Sons, be welded each and all Into one imperial whole, One with Britain, heart and soul ! One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne!" Britons, hold your own ! THE PROMISE OF MAY " A surface man of theories, true to none DRAMATIS PERSONjT:. Farmer Dobson. Mr. Philip Edgar {^afterivards INIr. Harold), Farmer Steer (Dora and Eva's Father). Mr. Wilson {a Schoolmaster). HiGGINS James Dan Smith \ Farm Laborers. Jackson Allen Dora Steer. Eva Steer. Sally Allen ) \ Farm Servants. MiLLY ) Farm Servants, Laborers, ete. THE PROMISE OF MAY. ACT I. Scene. — Before Farmhouse. Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, etc., Women carrying baskets of knives and forks, etc. 1ST Farming Man. Be thou a-f^jawin' to the long barn ? 2D Farming Man. Ay, to be sewer ! Be thou ? 1ST Farming Man. Why, o' coorse, fur it be the owcl man's birth- 4 50 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. daily. He be heighty this very daay, and 'e tolled all on us to be i' the long barn by one o'clock, fur he'll gie us a big dinner, and haafe th' parish '11 be theer, an' Miss Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all ! 2D Farming Man. Miss Dora be coomed back% then ? 1ST Farming Man. Ay, haafe an hour ago. She be in theer now. (Pointing to house.) Owd Steer wur afeard she wouldn't be back i' time to keep his birthdaay, and he wur in a tew about it all the murnin' ; and he sent me \vi' the gig to Litilechester 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. ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 51 2D Farming Man. Foalks says he likes Miss Eva the best. 1ST Farming Man. Naay, I knaws nowt o' what foalks says, an' I caares nowt neither. Foalks doesn't hallus knaw thessens ; but sewer I be, they be two o' the piirti- est gels ye can see of a summer murnin'. 2D Farming Man. Beant Miss Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' Inate? 1ST Farming Man. Noa, not a bit. 2D Farming Man. Why coom awaay, then, to the long barn. {Exeunt. 52 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. Dora /oo/cs out of loindow. Enter Dobson. Dora (singing). The town lay still in the low sunlight, 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; Oh, joy for the promise of May, of May, Oh, joy for the promise of May. (Nodding at Dobson. J I'm coming down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen Eva yet. Is she any- where in the garden? Dobson. Noa, Miss. I ha'n't seed 'er neither. Dora (enters singing). But a red fire woke in the heart of the town, AC r I. THE PROMISE OF MA K 53 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 \ Oh, grief for the promise of May, of May, Oh, 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 4hey larn ye that ? Dora. In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson. DOBSON. An' how did ye leave the owd uncle i' Coom- berland ? 54 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 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 birthdaay, an' all. The owd man be heighty to-daay, beant 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. (T/iej> ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 55 j/iove 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 ? 56 THE PROMISE OF MA Y, act i. DOESON. Noa, Miss Dora : as blue as — Dora. Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, suc- cory, forget-me-not ? DOBSON. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue as — Dora. The sky ? or the sea on a blue day ? DOBSON, Naay then. I mean'd they be as blue as violets. Dora. Are they.? DOBSON. Theer ye goas ngeiin, Miss, niver believing owt ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 57 I says to ye — hallus a-fobbing ma off, Iho' 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, haan't he? SS THE PROMISE OF MA K act i. Dora. Not that I know. DOBSON. Didn't I spy 'em a-sitting i' the woodbine har- bor togither? Dora. What of that ?. Eva told me that he was taking her likeness. He's an artist. DOBSON. What's a hartist 1 I doant 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' heard 'im a-gawin' on 'ud make your 'air — God bless it! — stan' on end. And wuss nor that. ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 59 AVhen theer wur a meeting o' farmers at Little- chester t'other daay, and they was all a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms up, and he calls out among our oan men, "The land belongs to the people !" Dora. And what did yoii- 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 thou- sand i' the parish, taakin' in the women and childerj 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.? 6o THE PROMISE OF MA K act i. DOBSON. Nowt — what could he saciy? But I taakes 'ini fur a bad lot and a burn fool, and I haates the very sight on him. Dora. (Looking at DobsonJ 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 j and I promise you that if you forget yourself in your behavior to this gentleman, my father's friend, I will never change word with you again. Enter Farming Man from ham. ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 6i Farming Man. Miss, the farming men 'ull hev their dinner i' the long barn, and the master 'ud be straange an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that all be right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he coom. \Exit. Dora. I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what I said ? Dobson. Yeas, yeas ! I'll not meddle \vi' 'im if he doant meddle wi' mea. (Exit Dora.^ Coomly, says she. I niver thowt o' mysen i' that waay ; but if she'd taake to ma i' that waiiy, or ony waiiy, I'd slaiive 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 62 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. theer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. (Looking off stage.) Schoohnaster ! Why if Steer ha'n't haxed schoohnaster to dinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus agean heving schoo-l- master i' the parish ! fur him as be handy wi' a book bean't but haafe a hand at a pitchfork. Enter Wilson. Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o' thine i' the pinfold agean 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' border, how can tha keep all thy scholards i' border ? But let that goii by. What dost a knaw o' this ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 63 Mr, Heclgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? I coonVcl upon 'im t'other daay lookin' at the coontry, then a-scrattin upon a bit o' paaper, then a-lookin' agean ; and I taaked 'im fur soom sort of a land- surveyor — but a beant. 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 raail ? We laays out o' the waiiy fur gentlefoalk altogither — leiistwailys they niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as far as Littlechester. But 'e doant fish neither. Wilson. Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not to fish. 64 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. DOBSON. Noil, but I haates 'im. Wilson. Better step out of his road, then, for he's walk- ing to us, and with a book in his hand. DOBSON. An' I haiitcs booiiks an' all, fur they puts foiilk off the owd waays. Enter Edgar, 7-eadiiig—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 ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 65 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 doant understan' it. Wilson. (Aside.) Nor I either, j\Ir. Dobson. DOBSON. ( ScoriifiiUy.) An' thou doant understan' it neither — and thou schoolmaster an' all. L^DGAR. What can a man, then, live for but sensations, Pleasant ones ? men of old would undergo 66 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones Hereafter, like the INIoslem 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 'card the likes o' that afoor. Wilson. (Aside.) But I have, IVIr. 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? ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 67 "As flies to the Gods; they kill us for their sport." DOBSON. (Aside.) Then the owd man i' Lear should be shaamed of hissen, but noan o' the parishes goas by that naame 'ereabouts. Edgar. The Gods ! but they, the shadows of ourselves, Have past forever. It is Nature kills, And not for her sport either. She knows nothing. Man only knows, the worse for him ! for why Cannot /le 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! 68 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. DOBSON. Natur! Natur! Well, it be i' my natur to knock 'im o' the 'ead now; but I weant. Edgar. A Quietist taking all things easily — why — Have I been clipping into this again To steel myself against the leaving her? (Closes book, scemg Wilson. J Good-day 1 Wilson. Good-day, sir. (DoBSON /ooks hard at Edgar.) Edgar. (To DoBSON.J Have I the pleasure, friend, of knowing you ? ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 69 DOBSON. Dobson. Edgar. Good-day, then, Dobson. \_Exit. DORSON. "Good-dnay, then, Dobson!" Civil-spoken i'deed ! Wh}^, Wilson, iha 'eard 'im thysen — the feller couldn't find a IMister in his mouth fur me, as farms five hoonderd haacre. Wilson. You never find one for me, Mr. Dobson. Dobson. Noa, fur thou be nobbut schoolmaster; but I taakes 'im fur a I.unnon swindler, and a burn fool. -JO THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. Wilson. He can hardly be both, as he pays me regular every Saturday. DOBSON. Yeas; but I haiites 'im. Enter Steer, Farm Men <7;/^ Women. Steer. (Goes and sits nndcr apple-t7'ee.) Hev' ony o* ye seen Eva 1 DOBSON. Noa, Mr. Steer. Steer. Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine cider-crop to -year if the blossom 'owds. Good - murnin', neighbors, and the saame to you, my men. I taakes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed — ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 71 what's the newspaaper word, Wilson? — celebrate — to celebrate my birthdaay i' this fashion. Niver man 'ed better friends, and I will saay 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 wair nobbut a laaborer, and now I be a landlord — burn a ploughman, and now, as far as money goas, I be a gentleman, thaw I beant naw scholard,fur I 'ednt naw time to maake mysen a scholard while I wur maakin' mysen a gentleman, but I ha taaen good care to turn out boath my darters right down fine laadies. DOBSON. An' soa they be. 1ST Farming Man. Soa they be ! soa they be ! 72 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 2D Farming Man. The Lord bless boath on 'em ! 3D Farming Man. An' the saame to yon, Master. 4TH Farming Man. And long life to boath on 'em. An' the saame to you, Master Steer, likewise. Steer. Thank ye ! £nfiy Eva. Wheer 'asta been ? Eva. (Timidly.) Many happy returns of the day, father. Steer. They can't be many, my dear, but I 'oapes they'll be 'appy. ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 73 DOBSON. Wh3', tha looks haale anew to last to a hoon- derd. Steer. An' why shouldn't I last to a hoonderd ? Haale ! why shouldn't I be haale? fur thaw I be heighty this very daay, I niver 'es sa much as one pin's prick of paain ; an' I can taake my glass along wi' the youngest, fur I niver touched a drop of owt till my oan wedding-daa)-, an' then I wur turned iHippads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I be haale.? I ha' plowed the ten-aacre-it be mine now-afoor ony o' ye wur burn-ye all knaws the ten-aacre- I mun ha' ploughed it moor nor a hoonderd times ; hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plough straait as a line right i' the faace o' the sun, then back agean, a-follering my oan shadder-then hup agean i' the fliace o' the sun. Eh ! how the sun 'ud shine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daays, and 74 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. ACT i. the smell o' the mou'd an' all. Eh ! if I could ha' gone on \vi' the ploughin' nobbut the smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' maade 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 haale anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just now wi' the roomatics i' the knee. Steer. Roomatics ! Noa ; I laame't my knee last night running arter a thief. Beant there house- breakers down i' Litllechester, Dobson — doant ye hear of ony ? ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 75 DOBSON. Ay, that there be. Immaiuiel Goldsmith's was broke into o' Monday night, and ower a hoonderd pounds worth o' rings stolen. Steer. So I thowt, and I heard the winder — that's the winder at the end o' the passage, that goas by thy chaumber. (Turning io Eva.) Why, lass, what maakes tha sa red ? Did 'e git into thy chaumber? Eva. Father ! Steer. Well, I runned arter thief i' the dark, and fell agean coalscuttle and my kneea gev waay, or I'd ha' cotched 'im, but afoor I coomed up he got thruff the winder a^^ean. 76 THE PROMISE OF MAY, act Eva. Got thro' the window again? Steer. Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot i' the flower- bed ; now theer be nojin o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, fur I cotched 'im once a-steiilin' coiils, an' I sent fur 'im, an' I measured his foot wi' the mark i' the bed, but it wouldn't fit — seeams to me the mark wur maiide by a Lunnun boot. (Looks at Ei^a.) Why, now, what maakes tha sa white? Eva. Fright, father ! Steer. Maake thysen easy. I'll hev the winder naailed up, and put Towser under it. ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 77 Eva. (Clasping her hands.) No, no, father ! Tow- ser'll tear him all to pieces. Steer. Let him keep awaay then; but coom, coom ! let's be gawin. They ha' broached a barrel of aale i' the long barn, and the fiddler be theer, and the lads and lasses 'till hev a dance. Eva. (Aside.) Dance ! small heart have I to d I should seem to be dancing upon a grave. ance. Steer. Wheer be Mr. Edgar.? about the premises.? DOBSON. Hallus about the premises ! 78 THE PROMISE OF MAY. Steer. So much the better, so much the better. I likes 'im, and Eva likes 'im. Eva can do owt \vi' '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 ! Church- warden 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 Baaker, thaw I sticks to hoammaade — but all on 'em welcome, all on 'em welcome ; and I've hed the long barn cleared ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 79 out of all the machines, and the sacks, and the taatei-s, 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 (wJw is goings turns.) Squire !— if so be you be a squire. Edgar. Dobbins, I think. Dobson. Dobbins, you thinks; and I thinks ye wears a Lunnun boot. 8o THE PROMISE OF MAY. act i. Edgar. Well ? DOBSON. And I thinks I'd like to taake 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 weant. YExit into ham. 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. ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 8i 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. Mar- riage ! 82 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act i. 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 it- self— The storm is hard at hand will sweep away Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, mar- riage, 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 ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 33 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 morn- ing? 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, 84 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act r. Father heard you last night. Our savage mas- tiff, 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 ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 85 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 \yhen the man, The child of evolution, flings aside His swaddling-bands, the morals of the tribe, He, following his own instincts as his God, 86 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act i. 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 ! ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 87 Edgar. There ! let me break some off for you. YBreaJdiig branch ojf. 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 ? 88 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. Edgar. Well, business. I must leave you, love, to-day. Eva. Leave me, to-day ! And when will you return 1 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. ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 89 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 forever. But, if you will hmd love to one forever, 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 90 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act Breaks thro' them, and so flies away forever; "While, had you left him free use of his wings, Who knows that he had ever dream'd of flvinii? 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 fiirmer's daughter — Edgar. Tut ! you talk Old feudalism. When the great Democracy Makes a new world — ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 91 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 \0. — (aloud) fly with me to-day. Eva. No! Philip, Philip, if you do not marry me, I sliall 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 — - 92 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 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 license To marry. Do you wish it ? Eva. 1^0 I wish it? Edgar. In London. Eva. You will write to me ? Edgar. I will. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 93 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 w^ould 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 tn the distance). "Oh, joy for the promise of May, of May, Oh, joy for the promise of May." 94 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. 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 aivay. Edgar (iiiovcd). How gracefully there she stands Weeping — the little Niobe ! \Vhat ! we prize The statue or the picture all the more ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 95 When we have made them ours ! Is she less lovable, 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). "Oh, grief for the promise of May, of May, Oh, grief for the promise of May." 96 THE PROMISE OF MA K act i. 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 ! ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 97 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 forever. Dora. Forever, 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 1 Have you fancied yourself in 98 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 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 trou- ble, but I am happy — I think, quite happy now. Dora (taJung 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 com- ing out for the dance already. Well, my child, let us join them. Enter all from ham laughing. Eva sifs reluctantly Wilder apple-tree. Steer enters smoking^ sits by Eva. Dance. ACT IT. 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 farjuJiouse a7nong trees. In the distance a church spire. DoBSON and Dora. DOBSON. So the owd uncle i' Cooniberland be dead, Miss Dora, beant he ? Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been attending on bis death-bed and his burial. 100 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. DOBSON. It be five year sin' ye went afoor to him, and it seems to me nobbut t'other clay. 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 ivses). 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 taake 'em ? fur Miss Eva, she set the bush by my dairy winder afoor she went to school at Liltlecliester — so I alius browt soom on ACT ir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. loi 'em to her; and now she be gone, will ye taake '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. Noa ; I knaws a deal better now. I seed how the owd man wur vext. Dora. I take them, then, for Eva's sake. \Take5 basket, places some in her dress. DOBSON. Eva's saake. Yeas. Poor gel, poor gel ! I can't abear to think on 'er now, fur I'd ha' done owt fur 'er mysen ; an' ony o' Steer's men, an' ony 102 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ir. 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 oan roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony on 'em — the Lord bless 'er — 'er oan sen ; an' weant ye taake 'em now, Miss Dora, fur 'er saake an' fur my saake an' all? Dora. Do you want them back again ? DOBSON. Noa, noa ! Keep 'em. But I hed a word to saay 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 biing tha ACT ir. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 103 them roses fust. The weather's well anew, but the glass be a bit shaaky. S'iver we've led moast 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 weant be too sudden wi' it; and I feel sewer. Miss Dora, that I ha' been noan too sudden wi' you, fur I ha' sarved for ye well-nigh as long as the man sarved for 'is sweet'art i' Scriptur'. Weant 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 104 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. 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 taake the owd blind man to my oan fireside. You should hev him alius 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 forever to you and my poor father. I thought Mr. Edgar the best of men. ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 105 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. Naay, but I hev an owd woman as 'ud see to all that; and you should sit i' your oan parlor quixe like a laady, ye should ! Dora. It cannot be. io6 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ir. DOBSON. And plaay the planner, if ye liked, all daay long, like a laady, ye should an' all. Dora. It cannot be. DOBSON. And I would loove tha moor nor ony gentleman 'ud loove tha. Dora, No, no ; it cannot be. DoBSON. And p'raps ye hears 'at I soomtimes taiikes a drop too much ; but that be all along o' you, Miss, because ye weant hev me \ but, if ye would, I could put all that o' one side easy anew. ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 107 Dora. Cannot you understand plain words, Mr. Dob- son? I tell you, it cannot be. DOBSON. Eh, lass ! Thy feyther eddicated his darters to marry gentlefoalk, 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 " 1 Well, I be Farmer Dob- son ; but I thinks Farmer Dobson's dog 'ud ha' io8 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act ii. knaw'd better nor to cast her sister's misfortin inter 'er teeth arter she'd been a-readin' me the letter vvi' 'er voice a-shaakin', and the drop in 'er eye. Theer she goas ! Shall I foller 'er and ax 'er to maake it up? Noa, not yet. Let 'er cool upon it ; I likes 'er all the better fur taakin' me down, like a laady, as she be. Farmer Dobson ! I be Farmer Dobson, sewer anew ; but if iver I cooms upo' Gentleman Hedgar agean, and doant laay my cartwhip athurt 'is shou'ders, why then I beant Farmer Dobson, but summun else — blaame't if I beant 1 Enter Haymakers with a load of hay. The last on it, eh ? 1ST Haymaker. Yeas. Dobson. Hoam wi' it, then. \Exit surlily. ACT ir. THE rROMISE OF MAY. 109 1ST Haymaker. Well, it be the last load hoam. 2D Haymaker. Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be glad on it. What niaiikcs 'ini alius sa glum ? Sally Allen. Glum ! he be wus nor glum. He coom'd up to me yisteidaay i' the haayfield, when mea and my sweet'art was a workin' along o' one side wi' one another, and he sent 'im awaay 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 alius worked best togither ; and then he called me a rude naame, and I can't abide 'im. no THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. James. Why, lass, doiint tha knaw he be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she weant 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 /cares. 1ST Haymaker. Well but, as I said afoor, it be the last load hoam ; do thou and thy sweet'art sing us hoam to supper — "The Last Load Hoam." All. Ay! "The Last Load Hoam." ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. in Song. What did ye do, and what did ye saay, Wi' the wild white rose, and the woodbine sa gaay, An' the midders all mow'd, and the sky sa blue — What did ye saay, and v;hat did ye do, When ye thowt there were nawbody watchin' o' you, And you and your Sally was forkin' the haay, At the end of the daay, For the last load hoam ? What did we do, and what did we saay, Wi' the briar sa green, and the wilier sa graay, An' the midders all mow'd, and the sky sa blue — • Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to you, What we mowt saay, and what we mowt do, When me and my Sally was forkin' the haay, 112 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ir. At the end of the daii}', For the last load hoam ? But what did ye saay, and what did ye do, \Vi' the butterflies out, and the swallers at plaay, An' the midders all mow'd, and the sky sa blue ? Why, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell it to you ? For me and my Sally we swear'd to be true, To be true to each other, let 'appen what maa\', Till the end of the daay And the last load hoam. All. Well sung! James. Fanny be the naame 'i the song, but I swopt it fur she. {^Pointing fo Sally. ACT 11. THE PROMISE OF MAY, 113 Sally. Let ma aloaii afoor foalk, wilt tha? 1ST Haymaker. Ye shall sing that agean to-night, fur owd Dob- son '11 gi'e us a bit q' supper. Sally. I weiint goa to owd Dobson ; he wur rude to me i' tha haayfield, and he'll be rude to me agean to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his grass down and wants a hand, and I'll goa to him. 1ST Haymaker. Owd Steer gi'cs nubbut cowd tea to ''is men and owd Dobson gi'es beer. 114 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ir. Sally. But I'd like owcl Steer's cowcl tea better nor Dobson's beer. Good-bye. \Going. James. Gl'e us a buss fust, lass. Sally. I teird tha to let ma aloan ! James. Why, wasn't thou and me a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o' the haaycock, when owd Dobson coom'd upo' us? I can't let thaa loan if I would, Sally. {Offering to kiss Jicr. Sally. Git along wi' ye, do ! {Exit. {All laugh ; exeunt singing. ACT ir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 115 " To be true to each other, let 'appen what maay, Till the end o' the daay An' the last load hoam." Enter PIarold. Harold. Not Harold ! " Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar !" Her phantom calFd 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. Ii6 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. Song. "To be true to each other, let'appen what maay, To the end 'o the daay An' the last load hoam." Harold. Poor Eva ! Oh, 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 — Oh, this mortal house, ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 117 Whicli \vc 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 daay An' the last load hoam, Load hoam." ii8 THE PROMISE OF MAY, act ii. 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 forever. Enter Dan Smith (singing). Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop ! whoa ! Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa Thruf slush an' squad When roads was bad, But hallus ud stop at the Vine-an'-the-Hop, Fur boath on 'em knaw'd as well as mysen That beer be as good fur 'erses as men. ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 119 Gee oop ! whoa! Gee oop! whoa ! Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa. The beer's gotten oop into my 'each S'iver I mun git along back to the farm, fur she tell'd ma to taake 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 halif afraid to pass. Harold. Sometimes I wonder, When man has surely learnt at last that all 120 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. His old-world fiiith, the blossom of his youth, Has faded, fcilling 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 I Superstitious fool, What brought me here ? To see her grave ? her ghost ? Her ghost is everyway about me here. ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 121 Dora (coming forivai'd). Allow me, sir, to pass you. Harold. Eva! Dora. Eva! Harold. What are you ? AVhere 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. 122 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act ii, Dora. You knew Eva, then ? Harold. Yes — I was thinking of her when — Oh, yes, Many years back, and never since have met Her equal for pure innocence of nature, And lovehness 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. ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 123 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. 124 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act il 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. ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 125 Dora. She has disappeared, 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 favorite 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. 126 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act ii. 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. What Edgar? Harold. 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? ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 127 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. 128 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i 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. Oh, 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. ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 129 That desolate letter, blotted with her tears, AVhich 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, AVould not — if penitent — have denied him /ler Forgiveness. And perhaps the man himself. When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'd I30 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act ii. 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 Waitins: vou in the distance? Mis^ht 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 ACTir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 131 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 t Harold. Yes, at the wayside inn Close by that alder-island in your brook, "The Ander's Home." 132 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act ii. 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 Ihem. Harold. If I did. Then one at least of its inhabitants Might have more charm for me than all the coun- try. ACT IL THE PROMISE OF MAY. 133 Dora. That one, then, should be grateful for your pref- erence. Harold. I cannot tell, tho' standing in her presence. (Aside.) She colors ! 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 ivithout. Dora. What was that? my poor blind father — 134 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act it. Enter Farming Man. Farming Man. Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart lies runned ower a laady i' the holler laane, 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. S^Examt. Enter Dobson. DOBSON. What feller wur it as 'a' been a-talkin' fur haafe an hour wi' my Dora ? (Looking after ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. i35 him.) Seecims I ommost knaws the back on 'ini — di-cst like a gentleman, too. Damn all gentlemen, says I ! I should ha' thowt they'd hed anew of gentlefoalk, as I telled 'er to-daay when she fell foul upo' me. Minds ma o' summun. I could swear to that; but that be all one, fur I haates 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer ! he turns round. Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset ! Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset !—Noa— yeas— thaw the feller's gone and maade such a litter of his faace. Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip tha ! a- plaayin' the saame gaame 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 dead as a bullock ! (Clinch- ing his fist,) 136 THE PROMISE OF MA K act ir.. But what 'ud she saay to that ? She telled me once not to meddle \vi' 'im, and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at 'er. It mun be ///;;/. Noa ! Fur she'd niver 'a been talkin' haafe an hour wi' the divil 'at killed her oan sister, or she beant Dora Steer. Yeas ! Fur she niver knawed 'is faace when 'e wur 'ere afoor; but FlI maake 'er knaw ! I'll maake 'er knaw ! £/iUr Harold. Naa\', feut I mun git out on 'is waiiy now, or I shall be the death on 'im. [Exif. 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, ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 137 The tan of Southern summers and the beard. I may as well avoid him. Ladylike ! Lilyhke 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-returned the pressure Of mine. What, I that held the orange blos- som 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 mo- tive. Misnamed free-will— the crowd would call it con- science — Moves me— to what? I am dreaming; for the past, Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' her's— 138 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act il 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 ihey 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. Color Flows thro' my life again, and I have lighted On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 139 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 t/ieu, if not for mine — not now^ — But by and by. Enfer Dobson k/iind DOBSON. By and by— eh, lad, dosta knaw this paaper ? Ye dropt it npo' the road. " Philip Edgar, Esq." Ay, you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, I 140 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act ii. hev. Eh, lad, closta knaw what tha means wi' by and by? Far if ye be goin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved our Eva — then, by and by, if she weant listen to me when I be a-tryin' to saave 'er — if she weiint — look to thysen, for, by the Lord, I'd think na moor o' maiikin' an end o' tha nor a carrion craw — noa — thaw they hanged ma at 'Size fur it. Harold. Dobbins, I think ? DOBSON. I beant Dobbins. Harold. Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow. DOBSON. Tha lies ! What hasta been saayin' to my Dora ? ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY, 141 Harold. I have been telling her of the death of one Philip Edgar of Toft Hall, Somerset. DOBSON. Tha lies ! Harold (pulling out a nezvspaper). Well, my man, it seems that you can read. Look there — under the deaths. DOBSON. " O' the lyih, 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. 142 THE PROMISE OF AIAY. act ir. DOBSON. An 'o\v 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 tetters). 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 clean daazed, an' maazed, an' maated, an' muddled ma. Dead! It mun be ACT ir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 143 true, fur it wur i' print as black as owt. Naay,but "Good-daay, 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-daay, Dobbins." Dang tha ! ACT III. Scene. — A room in Steer's house. Door leading into bedroom at the hack. Dora (ringing a liandbcll). Milly ! Enter Milly. Milly. The little 'ymn ? Yeas, Miss ; but I wur so ta'en up wi' leadin' the owcl man about all the blessed murnin' 'at I ha' nobbut larned mysen haafe on it. "Oh, man, forgive thy mortal foe, Nor ever strike him blow for blow ; ACT iiT. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 145 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 ageiin, and larn mysen the rest, and saay 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. Yeas, Miss. \^Exit. Dora (sitting at desk counting money). Enough at any rate for the present. (Enter Farming Men.J Good-afternoon, my friends. I 10 14-6 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act hi. 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. Yeas ; 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 (zvith Jiis hand to his car). Halfabitical ! Taake one o' the young ones fust, !Miss, fur I be a bit deaf, and I wur hallus scaared by a big word ; leiistwaays, I should be wi' a lawyer. Dora. I spoke of your names, Allen, as they are ar- ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 147 ranged hei-e^s/i07C's hook) — according to their first letters. Allen. Letters ! Yeas, I sees now. Them be what they larns the childer at school, but I were burn afore schoolin'-time. Dora. But, Allen, tho' you can't read, you could white- wash 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. 148 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. Allen. Mea ? why, it be the Lord's doin', noan o' mine ; d'ye think 7W gi'e 'em the fever? But I thanks ye all the saame, Miss. (Takes money.) Dora (calliug 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. Noa, Miss ; we worked nav/ 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, ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA K 149 and you, and you. Count the money and see if it's all right. Men. All right, Miss ; and thank ye kindly. [£xCU7lf LUSCOMBE, NOKES, OlDHAM, Skipworth. Dora. Dan Smith, my father and I forgave you steal- ing our coals. [Dan Smith advances to Dora. Dan Smith (bellowing). Whoy, O lor, Miss? that wur so longback, 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 f say that we had forgiven you? But, ISO THE PROMISE OF MAY. act hi. 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 taake the pledge. Dora. And as ready to break it agSin, 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 ! noa, noa, noa ! Ye sees the holler ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 151 laane be hallus sa dark i' the arternoon, and wheere the big esh-tree cuts athurt it, it gi'es a turn like, and 'o\v should I see to laame the laady, and mea 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 SmithJ Sally Allen, you worked for Mr. Dobson, didn't you ? Sally (advancifig). Yeas, 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 be- come of your brother? 152 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. Sally. 'Listed for a soadger, Miss, i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery. Dora. And your sweetheart — when are you and he to be married? Sally. At Michaehnas, 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 waage. ( Going — 7'eiurns. ) 'A cotched ma about the waaist, Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axed ma to be 'is little sweet- art, an' soa I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im ageiin an I telled feyther on 'im. Dora. What is all this, Allen ? Allen. Why, Miss Dora, mea and my maates, us three, we wants to hev three words wi' ye. HiGGINS. That be 'im, and mea, Miss. Jackson. An' mea, Miss, Allen. An' we weant mention naw naames, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the master goas clean off his 'ead when he 'ears the 154 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iir. naame on 'im ; but us three, arter Sally'd telled us oil 'im, we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, upo' Tuesday murn- in', 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' naamed 'im — not me. Dora. He's dead, man— dead ; gone to his account — dead and buried. ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 155 Allen. I beant sa sewer o' that, fur Sally knaw'd 'im ; Now then ? Dora. Yesj it was in the Somersetshire papers. Allen. Then yon mun be his brother, an' we'll leather Hm. 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 ! Good-night ! (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 156 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act in. 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 Har- old 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 ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 157 not a girl's love-dream have too much romance in it to be realized all at once, or altogether, or any- where 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 to- gether 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 part- ings forever and forever. (Walks tip 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. 158 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. O tower spiring to the sky, O graves in daisies drest, O Love and Life, how weary am I, And how I Ions: for rest." There, there, I am a fool ! Tears ! I have some- times been moved lo 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 forivard.) Why, you look better. ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA Y, it^^ 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 f\irm ; but I must not be known yet. Has any one 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, i6o THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. dearest Eva, and have been here so long, will you not speak with Father to-day ? 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 ash-tree there would cause an accident some day ; but he would never cut it dovv'n, because one of the Steers had planted it there in former times. ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA V. i6i 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. II i62 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iir. 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.-* ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 163 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 i Dora. That I dare not tell him how much I love him. Eva. Better not. Has he offered you marriage, this gentleman } i64 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. 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 Littleches- ter, 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 ACT iiL THE PROMISE OF MA V. 165 me in a drawing-room, indeed! See here! "I hope your -Lordship is quite recovered of your gout ?" (Courtesies.) " Will your Ladyship ride to cover to-day? (Courtesies.) I can rec- ommend our Voltigeur." " I am sorry that we could not attend your Grace's party on the loth !" {Courtesies.) There, I am glad my non- sense 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 lo-day. We found a letter in your bedroom torn i66 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act hi. 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 nneet again, for he had not forgot- ten his promise to come when I called him. But that was a mocker}^, you know, for he gave me no address, and there was no word of marriage; and, oh, 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. ACT HI. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 167 Dora. It is only Milly. Enter Milly, ivith basket of roses. Dora. Well, Milly, why do you come in so roughly? The sick lady here might have been asleep. Milly. Please, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me to saay he's browt some of Miss Eva's roses for the sick laady to smell on. Dora. Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady thanks him ! Is he here ? Milly. Yeas, Miss j and he wants to speak to ye par- tic'lar. i68 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act in. Dora. Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet. MiLLY,. Yeas, Miss; but he says he wants to tell ye summut very partic'iar, Dora. Not to-day. What are you staying for } MiLLY. Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-swear- ing like ony think. Dora. And what' harm will that do you, so that you do not copy his bad manners? Go, child. (Exit MiLLY.y) But, Eva, why did you write " Seek me at the bottom of the river .^" ACTiir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 169 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 Sis- ter of Mercy, come from the death-bed of a pauper, who had died in his misery blessing God, and the 170 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. Sister look 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! ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 171 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 hell. Enter Milly.J Milly, my dear, how did you leave Mr. Steer? 172 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. MiLLY. Pie's been a-moaniii' and a-groanin' 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. Yeas, Miss, I will. \^Exit Milly. Dora. I ought to prepare you. You must not expect ^o 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 favorite — will give him, as they sa\'-, a new lease of life. ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 173 Eva (dinging to Dora J. Oh, Dora, Dora ! Enter Steer, led by Milly. Steer. Hes the cow cawved ? Dora. No, Father. Steer. Be the colt dead t 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 dead t 174 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act hi. Dora. Not that I know. Steer. What hasta sent fur me, then, fur? Dora (taking Steer's a?-m). Well, Father, I have a surprise for you. Steer. I ha niver been surprised but once i' my life, and I went bhnd upon it. Dora. Eva has come home. Steer, Hoam ? fro' the bottom o' the river? ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 175 Dora. No, Father, that was a mistake. She's here again. Steer. • The Steers was all gentlefoalks i' the owcl times, an' I worked early an' laate to maake 'em all gentlefoalks age^n. The land belonged to the Steers i' the owd times, an' it belongs to the Steers agean : I bowt it back agean ; but I couldn't buy my darter back agean when she lost hersen, could I? I eddicated boath 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 moant coom here. What would her mother saay ? If it be her ghoast, we mun abide it. We can't keep a ghoast out. 176 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. Eva (falling at his feet). Oh, forgive me ! forgive me ! Steer. Who said that? Taake me awaay, little gel). It be one o' my bad daays. \_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. ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 177 Enter INIilly. MiLLY. Miss Dora ! Miss Dora ! Dora (7'eturning and leaving thehedroom door ajar). Quiet! quiet! What is it? MiLLY. Mr. 'Arolcl, Miss. Dora. Below ? MiLLY. Yeas, Miss. He be saayin' a word to the owcl man, but he'll coom up if ye lets 'im. Dora. Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for him. 12 178 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act in. MiLLY. Yeas, Miss. S^Exit. Dora sits pensively and waits. Enter Harold. Harold. You are pale, my Dora ! but the ruddiest cheek That ever charm'd the ploughman 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 t Dora. It puts me in heart 79 ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 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 burden of years. Dora. More like the picture i8o THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. Of Christian in my "Pilgrim's Progress" here, Bow'd to the dust beneath the burden of sin. Harold. Sin ! What sin ? Dora. Not his own. Still read, then ? Harold. That nursery-tale Dora. Yes ; our carters and our shepherds Still find a comfort there. Harold. Carters and shepherds ! ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. i8i 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 ]\lore than could ever have happen'd thro' the want Of any or all of them. Dora. — But, O dear friend, i82 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. 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 ms? 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 thveaten'd ev'n your life, and would say any- thing? ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 1S3 Did /not iDromise 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 fiirmer's daughter, he would be Sooner or later shamed of her among The ladies, born his equals, Harold. More fool he ! 184 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iir. 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 Ccesars, 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. ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY, 185 Dora. But I can tell you, We Steers are of old blood, tbo' we be fallen. See tbere our shield. ( Point'mg to arms on inaniel- piece.) 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? i86 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act in. 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, humors, moods j 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 /le 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. ACT iir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 187 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? i88 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act hi. 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. ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 189 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. Oh, she has f^iinted. 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 I go THE PROMISE OF MAY. act hi. 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 ! ACT III. ' THE PROMISE OF MAY. 191 Enter Milly. MiLLY. Please, Mister 'Arolcl— Harold (roughly). Well ? Milly. The owcl man's coom'd agean to 'issen, an' wants To hev a word wi' ye about the marriage. Harold. The what ? Milly. The marriage. Harold. The marriage? Milly. Yeas, the marriage. Granny says marriages be maade i' 'eaven. 192 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act in. Harold. She lies ! They are made in hell. Child, can't you see? Tell them to fly for a doctor. MiLLY. O law — yeas, sir ! I'll run fur 'im mysen. 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! ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA V. I93 £;i/er DoBSON. DOBSON. You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or whativer They calls ye, for I warrants that ye goas By haafe a scoor o' naames-out o' the chaumber. {Dragging Jiim 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! 13 194 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act hi. Harold. Lout, churl, clown ! SjVhile they are sJiouiing 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 J 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, ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY, 19S So winsome in her grace and gayety, So loved by all the village people here, So happy in herself and in her home— r3oBSON (agitated). Theer, theer 1 ha' done. I can't abear to see her. S^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 dishonor 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 196 THE PROMISE OF MA K act hi. 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. Ifl— 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 — ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 197 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. 198 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act hi. Dora. To him I 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 oi 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^Iast 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. TENNYSON'S WORKS. C03irLETE WOUKS. The Complete Poetical Works of Alfred, Lord Ten- nyson, Poet-Laureate. Willi an Introductory Sketch by Anne TnACKEKAY Ritchie. With Portraits and Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $2.00; Gilt Edges, $2.50. The new aucl complete edition of Tennyson is a great boon to those who would pos^sess all the works of the greatest of the Vic- torian poets in one volume, especially as the book is so substantial and so pleasing in every way as to be worthy of its contents. Every l)ocui that the'Laureate is known to have published is included in I he book, and Jlrs. Kitchie pretixes to it a charming essay on Ten- nyson as a poet and as a man, which is ilhislratcd by several en- gravings of high mGTit.—Botiton Courier. SOWGS, WITH 3ILSIC, Songs from the Published Writings of Alfred Tenny- son. Set to Music by various Composers. Edited by W. G. CusiNS. With Portrait and Original Illustra- tions by Winslow Homer, C. S. Reinhart, A. Fred- ericks, and Jessie Curtis. Royal 4to, Cloth, Gilt Edges, $5.00. Such a volume of songs and music is a rarity, if not entirely unique, in the annals of musical publication.* * *"VVe congratulate the families that have the taste and culture to appreciate such a book.— Observer, N. Y. Tills is a book which cannot fail to command an enthusiastic re- ception from all lovers of music. Tennyson's songs seem to have been written expressly for a musical setting. * * * All are so good that when one once begins to particularize it is difficult to stop.— Philadelphia North American. THE LOVER'S TALE. A Poem. By Alfred Tennyson. 32mo, Paper, 10 cents ; Cloth, 35 cents. LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEABS AF- TER, Locksley Hall Sixty Years After, and Other Poems. 16mo, Cloth {Just lieady) ; Paper, 25 cents. Pablished by HAEPEE & BEOTHEES, New York. W~ IlAUPKn & Brothers will send any of the above ivorks by mail, 2)ostage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. EOLFE'S ENGLISH CLASSICS. EXGLISH CLASSICS. Edited, with Notes, by Whxiam J. RoLFE, A.M., formerly Head Master of the High School, Cambridge, Mass. Illustrated. Small 4to, Flexible Cloth, 56 cents per volume ; Paper, 40 cents per volume. FriendUj Edition. Complete in 20 volumes. ICmo, Cloth, $30.00*; Half Calf, $60.00. {Sold onhj in Sets.) I have not seen any edition that compresses so much necessary information into so small a space, nor any that so completely avoids the common faults of commentaries on IShakespeare — needless rep- etition, superlhions explanation, aud unscholarlilie ijrnoring of dif- ticulties. — Rev. Edwin A. AiiBorr {Author of the '''■Shakespearean Gravimar^^}, City of London School, England. Shakespeare's The Tempest. Merchant of Venice. King Henry the Eighth. Julius CsBsar. Eichard the Second. Macbeth. Midsummer Night's Dream. King Henry the Fifth. King John. As You Like It. King Henry IV. Part T. King Henry IV. Part II. Hamlet. Much Ado About Nothing. Homeo and Juliet. Othello. Twelfth Night. The Winter's Tale. Richard the Third, King Lear. Shakespeare's Coriolanus. All's Well that Ends Well. Taming of the Shrew. Cymbeline. The Comedy of Errors. Antony and Cleopatra. Measure for Measure. Merry Wives of Windsor. Love's Labour 's Lost. Timon of Athens. Two Gentlemen of Verona. Troilus and Cressida. Henry VI. Part I. Henry VI. Part II. Henry VI. Part III. Pericles, Prince of Tyre. The Two Noble Kinsmen. Venus and Adonis, &c. Sennets. Titus Andronicus, Oliver Goldsmith's Select Poems. Thomas Gray's Select Poems. Browning's Select Poems. Piiblislied by HAEPEE & BEOTHEES, New York. B^~ IIarpeb & Brothkub will send any of the above icorks hy mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United Stales or Canada, on receipt of the pn'cf. Date Due 1 1 i 1 i i 1 / / l=o LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 546 592 8 #