• \— 'vJC^^ 1 ?"?(<> LOCKSLEY HALL THE PROMISE OF MAY LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER ETC. BY ALFRED LORD TENNYSON P.L. D.C.L. ilonUon MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1886 TO MY WIFE I DEDICATE THIS DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE AND THE POEMS WHICH FOLLOW CONTENTS PAGE LocKSLEY Hall Sixty Years after . . . i The Fleet 39 Opening of the Indian and Colonial Exhibi- tion BY THE Queen 43 The Promise of May 47 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 cata- racts, 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 LOCKSLE V HALL So — your happy suit was blasted — she the faultless, the divine ; And you liken — boyish babble— this boy -love of yours with mine. I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish 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 eyes. 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 — she 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 worldUngs — 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 Cross'd ! for once he sail'd 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 founder 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 mother, dead the child. 8 LOCKSLEY 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. Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones. All his virtues — I forgive them — black in white above his bones. SIXTY YEARS AFTER 9 Gone the comrades of my bivouac, 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 LOCKSLE V HALL Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'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 j 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 li Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all, Deem this over -tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall ! Beautiful was death in him who saw the death but kept the deck, Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck, Gone for ever! Ever? no — for since our dying race began. Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of man. Those that in barbarian burials kill'd the slave, and slew the wife. Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life. 1 2 LOCKSLE Y HALL Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond 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 ' For ever ' 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 thousand years have gone. Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings would flay Captives whom 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 noblest 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 Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller? 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 Crown'd with sunlight — over darkness — from the still unrisen sun. SIXTY YEARS AFTER iS 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 maim the helpless horse, and drive Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kindlier 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 daughter 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? 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? O 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. c 1 8 LOCKS LE y HALL Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now, Shall we hold them ? shall we loose them ? take the suffrage of the plow. Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you. Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true. Plowmen, 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 his 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. 20 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 face. 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 rising race of men ; Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again ? 22 LOCKSLE Y HALL Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din, Dust in wholesome old-world 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 change- less May ? SIXTY YEARS AFTER 2J 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 LOCKSLEY 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 passion kiU'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 2$ 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 LO CKSLE Y 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 earthlier earth of ours, Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading 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 splendour 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 innumerable man, Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan ? 28 LOCKSLEY HALL Is there evil but on earth ? or pain in every peopled 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. What 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 day. SIXTY YEARS AFTER 29 Many an ^on moulded earth before her highest, man, was born. Many an ^on too may pass when earth is manless 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 LOCKSLEY HALL Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion- guarded gate. Not to-night in Locksley Hall — to-morrow — -you, you come so late. Wreck'd — your train — or all but wreck'd? a shatter'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, glorying 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 thousand on the street. SIXTY YEARS AFTER 31 There the Master 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. Nay, 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 light. 32 LOCKSLE Y HALL Light the fading gleam of Even ? light the glimmer of the dawn ? Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn. 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 streaming curve. 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 honest, rustic Squire, Kindly landlord, boon companion — youthful jealousy 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 himself a fool. D 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 passant ' from his field. Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing hence. In the common deluge drowning old political common-sense 1 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 winsome face of Edith like a flower among the flowers. 36 LOCKSLEY 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 ! you, 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 homelier 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 lights 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.^ You, you, if yon 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 realised 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 41 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 j 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 estimate 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 vi^hen compared with the possible calamity he had referred to.' — Extract from Sir Graham Berry's Speech at the Colonial Institute, Farm Servants. MiLLY S Farm Servants, Labourers, etc. Farm Labourers. THE PROMISE OF MAY. ACT I. Scene. — Before Farmhouse. Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, &c., Women carrying baskets of knives and forks, &c. 1ST Farming Man. Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn ? 2ND Farming Man. Ay, to be sewer ! Be thou ? 1ST Farming Man. Why, o' coorse, fur it be the owd man's birth- 52 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i daay. He be heighty this very daay, and 'e telled all on us to be i' the long barn by one o'clock, fur he'll gie us a big dinner, and haafe th' parish '11 be theer, an' Miss Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all ! 2ND 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 wi' the gig to Littlechester to fetch 'er ; and 'er an' the owd man they fell a kissin' o' one another like two sweet'arts i' the poorch as soon as he clapt eyes of 'er. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 53 2ND 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 purtiest gels ye can see of a summer murnin'. 2ND Farming Man, Beant Miss Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' laate ? 1ST Farming Man. Noa, not a bit, 2ND Farming Man, Why coom awaay, then, to the long barn. [£xeunf. 54 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i Dora looks out of window. Enter Dobson. Dora {singing). The town lay still in the low sun-light, The hen cluckt late by the white farm gate, The maid to her dairy came in from the cow, The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of night. The blossom had open'd on every bough ; O joy for the promise of May, of May, O joy for the promise of May. {Nodding at Dobson.) I'm coming down, Mr, Dobson. I haven't seen Eva yet. Is she 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, ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 55 And a fox from the glen ran away with the hen, And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the cheese ; And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt down, And a salt wind burnt the blossoming trees ; O grief for the promise of May, of May, O grief for the promise of May. I don't know why I sing that song ; I don't love it. DOBSON. Blessings on your pretty voice. Miss Dora. Wheer did they lam ye that ? Dora. In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson. DOBSON. An' how did ye leave the owd uncle i' Coom- berland ? S6 THE PROMISE OF MA Y 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. {They ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 57 move bench.) No, not that way — here, under the apple tree. Thank you. Look how full of rosy blossom it is. {Pointing to apple tree. DOBSON. Theer be redder blossoms nor them, Miss Dora. Dora. Where do they blow, Mr. Dobson ? DOBSON. Under your eyes. Miss Dora. Dora. Do they ? Dobson. And your eyes be as blue as Dora. What, Mr. Dobson ? A butcher's frock ? 58 THE PROMISE OF MA V act i DOBSON. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue as Dora. Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, succory, 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 agean, Miss, niver believing owt ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 59 I says to ye — hallus a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knaws I love ye. I warrants ye'U think moor o' this young Squire Edgar as ha' coomed among us— the Lord knaws how — ye'll think more on 'is Httle 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 ? 6o THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i Dora. Not that I know. DOBSON. Didn't I spy 'em a-sitting i' the woodbine har- bour togither ? Dora. What of that ? Eva told me that he was taking her Ukeness. He's an artist. DOBSON. What's a hartist ? 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. When theer ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 6i wur a meeting o' farmers at Littlechester 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 you say to that ? DOBSON. Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the land, and you says it belongs to the parish, and theer be a thousand i' the parish, taakin' in the women and childer; and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it among 'em, why there wudn't be a dinner for nawbody, and I should ha' lost the pig. Dora. And what did he say to that ? 62 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i DOBSON, Nowt — what could he saay ? But I taakes 'im fur a bad lot and a burn fool, and I haates the very sight on him, Dora. {Looking at Dobson.) Master Dobson, you are a comely man to look at. Dobson. I thank you for that, Miss Dora, onyhow. Dora. Ay, but you turn right ugly when you're in an ill temper; and I promise you that if you forget yourself in your behaviour to this gentleman, my father's friend, I will never change word with you again. Enter Farming yiK^from barn. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 63 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 wi' '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 waay, or ony waay, I'd slaave out my life fur 'er. ' Coomly to look at,' says she — but she said it spiteful-like. To look at — yeas, 'coomly'; and she mayn't be so fur out theer. 64 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. {Looking off stage.) Schoolmaster ! Why if Steer han't haxed schoolmaster to dinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus agean heving schoolmaster 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 goa by. What dost a knaw o' this Mr. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 65 Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? I coom'd 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 waay fur gentlefoalk altogither — leastwaays 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. F 66 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i DOBSON. Noii, 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 haates boooks an' all, fur they puts foalk off the owd waays. Enter Edgar, readhig — 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 67 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, Mr. Dobson. DOBSON. {Scornfully.) An' thou doant understan' it neither — and thou schoolmaster an' all. Edgar. What can a man, then, live for but sensations. Pleasant ones ? men of old would undergo Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones 68 THE PROMISE OF MA V act i Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties waiting To clasp their lovers by the golden gates. For me, whose cheerless Houris after death Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones — the while— If possible, here ! to crop the flower and pass. DOBSON. Well, I never 'eard the likes o' that afoor. Wilson. (Aside.) But I have, Mr. Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 'Let us eat and drink, for to- morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never comes to church, I thought better of him. Edgar. 'What are we,' says the blind old man in Lear? * As flies to the Gods ; they kill us for their sport.' ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 69 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 for ever. It is Nature kills, And not for her sport either. She knows nothing. Man only knows, the worse for him ! for why Cannot he take his pastime like the flies ? And if my pleasure breed another's pain, Well — is not that the course of Nature too. From the dim dawn of Being — her main law Whereby she grows in beauty— that her flies Must massacre each other ? this poor Nature ! 70 THE PROMISE OF MA V act i DOBSON. Natur ! Natur ! Well, it be i' my natur to knock 'im o' the 'eiid now ; but I weant. Edgar. A Quietist taking all things easily — why — Have I been dipping into this again To steel myself against the leaving her ? (Closes book, seeing ^\\Js>(m.) Good day ! Wilson. Good day, sir. (DoBSON looks hai'd at Edgar.) Edgar. (To DoBSON.) Have I the pleasure, friend, of knowing you ? ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 71 DOBSON. Dobson. Edgar. Good day, then, Dobson. {Exit. Dobson. 'Good daay then, Dobson!' Civil-spoken i'deed ! Why, Wilson, tha 'eard 'im thysen — the feller couldn't find a Mister 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 Lunnun swindler, and a burn fool. 72 THE PROMISE OF MA V act i Wilson. He can hardly be both, and he pays me regular every Saturday. DOBSON. Yeas ; but I haates 'im. Enter Steer, Farm Men mid Women. Steer. {Goes and sits under apple tree.) Hev' ony o' ye seen Eva ? Dobson. Noa, Mr. Steer. Steer. Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine cider-crop to-year if the blossom 'owds. Good murnin', neighbours, and the saame to you, my men. I taakes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed — ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 73 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 wur nobbut a laabourer, and now I be a landlord — burn a plowman, and now, as far as money goas, I be a gentleman, thaw I beiint 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. 74 THE PROMISE OF MA V act i 1ST Farming Man. Soii they be ! soa they be ! 2ND Farming Man. The Lord bless boath on 'em ! 3RD Farming Man. An' the saame to you, Master. 4TH Farming Man. And long life to boath on 'em. An' the saame to you, Master Steer, likewise. Steer. Thank ye ! £nfer Eva. Wheer 'asta been ? Eva. {Timidly.) Many happy returns of the day, father. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA V 75 Steer. They can't be many, my dear, but I 'oapes they'll be 'appy. DOBSON. Why, tha looks haale anew to last to a hoonderd. 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 -daay, an' then I wur turned huppads 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' plowed it moor nor a hoonderd times ; 76 THE PROMISE OF MA V act i hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plow straait as a line right i' the faace o' the sun, then back agean, a-foUering my oan shadder — then hup agean i' the faace o' the sun. Eh ! how the sun 'ud shine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daays, and the smell o' the mou'd an' all. Eh! if I could ha' gone on wi' the plowin' nobbut the smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' 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. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 77 Steer. Roomatics ! Noii ; I laame't my knee last night running arter a thief. Beant there house- breakers down i' Littlechester, Dobson — doant ye hear of ony ? Dobson. Ay, that there be. Immanuel Goldsmiths was broke into o' Monday night, and ower a hoonderd pounds worth o' rings stolen. Steer. So I thowt, and I heard the winder — that's the winder at the end o' the passage, that goas by thy chaumber. {Turning to Eva.) Why, lass, what maakes tha sa red ? Did 'e git into thy chaumber ? Eva. Father ! 78 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i 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 agean. Eva. Got thro' the window again ? Steer. Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot i' the flower- bed ; now theer be noan o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, fur I cotched 'im once a-stealin' coals, 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 maade by a Lunnun boot. {Looks at Eva.) Why, now, what maakes tha sa white ? ACT I THE PKOMTSE OF MA Y 79 Eva. Fright, father ! Steer. Maake thysen easy. I'll hev the winder naailed up, and put Towser under it. Eva. ( Clasping her hands. ) No, no, father ! Towser '11 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 'ull hev a dance. Eva. {Aside.) Dance ! small heart have I to dance. I should seem to be dancing upon a grave. 8o THE PROMISE OF MA V act i Steer. Wheer be Mr. Edgar ? about the premises ? DOBSON, Hallus about the premises ! Steer. So much the better, so much the better. I likes 'im, and Eva likes 'im. Eva can do owt wi' 'im ; look for 'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the barn. He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll git 'im to speechify for us arter dinner. - Eva. Yes, father ! [£xif. Steer. Coom along then, all the rest o' ye ! Church- warden be a coomin, thaw me and 'im we niver ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 8i '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 hoam- maade — but all on 'em welcome, all on 'em welcome; and I've hed the long barn cleared out of all the machines, and the sacks, and the taaters, and the mangles, and theer '11 be room anew for all o' ye. Poller me. All. Yeas, yeas ! Three cheers for Mr. Steer ! \All exeunt except Dobson into barn. Enter Edgar. Dobson (^ho is going, turns). Squire ! — if so be you be a squire. G . 82 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i Edgar. Dobbins, I think. DOBSON. Dobbins, you thinks ; and I thinks ye wears a Lunnun boot. 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. \Exit into barn. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 83 Edgar. Jealous of me with Eva ! Is it so ? Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, that I Have worn, to such a clod, yet that might be The best way out of it, if the child could keep Her counsel. I am sure I wish her happy. But I must free myself from this entanglement. I have all my life before me — so has she — Give her a month or two, and her affections Will flower toward the light in some new face. Still I am half-afraid to meet her now. She will urge marriage on me. I hate tears. Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate Traditions, ever since my narrow father, After my frolic with his tenant's girl, Made younger elder son, violated the whole Tradition of our land, and left his heir, 84 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i 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 ! That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, old Harold, Who leaves me all his land at Littlechester, He, too, would oust me from his will, if I Made such a marriage. And marriage in itself — The storm is hard at hand will sweep away Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, mar- riage One of the feeblest ! Then the man, the woman, ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 85 Following their best affinities, will each Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears ; Good wishes, not reproaches ; with no fear Of the world's gossiping clamour, and no need Of veiling their desires. Conventionalism, Who shrieks by day at what she does by night. Would call this vice ; but one time's vice may be The virtue of another ; and Vice and Virtue Are but two masks of self; and what hereafter Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in the gulf Of never-dawning darkness ? Enter Eva. My sweet Eva, Where have you lain in ambush all the morning ? They say your sister, Dora, has return'd, 86 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i And that should make you happy, if you love her ! But you look troubled. Eva. Oh, I love her so, I was afraid of her, and I hid myself. We never kept a secret from each other ; She would have seen at once into my trouble, And ask'd me what I could not answer. Oh, Philip, Father heard you last night. Our savage mastiff, That all but kill'd the beggar, will be placed Beneath the window, Philip. Edgar. Savage, is he ? What matters ? Come, give me your hand and kiss me This beautiful May-morning. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 87 Eva. The most beautiful May we have had for many years ! Edgar. And here Is the most beautiful morning of this May. Nay, you must smile upon me ! There — you make The May and morning still more beautiful, You, the most beautiful blossom of the Maj'. 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. 88 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act j Eva. Yes. Edgar. And when the man, The child of evolution, flings aside His swaddling-bands, the morals of the tribe. He, following his own instincts as his God, Will enter on the larger golden age ; No pleasure then taboo'd : for when the tide Of full democracy has overwhelm'd This Old world, from that flood will rise the New, Like the Love-goddess with no bridal veil, Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked Nature In all her loveliness. Eva. What are you saying ? ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 89 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 j how sweet they smell ! Edgar. There ! let me break some off for you. \Breaking branch of: 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 90 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i He wishes you to dine along with us, And speak for him after — you that are so clever ! Edgar. I grieve I cannot ; but, indeed Eva. What is it ? Edgar. Well, business. I must leave you, love, to-day. Eva. Leave me, to-day ! And when will you return ? Edgar. I cannot tell precisely ; but Eva. But what ? ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 91 Edgar. I trust, my dear, we shall be always friends. Eva. After all that has gone between us — friends ! What, only friends ? {Drops branch. Edgar. All that has gone between us Should surely make us friends. Eva. But keep us lovers. Edgar. Child, do you love me now ? Eva. Yes, now and ever. 92 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i Edgar. Then you should wish us both to love for ever. But, if you will bind love to one for ever, Altho' at first he take his bonds for flowers, As years go on, he feels them press upon him. Begins to flutter in them, and at last Breaks thro' them, and so flies away for ever ; While, had you left him free use of his wings. Who knows that he had ever dream'd of flying ? Eva. But all that sounds so wicked and so strange ; ' Till death us part ' — those are the only words. The true ones — nay, and those not true enough, For they that love do not believe that death Will part them. Why do you jest with me, and try ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA V 93 To fright me ? Tho' you are a gentleman, I but a farmer's daughter Edgar. Tut ! you talk Old feudalism. When the great Democracy Makes a new world Eva. And if you be not jesting, Neither the old world, nor the new, nor father. Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more. Edgar (moved). Then — (aside) Shall I say it ? — (aloud) fly with me to-day. Eva. No ! Philip, Philip, if you do not marry me, I shall go mad for utter shame and die. 94 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i Edgar. Then, if we needs must be conventional, When shall your parish-parson bawl our banns Before your gaping clowns ? Eva. Not in our church — I think I scarce could hold my head up there. Is there no other way ? Edgar. Yes, if you cared To fee an over-opulent superstition. Then they would grant you what they call a licence To marry. Do you wish it ? Eva. JDo I wish it ? ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA V 95 Edgar. In London. Eva. You will write to me ? Edgar. I will. Eva. And I will fly to you thro' the night, the storm — Yes, tho' the fire should run along the ground, As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you see, I was just out of school, I had no mother — My sister far away — and you, a gentleman. Told me to trust you : yes, in everything — Thaf was the only frue love ; and I trusted — Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for you. How could you — Oh, how could you ? — nay, how could I ? 96 THE PROMISE OF MAY But now you will set all right again, and I Shall not be made the laughter of the village, And poor old father not die miserable. Dora {singing in the distance). ' O joy for the promise of May, of May, O joy for the promise of May.' Edgar. Speak not so loudly ; that must be your sister. You never told her, then, of what has past Between us. Eva. Never ! Edgar. Do not till I bid you. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA Y 97 Eva. No, Philip, no. \Turns away. Edgar {moved). How gracefully there she stands Weeping — the little Niobe ! What ! we prize The statue or the picture all the more When we have made them ours ! Is she less love- able. 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 ? 98 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i Edgar. Nothing more, farewell. \They embrace. Dora {coming nearer), ' O grief for the promise of May, of May, O grief for the promise of May.' Edgar {still embracing her). Keep up your heart until we meet again. Eva. If that should break before we meet again ? Edgar. Break ! nay, but call for Philip when you will, And he returns. Eva. Heaven hears you, Philip Edgar ! ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA V 99 Edgar (moved). And /le would hear you even from the grave. Heaven curse him if he come not at your call ! Enter Dora. Dora. Well, Eva ! Eva. Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have been away from home ! Oh, how often I have wished for you ! It seemed to me that we were parted for ever. Dora. For ever, you foolish child ! What's come over you ? We parted like the brook yonder about the alder island, to come together again in a moment and to go on together again, till one of us be lOO THE PROMISE OF MA Y act i married. But where is this Mr. Edgar whom you praised so in your first letters ? You haven't even mentioned him in your last ? Eva. He has gone to London. Dora. Ay, child ; and you look thin and pale. Is it for his absence? Have you fancied yourself in love with him? That's all nonsense, you know, such a baby as you are. But you shall tell me all about it. Eva. Not now — presently. Yes, I have been in trouble, but I am happy — I think, quite happy now. Dora {taking Eva's hand). Come, then, and make them happy in the long ACT I THE PROMISE OF MA V lOI barn, for father is in his glory, and there is a piece of beef like a house-side, and a plum-pudding as big as the round haystack. But see they are coming out for the dance already. Well, my child, let us join them. Enter all from barn laughing. Eva sits reluctantly under apple tree. Steer enters smoking^ sits by Eva. Dance. ACT 11. Five years have elapsed between Acts I. and II. Scene. — A meadow. On one side a pathway going over a rustic bridge. At back the farmhouse amo7ig trees. In the distance a church spire. DoBsoN and Dora. DOBSON. So the owd uncle i' Coomberland be dead, Miss Dora, beant he ? Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been attending on his death-bed and his burial. AOT II THE PROMISE OF MA Y 103 DOBSON. It be five year sin' ye went afoor to him, and it seems to me nobbut t'other day. Hesn't he left ye nowt ? Dora. No, Mr. Dobson. DOBSON. But he were mighty fond o' ye, warn't he ? Dora. Fonder of poor Eva — like everybody else. Dobson {handing Dora basket of roses). Not like me, Miss Dora ; and I ha' browt these roses to ye — I forgits what they calls 'em, but I hallus gi'ed soom on 'em to Miss Eva at this time o' year. Will ya taake 'em? fur Miss Eva, she set the bush by my dairy winder afoor she went to school at Littlechester — so I alius browt soom on I04 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act n '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. \Takes 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 ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 105 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 bring tha io6 THE PROMISE OF MA V ACT ii 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 ACT II THE PROMISE OF MA Y 107 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. {Fulls out a letter.) I wear it next my heart. Poor sister, I had it five years ago. ' Dearest Dora, — I have lost myself, and am lost for ever to you and my poor father. I thought Mr. Edgar the best of men, io3 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act ii 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 parlour quite like a laady, ye should ! Dora. It cannot be. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MA Y 109 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 taakes 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. no THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii 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 \ioxviyou into the estate of a gentleman, you would still have been Farmer Dobson. You had better attend to your hayfield. Good afternoon. \Exit. Dobson. * Farmer Dobson ' ! Well, I be Farmer Dobson ; but I thinks Farmer Dobson's dog 'ud ha' knaw'd ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY in better nor to cast her sister's misfortin inter 'er teeth arter she'd been a-readin' me the letter wi' 'er voice a-shaakin', and the drop in 'er eye. Theer she goas ! Shall I foUer '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 ! Enter Haymakers with a load of hay. The last on it, eh ? 1ST Haymaker. Yeas. Dobson. Hoam wi' it, then. \Exit surlily. 112 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii 1ST Haymaker. Well, it be the last load hoam. 2ND Haymaker. Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be glad on it. What maakes 'im alius sa glum ? Sally Allen. Glum ! he be wus nor glum. He coom'd up to me yisterdaay 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 '//« 'at sweet'arts alius worked best togither ; and then he called me a rude naame, and I can't abide 'im. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 113 James. Why, lass, doant 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.' I 114 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii 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 what 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, ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 115 At the end of the daay, For the last load hoam ? But what did ye saay, and what did ye do, Wi' 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 maay, 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 to Sally. Il6 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii Sally. Let ma aloan afoor foalk, wilt tha ? 1ST Haymaker. Ye shall sing that agean to-night, fur owd Dobson '11 gi'e us a bit o' supper. Sally. I weant 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'es nubbut cowd tea to '« men, and owd Dobson gi'es beer. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 117 Sally. But I'd like owd Steer's cowd tea better nor Dobson's beer. Good-bye. {Going. James. Gi'e us a buss fust, lass. Sally. I tell'd tha to let ma 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 her. Sally. Git along wi' ye, do ! [Exit. [All laugh ; exeunt singing. u8 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii *To be true to each other, let 'appen what maay, Till the end o' the daay An' the last load hoam.' Enter Harold. Harold. Not Harold ! ' Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar !' Her phantom call'd me by the name she loved. I told her I should hear her from the grave. Ay ! yonder is her casement. I remember Her bright face beaming starlike down upon me Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left her Here weeping, I have ranged the world, and sat Thro' every sensual course of that full feast That leaves but emptiness. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 119 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 ! O my God, if man be only A willy-nilly current of sensations — Reaction needs must follow revel — yet — AVhy feel remorse, he, knowing that he nmst have Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny ? Remorse then is a part of Destiny, Nature a liar, making us feel guilty Of her own faults. My grandfather — of him They say, that women — O this mortal house, I20 THE PROMISE OF MA Y A( Which we are born into, is haunted by The ghosts of the dead passions of dead men ; And these take flesh again with our own flesh, And bring us to confusion. He was only A poor philosopher who call'd the mind Of children a blank page, a tabula rasa. There, there, is written in invisible inks 'Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft, Cowardice, Murder ' — and the heat and fire Of life will bring them out, and black enough. So the child grow to manhood : better death With our first wail than life — Song {further off). ' Till the end o' the daay An' the last load hoam, Load hoam,' ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY I2i This bridge again ! {Steps on the bridge.) How often have I stood With Eva here ! The brook among its flowers ! Forget-me-not, meadowsweet, willow-herb. I had some smattering of science then, Taught her the learned names, anatomized The flowers for her — and now I only wish This pool were deep enough, that I might plunge And lose myself for ever. Enter Dan Smith {singing). Gee oop ! 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 122 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii That beer be as good fur 'erses as men. Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop ! whoa ! Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa. The beer's gotten oop into my 'ead. 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 half afraid to pass. Harold. Sometimes I wonder, When man has surely learnt at last that all ACT ir THE PROMISE OF MAY 123 His old-world faith, the blossom of his youth, Has faded, falling fruitless — whether then All of us, all at once, may not be seized With some fierce passion, not so much for Death As against Life ! all, all, into the dark — No more ! — andscience now could drug and balm us Back into nescience with as little pain As it is to fall asleep. This beggarly life, This poor, flat, hedged-in field — no distance — this Hollow Pandora-box, With all the pleasures flown, not even Hope Left at the bottom ! Superstitious fool. What brought me here ? To see her grave ? her ghost ? Her ghost is everyway about me here. 124 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii Dora {coming fonuard). Allow me, sir, to pass you. Harold. Eva! Dora. Eva ! Harold, What are you ? Where do you come from } Dora. From the farm Here, close at hand. Harold. Are you — you are — that Dora, The sister. I have heard of you. The likeness Is very striking. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 125 Dora. You knew Eva, then ? Harold. Yes — I was thinking of her when — O yes, Many years back, and never since have met Her equal for pure innocence of nature, And loveliness of feature. Dora. No, nor I. Harold. Except, indeed, I have found it once again In your own self. Dora. You flatter me. Dear Eva Was always thought the prettier. 126 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii 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. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MA Y 127 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. 128 THE PROMISE OF MA V act ii Dora. She has disappear' d, poor darling, from the world — Left but one dreadful line to say, that we Should find her in the river ; and we dragg'd The Littlechester river all in vain : Have sorrow'd for her all these years in vain. And my poor father, utterly broken down By losing her — she was his favourite child — Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear. But for the slender help that I can give, Fall into ruin. Ah ! that villain, Edgar, If he should ever show his face among us. Our men and boys would hoot him, stone him, hunt him With pitchforks off the farm, for all of them Loved her, and she was worthy of all love. ACT 11 THE PROMISE OF MA V 129 Harold. They say, we should forgive our enemies. Dora. Ay, if the wretch were dead I might forgive him ; We know not whether he be dead or living. Harold. What Edgar ? Dora. Philip Edgar of Toft Hall In Somerset. Perhaps you know him ? Harold. Slightly. (Aside.) Ay, for how slightly have I known myself. Dora. This Edgar, then, is living ? K I30 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act ii 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. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MA Y 131 Dora. Dead ! and this world Is brighter for his absence as that other Is darker for his presence. Harold. Is not this To speak too pitilessly of the dead ? Dora. My five-years' anger cannot die at once, Not all at once with death and him. I trust I shall forgive him — by-and-by — not now. O sir, you seem to have a heart ; if you Had seen us that wild morning when we found Her bed unslept in, storm and shower lashing Her casement, her poor spaniel wailing for her, 132 THE PROMISE OF MAY ACT ii That desolate letter, blotted with her tears, Which told us we should never see her more — Our old nurse crying as if for her own child, My father stricken with his first paralysis, And then with blindness — had you been one of us And seen all this, then you would know it is not So easy to forgive — even the dead. Harold. But sure am I that of your gentleness You will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'd A miracle of gentleness — would not blur A moth's wing by the touching ; would not crush The fly that drew her blood ; and, were she living, Would not — if penitent — have denied him her Forgiveness. And perhaps the man himself, "When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'd ACT II THE PROMISE OF MA V 133 More than we know. But wherefore waste your heart In looking on a chill and changeless Past ? Iron will fuse, and marble melt ; the Past Remains the Past. But you are young, and — pardon me — As lovely as your sister. Who can tell What golden hours, with what full hands, may be Waiting you in the distance ? Might I call Upon your father — I have seen the world — And cheer his blindness with a traveller's tales ? Dora. Call if you will, and when you will. I cannot Well answer for my father ; but if you Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva When in her brighter girlhood, I at least 134 THE PROMISE OF MA Y ACT ii Will bid you welcome, and will listen to you. Now I must go. Harold. But give me first your hand : I do not dare, like an old friend, to shake it I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege When you shall know me better. Dora. {Aside.) How beautiful His manners are, and how unlike the farmer's ! You are staying here ? Harold. Yes, at the wayside inn Close by that alder-island in your brook, ' The Angler's Home.' ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 135 Dora. Are you one ? Harold. No, but I Take some delight in sketching, and the country Has many charms, altho' the inhabitants Seem semi-barbarous. Dora. I am glad it pleases you ; Yet I, born here, not only love the country, But its inhabitants too ; and you, I doubt not. Would take to them as kindly, if you cared To live some time among them. Harold. If I did, Then one at least of its inhabitants Might have more charm for me than all the country. 136 THE PROMISE OF MA Y act 11 Dora. That one, then, should be grateful for your preference. Harold. I cannot tell, tho' standing in her presence. {Aside. ) She colours ! Dora. Sir! Harold. Be not afraid of me, For these are no conventional flourishes. I do most earnestly assure you that Your likeness \Shouts ajtd cries without. Dora. What was that ? my poor blind father — ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 137 ^«/