» Lascelles Abercrombie •4 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES jse DEBORAH DEBORAH A PLAY IN THREE ACTS BY LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE LONDON: JOHNLANETHEBODLEYHEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN MCMXIIJ Turnbull ■ with Saui. Saul. My Barnaby will live. — Do you think he knows? Did he say" for sure that Barnaby would live? A Alan. O ay, he knows. Barnaby's through it now. Saul. I was afraid for him, mightily afraid. What ! Where's the doctor? Did I let him go? My God, sui'pose he's playing a dog-trick on me ! If he has swindled me ! Shall I after him? Ah, but I could not master them again. He has broken the fear in me, and it was fear Kept me strung upright, and the mind m me hale And throng'd with an anger, would have thrasht you down If you had dared me. O my spirit stormed Within me then, I had limbs like a giant's. But now my will crumbles into failure ; The fear has snapt, I felt it in my brain Snap like a strand, and all my life loosen Because it parted ; and I can't mend my fear. That's strange, isn't it ? I can't fear at all. What made it break, and so unman my heart ? 20 DEBORAH Ah, I remember, Barnaby's going to live. A Man. What, Saul, man, you are reeling ! Saul. I'm tired out. For hours it's been with me like riding waves That reacht higher and higher. They'll drown me now. I'm glad you quencht so easily at my temper ; For had it come to a tussle, I dare say You'ld have found me in slack fettle, a breathless weakling. The Man. Is it the sickness on you, Saul ? Sat/l. I think This body holds more sickness now than Saul. There are wells of cold pouring out of my heart ; My thought's all black within me. I am earth Already, save for the business that the plague Has lelt itself to do. The Man. Why, then let's have The doctor back. Saul. No, others want him now ; And Barnaby will live. The Man. He's within hail, And 'twill be hours before he's through his job. I'll call him back. Satil. What good ? he said the lad was nearing health. Did he not ? Yes, I'm sure he said it. The Man. Ay, But it's leapt from Barnaby to you ; and maybe Soon it will beat the man to loose its grip. Saul. Nay, it began last night, and all to-day I've felt it burrowing deeper in my vitals ; Ay, like claws working within me, tearing The roots of my life apart. But there was one Main sinew was too tough for all its gnawing, My fear for Barnaby. And now that's given, DEBORAH 21 The lad will live : in a few days, maybe, You'll see him playing ally-com-panny here Or football. Yes, he'll take to football first When he gets up ; he likes a running game. I hope this bout won't set his growth aback. Christ, I'm dizzy : am I standing now ? 1 seem falling and falling endlessly ; The air is shouting past me. I ought to pray ; But there's no need : Barnaby will live. [He falls. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John Bless the bed that I lie on. I'm going to swoon, I think. Lads will you try To carry me indoors ? — quick, while I have Some senses left. I must not go without Saying gqed-bye to Barnaby. Thty carry him into the cottage. A short pause. Deborah rushes in dis- traught. Deborah. Saul, you murderer, you murderer ! What? O, it's no good hiding: come out now : Let's have no whimpering over Barnaby ; You've killed my David ; stand out into the open, You and your crime, and let me see you blench To feel, at my asking, God take hold of you. \She sees SatiVs axe on the ground, and picks it up. His axe ! Saul's dropt his axe ! Why, this is the word For me to give Saul, this is the word I want ! [Battering at Saul's cottage door. David has sent a message to you, Saul. Come out, and take it. [She stands ready with the axe lifted for striking. One of t/ie men open the dcor. »2 DEBORAH The Man. Saul is dead. Deborah {staggering). Saul dead ? Who killed him? The Man. Dead of the plague he is. Deborah. The plague ! Had Saul the plague ? — No, it's afraid he is, And shamming, — tell him I mean to see him. The Man. Look there. Deborah {peering past him). Saul ? — Saul ? — Who'ld think he'd go so sudden ? \^The axe drops from her hands. What fell ? — O yes, he's cheated that too, now ! — David, David, I can do nothing for you ! Curtain. ACT II PERSONS Deborah. The Mother of Deborah's lover, David. Miriam, David's younger sister. Barnaby, Saul's son, now grown up. ACT II The living room of Deborah! s cottage. Doors to bedrooms R. and L. : door into the lane at back. {L.C.) Deborah by herself, bending over a seaman^ s chest. She calls into the inner room. Deborah. Barnaby ! \_Barnaby, grown to a young man, -Xt comes in from the bedroom. Your kit's ready now, I think. You'll need to cord it well : the lock's not good. Barnaby (as he cords the box). Lucky for me you had this chest put by; I've not too many shillings. Deborah. Yes, 'twas lucky. Barnaby. You've never told me where it came from. Deborah. No ? — {She pauses a momeftt, then adds quietly) This was my David's box. — He would have gone, Too, for a sailor ; and I often lookt To pack this box for him with things he'ld need. I begged it from his mother when he died ; I've nothing else of his. — Well, 'tis yours now. It's you are off for a sailor now. Barnaby {rising from the box). That's done ; And properly. Try the rope by the knot ; You could nigh fiddle on it. — O, it's queer ! I can scarce think I'm off to see the world. u 26 DEBORAH Deborah. Ay, here's the evening come that I've watched coming These many years. Barnahy. You knew I'ld go ? Deborah. O, well ! Barnaby. But you aren't grieved with me? Deborah. Why should I grieve? The world's made for young men. And you'll come back. There's that, I think, in the village will draw you home. Often I'll see you coming through that door With a fine swagger learnt on foreign quays. Barnaby. Deborah, if I don't come back Deborah. Fie, now, What sort of talk is this ? Barnaby. But I must say it. — When in that pestilence my father died, And I was homeless in the village, you Took me and housed me. 'Tis so long ago That I've no mind of it. But no one else, I know, would have to do with me ; the men Remembered how, to keep the doctor with me, My father cowed them like a lot of dogs, Yes, and he with the sickness on him. And the women Hated me as the child for whose small life So many dead were paid. Deborah. The women ! Gulls Chattering shrilly when the tide is out ! It's true Saul seized the Doctor's skill for you. Kept it till you were sound. But who's to know That those the doctor could not save had lived If they'd been tended sooner? Barnaby. It's nought to me Whether they lived or died. — But I was there DEBORAH 27 In the sight of all, a living thing the folk Could spend their bitterness on. What matters it Whether their bitterness was lies or no? It's what they said that matters. — And with their saying they'ld have smeared my Hfe, Made me a workhouse boy, had it not been For you, Deborah. Deborah. It's all over now : No one thinks of it nowadays. Barnaby. No one But me — and David's mother. Deborah. Miriam's mother. And Miriam takes no heart from her, I think. Barnaby {breaking in hastily). But you, who'd h^ through me the dearest loss Of all in the village, you whom my life had robbed Of David — O I know the man he was, I've heard the talk of who remember him — You took me in and housed me ! Deborah. Barnaby ! Let be ! Barnaby. I must not let it be. For years I've taken all your love as, I suppose. Rich folks eat bread — without thanks or a thought For what was nourishing me. Deborah. There needed none. Barnaby. And now — you give me David's box! Deborah. Who else Should have it ? Barnaby. I did not know it was his. Deborah. What then ? Barnaby. O Deborah, dare you give it me ? Is it only a small thing to you, this That once was David's? If he saw you now ! If David saw you giving me, who brought 28 DEBORAH Death between you and him, this last small thing ! Deborah. No more, Barnaby ! — You must take the box ; It means something to me. — And now I'll say What I, too, have kept hid for many years, Hid even from mvself. While you were growing, Our hearts quietly drew our minds to be, Ahnost at unawares, brother and sister. Now you are grown, and now to-night you are off For the great seas of the world and a man's adventure; — And now, Barnaby — you are my son. Let that be the full quittance in your thought Of what I've done for you. Into my life You came terribly : I dare think I'ld have More right to claim you than your mother's pangs, You were such an anguish to me. Yes, and I Died then, save for a husk of living, still Fastened about the soul perisht within me. But now the hidden senses in my soul Are nursed out of their dreadful grave of winter, As rains nurse in the earth the buried plenty ; And you have put in me the power of life Again, like a new season in the world. You, and the joy you're bringing me. — It's well, Maybe, we are not used to have our speech Deal with such things as these : but is there not, Now that your going's brought us to the mood, Somewhat besides within you, you should tell me? Barnaby {uneasy). I ? I've said what I had to say. — But now I must go see some friends before I start. Deborah. Yes, that you must : I will wait here for you. Barnaby {io himself as he goes). Time I was going for a sailor indeed. DEBORAH 39 \^Barnaby goes through the door to the lane. Deborah remains, looking at the box. Deborah. He should have told me; but I know 'tis so ; I know how it is with him and Miriam, — David's sister ! O I was wrencht at first ! Cruel it was to see the signs of their love At first : but now — am I wronging you now, David, my David, to feel life so strong, To be so glad that life is in my heart. And you there in the grave? Down there so long, My beautiful David, and the stones between us ! And I'walking over you with a heart Sweet with life ! — But ageing, ageing slowly. [A kfiock at the outer door and David's "^ mother comes ifi. She is now an old zvoman. David's Mother. They tell me Barnaby sets out to-night. Deborah. They told you truth. The Mother. And you'll be lonely then ? Deborah. Why, not so lonely. Miriam will come Often, and talk with me of Barnaby. Mother. Miriam's my daughter, and I'll have her mind When once she's free from the lad's looks. Deborah. Ay, will you ? You know, then ? But you will not poison her. Mother. Poison? Yes, if the truth be poison, as It must be to some folks, poison and shame. — Ah ! ht-re will be Barnaby's box now, I dare say. {She looks close at the box). Why, this is it ! I guesst this ! This is why I came here. 3° DEBORAH Deborah. I was wondering why you came. Mother. Miriam told me, you had'found a box Put by, would do for Barnaby. And I, In the instant of her words, was very sure The box would be this that was David's once. O it's a queer thing you should be so faithless ! But you shall have the truth now, Deborah : And if it makes your blood burn, if it makes The woman in you grieve like an inmost pain, It's you are the shame, you are the poison, not The truth I'm giving you. Deborah. It will be well To have this out now: it must co«ie some time. Mother. Well, is it ? And is this well, this last thing You've done to David ? Give his box away To the boy for whom David's life was murder'd ! O yes, I know it's not the worst you've done ; And I've stood by and watched you, these long years, Wronging my son, whose living heart was all Yours, but dead is mine only, all mine! Deborah. I never wronged" your son. Mother. Never ? O, wait ! You'll see yourself at last now as you are. For this has fetched me out of bitter silence. After the plague was done, and David earthed, And when you pante makmg your cry to me, You forged your words so clever, I could not help But give you this for keepsake, David's box, — His father's, too, before him. It had been yours. You said, to pack against his voyages. And see who has it now ! Now whose voyage Have you been careful of, whose? Barnaby 's ! The child of wicked Saul, who let my David Die that his brat might steal the doctor's skill ! DEBORAH 31 This is not such a little thing : it is A great and dreadful thing, because it tops So much — Girl ! do you not ftel guilty ? Deborah. No. Mother. It's a strange wonder. You watch Barnaby, Grown to the height almost that David had, Living here in your house as though he were Your own blood, and you never wince as if fire Fell on your skin, to think who was driven down Out of the life he made so much of, ay. Out of your life and mine, by Barnaby. O, I have been patient, Deborah ; my God, I've had good need to be patient, seeing you. The one who, after me, should have kept pure David's «iemory, using him this way. Fostering Barnaby ! I hope the souls See when they've gone through death, that David now May know what faith his sweetheart keeps for him, — Housing the boy who was his death ! — and know At last, his mother is the faithful one. Deborah. O, David sees us now, be you well sure. Mother. And does he see, think you, this Barnaby Trapping the*heart of his sister? Deborah. Ay, at last We've come to it. Mother. Indeed we've come to it. You know, do you, Barnaby's drawn the girl, My Miriam, into hiS" wiles? Deborah. She loves him. 33 DEBORAH Mother. She does not. How could she, David's sister, love Barnaby? 'Tis but his looks have seized her mind. Deborah. And do you mean to put yourself against These two lives that are bound to love each other? Mother. O, this is handsome talk ! And I suppose It pleases you — it will be how you keep Your love for David still alight within you — To think of these two comini,' into love. Deborah. Pleases me ? No ; the word's too small. Mother. And this The horriblest thing a dreaming fever could Devise to sicken ycmr heart 1 I'ld rather have The girl caught by a town-scamp, and made game of. Than to fall in with Barnaby. Why, that Would be as if she helpt in David's death ; Her love would be growing out of David's grave ! Deborah. We can't look back so far : these two must have Their need of life ; and life must still fare on As it were burning the past things in f^ladness. Mother. Gladness for you, mayhap : but not for me ; I still am thinking on my dead David. Deborah. But if you will not reckon as I do These matters, you will gall and break yourself, Striving with what is not to be striven down. Motfier. Not myself but this wicked love I'll break, — If love's already upon them. Deborah. And it is j You know it is. DEBORAH 33 Mother. My God, I do : and I know You're mightily glad of it, — David's sweetheart ! Deborah. You shall listen to me. I think I could Never persuade your mind that it should know How life went through me, every living moment Making my body feel as the air must feel When a song takes it, — how I thrilled to life In those gone days of David loving me. And when I came to myself and was no longer Senseless, after they had buried David, I was all sealed away from the health of life ; And through my misery only came the throb Of a huge force of pain. And then I saw You village folk meaning to turn your grief To malice put on that young helpless boy, Barnaby. I stopt that ; and, to be true. Then I knew nothing why I gave the lad My hearth. Blindly I did it ; but it was The life in me desiring joy again. And, unknown to itself, making a way Out of sorrow. Mother. Ay, that's your wickedness, Not to be sorry for your David dead Through all your time. Deborah. And vex him with my grief? — I know the strength of sorrow ; but I know. Even I know, who have such need of death, What life can do against its sorrow, how Lovely in gladness life can be : I have Great joy in living now, knowing these two Love as I loved my David. — This house lies So close to the marsh, that I must always have The quiet sounds in my ears the quags and pools Whimper at night, as though the darkness were A pain to itself ; and often as I would sit c 34 DEBORAH To grieve before my fire, aching within, All wound and rankle, I would seem to be Life shut in its narrow nature; and outside, Surroundmg me, the sighing, crying marsh Was sorrow and darkness always calling to life. — Then I began to take young Barnaby Into my muid, and feel him dear to me. Mother. O shameless, shameless ! Listen to her, David ! Deborah. He's listening ; and he knows I hear the marsh Still calling ; but my heart is strong against it. For now in the life I know, love once more Begins — in Barnaby and Miriam ! It begins, and it shakes off the calling sorrow. And you — you will hinder it ! This life of ours, That can fight down all the terrible strength Of misery coming wild and fierce against it ; And, like a kmdled thing, goes on in joy, Leaving the bitter spite of ail its wrong Behind it, as a flame leaves empty ashes, — This life you'll manage like a broken horse. And drive with a few words in the little road Your fanciful notions take ! No, you will not. I care not what you make of me, for I Go on now trusting in the life I know ; I trust it to be in me a strong heart. And I'll not spend my breath in pleading with you For these two children, to be kind with them. But I'll do this : I'll warn you, not to risk What scant frail happiness you have, in hope To match your will against the power of life When it means making glory of love again. \_Miriam comes in hastily with an air of trouble. Deborah. Miriam ! DEBORAH 35 Mother. Ivliriam ! you here in this house ? Miriam {to Deborah). Where's Barnaby ? Where is he, Deborah ? He has not gone ? I will not let him go Without some speech with me. Deborah. What have you done ? Miriam, why do you look afeared ? Is this Some quarrel you and Barnaby have made? You've never let a whim of anger sting Your minds, just at the hour of his leaving you ? Miriam. But he's not gone ? I cannot have hirn go Not saying a word. Mother. You will not let him go ? What do^you want with words from Barnaby ? Miriam. O you know nothing, nothing of this : I came For Deborah. Mother. It must be hidden then From your own mother? There is like to be Something shameful in this. Deborah. Some folly, I think : To sour your first parting with a quarrel ! Miriam. But I've been waiting, hearkening all day For hifu to whistle his curlew-cry without Thiat tells me he is there, ready for me. Mother. Ho, now we know the trick : the fool I have been ! Deborah. What ! What is this ? Barnaby went from here A moment since to find you. Miriam. He did not come. Deborah. Then you'll have missed him. But look, there's his box : 36 DEBORAH He must come back for that before he starts. You shall stay here, and mend this foolishness ; He cannot be long away, you not to be found. Mother. Now this is mine ; I have the say here now. Miriam, you shall take your road with me Back to the house. Barnaby's nought to you, And from this hour you'll hear no pretty curlews Crying you to put by your maidenhood. Miriam. O God, she knows ! I did not think she knew ! [She falls on her knees at the table with face in arms. A short pause follows Miiiam^s cry. Mother. I was looking for this ; I knew we'ld find Some shameful thing. We've had enough of words ; With me now, girl ! Deborah. You must not go with her, You must not ! Miriam, tell her she mistakes, Fearfully mistakes you ; and maybe then She'll let you stay here. — What ! have you no words, Nothing to answer her? Do you not guess What a vile thing her mind is making of you? Mother. You'ld have her face me with some hardy show? Let her weep and be ashamed. But hear me, you {to Miriam), If you stay here for Barnaby, you'll stay Out of my house forever. — God, my daughter A boy's wanton ! Your fine work, Deborah ! Tis' this has gladdened you, and made you shift The sorrow you so talk of, and love life ; This is what David died for ! An eye-sweet thing ! A spice for all the blab-tongues on the river ! DEBORAH 37 - Deborah. Have no heed for her, Miriam, but trust me. Poor lass ! your little quarrel is so sore on you Her talk goes past you. But we'll make it nothing ; Stay for Barnaby, and you'll laugh at this. Mother. I have no time for whiling here ; come now. Now with me home, or never try again The door of my house or the door of my heart. Deborah. Miriam, I know Barnaby's mind : stay here. \Barnaby comes in, but stands doubtful a short way from the door. Mother. So here's your boy ; and now you make your choice, And it's^for ever. You will get no good From lYim ; his father's wicked blood is all Too strong within him ; and it is he who brought Misery on us, and poverty so hard That we've been beggars in the village often, Beggars for food many a bitter day. He killed David : put that in your heart Beside the folly that you've played with him. He's made my heart sick to be sending life Still through my brain. Now choose if he's your lover. Deborah. Miriam, it's for you to speak. Miriam {looking up). Barnaby ! \A brief pause. Mother (breaking into lament). I am alone now ! I am alone with my age ! Nothing is left me out of all my years, Nothing but grieving. Long ago they killed My son, and now my daughter turns on me And joins with them who've been so wicked to me. I'll never heal of this : nothing but grieving ! 38 DEBORAH O Christ, I am too old ; I should be gone. [S/ie shuffles through the oilier door. Miriam {rising fo her feet). Barnaby ! Barnaby ! What have I done ? Deborah. We'll have some quiet now. And now, you children. See if we do not set this quarrel straight. Miriam. I say it is no quarrel ; but for three days, Three days, he has been careful to keep far From Seeing me. Deborah. For three days ! but this comes Like thunder on me. Three days ! — Barnaby ! What holds your tongue? Miriam. And it's worse than I dared Even to think ! for I did think he'ld have Some hard word to give me ; but here's nothing. Surely I am to blame; but he says nothing; And I, Deborah, I'm nothing to him ! O Deborah, make him speak to me. Deborah. You must, Barnaby, you must speak. Do you not see It's dreadful, you not saying a word, and standing There with your grounded looks ? Why are you sullen? Barnaby. I would have done without this. Miriam, O, to me ! Not to yourself, as though your eyes took shame To find me; but say out to me the thing That makes you strange against me. I am strong ; You need not think of tears : I am past tears. — Barnaby, you are leaving me to-night ! Barnaby. Ay ; and it had been better if you'd stayed From catching at my going. Deborah. But, O dear God, What does it all mean ? What is in your mind DEBORAH 39 Barnaby. Well ; you will have it then ? — It's not my fault ; Nor yours, Miriam. It just had to be, Deborah. What is it? What is it? Barnaby. I'ld liever have gone off" Without coming to this Miriam. What have I done ? Barnaby. Why, nothing. — It's a troublesome thing to say, A troublesome thing to know rightly the work My mind's been making in me. — But I know this, Miriam : I must clean go from you to-night ; And from to-night on, — you must be done with me. Miriam. You're going for a good while ? Barnaby. For good and all. Miriam. What does he say, Deborah ? Sure I ha»e Some faintness on me, and it hurts my hearing. Deborah. You will get used to this. 'Tis how things go Here in the world. You trusted in your life, Did you not ? Ay, you trusted there was joy To carry you through life. This is what falls To those who trust so. — But it cannot be; The old despair cannot be coming down On me again. Now, not for the love of me, Barnaby, but for the love of God, say out What it is truly we two women must Look for at your hands now. Barnaby. Have I not said it? — ( With sudden impatience) It's all too small for me here : it's all crampt, A misery of little drudging work, With now and then some fair risk of a danger Out on the river ; and that's the one fine thing In this half-smothered life. And what comes then, 40 DEBORAH When we are through the dnnuer, with a breath That's all sharp tingling from it? Back we come, A penny or two in our pockets maybe, back To this — what shall I call it? ay, a kennel, A kennel made of mud, this j)enn'd village. This knab of dirt between river and marsh. But I'll fiing free. I'll not keep stifiing here. Out m the world there's China and the Indies, Lands they spcrak of wondenuUy, and capes That ask a month of storming to get round j All the great life of sailors, as I've heard The pil(Jts tell of, they who bring to dock And through our shoals the ships that trade in the East. And what's the best for me if I stay here? Grow to a pilot's wisdom, maybe ; climb In the half-light the sides of vessels, stained With pushmg through the salty weather of seas Where the sun makes the waters burn like stone That floors a furnace ; and have some snatch of talk With them who live what I must dream, as men Visit a cripple bedrid in a room. Deborah. 1 know all this ; I have long seen it growing. And there's no harm in it. And is this all The reason for your cruelty, — your want To go a-vagabonding with the sailors ? Barfiaby. No, 'tis not all ; but it is all my words Can fashion of the mind in me. That life Which leaps so keen awake within my brain When, like a hatred that has been in hiding, Danger blows on the fishing fleet, and we Must fight to win ashore, that power of life Is what has taken a strong hold on me. I must go out and let it spend itself DEBORAH 41 Somewhere — somehow — I don't know rightly ; yet This is plain as a candle-flame in darkness, — I'm to have done with being hampered here. Deborah. And this girl — why should you not come back to her, When you have seen the world ? Barnaby. Well, I've myself To please about that first. I'll not be made A mammet for you women to play games with. Deborah. I understand your meaning now. You've done The wicked thing by her. Barnaby. And what did she But pltfase her own mind in it? Miriam. O God ! God ! Deborah. Why, you should smile when you drink gaH; Miriam, For there's nought else your soul will drink of life. Barnaby. O, but it's not so easy for me to leave her! A deal of comfort calls me here ; and she Keeps all of it, — she's all the little close Sweetness of comfortable wonted life Which would grip firm about me ; and it's that — That is the thing I must be cruel with, And to myself, too, I must be cruel. Deborah. And you care nought for what may happen to her? Barnaby. And what should happen to her ? what should happen?^ \^Deborah looks steadily at Barnaby. Barnaby. Deborah, leave us a moment. [^Deborah goes into the inner room. I suppose That you've let on about our foolishnesss ? Miriam. Foolishness ! It was sacred to me. 43 DEBORAH Barnaby. Leave that, And tell me. Is there aught like to come of it? Miriam. And if there was, what would it mean to you? Barnaby. Why — why, I think — I should come back to you. Miriam. You may go with an easy mind then. No, There's nothing like to come of it — nothing. Barnaby. Well, the boat's waiting at the jetty now To row me and my traps up to the dock \He hesitates a moment, then suddenly picks up his box, shoulders it, and makes off through the door into the lane. Deborah {coming in from the bedroom). He's gone? Miriam. Gone. Deborah. And I thought my ears surely lied to me, when They heard the door latch. And he's gone ! Miriam. Deborah ! He has left me, Deborah ! Deborah. And David loved her so, she but a bairn ! — Saul and Barnaby ! David and his sister ! Miriam. Deborah! — I am with child. Curtain. ACT III 43 PERSONS Deborah. Miriam. An Old Woman of the Village. Barnaby. ACT III The living room in Dehor aKs cottage. Night: a ship's lamp burnifig. There is the sound of a wind outside. Deborah and a Midwife, an old wo7nafi of the village. Old Woman. That was a cry of wind ! You'ld thfnk the night Was a thing living, when it cries like that : Sure it's^some anger breaking out in the world, Such wiTdness of the air skirling aloud. Do you never fear for staving of your windows ? Deborah. They need good hasps : we get the strength of it here. Old Woman. Ay, you must be the first thing for the wind To seize after its crossing of the marsh. Where nothing stands at all. Deborah. And I think often The wind comes out of the open marsh a spirit Raving to find naught, all those empty miles, To throw itself against, and feeling only Its own rage in the air. But when it lights Upon these walls, then there's glee in the wind : Then sowse it hurls on us its whole weight of speed, And there'll be yells and bullying at the door, And a din aloft like devils blowing trumpets ; And then 'twill fall to hissing round the eaves And fumbling at the thatch for a way in ; While seemingly, for a blood-beat or two, 46 46 DEBORAH Half of the gale crouches a short way off; And then a liundred beasts ot wind Itap howling, And pounce u[)on the roof with worrying paws, And roar to feel the walls not shaking down. Old Worna7i. Lord, if I thought the wind alive as that I should be feared of it. Deborah. But I must make Some silly game with the outcry of the wind, Likening it to dragons and a pack Of wing'd beasts playing their glad rage on the house With snarls and screams and gruntles. Else may be I should be feared of the wind indeed. Old Woman. What, ghosts Or fiends would you hear clamouring in it ? Deborah. Nay ; I have no mind for ghosts. — It's all a game, Whether you make the wind hunger and tury, Or, as some do, a fearful crying despair. But what the wind means truly to my soul Is something I must cower and shrink from knowing. — You will soon hear my game, though : there'll be beasts Lowing to break throu2;h on us to-night, — Ay, tu-night, when Miriam needs quiet. Old Woman. I vow 'tis growing a rare pace indeed ; Hark at it ! It will be a great wind soon. Enough drones through the framing of your door Already, to scrub the chaps upon my skin. Deborah. And markt you that ? Is not my game the thing? That mew against the window must have come DEBORAH 47 From somewhat like a beast, went flying past. And there, to try if the latch be fastcn'd well ; It is like horns at the door. Old Woman. And a horn in the chimney. Deborah. It would come in, the wmd, it would come in ! Listen ! Out there, upon the sill of the door It moans like a wounded thing or bitterly clemm'd ; But that won't serve. And now, up with you, wind, Now bay, shriek till you tear your throat, and thrust A shoving flank fiercely against the door, And curse the bolt and hinges ! I know the way. — Is Miriam asleep? Old Womafi. A while ago She slept, poor lass, tired with crying, as sound Almost a'^ her baby, that did nothmg else Save sleep. But this mad lool of a wind is like To shout her broad awake again. Deborah. Best go And see if she be stirring. \_The Old Woman goes into the bedroom. Yes, and me, Mad fool of a wind, you are like to shout Desperately awake again. O wind, You are too loud ! If I'd the heart for prayer Would I not ask the God that men call good To keep His winds from pouring their great strength Where I must hear them rushing and destroying ! For I'm all coward again, when the wmd's up; The noise of it, and the fierceness of its pleasure, Sound mto my soul. I am like one Who falls beneath the running of a crowd, The wind has grown to such a meaning for me ! — Helpless, utterly helpless, underneath The speed and outcry and the anger of joy, 48 DEBORAH The merciless onward-thronging power of life With which God fills the places of the earth, — Helpless, all overcome in my desires, And trodden down by that main storm of life, Am I, when the wind is pouring over me. \The Old Woman co?nes in from the bedroom. Old Woman. We'll have a fearful night with her, I doubt. Deborah. Has the wind roused her ? Old Woman. It has stirred her sleep So, that she tosses in a sobbing dream. And mutters of the hounds baying far-off. And casting round to find her baby's soul. She will wake soon ; and then we'll have some work. Deborah. O, if it had been a living child, I think Miriam might have lifted up her heart, That now is gone so low. Old Woman. 'Twas bound to die, Her bairn. She chose a bad year for her childing. You, a maid-woman, little know these things ; But this is what we call a seventh year. Deborah. How seventh ? Old Woman. In the wild countries of the world, The bears and tigers whelp their little ones But once in every seven years ; and then. Through all the twelve months that the beasts are bearing. Women have cruel childbeds ; and the bairns Are very like to die. Deborah. I hate these tales. Life has enough of evil without them To fill the unknown corners of it with fear. Old Woman. Ah, well, I know ; I had a seventh year child ; DEBORAH 49 She died before I got my feet again. Deborah. Here's Miriam now with a mind like blown burning, Tortured so by one of these wicked tales. Old Woman. The Gabriel Hounds ? Deborah. I wish I knew the fool — A woman sure enough — who first would make The calling of wild geese in the night-wind A pack of hounds yelping after the souls Of stillborn babies and unchristened men. Old Woman. How if 'twere mother Eve ? And are you sure They're only wild geese ? I believe 'tis hounds, — Gabriel Hounds. Deborah. Ay, coursing souls, no doubt. Old ]y^man. They do hold something mighty hot^n chase ; You may tell that from the fierce way they bark. Deborah, The fools we women are ! Old Woman. That was not wind ! That was a hound's tongue ! Deborah, you heard? The beagles out of hell are loose in the wind, The Gabriel Hounds are running wild to-night ! O, now, God rest the little one's soul : he died Unchristened, and the Gabriel Hounds are out ! Here we two sit and warm us at the fire. And yonder in the darkness and the wind The little soul of Miriam's stillborn child Runs crying from the mouths of the Gabriel Hounds ! Deborah. I heard it : the sharp horning of wild geese On their night-journey. O, it matters not Whether 'tis geese or Gabriel Hounds indeed; 'Tis hounds, the beagles of hell, to Miriam. And they are preying after her child's soul, D 50 DEBORAH Chasing his naked spirit down the wind And famishing to have him in their greed. God, let her sleep ! Old Woman. Again ! the yelping falls Through the wind's rushing like a stone through water. Deborah. Ay, 'tis fearfully clear. Old Woman. And hark again ! The night above us must be full of the fiends. Deborah. I've seen me listening on blowy nights All the dark hours to the Gabriel Hounds Yelping and yelping over me. My heart, If they were really hounds chasing a soul ! \_The door of the bedroom {R.) suddenly flings open and Miriam, wearing a nightdress, totters into the room. Deborah. Christ, she has heard them ! Old Woman. Now the work begins. Miriam. How long have the Gabriel Hounds been calling? Old Woman. What? Gabriel Hounds? Honey, there's no such thing; There's naught but a sounding wind at work in the night. Miriam. Deborah, you won't lie to me ? How long Have they been running in the air and baying? Deborah. 'Tis only flights of geese. Miriam. AH lies, all lies ! Everyone in the world lies ! Old Womafi. You'll catch cold ; Come to your bed. Miriam. What should I do in bed, You fool, when that hounding rings in the night? O what a wind to perish a baby's soul ! But I can't hear the hounds ; was it all dream ? DEBORAH 51 Deborah. A silly dream, indeed; there's only wind. Miriam. No ! O, they will lie forever ! There they sound ! And there's a hunger on them, a yelping hunger ; They have a soul in sight, and they're close to him, close. And there ! a scream came shrilling through their cries ; Was it not like the fear of a baby's soul ? Let me out, Deborah, let me out, to see What soul the Gabriel Hounds will tear to-night ? The whole night's fell with the hunting of a soul. Deborah. Dear lass Miriam. The door ! there's trying at the door ! Old Woman. Only the pushing wind. Deborah. Who'ld be at the door ? Miftam {low). It will be the huntsman of the Gabriel Hounds. Deborah. Why should he come in here ? Miriam. Not coming in, Not coming in, but guarding my way out, Lest I should save my baby's soul from his hounds. Old Woman, Well, someone's coming in. l^The outer door is seen to be slozvly opening. Miriam. Ay, it's the huntsman ! He knows I mean to save my baby ; now He's coming to destroy me, that his hounds May run my baby down and feed on him. You'll help me against him, Deborah ? — Ah, no ! Tis not the huntsman ; 'tis a living man. \The outer door has been blown wide open by a gust of wind and Barnaby comes in painfully, as infirm. Deborah stares at him in amaze. The Old Woman has her arm round Miriam. 52 DEBORAH Barnaby. Miriam ! — Miriam, what ails you ? Miriam. Have you come through the night? Barnaby. For you I have come, Miriam. Deborah. Ay, out of the wind ! Miriam. And did you scan the wind, as you came through ? Barnaby. You cannot tell what fearful things have fought Against me in the wind. Look, I am trembling ; I am like ridden down under their noises. — Miria?n. What are your fearful things ? Hounds } Were they black hounds With mouths frothing white flame and drawing it After them, like loose rags of fiery manes Seized by the wind ? Barnaby. Hounds ? No, there were no hounds ; 'Twas a man's voice I heard, a man who's dead. — Shut the door, Deborah ; keep out that dreadful wind. [^Deborah mechanically does his bidding. Deborah {as she comes from the door). Out of the wind you have come back to us ! Barnaby. And broken I come back to you, Deborah ; And to you, Miriam. Have you no good word To comfort me ? I tell you I am sick ; You cannot see it on me, for it is My mind is wounded. You must care for me, Miriam. Miriam. Are you sure there were no hounds ? Barnaby. What does she mean ? Miriam. 'Tis Gabriel Hounds I mean. Would you be looking up into the wind As you came near the house? They 'Id be, most like, DEBORAH 53 Nosing round and around, with their great heads Stoopt close to where their feet made floor of the air ; Or maybe coming at a skeltering pace With lifted heads baying along the wind. Ay, you would hear them if you did not see them. You did not hear their tongues ? Deborah. Answer her. Barnaby. No. Miriam. Nor see somewhere a little cowering soul? Nor hear a whimpering like a frighten'd baby? Barnaby. No, no. Miriam. Then for a while he must be safe. Hold me now ; my senses all are fainting. [They are supporii?ig Miriam into the ■^ bedroom. Barnaby. Miriam ! — Don't take her from me, Deborah. I am broken, Miriam, the spirit in me Is a hurt thing, a cowering hurt thing. — O let her listen to me, let her listen ! [^Deborah and the Old Woman have led Miriam off. Deborah returfis at once. Deborah. You must not stay here. We've ado enough Without you coming back. Why come you back ? Bar?iaby. Miriam did not know me, Deborah ! You would not let me tell her all my need. Deborah. Why come you back ? Bar?iaby. For Miriam, I say. What is it so strangely ails her ? Deborah. She had a child. Barnaby. A child ! A child of mine ? It cannot have been 54 DEBORAH My child. Deborah. You beast ! — Yes, Sir, a child of yours. Barnaby. O, no ! — Am I to believe this ? Deborah. Even now You saw her and the horror in her eyes : What's her mind doing with the Gabriel Hounds But making them fill the wind with their loud hunger For her stillborn unchristen'd baby's soul ? Barnaby. God help me ! Can I get forgiveness from her? Deborah. O the guilt is not all yours, Barnaby, Nor half of it yours. I have made this evil That is devouring Miriam's spirit alive. I was the one, I thought, when David died. Who would find life a poison of anguish ; now Trying to make a health of life through you, I've made it strike into Miriam's heart. Now David sees the sister he so loved Caught into madness and pain fasten'd to her For all the days she'll have. And it is I thrust The madness and the pain upon her soul, I whom he also loved, and might have trusted ! . . . Hark at that wind ! the whining joy it has To harm what stands against it, is a sound Terrible now to me ; it's life in the world. But fearfuUer shouting even than that in the wind Miriam hears : she hears the tongues of hell. Here are enough bad things, without her finding You in the house. You shall go out from here. Barnaby. You muse not turn me out ; not into the wind, Deborah ; don't make me face the wind again. Deborah. You fear the wind? You who have given the wind DEBORAH 55 A voice to hound Miriam into madness, And to my heart a meaning Hke a sword ? Baniahy. I've done nothing wrong to you, Deborah. Deborah. You have made life an utter evil to me. \Bar}iaby sinks on a chair and covers his face. Barnaby ! Barnaby ! O, are you crying ? Have I made you cry ? Barnaby. It vi^as your doing ; I felt you wishing me to love the girl. Deborah. Stand up now; you are not the one to .weep. You must go now the way you came, and quickly. Barnaby. I will not go into the wind again. Do youinow what I hear in the wind? A man, With the ribs of his breast crusht like a trodden hamper, Lying three days crampt in a boat, and thirst Terrible on him, and he for ever groaning ; Through the great noise of wind and spitting waves That drench his wounded skin with brine, groaning All the cold days and nights until at last He dies ; and hastily we pitch him out. Then curse ourselves for throwing food away. And still his torment frightens me in the wind ; Under the shrill of it, my ears still have him Panting his cruel breath : he keeps on groaning. Deborah. We've heard nothing of this. When were you wreckt? Barnaby. I cannot tell you that. I was clean crazed When ihe steamer found us. I'm the only one Come through alive ; and it's haunted I am, Haunted asleep, and when the wind is up, 56 DEBORAH Fearfully haunted. It falls on me again All in a throng : the sails blow out like guns, And like a noise of fiercely burning slicks The rigging slats ; and then the ship lies smother'd Under the mainmast cropt off at the deck As if it were a thistle; and, pinn'd beneath it, The mate screams sharp and thin through the yelling gale. And then — who knows how many starving days Of cold, hunger, and thirst, in an open boat ? 'Tis those days haunt me, all those days of starving ; They keep awfully driving through my brain Round and round,like swinging speed of wheels. . . . I was carried to hospital, and there It must have been for weeks they kept me lying. They say I'm mended now as much as may be. But they don't know of Miriam. She will cure me ; She'll quench this frantic work that fills my brain. With her beside me I might sleep, and not Alvvavs be starling upright from my bed, Bitten by stinging agony of dreams. Deborah. Now God forgive me ! Am I glad of this? No, no ; not glad. And yet a kind of ease — God pardon it — makes way upon my heart, Now that I see you here so pitiable. You and the mastery life had in you Twice to destroy my spirit and break my heart, You come to wreck, makes me strangely quiet ! Like, when the river's rough with snatch of squall, The pour of the tide incoming from the sea Forces a smoothness on the choppy water. — You bring me the work of what is stronger than life! \The calling of wild geese is heard. DEBORAH S7 Quiet, said I ? — This is but half done yet : There's Miriam still, and the Gabriel Hounds ! They sound again. You must not cumber us. Nor must her mind be hurt with seeing you. Barnaby, you can't lodge with us to-night. [S/ie goes to the outer door and sets it open, ivaitiiigforhim to go through. Bar?iaby. But the wind's worse than ever ! No, Deborah, You shall not put me into its power again. \The wild geese call again. Deborah. Come, gather your wits; Miriam's first with me. Barnaby. You don't know what the doctor warned me of; 'Tis your mind's wounded, says he, not your body ; You takj good care of being distrest and frighten'd. Those were his own words. Deborah. I say, Miriam's first. The mastery here is ours, I think ; you've come To the wrong house for tenderness. Barnaby. But the mate ! He's waitmg out there, he and his groaning breath, Waiting to creep behind me and groan in my ears. Not into the night, Deborah, the night that's full Of terrible windy noises ! [ The wild geese call again. Miriam is heard crying out from the bedroom. Deborah. Now no more ! How should your cowardice move me ? Am I To pit my woman's force against you ? Quick : The door's been open long enough ; the hounds Call fearfully through it. [^The door of the bedroom stiddenly opens and Aliriam appears struggling with tlie Old Woman. 58 DEBORAH Old Woma)i. I cannot hold her. Barnaby. Miriam, I've come back to you, and she's For driving me out again. Say you want me ! Miriam. They're baying after him again : the Hounds, The Gabriel Hounds are murdering my baby. Deborah. Quick, Barnaby ! Go before she knows you. Old IVoffian. God save you, you've the door wide open on us ! Close it, and come and help me : she's gone wild. We'll have her running into the midst of the marsh, And that's sheer drowning on a niuht like this. Deborah (as she helps the Old Woman to hold Miriam). Close the door, Barnaby : what keeps you there So stupid ? Barnaby. I durst not go too nigh the door. But let me face her : she can't help but know me. Miriam, here am I, Barnaby, come for you ! Miriam. Are you all deaf? I should think a viper'ld hear The way they're yelping and the way he screams. Leave go ! I must be there to put myself Between those ravening hounds and my child's soul. O, Deborah, leave go, leave go ! They must Have nearly run him down. Old Woman. What could you do If you went out ? It's in the air they run. Miriam. Perhaps I'ld draw them after me, and let His frighten'd soul hide somewhere in the dark. O, I'm not feared of the Gabriel Hounds, but he Is shrieking from them. DEBORAH 59 Deborah {to Barnaby). Can you not shut the door? Barnaby. He's there ! Behind the door-post there he waits, The man that haunts me with his dying voice. Miriam {she stops striving to free herself). Don't keep me fast in the house, Deborah ! Let me just try to draw the hounds away From chasing, chasing the starved little soul : They'll easily lose him in such a black wind. surely you hear him crying out his terror ! He's all alone, and the hounds after him ; "What should I do, his mother, listening here To him hunted along the wind ? — Again They yelp ! Then they've not caught him yet, the hounds ! And I know their lips are grinning from their teeth Fiendishly in their rage of hunger. \^She begins fiercely struggling again. I'll kill you if you will not loose me. You there, you man, whoever you be, Find me a knife and put it in my hands. There's a soul out there, a baby's soul, The Gabriel Hounds are hunting through the wind; You may hear them baying, and they're fearfully Close on their prey ; and it's a baby's soul. 1 knew him alive beneath my heart But dead I brought him into the world, And God cares nothing for his soul. And now he's alone with night and wind And the Gabriel Hounds \^She suddenly breaks free and runs through the outer door. Deborah and the Old Woman follow her. Old Woman {as she goes). She's makmg for the marsh ; we'll never catch her. 6o DEBORAH \Barnaby gazes stupidly through the open door into the windy darkness. There folloivs a pause of silence. Then the Old Woman comes back alone. Old Woman. She's gone. Straight for the middle of the marsh she made ; No Hving hand could save her. O, she ran So swift, and calling as she went out loud, Bent almost double for the strength of wind, I could not have believed the like. My breath Is almost blown out of my poor body ! Pray God Deborah's got some brandy here. Poor lass ! her path would take her right to the worst And deadliest quaking mire of the whole marsh ; 'Twould swallow her before she knew her feet Had lost firm ground. — Why is not Deborah back? If the mire stifles her, she's but herself To blame ; no living hand could save the girl. Curtain. Thr'aciing rights are the exclusive property of the Author. BY THE SAAfE AUTHOR INTERLUDES AND POEMS Crown 2>vo. 5s. net SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS The Times. — "Mr Abercrombie has power and he has originality. His mind is fearless, rebellious, sinister. He quails at nothing, lightheartedly frolicking among the most tremendous ideas and emotions. His words pour hot from his pen. . . . The power and originality are beyond question. . . . Pi. remarkable work, and we shall look with peculiar anticipation for its successor." Mr EpwARD Thomas in Daily Chronicle. — "There is only one English dramatist who has gone beyond this poet in making blank verse, the march or leap or stagger or crawl or hesitation^of the syllables correspond to varying emotions with thrilling delicacy. . . . Any half-dozen lines in his book will prove Mr .-Abercrombie a poet. Almost any half-dozen wiU prove him a new poet. . . . A man with a noble and exquisite sense of words and rhythms, with a fine pictorial power kept in its due place in a large attitude towards all life, bold, energetic, nervous, having an artist's harmony of sensual and spiritual life, Mr Abercrombie must move to things beyond the grandeur and subtlety of this book." Mr John Masefield in Daily News. — " ' Blind ' is a very fine poem. . . . Mr Abercrombie writes with a delicacy and insight truly poetical. . . . The play is a fine and touching tragedy." IVesiminsler Gazette. — "The perusal of 'Interludes and Poems' leaves us fascinated. Here is obviously a very con. siderable poet. The poem ' Blind ' reveals a remarkable dramatic quality." E. H. L. in Manchester Guardian.— "The virility and directness of style and thought, the ample, freshly coloured imagination that suggests and illuminates, and the unquestion- able responsiveness to the sensuous of eye and ear — all these qualities are remarkable enough in the ' Interludes ' and in a really noteworthy ode on ' Indignation.' " BY THE SAME AUTHOR EMBLEMS OF LOVE DESIGNED IN SEVERAL DISCOURSES Crown Zvo. 5s. net SOME OPINIONS Ol' THE PRESS The Times. — " It must be said at once that this poet's new book is of the sort that sets a critic to consider his standards with a cautiousness which is in itself the truest compliment he can pay. There is no question that in these poems a free- handed vigour of style is joined to a spirit of intellectual enterprise in no way afraid of committing itself to exposed positions. ... Mr Abercrombie's poetry is of a weight and te.xture which not only bears but demands analysis. ... Mr .•\bercrombie has an imagination which throws out ornament and illustration, with free scattering gestures more rapidly than a reader, trying to appreciate all that is offered him, can easily keep up with. Yet as a matter of fact he holds it un- mistakably in its place, and proves that he has that much rarer gift than a prolific imagination, a true sense of pace and direction. This command of clarity is very striking in a writer to whom enrichment is so easy . . . one natural consequence of this masterful way with words is that Mr Abercrombie's diction, though no doubt it has its affinities, is his own, and troubles us with no obvious echoes of anyone else ; and in these days to be able to say that of a style so sharply marked is an unusual tribute." Daily News. — " }Ax Abercrombie's new volume contains work which sets him in the very first rank of contemporary poets." Weslminster Gaseite.—" Here is an imaginative power of a range and intensity and continuance that "•'-•-•—" — -"• reveal. It is his whole book that represents achievement not any one passage or succes It is not a necklet of jewels but an Aladdin's Liverpool Courier. — "The difficulty of tl verse as this is to retain due measure in his from what may seem mere hyperbole. Bu not to feel that, by this book of Mr Aberc literature has been signally and permanentl such as only a truly great poet could have assurance, in this lean age forlorn, is of imm There is a new organ-voice in England." DEBORAH Lascelles Abercrombie I Deborah Aber- crombie UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. jui e Rsdarv€D EiC| CLMl^i«i"':»*^'»'^""'^'* OfC 3 "*ivL/ tu.URt iJLU U4 'ormL9-50m-9,'60(B361064)444 6C01 ■■'hercr?:rr .Die - U4d Deborah irut^ . 1158 01324 62 PR 6001 A14d AA 000 373 937