Becket And Other Plays - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
You are pale, my Dora! but the ruddiest cheek That ever charm'd the plowman of your wolds Might wish its rose a lily, could it look But half as lovely. I was speaking with Your father, asking his consent--you wish'd me-- That we should marry: he would answer nothing, I could make nothing of him; but, my flower, You look so weary and so worn! What is it Has put you out of heart?
DORA.
It puts me in heart Again to see you; but indeed the state Of my poor father puts me out of heart.
Is yours yet living?
HAROLD.
No--I told you.
DORA.
When?
HAROLD.
Confusion!--Ah well, well! the state we all Must come to in our spring-and-winter world If we live long enough! and poor Steer looks The very type of Age in a picture, bow'd To the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to, Beneath the burthen of years.
DORA.
More like the picture Of Christian in my 'Pilgrim's Progress' here, Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen of sin.
HAROLD.
Sin! What sin?
DORA.
Not his own.
HAROLD.
That nursery-tale Still read, then?
DORA.
Yes; our carters and our shepherds Still find a comfort there.
HAROLD.
Carters and shepherds!
DORA.
Scorn! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion-- My mother used to say that such a one Was without rudder, anchor, compa.s.s--might be Blown everyway with every gust and wreck On any rock; and tho' you are good and gentle, Yet if thro' any want--
HAROLD.
Of this religion?
Child, read a little history, you will find The common brotherhood of man has been Wrong'd by the cruelties of his religions More than could ever have happen'd thro' the want Of any or all of them.
DORA.
--But, O dear friend, If thro' the want of any--I mean the true one-- And pardon me for saying it--you should ever Be tempted into doing what might seem Not altogether worthy of you, I think That I should break my heart, for you have taught me To love you.
HAROLD.
What is this? some one been stirring Against me? he, your rustic amourist, The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here, This Dobson of your idyll?
DORA.
No, Sir, no!
Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy, Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and would say anything?
Did _I_ not promise not to listen to him, Not ev'n to see the man?
HAROLD.
Good; then what is it That makes you talk so dolefully?
DORA.
I told you-- My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now, One that has been much wrong'd, whose griefs are mine,
Was warning me that if a gentleman Should wed a farmer's daughter, he would be Sooner or later shamed of her among The ladies, born his equals.
HAROLD.
More fool he!
What I that have been call'd a Socialist, A Communist, a Nihilist--what you will!--
DORA.
What are all these?
HAROLD.
Utopian idiotcies.
They did not last three Junes. Such rampant weeds Strangle each other, die, and make the soil For Caesars, Cromwells, and Napoleons To root their power in. I have freed myself From all such dreams, and some will say because I have inherited my Uncle. Let them.
But--shamed of you, my Empress! I should prize The pearl of Beauty, 'even if I found it Dark with the soot of slums.
DORA.
But I can tell you, We Steers are of old blood, tho' we be fallen.
See there our s.h.i.+eld. (_Pointing to arms on mantelpiece_.) For I have heard the Steers Had land in Saxon times; and your own name Of Harold sounds so English and so old I am sure you must be proud of it.
HAROLD.
Not I!
As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took it For some three thousand acres. I have land now And wealth, and lay both at your feet.
DORA.
And _what_ was Your name before?
HAROLD.
Come, come, my girl, enough Of this strange talk. I love you and you me.
True, I have held opinions, hold some still, Which you would scarce approve of: for all that, I am a man not p.r.o.ne to jealousies, Caprices, humours, moods; but very ready To make allowances, and mighty slow To feel offences. Nay, I do believe I could forgive--well, almost anything-- And that more freely than your formal priest, Because I know more fully than _he_ can What poor earthworms are all and each of us, Here crawling in this boundless Nature. Dora, If marriage ever brought a woman happiness I doubt not I can make you happy.
DORA.
You make me Happy already.
HAROLD.
And I never said As much before to any woman living.
DORA.
No?
HAROLD.
No! by this true kiss, _you_ are the first I ever have loved truly. [_They kiss each other_.
EVA (_with a wild cry_).
Philip Edgar!
