Start the Text

Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers.

Please do not remove this.

This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book.
Do not change or edit it without written permission. The words
are carefully chosen to provide users with the information they
need about what they can legally do with the texts.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below. We need your donations.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3)
organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541

As of 12/12/00 contributions are only being solicited from people in:
Colorado, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa,
Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Montana,
Nevada, Oklahoma, South Carolina, South Dakota,
Texas, Vermont, and Wyoming.

International donations are accepted,
but we don't know ANYTHING about how
to make them tax-deductible, or
even if they CAN be made deductible,
and don't have the staff to handle it
even if there are ways.

As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising
will begin in the additional states. Please feel
free to ask to check the status of your state.

International donations are accepted,
but we don't know ANYTHING about how
to make them tax-deductible, or
even if they CAN be made deductible,
and don't have the staff to handle it
even if there are ways.

These donations should be made to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109


Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

Release Date: May, 2002 [Etext #3237]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
[The actual date this file first posted = 02/05/01]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Project Gutenberg Etext of The Garotters, by William D. Howells
*****This file should be named gartt10.txt or gartt10.zip*****

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, gartt11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gartt10a.txt

This etext was produced from the 1897 David Douglas edition by David
Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any
of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our books one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to send us error messages even years after
the official publication date.

Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our sites at:
http://gutenberg.net
http://promo.net/pg


Those of you who want to download any Etext before announcement
can surf to them as follows, and just download by date; this is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext02
or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext02

Or /etext01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release fifty new Etext
files per month, or 500 more Etexts in 2000 for a total of 3000+
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
should reach over 300 billion Etexts given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
manage to get some real funding.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

Presently, contributions are only being solicited from people in:
Colorado, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa,
Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Nevada,
Montana, Nevada, Oklahoma, South Carolina,
South Dakota, Texas, Vermont, and Wyoming.

As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising
will begin in the additional states.

These donations should be made to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109


Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation,
EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541,
has been approved as a 501(c)(3) organization by the US Internal
Revenue Service (IRS). Donations are tax-deductible to the extent
permitted by law. As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising will begin in the
additional states.

All donations should be made to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation. Mail to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Avenue
Oxford, MS 38655-4109 [USA]


We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart

hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org
if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if
it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . .

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


***


Example command-line FTP session:

ftp ftp.ibiblio.org
login: anonymous
password: your@login
cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg
cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext02, etc.
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]
GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etexts,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this etext,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the etext,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word
processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:

[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR

[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the etext (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR

[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.

[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to
let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END*

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

ROBERT BROWNING stands,
in respect
to his origin and his career,
in marked contrast
to the two aristocratic poets beside whose dramas his
"Blot in the
'Scutcheon"
is here printed.

His father was a bank clerk and a dissenter at a time when dissent meant exclusion from Society;
the poet went neither
to one of the great public schools nor
to Oxford or Cambridge;
and no breath of scandal touched his name.

Born in London in 1812,
he was educated largely by private tutors,
and spent two years at London University,
but the influence of his father,
a man of wide reading and cultivated tastes,
was probably the most important element in his early training.

He drew well,
was something of a musician,
and wrote verses from an early age,
though it was the accidental reading of a volume of Shelley which first kindled his real inspiration.

This indebtedness is beautifully acknowledged in his first published poem,
"Pauline"
(1833).

Apart from frequent visits
to Italy,
there is little of incident
to chronicle in Browning's life,
with the one great exception of his more than fortunate marriage in 1846
to Elizabeth Barrett,
the greatest of English poetesses.

Browning's dramatic period extended from 1835
to the time of his marriage,
and produced some nine plays,
not all of which,
however,
were intended
for the stage.

"Paracelsus,"
the first of the series,
has been fairly described as a
"conversational drama,"
and
"Pippa Passes,"
though it has been staged,
is essentially a poem
to read.

The historical tragedy of
"Strafford"
has been impressively performed,
but
"King Victor and King Charles,"
"The Return of the Druses,"
"Colombe's Birthday,"
"A Soul's Tragedy,"
and
"Luria,"
while interesting in many ways,
can hardly be regarded as successful stage-plays.

"A Blot in the
'Scutcheon"
was performed at Drury Lane,
but its chances of a successful run were spoiled by the jealousy of Macready,
the manager.

The main cause of Browning's weakness as a playwright lay in the fact that he was so much more interested in psychology than in action.

But in the present tragedy this defect is less prominent than usual,
and in spite of flaws in construction,
it reaches a high pitch of emotional intensity,
the characters are drawn
with vividness,
and the lines are rich in poetry.

A BLOT IN THE
'SCUTCHEON A TRAGEDY
(1843)
DRAMATIS PERSONAE MILDRED TRESHAM.

GUENDOLEN TRESHAM.

THOROLD,
Earl Tresham.

AUSTIN TRESHAM.

HENRY,
Earl Mertoun.

GERARD,
and other retainers of Lord Tresham.

Time,
17-- ACT I SCENE I.--The Interior of a Lodge in Lord Tresham's Park.

Many Retainers crowded at the window,
supposed
to command a view of the entrance
to his Mansion.

GERARD,
the Warrener,
his back
to a table on which are flagons,
etc.

FIRST RETAINER.

Ay,
do! push,
friends,
and then you'll push down me! --What for?

Does any hear a runner's foot Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry?

Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant?

But there's no breeding in a man of you Save Gerard yonder:

here's a half-place yet,
Old Gerard! GERARD.

Save your courtesies,
my friend.

Here is my place.

SECOND RETAINER.

Now,
Gerard,
out
with it! What makes you sullen,
this of all the days I'
the year?

To-day that young rich bountiful Handsome Earl Mertoun,
whom alone they match
with our Lord Tresham through the country-side,
Is coming here in utmost bravery
to ask our master's sister's hand?

GERARD.

What then?

SECOND RETAINER.

What then?

Why,
you,
she speaks to,
if she meets Your worship,
smiles on as you hold apart The boughs
to let her through her forest walks,
You,
always favourite
for your no-deserts,
You've heard,
these three days,
how Earl Mertoun sues
to lay his heart and house and broad lands too At Lady Mildred's feet:

and while we squeeze Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss One congee of the least page in his train,
You sit o'
one side--"there's the Earl,"
say I--
"What then?"
say you! THIRD RETAINER.

I'll wager he has let Both swans he tamed
for Lady Mildred swim Over the falls and gain the river! GERARD.

Ralph,
Is not to-morrow my inspecting-day
for you and
for your hawks?

FOURTH RETAINER.

Let Gerard be! He's coarse-grained,
like his carved black cross-bow stock.

Ha,
look now,
while we squabble
with him,
look! Well done,
now--is not this beginning,
now,
To purpose?

FIRST RETAINER.

Our retainers look as fine-- That's comfort.

Lord,
how Richard holds himself
with his white staff! Will not a knave behind Prick him upright?

FOURTH RETAINER.

He's only bowing,
fool! The Earl's man bent us lower by this much.

FIRST RETAINER.

That's comfort.

Here's a very cavalcade! THIRD RETAINER.

I don't see wherefore Richard,
and his troop Of silk and silver varlets there,
should find Their perfumed selves so indispensable On high days,
holidays! Would it so disgrace Our family,
if I,
for instance,
stood-- In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks,
A leash of greyhounds in my left?-- GERARD.

--With Hugh The logman
for supporter,
in his right The bill-hook,
in his left the brushwood-shears! THIRD RETAINER.

Out on you,
crab! What next,
what next?

The Earl! FIRST RETAINER.

Oh Walter,
groom,
our horses,
do they match The Earl's?

Alas,
that first pair of the six-- They paw the ground--Ah Walter! and that brute Just on his haunches by the wheel! SIXTH RETAINER.

Ay--ay! You,
Philip,
are a special hand,
I hear,
At soups and sauces:

what's a horse
to you?

D'ye mark that beast they've slid into the midst So cunningly?--then,
Philip,
mark this further;
No leg has he
to stand on! FIRST RETAINER.

No?

that's comfort.

SECOND RETAINER.

Peace,
Cook! The Earl descends.

Well,
Gerard,
see The Earl at least! Come,
there's a proper man,
I hope! Why,
Ralph,
no falcon,
Pole or Swede,
Has got a starrier eye.

THIRD RETAINER.

His eyes are blue:

But leave my hawks alone! FOURTH RETAINER.

So young,
and yet So tall and shapely! FIFTH RETAINER.

Here's Lord Tresham's self! There now--there's what a nobleman should be! He's older,
graver,
loftier,
he's more like A House's head.

SECOND RETAINER.

But you'd not have a boy --And what's the Earl beside?--possess too soon That stateliness?

FIRST RETAINER.

Our master takes his hand-- Richard and his white staff are on the move-- Back fall our people--(tsh!--there's Timothy Sure
to get tangled in his ribbon-ties,
And Peter's cursed rosette's a-coming off!)
--At last I see our lord's back and his friend's;
And the whole beautiful bright company Close round them--in they go! [Jumping down from the window-bench,
and making
for the table and its jugs.] Good health,
long life,
Great joy
to our Lord Tresham and his House! SIXTH RETAINER.

My father drove his father first
to court,
After his marriage-day--ay,
did he! SECOND RETAINER.

God bless Lord Tresham,
Lady Mildred,
and the Earl! Here,
Gerard,
reach your beaker! GERARD.

Drink,
my boys! Don't mind me--all's not right about me--drink! SECOND RETAINER [aside].

He's vexed,
now,
that he let the show escape! [To GERARD.] Remember that the Earl returns this way.

GERARD.

That way?

SECOND RETAINER.

Just so.

GERARD.

Then my way's here.

[Goes.] SECOND RETAINER.

Old Gerard Will die soon--mind,
I said it! He was used
to care about the pitifullest thing That touched the House's honour,
not an eye But his could see wherein:

and on a cause Of scarce a quarter this importance,
Gerard Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away In cares that this was right,
nor that was wrong,
Such point decorous,
and such square by rule-- He knew such niceties,
no herald more:

And now--you see his humour:

die he will! SECOND RETAINER.

God help him! Who's
for the great servants'
hall
to hear what's going on inside! They'd follow Lord Tresham into the saloon.

THIRD RETAINER.

I!-- FOURTH RETAINER.

I!-- Leave Frank alone
for catching,
at the door,
Some hint of how the parley goes inside! Prosperity
to the great House once more! Here's the last drop! FIRST RETAINER.

Have at you! Boys,
hurrah! SCENE II.--A Saloon in the Mansion Enter LORD TRESHAM,
LORD MERTOUN,
AUSTIN,
and GUENDOLEN TRESHAM.

I welcome you,
Lord Mertoun,
yet once more,
To this ancestral roof of mine.

Your name --Noble among the noblest in itself,
Yet taking in your person,
fame avers,
New price and lustre,--(as that gem you wear,
Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts,
Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord,
Seems
to re-kindle at the core)--your name Would win you welcome!-- MERTOUN.

Thanks! TRESHAM.

--But add
to that,
The worthiness and grace and dignity Of your proposal
for uniting both Our Houses even closer than respect Unites them now--add these,
and you must grant One favour more,
nor that the least,--to think The welcome I should give;--'tis given! My lord,
My only brother,
Austin:

he's the king's.

Our cousin,
Lady Guendolen--betrothed
to Austin:

all are yours.

MERTOUN.

I thank you--less
for the expressed commendings which your seal,
And only that,
authenticates--forbids My putting from me...

to my heart I take Your praise...

but praise less claims my gratitude,
Than the indulgent insight it implies Of what must needs be uppermost
with one Who comes,
like me,
with the bare leave
to ask,
In weighed and measured unimpassioned words,
A gift,
which,
if as calmly
'tis denied,
He must withdraw,
content upon his cheek,
Despair within his soul.

That I dare ask Firmly,
near boldly,
near
with confidence That gift,
I have
to thank you.

Yes,
Lord Tresham,
I love your sister--as you'd have one love That lady...

oh more,
more I love her! Wealth,
Rank,
all the world thinks me,
they're yours,
you know,
To hold or part with,
at your choice--but grant My true self,
me without a rood of land,
A piece of gold,
a name of yesterday,
Grant me that lady,
and you...

Death or life?

GUENDOLEN.

[apart
to AUSTIN].

Why,
this is loving,
Austin! AUSTIN.

He's so young! GUENDOLEN.

Young?

Old enough,
I think,
to half surmise He never had obtained an entrance here,
Were all this fear and trembling needed.

AUSTIN.

Hush! He reddens.

GUENDOLEN.

Mark him,
Austin;
that's true love! Ours must begin again.

TRESHAM.

We'll sit,
my lord.

Ever
with best desert goes diffidence.

I may speak plainly nor be misconceived That I am wholly satisfied
with you On this occasion,
when a falcon's eye Were dull compared
with mine
to search out faults,
Is somewhat.

Mildred's hand is hers
to give Or
to refuse.

MERTOUN.

But you,
you grant my suit?

I have your word if hers?

TRESHAM.

My best of words If hers encourage you.

I trust it will.

Have you seen Lady Mildred,
by the way?

MERTOUN.

I...

I...

our two demesnes,
remember,
touch,
I have beer used
to wander carelessly After my stricken game:

the heron roused Deep in my woods,
has trailed its broken wing Thro'
thicks and glades a mile in yours,--or else Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight And lured me after her from tree
to tree,
I marked not whither.

I have come upon The lady's wondrous beauty unaware,
And--and then...

I have seen her.

GUENDOLEN [aside
to AUSTIN].

Note that mode Of faltering out that,
when a lady passed,
He,
having eyes,
did see her! You had said--
"On such a day I scanned her,
head
to foot;
Observed a red,
where red should not have been,
Outside her elbow;
but was pleased enough Upon the whole."

Let such irreverent talk Be lessoned
for the future! TRESHAM.

What's
to say May be said briefly.

She has never known A mother's care;
I stand
for father too.

Her beauty is not strange
to you,
it seems-- You cannot know the good and tender heart,
Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy,
How pure yet passionate,
how calm yet kind,
How grave yet joyous,
how reserved yet free As light where friends are--how imbued
with lore The world most prizes,
yet the simplest,
yet The...

one might know I talked of Mildred--thus We brothers talk! MERTOUN.

I thank you.

TRESHAM.

In a word,
Control's not
for this lady;
but her wish
to please me outstrips in its subtlety My power of being pleased:

herself creates The want she means
to satisfy.

My heart Prefers your suit
to her as
'twere its own.

Can I say more?

MERTOUN.

No more--thanks,
thanks--no more! TRESHAM.

This matter then discussed...

MERTOUN.

--We'll waste no breath On aught less precious.

I'm beneath the roof Which holds her:

while I thought of that,
my speech
to you would wander--as it must not do,
Since as you favour me I stand or fall.

I pray you suffer that I take my leave! TRESHAM.

With less regret
'tis suffered,
that again We meet,
I hope,
so shortly.

MERTOUN.

We?

again?-- Ah yes,
forgive me--when shall...

you will crown Your goodness by forthwith apprising me When...

if...

the lady will appoint a day
for me
to wait on you--and her.

TRESHAM.

So soon As I am made acquainted
with her thoughts On your proposal--howsoe'er they lean-- A messenger shall bring you the result.

MERTOUN.

You cannot bind me more
to you,
my lord.

Farewell till we renew...

I trust,
renew A converse ne'er
to disunite again.

TRESHAM.

So may it prove! MERTOUN.

You,
lady,
you,
sir,
take My humble salutation! GUENDOLEN and AUSTIN.

Thanks! TRESHAM.

Within there! [Servants enter.

TRESHAM conducts MERTOUN
to the door.

Meantime AUSTIN remarks,] Well,
Here I have an advantage of the Earl,
Confess now! I'd not think that all was safe Because my lady's brother stood my friend! Why,
he makes sure of her--"do you say yes-- She'll not say,
no,"--what comes it
to beside?

I should have prayed the brother,
"speak this speech,
For Heaven's sake urge this on her--put in this-- Forget not,
as you'd save me,
t'other thing,-- Then set down what she says,
and how she looks,
And if she smiles,
and"
(in an under breath)
"Only let her accept me,
and do you And all the world refuse me,
if you dare!"
GUENDOLEN.

That way you'd take,
friend Austin?

What a shame I was your cousin,
tamely from the first Your bride,
and all this fervour's run
to waste! Do you know you speak sensibly to-day?

The Earl's a fool.

AUSTIN.

Here's Thorold.

Tell him so! TRESHAM [returning].

Now,
voices,
voices!
'St! the lady's first! How seems he?--seems he not...

come,
faith give fraud The mercy-stroke whenever they engage! Down
with fraud,
up
with faith! How seems the Earl?

A name! a blazon! if you knew their worth,
As you will never! come--the Earl?

GUENDOLEN.

He's young.

TRESHAM.

What's she?

an infant save in heart and brain.

Young! Mildred is fourteen,
remark! And you...

Austin,
how old is she?

GUENDOLEN.

There's tact
for you! I meant that being young was good excuse If one should tax him...

TRESHAM.

Well?

GUENDOLEN.

--With lacking wit.

TRESHAM.

He lacked wit?

Where might he lack wit,
so please you?

GUENDOLEN.

In standing straighter than the steward's rod And making you the tiresomest harangue,
Instead of slipping over
to my side And softly whispering in my ear,
"Sweet lady,
Your cousin there will do me detriment He little dreams of:

he's absorbed,
I see,
In my old name and fame--be sure he'll leave My Mildred,
when his best account of me Is ended,
in full confidence I wear My grandsire's periwig down either cheek.

I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes"...

TRESHAM...

"To give a best of best accounts,
yourself,
Of me and my demerits."

You are right! He should have said what now I say
for him.

Yon golden creature,
will you help us all?

Here's Austin means
to vouch
for much,
but you --You are...

what Austin only knows! Come up,
All three of us:

she's in the library No doubt,
for the day's wearing fast.

Precede! GUENDOLEN.

Austin,
how we must--! TRESHAM.

Must what?

Must speak truth,
Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him! I challenge you! GUENDOLEN.

Witchcraft's a fault in him,
For you're bewitched.

TRESHAM.

What's urgent we obtain Is,
that she soon receive him--say,
to-morrow--,
Next day at furthest.

GUENDOLEN.

Ne'er instruct me! TRESHAM.

Come! --He's out of your good graces,
since forsooth,
He stood not as he'd carry us by storm
with his perfections! You're
for the composed Manly assured becoming confidence! --Get her
to say,
"to-morrow,"
and I'll give you...

I'll give you black Urganda,
to be spoiled
with petting and snail-paces.

Will you?

Come! SCENE III.

--MILDRED'S Chamber.

A Painted Window overlooks the Park MILDRED and GUENDOLEN GUENDOLEN.

Now,
Mildred,
spare those pains.

I have not left Our talkers in the library,
and climbed The wearisome ascent
to this your bower In company
with you,--I have not dared...

Nay,
worked such prodigies as sparing you Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood,
Which Thorold seemed in very act
to tell --Or bringing Austin
to pluck up that most Firm-rooted heresy--your suitor's eyes,
He would maintain,
were grey instead of blue-- I think I brought him
to contrition!--Well,
I have not done such things,
(all
to deserve A minute's quiet cousin's talk
with you,)
To be dismissed so coolly.

MILDRED.

Guendolen! What have I done?

what could suggest...

GUENDOLEN.

There,
there! Do I not comprehend you'd be alone
to throw those testimonies in a heap,
Thorold's enlargings,
Austin's brevities,
With that poor silly heartless Guendolen's Ill-time misplaced attempted smartnesses-- And sift their sense out?

now,
I come
to spare you Nearly a whole night's labour.

Ask and have! Demand,
be answered! Lack I ears and eyes?

Am I perplexed which side of the rock-table The Conqueror dined on when he landed first,
Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden take-- The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great meed?

Mildred,
the Earl has soft blue eyes! MILDRED.

My brother-- Did he...

you said that he received him well?

GUENDOLEN.

If I said only
"well"
I said not much.

Oh,
stay--which brother?

MILDRED.

Thorold! who--Who else?

GUENDOLEN.

Thorold
(a secret)
is too proud by half,-- Nay,
hear me out--with us he's even gentler Than we are
with our birds.

Of this great House The least retainer that e'er caught his glance Would die
for him,
real dying--no mere talk:

And in the world,
the court,
if men would cite The perfect spirit of honour,
Thorold's name Rises of its clear nature
to their lips.

But he should take men's homage,
trust in it,
And care no more about what drew it down.

He has desert,
and that,
acknowledgment;
Is he content?

MILDRED.

You wrong him,
Guendolen.

GUENDOLEN.

He's proud,
confess;
so proud
with brooding o'er The light of his interminable line,
An ancestry
with men all paladins,
And women all...

MILDRED.

Dear Guendolen,
'tis late! When yonder purple pane the climbing moon Pierces,
I know
'tis midnight.

GUENDOLEN.

Well,
that Thorold Should rise up from such musings,
and receive One come audaciously
to graft himself Into this peerless stock,
yet find no flaw,
No slightest spot in such an one...

MILDRED.

Who finds A spot in Mertoun?

GUENDOLEN.

Not your brother;
therefore,
Not the whole world.

MILDRED.

I am weary,
Guendolen.

Bear
with me! GUENDOLEN.

I am foolish.

MILDRED.

Oh no,
kind! But I would rest.

GUENDOLEN.

Good night and rest
to you! I said how gracefully his mantle lay Beneath the rings of his light hair?

MILDRED.

Brown hair.

GUENDOLEN.

Brown?

why,
it IS brown:

how could you know that?

MILDRED.

How?

did not you--Oh,
Austin
'twas,
declared His hair was light,
not brown--my head!--and look,
The moon-beam purpling the dark chamber! Sweet,
Good night! GUENDOLEN.

Forgive me--sleep the soundlier
for me! [Going,
she turns suddenly.] Mildred! Perdition! all's discovered! Thorold finds --That the Earl's greatest of all grandmothers Was grander daughter still--to that fair dame Whose garter slipped down at the famous dance! [Goes.] MILDRED.

Is she--can she be really gone at last?

My heart! I shall not reach the window.

Needs Must I have sinned much,
so
to suffer.

[She lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the Virgin's image in the window,
and places it by the purple pane.] There! [She returns
to the seat in front.] Mildred and Mertoun! Mildred,
with consent Of all the world and Thorold,
Mertoun's bride! Too late!
'Tis sweet
to think of,
sweeter still
to hope for,
that this blessed end soothes up The curse of the beginning;
but I know It comes too late:

'twill sweetest be of all
to dream my soul away and die upon.

[A noise without.] The voice! Oh why,
why glided sin the snake Into the paradise Heaven meant us both?

[The window opens softly.

A low voice sings.] There's a woman like a dew-drop,
she's so purer than the purest;
And her noble heart's the noblest,
yes,
and her sure faith's the surest:

And her eyes are dark and humid,
like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i'
the harebell,
while her tresses,
sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,
Gush in golden tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble:

Then her voice's music...

call it the well's bubbling,
the bird's warble! [A figure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window.] And this woman says,
"My days were sunless and my nights were moonless,
Parched the pleasant April herbage,
and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless,
If you loved me not!"
And I who--(ah,
for words of flame!)
adore her,
Who am mad
to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her-- [He enters,
approaches her seat,
and bends over her.] I may enter at her portal soon,
as now her lattice takes me,
And by noontide as by midnight make her mine,
as hers she makes me! [The EARL throws off his slouched hat and long cloak.] My very heart sings,
so I sing,
Beloved! MILDRED.

Sit,
Henry--do not take my hand! MERTOUN.

'Tis mine.

The meeting that appalled us both so much Is ended.

MILDRED.

What begins now?

MERTOUN.

Happiness Such as the world contains not.

MILDRED.

That is it.

Our happiness would,
as you say,
exceed The whole world's best of blisses:

we--do we Deserve that?

Utter
to your soul,
what mine Long since,
Beloved,
has grown used
to hear,
Like a death-knell,
so much regarded once,
And so familiar now;
this will not be! MERTOUN.

Oh,
Mildred,
have I met your brother's face?

Compelled myself--if not
to speak untruth,
Yet
to disguise,
to shun,
to put aside The truth,
as--what had e'er prevailed on me Save you
to venture?

Have I gained at last Your brother,
the one scarer of your dreams,
And waking thoughts'
sole apprehension too?

Does a new life,
like a young sunrise,
break On the strange unrest of our night,
confused
with rain and stormy flaw--and will you see No dripping blossoms,
no fire-tinted drops On each live spray,
no vapour steaming up,
And no expressless glory in the East?

When I am by you,
to be ever by you,
When I have won you and may worship you,
Oh,
Mildred,
can you say
"this will not be"?

MILDRED.

Sin has surprised us,
so will punishment.

MERTOUN.

No--me alone,
who sinned alone! MILDRED.

The night You likened our past life to--was it storm Throughout
to you then,
Henry?

MERTOUN.

Of your life I spoke--what am I,
what my life,
to waste A thought about when you are by me?--you It was,
I said my folly called the storm And pulled the night upon.

'Twas day
with me-- Perpetual dawn
with me.

MILDRED.

Come what,
come will,
You have been happy:

take my hand! MERTOUN [after a pause].

How good Your brother is! I figured him a cold-- Shall I say,
haughty man?

MILDRED.

They told me all.

I know all.

MERTOUN.

It will soon be over.

MILDRED.

Over?

Oh,
what is over?

what must I live through And say,
"'tis over"?

Is our meeting over?

Have I received in presence of them all The partner of my guilty love--with brow Trying
to seem a maiden's brow--with lips Which make believe that when they strive
to form Replies
to you and tremble as they strive,
It is the nearest ever they approached A stranger's...

Henry,
yours that stranger's...

lip--
with cheek that looks a virgin's,
and that is...

Ah God,
some prodigy of thine will stop This planned piece of deliberate wickedness In its birth even! some fierce leprous spot Will mar the brow's dissimulating! I Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart,
But,
frenzied,
pour forth all our woeful story,
The love,
the shame,
and the despair--with them Round me aghast as round some cursed fount That should spirt water,
and spouts blood.

I'll not ...Henry,
you do not wish that I should draw This vengeance down?

I'll not affect a grace That's gone from me--gone once,
and gone
for ever! MERTOUN.

Mildred,
my honour is your own.

I'll share Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself.

A word informs your brother I retract This morning's offer;
time will yet bring forth Some better way of saving both of us.

MILDRED.

I'll meet their faces,
Henry! MERTOUN.

When?

to-morrow! Get done
with it! MILDRED.

Oh,
Henry,
not to-morrow! Next day! I never shall prepare my words And looks and gestures sooner.--How you must Despise me! MERTOUN.

Mildred,
break it if you choose,
A heart the love of you uplifted--still Uplifts,
thro'
this protracted agony,
To heaven! but Mildred,
answer me,--first pace The chamber
with me--once again--now,
say Calmly the part,
the...

what it is of me You see contempt
(for you did say contempt)
--Contempt
for you in! I would pluck it off And cast it from me!--but no--no,
you'll not Repeat that?--will you,
Mildred,
repeat that?

MILDRED.

Dear Henry! MERTOUN.

I was scarce a boy--e'en now What am I more?

And you were infantine When first I met you;
why,
your hair fell loose On either side! My fool's-cheek reddens now Only in the recalling how it burned That morn
to see the shape of many a dream --You know we boys are prodigal of charms
to her we dream of--I had heard of one,
Had dreamed of her,
and I was close
to her,
Might speak
to her,
might live and die her own,
Who knew?

I spoke.

Oh,
Mildred,
feel you not That now,
while I remember every glance Of yours,
each word of yours,
with power
to test And weigh them in the diamond scales of pride,
Resolved the treasure of a first and last Heart's love shall have been bartered at its worth,
--That now I think upon your purity And utter ignorance of guilt--your own Or other's guilt--the girlish undisguised Delight at a strange novel prize--(I talk A silly language,
but interpret,
you!)
If I,
with fancy at its full,
and reason Scarce in its germ,
enjoined you secrecy,
If you had pity on my passion,
pity On my protested sickness of the soul
to sit beside you,
hear you breathe,
and watch Your eyelids and the eyes beneath--if you Accorded gifts and knew not they were gifts-- If I grew mad at last
with enterprise And must behold my beauty in her bower Or perish--(I was ignorant of even My own desires--what then were you?)
if sorrow-- Sin--if the end came--must I now renounce My reason,
blind myself
to light,
say truth Is false and lie
to God and my own soul?

Contempt were all of this! MILDRED.

Do you believe...

Or,
Henry,
I'll not wrong you--you believe That I was ignorant.

I scarce grieve o'er The past.

We'll love on;
you will love me still.

MERTOUN.

Oh,
to love less what one has injured! Dove,
Whose pinion I have rashly hurt,
my breast-- Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength?

Flower I have crushed,
shall I not care
for thee?

Bloom o'er my crest,
my fight-mark and device! Mildred,
I love you and you love me.

MILDRED.

Go! Be that your last word.

I shall sleep to-night.

MERTOUN.

This is not our last meeting?

MILDRED.

One night more.

MERTOUN.

And then--think,
then! MILDRED.

Then,
no sweet courtship-days,
No dawning consciousness of love
for us,
No strange and palpitating births of sense >From words and looks,
no innocent fears and hopes,
Reserves and confidences:

morning's over! MERTOUN.

How else should love's perfected noontide follow?

All the dawn promised shall the day perform.

MILDRED.

So may it be! but-- You are cautious,
Love?

Are sure that unobserved you scaled the walls?

MERTOUN.

Oh,
trust me! Then our final meeting's fixed To-morrow night?

MILDRED.

Farewell! stay,
Henry...

wherefore?

His foot is on the yew-tree bough;
the turf Receives him:

now the moonlight as he runs Embraces him--but he must go--is gone.

Ah,
once again he turns--thanks,
thanks,
my Love! He's gone.

Oh,
I'll believe him every word! I was so young,
I loved him so,
I had No mother,
God forgot me,
and I fell.

There may be pardon yet:

all's doubt beyond! Surely the bitterness of death is past.

ACT II SCENE.--The Library Enter LORD TRESHAM,
hastily TRESHAM.

This way! In,
Gerard,
quick! [As GERARD enters,
TRESHAM secures the door.] Now speak! or,
wait-- I'll bid you speak directly.

[Seats himself.] Now repeat Firmly and circumstantially the tale You just now told me;
it eludes me;
either I did not listen,
or the half is gone Away from me.

How long have you lived here?

Here in my house,
your father kept our woods Before you?

GERARD.

--As his father did,
my lord.

I have been eating,
sixty years almost,
Your bread.

TRESHAM.

Yes,
yes.

You ever were of all The servants in my father's house,
I know,
The trusted one.

You'll speak the truth.

GERARD.

I'll speak God's truth.

Night after night...

TRESHAM.

Since when?

GERARD.

At least A month--each midnight has some man access
to Lady Mildred's chamber.

TRESHAM.

Tush,
"access"-- No wide words like
"access"
to me! GERARD.

He runs Along the woodside,
crosses
to the South,
Takes the left tree that ends the avenue...

TRESHAM.

The last great yew-tree?

GERARD.

You might stand upon The main boughs like a platform.

Then he...

TRESHAM.

Quick! GERARD.

Climbs up,
and,
where they lessen at the top,
--I cannot see distinctly,
but he throws,
I think--for this I do not vouch--a line That reaches
to the lady's casement-- TRESHAM.

--Which He enters not! Gerard,
some wretched fool Dares pry into my sister's privacy! When such are young,
it seems a precious thing
to have approached,--to merely have approached,
Got sight of the abode of her they set Their frantic thoughts upon.

Ha does not enter?

Gerard?

GERARD.

There is a lamp that's full i'
the midst.

Under a red square in the painted glass Of Lady Mildred's...

TRESHAM.

Leave that name out! Well?

That lamp?

GERARD.

Is moved at midnight higher up
to one pane--a small dark-blue pane;
he waits
for that among the boughs:

at sight of that,
I see him,
plain as I see you,
my lord,
Open the lady's casement,
enter there...

TRESHAM.

--And stay?

GERARD.

An hour,
two hours.

TRESHAM.

And this you saw Once?--twice?--quick! GERARD.

Twenty times.

TRESHAM.

And what brings you Under the yew-trees?

GERARD.

The first night I left My range so far,
to track the stranger stag That broke the pale,
I saw the man.

TRESHAM.

Yet sent No cross-bow shaft through the marauder?

GERARD.

But He came,
my lord,
the first time he was seen,
In a great moonlight,
light as any day,
FROM Lady Mildred's chamber.

TRESHAM [after a pause].

You have no cause --Who could have cause
to do my sister wrong?

GERARD.

Oh,
my lord,
only once--let me this once Speak what is on my mind! Since first I noted All this,
I've groaned as if a fiery net Plucked me this way and that--fire if I turned
to her,
fire if I turned
to you,
and fire If down I flung myself and strove
to die.

The lady could not have been seven years old When I was trusted
to conduct her safe Through the deer-herd
to stroke the snow-white fawn I brought
to eat bread from her tiny hand Within a month.

She ever had a smile
to greet me with--she...

if it could undo What's done,
to lop each limb from off this trunk...

All that is foolish talk,
not fit
for you-- I mean,
I could not speak and bring her hurt
for Heaven's compelling.

But when I was fixed
to hold my peace,
each morsel of your food Eaten beneath your roof,
my birth-place too,
Choked me.

I wish I had grown mad in doubts What it behoved me do.

This morn it seemed Either I must confess
to you or die:

Now it is done,
I seem the vilest worm That crawls,
to have betrayed my lady.

TRESHAM.

No-- No,
Gerard! GERARD.

Let me go! TRESHAM.

A man,
you say:

What man?

Young?

Not a vulgar hind?

What dress?

GERARD.

A slouched hat and a large dark foreign cloak Wraps his whole form;
even his face is hid;
But I should judge him young:

no hind,
be sure! TRESHAM.

Why?

GERARD.

He is ever armed:

his sword projects Beneath the cloak.

TRESHAM.

Gerard,--I will not say No word,
no breath of this! GERARD.

Thank,
thanks,
my lord! [Goes.] TRESHAM [paces the room.

After a pause].

Oh,
thoughts absurd!--as
with some monstrous fact Which,
when ill thoughts beset us,
seems
to give Merciful God that made the sun and stars,
The waters and the green delights of earth,
The lie! I apprehend the monstrous fact-- Yet know the maker of all worlds is good,
And yield my reason up,
inadequate
to reconcile what yet I do behold-- Blasting my sense! There's cheerful day outside:

This is my library,
and this the chair My father used
to sit in carelessly After his soldier-fashion,
while I stood Between his knees
to question him:

and here Gerard our grey retainer,--as he says,
Fed
with our food,
from sire
to son,
an age,-- Has told a story--I am
to believe! That Mildred...

oh,
no,
no! both tales are true,
Her pure cheek's story and the forester's! Would she,
or could she,
err--much less,
confound All guilts of treachery,
of craft,
of...

Heaven Keep me within its hand!--I will sit here Until thought settle and I see my course.

Avert,
oh God,
only this woe from me! [As he sinks his head between his arms on the table,
GUENDOLEN'S voice is heard at the door.] Lord Tresham! [She knocks.] Is Lord Tresham there?

[TRESHAM,
hastily turning,
pulls down the first book above him and opens it.] TRESHAM.

Come in! [She enters.] Ha,
Guendolen!--good morning.

GUENDOLEN.

Nothing more?

TRESHAM.

What should I say more?

GUENDOLEN.

Pleasant question! more?

This more.

Did I besiege poor Mildred's brain Last night till close on morning with
"the Earl,"
"The Earl"--whose worth did I asseverate Till I am very fain
to hope that...

Thorold,
What is all this?

You are not well! TRESHAM.

Who,
I?

You laugh at me.

GUENDOLEN.

Has what I'm fain
to hope,
Arrived then?

Does that huge tome show some blot In the Earl's
'scutcheon come no longer back Than Arthur's time?

TRESHAM.

When left you Mildred's chamber?

GUENDOLEN.

Oh,
late enough,
I told you! The main thing
to ask is,
how I left her chamber,--sure,
Content yourself,
she'll grant this paragon Of Earls no such ungracious...

TRESHAM.

Send her here! GUENDOLEN.

Thorold?

TRESHAM.

I mean--acquaint her,
Guendolen,
--But mildly! GUENDOLEN.

Mildly?

TRESHAM.

Ah,
you guessed aright! I am not well:

there is no hiding it.

But tell her I would see her at her leisure-- That is,
at once! here in the library! The passage in that old Italian book We hunted
for so long is found,
say,
found-- And if I let it slip again...

you see,
That she must come--and instantly! GUENDOLEN.

I'll die Piecemeal,
record that,
if there have not gloomed Some blot i'
the
'scutcheon! TRESHAM.

Go! or,
Guendolen,
Be you at call,--With Austin,
if you choose,-- In the adjoining gallery! There go! [GUENDOLEN goes.] Another lesson
to me! You might bid A child disguise his heart's sore,
and conduct Some sly investigation point by point
with a smooth brow,
as well as bid me catch The inquisitorial cleverness some praise.

If you had told me yesterday,
"There's one You needs must circumvent and practise with,
Entrap by policies,
if you would worm The truth out:

and that one is--Mildred!"
There,
There--reasoning is thrown away on it! Prove she's unchaste...

why,
you may after prove That she's a poisoner,
traitress,
what you will! Where I can comprehend nought,
nought's
to say,
Or do,
or think.

Force on me but the first Abomination,--then outpour all plagues,
And I shall ne'er make count of them.

Enter MILDRED MILDRED.

What book Is it I wanted,
Thorold?

Guendolen Thought you were pale;
you are not pale.

That book?

That's Latin surely.

TRESHAM.

Mildred,
here's a line,
(Don't lean on me:

I'll English it
for you)
"Love conquers all things."

What love conquers them?

What love should you esteem--best love?

MILDRED.

True love.

TRESHAM.

I mean,
and should have said,
whose love is best Of all that love or that profess
to love?

MILDRED.

The list's so long:

there's father's,
mother's,
husband's...

TRESHAM.

Mildred,
I do believe a brother's love
for a sole sister must exceed them all.

For see now,
only see! there's no alloy Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold Of other loves--no gratitude
to claim;
You never gave her life,
not even aught That keeps life--never tended her,
instructed,
Enriched her--so,
your love can claim no right O'er her save pure love's claim:

that's what I call Freedom from earthliness.

You'll never hope
to be such friends,
for instance,
she and you,
As when you hunted cowslips in the woods,
Or played together in the meadow hay.

Oh yes--with age,
respect comes,
and your worth Is felt,
there's growing sympathy of tastes,
There's ripened friendship,
there's confirmed esteem:

--Much head these make against the newcomer! The startling apparition,
the strange youth-- Whom one half-hour's conversing with,
or,
say,
Mere gazing at,
shall change
(beyond all change This Ovid ever sang about)
your soul ...Her soul,
that is,--the sister's soul!
with her
'Twas winter yesterday;
now,
all is warmth,
The green leaf's springing and the turtle's voice,
"Arise and come away!"
Come whither?--far Enough from the esteem,
respect,
and all The brother's somewhat insignificant Array of rights! All which he knows before,
Has calculated on so long ago! I think such love,
(apart from yours and mine,)
Contented
with its little term of life,
Intending
to retire betimes,
aware How soon the background must be placed
for it,
--I think,
am sure,
a brother's love exceeds All the world's love in its unworldliness.

MILDRED.

What is this for?

TRESHAM.

This,
Mildred,
is it for! Or,
no,
I cannot go
to it so soon! That's one of many points my haste left out-- Each day,
each hour throws forth its silk-slight film Between the being tied
to you by birth,
And you,
until those slender threads compose A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes And fears and fancies,
all her life,
from yours:

So close you live and yet so far apart! And must I rend this web,
tear up,
break down The sweet and palpitating mystery That makes her sacred?

You--for you I mean,
Shall I speak,
shall I not speak?

MILDRED.

Speak! TRESHAM.

I will.

Is there a story men could--any man Could tell of you,
you would conceal from me?

I'll never think there's falsehood on that lip.

Say
"There is no such story men could tell,"
And I'll believe you,
though I disbelieve The world--the world of better men than I,
And women such as I suppose you.

Speak! [After a pause.] Not speak?

Explain then! Clear it up then! Move Some of the miserable weight away That presses lower than the grave.

Not speak?

Some of the dead weight,
Mildred! Ah,
if I Could bring myself
to plainly make their charge Against you! Must I,
Mildred?

Silent still?

[After a pause.] Is there a gallant that has night by night Admittance
to your chamber?

[After a pause.] Then,
his name! Till now,
I only had a thought
for you:

But now,--his name! MILDRED.

Thorold,
do you devise Fit expiation
for my guilt,
if fit There be!
'Tis nought
to say that I'll endure And bless you,--that my spirit yearns
to purge Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire:

But do not plunge me into other guilt! Oh,
guilt enough! I cannot tell his name.

TRESHAM.

Then judge yourself! How should I act?

Pronounce! MILDRED.

Oh,
Thorold,
you must never tempt me thus!
to die here in this chamber by that sword Would seem like punishment:

so should I glide,
Like an arch-cheat,
into extremest bliss!
'Twere easily arranged
for me:

but you-- What would become of you?

TRESHAM.

And what will now Become of me?

I'll hide your shame and mine >From every eye;
the dead must heave their hearts Under the marble of our chapel-floor;
They cannot rise and blast you.

You may wed Your paramour above our mother's tomb;
Our mother cannot move from
'neath your foot.

We too will somehow wear this one day out:

But
with to-morrow hastens here--the Earl! The youth without suspicion.

Face can come >From Heaven and heart from...

whence proceed such hearts?

I have dispatched last night at your command A missive bidding him present himself To-morrow--here--thus much is said;
the rest Is understood as if
'twere written down--
"His suit finds favor in your eyes."

Now dictate This morning's letter that shall countermand Last night's--do dictate that! MILDRED.

But,
Thorold--if I will receive him as I said?

TRESHAM.

The Earl?

MILDRED.

I will receive him.

TRESHAM [starting up].

Ho there! Guendolen! GUENDOLEN and AUSTIN enter And,
Austin,
you are welcome,
too! Look there! The woman there! AUSTIN and GUENDOLEN.

How?

Mildred?

TRESHAM.

Mildred once! Now the receiver night by night,
when sleep Blesses the inmates of her father's house,
--I say,
the soft sly wanton that receives Her guilt's accomplice
'neath this roof which holds You,
Guendolen,
you,
Austin,
and has held A thousand Treshams--never one like her! No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness
to mix
with breath as foul! no loosener O'
the lattice,
practised in the stealthy tread,
The low voice and the noiseless come-and-go! Not one composer of the bacchant's mien Into--what you thought Mildred's,
in a word! Know her! GUENDOLEN.

Oh,
Mildred,
look
to me,
at least! Thorold--she's dead,
I'd say,
but that she stands Rigid as stone and whiter! TRESHAM.

You have heard...

GUENDOLEN.

Too much! You must proceed no further.

MILDRED.

Yes-- Proceed! All's truth.

Go from me! TRESHAM.

All is truth,
She tells you! Well,
you know,
or ought
to know,
All this I would forgive in her.

I'd con Each precept the harsh world enjoins,
I'd take Our ancestors'
stern verdicts one by one,
I'd bind myself before then
to exact The prescribed vengeance--and one word of hers,
The sight of her,
the bare least memory Of Mildred,
my one sister,
my heart's pride Above all prides,
my all in all so long,
Would scatter every trace of my resolve.

What were it silently
to waste away And see her waste away from this day forth,
Two scathed things
with leisure
to repent,
And grow acquainted
with the grave,
and die Tired out if not at peace,
and be forgotten?

It were not so impossible
to bear.

But this--that,
fresh from last night's pledge renewed Of love
with the successful gallant there,
She calmly bids me help her
to entice,
Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth Who thinks her all that's chaste and good and pure,
--Invites me
to betray him...

who so fit As honour's self
to cover shame's arch-deed?

--That she'll receive Lord Mertoun--(her own phrase)-- This,
who could bear?

Why,
you have heard of thieves,
Stabbers,
the earth's disgrace,
who yet have laughed,
"Talk not
to me of torture--I'll betray No comrade I've pledged faith to!"
--you have heard Of wretched women--all but Mildreds--tied By wild illicit ties
to losels vile You'd tempt them
to forsake;
and they'll reply
"Gold,
friends,
repute,
I left
for him,
I find In him,
why should I leave him then,
for gold,
Repute or friends?"
--and you have felt your heart Respond
to such poor outcasts of the world As
to so many friends;
bad as you please,
You've felt they were God's men and women still,
So,
not
to be disowned by you.

But she That stands there,
calmly gives her lover up As means
to wed the Earl that she may hide Their intercourse the surelier:

and,
for this,
I curse her
to her face before you all.

Shame hunt her from the earth! Then Heaven do right
to both! It hears me now--shall judge her then! [AS MILDRED faints and falls,
TRESHAM rushes out.] AUSTIN.

Stay,
Tresham,
we'll accompany you! GUENDOLEN.

We?

What,
and leave Mildred?

We?

Why,
where's my place But by her side,
and where yours but by mine?

Mildred--one word! Only look at me,
then! AUSTIN.

No,
Guendolen! I echo Thorold's voice.

She is unworthy
to behold...

GUENDOLEN.

Us two?

If you spoke on reflection,
and if I Approved your speech--if you
(to put the thing At lowest)
you the soldier,
bound
to make The king's cause yours and fight
for it,
and throw Regard
to others of its right or wrong,
--If
with a death-white woman you can help,
Let alone sister,
let alone a Mildred,
You left her--or if I,
her cousin,
friend This morning,
playfellow but yesterday,
Who said,
or thought at least a thousand times,
"I'd serve you if I could,"
should now face round And say,
"Ah,
that's
to only signify I'd serve you while you're fit
to serve yourself:

So long as fifty eyes await the turn Of yours
to forestall its yet half-formed wish,
I'll proffer my assistance you'll not need-- When every tongue is praising you,
I'll join The praisers'
chorus--when you're hemmed about
with lives between you and detraction--lives
to be laid down if a rude voice,
rash eye,
Rough hand should violate the sacred ring Their worship throws about you,--then indeed,
Who'll stand up
for you stout as I?"
If so We said,
and so we did,--not Mildred there Would be unworthy
to behold us both,
But we should be unworthy,
both of us.

To be beheld by--by--your meanest dog,
Which,
if that sword were broken in your face Before a crowd,
that badge torn off your breast,
And you cast out
with hooting and contempt,
--Would push his way thro'
all the hooters,
gain Your side,
go off
with you and all your shame
to the next ditch you choose
to die in! Austin,
Do you love me?

Here's Austin,
Mildred,--here's Your brother says he does not believe half-- No,
nor half that--of all he heard! He says,
Look up and take his hand! AUSTIN.

Look up and take My hand,
dear Mildred! MILDRED.

I--I was so young! Beside,
I loved him,
Thorold--and I had No mother;
God forgot me:

so,
I fell.

GUENDOLEN.

Mildred! MILDRED.

Require no further! Did I dream That I could palliate what is done?

All's true.

Now,
punish me! A woman takes my hand?

Let go my hand! You do not know,
I see.

I thought that Thorold told you.

GUENDOLEN.

What is this?

Where start you to?

MILDRED.

Oh,
Austin,
loosen me! You heard the whole of it--your eyes were worse,
In their surprise,
than Thorold's! Oh,
unless You stay
to execute his sentence,
loose My hand! Has Thorold gone,
and are you here?

GUENDOLEN.

Here,
Mildred,
we two friends of yours will wait Your bidding;
be you silent,
sleep or muse! Only,
when you shall want your bidding done,
How can we do it if we are not by?

Here's Austin waiting patiently your will! One spirit
to command,
and one
to love And
to believe in it and do its best,
Poor as that is,
to help it--why,
the world Has been won many a time,
its length and breadth,
By just such a beginning! MILDRED.

I believe If once I threw my arms about your neck And sunk my head upon your breast,
that I Should weep again.

GUENDOLEN.

Let go her hand now,
Austin! Wait
for me.

Pace the gallery and think On the world's seemings and realities,
Until I call you.

[AUSTIN goes.] MILDRED.

No--I cannot weep.

No more tears from this brain--no sleep--no tears! O Guendolen,
I love you! GUENDOLEN.

Yes:

and
"love"
Is a short word that says so very much! It says that you confide in me.

MILDRED.

Confide! GUENDOLEN.

Your lover's name,
then! I've so much
to learn,
Ere I can work in your behalf! MILDRED.

My friend,
You know I cannot tell his name.

GUENDOLEN.

At least He is your lover?

and you love him too?

MILDRED.

Ah,
do you ask me that,--but I am fallen So low! GUENDOLEN.

You love him still,
then?

MILDRED.

My sole prop Against the guilt that crushes me! I say,
Each night ere I lie down,
"I was so young-- I had no mother,
and I loved him so!"
And then God seems indulgent,
and I dare Trust him my soul in sleep.

GUENDOLEN.

How could you let us E'en talk
to you about Lord Mertoun then?

MILDRED.

There is a cloud around me.

GUENDOLEN.

But you said You would receive his suit in spite of this?

MILDRED.

I say there is a cloud...

GUENDOLEN.

No cloud
to me! Lord Mertoun and your lover are the same! MILDRED.

What maddest fancy...

GUENDOLEN [calling aloud.] Austin!
(spare your pains-- When I have got a truth,
that truth I keep)-- MILDRED.

By all you love,
sweet Guendolen,
forbear! Have I confided in you...

GUENDOLEN.

Just
for this! Austin!--Oh,
not
to guess it at the first! But I did guess it--that is,
I divined,
Felt by an instinct how it was:

why else Should I pronounce you free from all that heap Of sins which had been irredeemable?

I felt they were not yours--what other way Than this,
not yours?

The secret's wholly mine! MILDRED.

If you would see me die before his face...

GUENDOLEN.

I'd hold my peace! And if the Earl returns To-night?

MILDRED.

Ah Heaven,
he's lost! GUENDOLEN.

I thought so.

Austin! Enter AUSTIN Oh,
where have you been hiding?

AUSTIN.

Thorold's gone,
I know not how,
across the meadow-land.

I watched him till I lost him in the skirts O'
the beech-wood.

GUENDOLEN.

Gone?

All thwarts us.

MILDRED.

Thorold too?

GUENDOLEN.

I have thought.

First lead this Mildred
to her room.

Go on the other side;
and then we'll seek Your brother:

and I'll tell you,
by the way,
The greatest comfort in the world.

You said There was a clue
to all.

Remember,
Sweet,
He said there was a clue! I hold it.

Come! ACT III SCENE I.--The end of the Yew-tree Avenue under MILDRED'S Window.

A light seen through a central red pane Enter TRESHAM through the trees Again here! But I cannot lose myself.

The heath--the orchard--I have traversed glades And dells and bosky paths which used
to lead Into green wild-wood depths,
bewildering My boy's adventurous step.

And now they tend Hither or soon or late;
the blackest shade Breaks up,
the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide,
And the dim turret I have fled from,
fronts Again my step;
the very river put Its arm about me and conducted me
to this detested spot.

Why then,
I'll shun Their will no longer:

do your will
with me! Oh,
bitter!
to have reared a towering scheme Of happiness,
and
to behold it razed,
Were nothing:

all men hope,
and see their hopes Frustrate,
and grieve awhile,
and hope anew.

But I...

to hope that from a line like ours No horrid prodigy like this would spring,
Were just as though I hoped that from these old Confederates against the sovereign day,
Children of older and yet older sires,
Whose living coral berries dropped,
as now On me,
on many a baron's surcoat once,
On many a beauty's whimple--would proceed No poison-tree,
to thrust,
from hell its root,
Hither and thither its strange snaky arMs. Why came I here?

What must I do?

[A bell strikes.] A bell?

Midnight! and
'tis at midnight...

Ah,
I catch --Woods,
river,
plains,
I catch your meaning now,
And I obey you! Hist! This tree will serve.

[He retires behind one of the trees.

After a pause,
enter MERTOUN cloaked as before.] MERTOUN.

Not time! Beat out thy last voluptuous beat Of hope and fear,
my heart! I thought the clock I'
the chapel struck as I was pushing through The ferns.

And so I shall no more see rise My love-star! Oh,
no matter
for the past! So much the more delicious task
to watch Mildred revive:

to pluck out,
thorn by thorn,
All traces of the rough forbidden path My rash love lured her to! Each day must see Some fear of hers effaced,
some hope renewed:

Then there will be surprises,
unforeseen Delights in store.

I'll not regret the past.

[The light is placed above in the purple pane.] And see,
my signal rises,
Mildred's star! I never saw it lovelier than now It rises
for the last time.

If it sets,
'Tis that the re-assuring sun may dawn.

[As he prepares
to ascend the last tree of the avenue,
TRESHAM arrests his arm.] Unhand me--peasant,
by your grasp! Here's gold.

'Twas a mad freak of mine.

I said I'd pluck A branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneath The casement there.

Take this,
and hold your peace.

TRESHAM.

Into the moonlight yonder,
come
with me! Out of the shadow! MERTOUN.

I am armed,
fool! TRESHAM.

Yes,
Or no?

You'll come into the light,
or no?

My hand is on your throat--refuse!-- MERTOUN.

That voice! Where have I heard...

no--that was mild and slow.

I'll come
with you.

[They advance.] TRESHAM.

You're armed:

that's well.

Declare Your name:

who are you?

MERTOUN.

(Tresham!--she is lost!)
TRESHAM.

Oh,
silent?

Do you know,
you bear yourself Exactly as,
in curious dreams I've had How felons,
this wild earth is full of,
look When they're detected,
still your kind has looked! The bravo holds an assured countenance,
The thief is voluble and plausible,
But silently the slave of lust has crouched When I have fancied it before a man.

Your name! MERTOUN.

I do conjure Lord Tresham--ay,
Kissing his foot,
if so I might prevail-- That he
for his own sake forbear
to ask My name! As heaven's above,
his future weal Or woe depends upon my silence! Vain! I read your white inexorable face.

Know me,
Lord Tresham! [He throws off his disguises.] TRESHAM.

Mertoun! [After a pause.] Draw now! MERTOUN.

Hear me But speak first! TRESHAM.

Not one least word on your life! Be sure that I will strangle in your throat The least word that informs me how you live And yet seem what you seem! No doubt
'twas you Taught Mildred still
to keep that face and sin.

We should join hands in frantic sympathy If you once taught me the unteachable,
Explained how you can live so and so lie.

With God's help I retain,
despite my sense,
The old belief--a life like yours is still Impossible.

Now draw! MERTOUN.

Not
for my sake,
Do I entreat a hearing--for your sake,
And most,
for her sake! TRESHAM.

Ha,
ha,
what should I Know of your ways?

A miscreant like yourself,
How must one rouse his ire?

A blow?--that's pride No doubt,
to him! One spurns him,
does one not?

Or sets the foot upon his mouth,
or spits Into his face! Come! Which,
or all of these?

MERTOUN.

'Twixt him and me and Mildred,
Heaven be judge! Can I avoid this?

Have your will,
my lord! [He draws and,
after a few passes,
falls.] TRESHAM.

You are not hurt?

MERTOUN.

You'll hear me now! TRESHAM.

But rise! MERTOUN.

Ah,
Tresham,
say I not
"you'll hear me now!"
And what procures a man the right
to speak In his defence before his fellow man,
But--I suppose--the thought that presently He may have leave
to speak before his God His whole defence?

TRESHAM.

Not hurt?

It cannot be! You made no effort
to resist me.

Where Did my sword reach you?

Why not have returned My thrusts?

Hurt where?

MERTOUN.

My lord-- TRESHAM.

How young he is! MERTOUN.

Lord Tresham,
I am very young,
and yet I have entangled other lives
with mine.

Do let me speak,
and do believe my speech! That when I die before you presently,-- TRESHAM.

Can you stay here till I return
with help?

MERTOUN.

Oh,
stay by me! When I was less than boy I did you grievous wrong and knew it not-- Upon my honour,
knew it not! Once known,
I could not find what seemed a better way
to right you than I took:

my life--you feel How less than nothing were the giving you The life you've taken! But I thought my way The better--only
for your sake and hers:

And as you have decided otherwise,
Would I had an infinity of lives
to offer you! Now say--instruct me--think! Can you,
from the brief minutes I have left,
Eke out my reparation?

Oh think--think!
for I must wring a partial--dare I say,
Forgiveness from you,
ere I die?

TRESHAM.

I do Forgive you.

MERTOUN.

Wait and ponder that great word! Because,
if you forgive me,
I shall hope
to speak
to you of--Mildred! TRESHAM.

Mertoun,
haste And anger have undone us.

'Tis not you Should tell me
for a novelty you're young,
Thoughtless,
unable
to recall the past.

Be but your pardon ample as my own! MERTOUN.

Ah,
Tresham,
that a sword-stroke and a drop Of blood or two,
should bring all this about Why,
'twas my very fear of you,
my love Of you--(what passion like a boy's
for one Like you?)--that ruined me! I dreamed of you-- You,
all accomplished,
courted everywhere,
The scholar and the gentleman.

I burned
to knit myself
to you:

but I was young,
And your surpassing reputation kept me So far aloof! Oh,
wherefore all that love?

With less of love,
my glorious yesterday Of praise and gentlest words and kindest looks,
Had taken place perchance six months ago.

Even now,
how happy we had been! And yet I know the thought of this escaped you,
Tresham! Let me look up into your face;
I feel
'Tis changed above me:

yet my eyes are glazed.

Where?

where?

[As he endeavours
to raise himself,
his eye catches the lamp.] Ah,
Mildred! What will Mildred do?

Tresham,
her life is bound up in the life That's bleeding fast away! I'll live--must live,
There,
if you'll only turn me I shall live And save her! Tresham--oh,
had you but heard! Had you but heard! What right was yours
to set The thoughtless foot upon her life and mine,
And then say,
as we perish,
"Had I thought,
All had gone otherwise"?

We've sinned and die:

Never you sin,
Lord Tresham!
for you'll die,
And God will judge you.

TRESHAM.

Yes,
be satisfied! That process is begun.

MERTOUN.

And she sits there Waiting
for me! Now,
say you this
to her-- You,
not another--say,
I saw him die As he breathed this,
"I love her"--you don't know What those three small words mean! Say,
loving her Lowers me down the bloody slope
to death
with memories...

I speak
to her,
not you,
Who had no pity,
will have no remorse,
Perchance intend her...

Die along
with me,
Dear Mildred!
'tis so easy,
and you'll
'scape So much unkindness! Can I lie at rest,
With rude speech spoken
to you,
ruder deeds Done
to you?--heartless men shall have my heart,
And I tied down
with grave-clothes and the worm,
Aware,
perhaps,
of every blow--oh God!-- Upon those lips--yet of no power
to tear The felon stripe by stripe! Die,
Mildred! Leave Their honourable world
to them!
for God We're good enough,
though the world casts us out.

[A whistle is heard.] TRESHAM.

Ho,
Gerard! Enter GERARD,
AUSTIN and GUENDOLEN,
with lights No one speak! You see what's done.

I cannot bear another voice.

MERTOUN.

There's light-- Light all about me,
and I move
to it.

Tresham,
did I not tell you--did you not Just promise
to deliver words of mine
to Mildred?

TRESHAM.

I will bear those words
to her.

MERTOUN.

Now?

TRESHAM.

Now.

Lift you the body,
and leave me The head.

[As they have half raised MERTOUN,
he turns suddenly.] MERTOUN.

I knew they turned me:

turn me not from her! There! stay you! there! [Dies.] GUENDOLEN [after a pause].

Austin,
remain you here
with Thorold until Gerard comes
with help:

Then lead him
to his chamber.

I must go
to Mildred.

TRESHAM.

Guendolen,
I hear each word You utter.

Did you hear him bid me give His message?

Did you hear my promise?

I,
And only I,
see Mildred.

GUENDOLEN.

She will die.

TRESHAM.

Oh no,
she will not die! I dare not hope She'll die.

What ground have you
to think she'll die?

Why,
Austin's
with you! AUSTIN.

Had we but arrived Before you fought! TRESHAM.

There was no fight at all.

He let me slaughter him--the boy! I'll trust The body there
to you and Gerard--thus! Now bear him on before me.

AUSTIN.

Whither bear him?

TRESHAM.

Oh,
to my chamber! When we meet there next,
We shall be friends.

[They bear out the body of MERTOUN.] Will she die,
Guendolen?

GUENDOLEN.

Where are you taking me?

TRESHAM.

He fell just here.

Now answer me.

Shall you in your whole life --You who have nought
to do
with Mertoun's fate,
Now you have seen his breast upon the turf,
Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help?

When you and Austin wander arm-in-arm Through our ancestral grounds,
will not a shade Be ever on the meadow and the waste-- Another kind of shade than when the night Shuts the woodside
with all its whispers up?

But will you ever so forget his breast As carelessly
to cross this bloody turf Under the black yew avenue?

That's well! You turn your head:

and I then?-- GUENDOLEN.

What is done Is done.

My care is
for the living.

Thorold,
Bear up against this burden:

more remains
to set the neck to! TRESHAM.

Dear and ancient trees My fathers planted,
and I loved so well! What have I done that,
like some fabled crime Of yore,
lets loose a Fury leading thus Her miserable dance amidst you all?

Oh,
never more
for me shall winds intone
with all your tops a vast antiphony,
Demanding and responding in God's praise! Hers ye are now,
not mine! Farewell--farewell! SCENE II.--MILDRED'S Chamber MILDRED alone He comes not! I have heard of those who seemed Resourceless in prosperity,--you thought Sorrow might slay them when she listed;
yet Did they so gather up their diffused strength At her first menace,
that they bade her strike,
And stood and laughed her subtlest skill
to scorn.

Oh,
'tis not so
with me! The first woe fell,
And the rest fall upon it,
not on me:

Else should I bear that Henry comes not?--fails Just this first night out of so many nights?

Loving is done with.

Were he sitting now,
As so few hours since,
on that seat,
we'd love No more--contrive no thousand happy ways
to hide love from the loveless,
any more.

I think I might have urged some little point In my defence,
to Thorold;
he was breathless
for the least hint of a defence:

but no,
The first shame over,
all that would might fall.

No Henry! Yet I merely sit and think The morn's deed o'er and o'er.

I must have crept Out of myself.

A Mildred that has lost Her lover--oh,
I dare not look upon Such woe! I crouch away from it!
'Tis she,
Mildred,
will break her heart,
not I! The world Forsakes me:

only Henry's left me--left?

When I have lost him,
for he does not come,
And I sit stupidly...

Oh Heaven,
break up This worse than anguish,
this mad apathy,
By any means or any messenger! TRESHAM [without].

Mildred! MILDRED.

Come in! Heaven hears me! [Enter TRESHAM.] You?

alone?

Oh,
no more cursing! TRESHAM.

Mildred,
I must sit.

There--you sit! MILDRED.

Say it,
Thorold--do not look The curse! deliver all you come
to say! What must become of me?

Oh,
speak that thought Which makes your brow and cheeks so pale! TRESHAM.

My thought?

MILDRED.

All of it! TRESHAM.

How we waded years--ago-- After those water-lilies,
till the plash,
I know not how,
surprised us;
and you dared Neither advance nor turn back:

so,
we stood Laughing and crying until Gerard came-- Once safe upon the turf,
the loudest too,
For once more reaching the relinquished prize! How idle thoughts are,
some men's,
dying men's! Mildred,-- MILDRED.

You call me kindlier by my name Than even yesterday:

what is in that?

TRESHAM.

It weighs so much upon my mind that I This morning took an office not my own! I might...

of course,
I must be glad or grieved,
Content or not,
at every little thing That touches you.

I may
with a wrung heart Even reprove you,
Mildred;
I did more:

Will you forgive me?

MILDRED.

Thorold?

do you mock?

Oh no...

and yet you bid me...

say that word! TRESHAM.

Forgive me,
Mildred!--are you silent,
Sweet?

MILDRED [starting up].

Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night?

Are you,
too,
silent?

[Dashing his mantle aside,
and pointing
to his scabbard,
which is empty.] Ah,
this speaks
for you! You've murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed! What is it I must pardon?

This and all?

Well,
I do pardon you--I think I do.

Thorold,
how very wretched you must be! TRESHAM.

He bade me tell you...

MILDRED.

What I do forbid Your utterance of! So much that you may tell And will not--how you murdered him...

but,
no! You'll tell me that he loved me,
never more Than bleeding out his life there:

must I say
"Indeed,"
to that?

Enough! I pardon you.

TRESHAM.

You cannot,
Mildred!
for the harsh words,
yes:

Of this last deed Another's judge:

whose doom I wait in doubt,
despondency and fear.

MILDRED.

Oh,
true! There's nought
for me
to pardon! True! You loose my soul of all its cares at once.

Death makes me sure of him
for ever! You Tell me his last words?

He shall tell me them,
And take my answer--not in words,
but reading Himself the heart I had
to read him late,
Which death...

TRESHAM.

Death?

You are dying too?

Well said Of Guendolen! I dared not hope you'd die:

But she was sure of it.

MILDRED.

Tell Guendolen I loved her,
and tell Austin...

TRESHAM.

Him you loved:

And me?

MILDRED.

Ah,
Thorold! Was't not rashly done
to quench that blood,
on fire
with youth and hope And love of me--whom you loved too,
and yet Suffered
to sit here waiting his approach While you were slaying him?

Oh,
doubtlessly You let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech --Do his poor utmost
to disarm your wrath And respite me!--you let him try
to give The story of our love and ignorance,
And the brief madness and the long despair-- You let him plead all this,
because your code Of honour bids you hear before you strike:

But at the end,
as he looked up
for life Into your eyes--you struck him down! TRESHAM.

No! No! Had I but heard him--had I let him speak Half the truth--less--had I looked long on him I had desisted! Why,
as he lay there,
The moon on his flushed cheek,
I gathered all The story ere he told it:

I saw through The troubled surface of his crime and yours A depth of purity immovable,
Had I but glanced,
where all seemed turbidest Had gleamed some inlet
to the calm beneath;
I would not glance:

my punishment's at hand.

There,
Mildred,
is the truth! and you--say on-- You curse me?

MILDRED.

As I dare approach that Heaven Which has not bade a living thing despair,
Which needs no code
to keep its grace from stain,
But bids the vilest worm that turns on it Desist and be forgiven,--I--forgive not,
But bless you,
Thorold,
from my soul of souls! [Falls on his neck.] There! Do not think too much upon the past! The cloud that's broke was all the same a cloud While it stood up between my friend and you;
You hurt him
'neath its shadow:

but is that So past retrieve?

I have his heart,
you know;
I may dispose of it:

I give it you! It loves you as mine loves! Confirm me,
Henry! [Dies.] TRESHAM.

I wish thee joy,
Beloved! I am glad In thy full gladness! GUENDOLEN [without].

Mildred! Tresham! [Entering
with AUSTIN.] Thorold,
I could desist no longer.

Ah,
she swoons! That's well.

TRESHAM.

Oh,
better far than that! GUENDOLEN.

She's dead! Let me unlock her arms! TRESHAM.

She threw them thus About my neck,
and blessed me,
and then died:

You'll let them stay now,
Guendolen! AUSTIN.

Leave her And look
to him! What ails you,
Thorold?

GUENDOLEN.

White As she,
and whiter! Austin! quick--this side! AUSTIN.

A froth is oozing through his clenched teeth;
Both lips,
where they're not bitten through,
are black:

Speak,
dearest Thorold! TRESHAM.

Something does weigh down My neck beside her weight:

thanks:

I should fall But
for you,
Austin,
I believe!--there,
there,
'Twill pass away soon!--ah,--I had forgotten:

I am dying.

GUENDOLEN.

Thorold--Thorold--why was this?

TRESHAM.

I said,
just as I drank the poison off,
The earth would be no longer earth
to me,
The life out of all life was gone from me.

There are blind ways provided,
the fore-done Heart-weary player in this pageant-world Drops out by,
letting the main masque defile By the conspicuous portal:

I am through-- Just through! GUENDOLEN.

Don't leave him,
Austin! Death is close.

TRESHAM.

Already Mildred's face is peacefuller,
I see you,
Austin--feel you;
here's my hand,
Put yours in it--you,
Guendolen,
yours too! You're lord and lady now--you're Treshams;
name And fame are yours:

you hold our
'scutcheon up.

Austin,
no blot on it! You see how blood Must wash one blot away:

the first blot came And the first blood came.

To the vain world's eye All's gules again:

no care
to the vain world,
>From whence the red was drawn! AUSTIN.

No blot shall come! TRESHAM.

I said that:

yet it did come.

Should it come,
Vengeance is God's,
not man's.

Remember me! [Dies.] GUENDOLEN [letting fall the pulseless arm].

Ah,
Thorold,
we can but--remember you! The End Comments on the preparation of this e-text:

Closing brackets i.e.

"]"
have been added
to some of the stage directions.

Leading blanks are reproduced from the printed text.

Eg.:

GUENDOLEN.

Where are you taking me?

TRESHAM.

He fell just here.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Blot In The
'Scutcheon,
by Robert Browning