Becket And Other Plays Part 71

_Enter_ DOBSON.

DOBSON.

What feller wur it as 'a' been a-talkin' fur haafe an hour wi' my Dora? (_Looking after him_.) Seeams I ommost knaws the back on 'im-- drest like a gentleman, too. d.a.m.n all gentlemen, says I! I should ha'

thowt they'd hed anew o' gentlefoalk, as I telled 'er to-daay when she fell foul upo' me.

Minds ma o' summun. I could swear to that; but that be all one, fur I haates 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer! he turns round. Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset! Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset!--Noa--yeas--thaw the feller's gone and maade such a litter of his faace.

Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip tha! a-plaayin' the saame gaame wi'

my Dora--I'll Soomerset tha.

I'd like to drag 'im thruff the herse-pond, and she to be a-lookin' at it. I'd like to leather 'im black and blue, and she to be a-laughin'

at it. I'd like to fell 'im as dead as a bullock! (_Clenching his fist_.) But what 'ud she saay to that? She telled me once not to meddle wi' 'im, and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at 'er.

It mun be _him_. Noa! Fur she'd niver 'a been talkin' haafe an hour wi' the divil 'at killed her oan sister, or she beant Dora Steer.

Yeas! Fur she niver knawed 'is faace when 'e wur 'ere afoor; but I'll maake 'er knaw! I'll maake 'er knaw!

_Enter_ HAROLD.

Naay, but I mun git out on 'is waay now, or I shall be the death on 'im. [_Exit_.

HAROLD.

How the clown glared at me! that Dobbins, is it, With whom I used to jar? but can he trace me Thro' five years' absence, and my change of name, The tan of southern summers and the beard?

I may as well avoid him.

Ladylike!

Lilylike in her stateliness and sweetness!

How came she by it?--a daughter of the fields, This Dora!

She gave her hand, unask'd, at the farm-gate; I almost think she half return'd the pressure Of mine. What, I that held the orange blossom Dark as the yew? but may not those, who march Before their age, turn back at times, and make Courtesy to custom? and now the stronger motive, Misnamed free-will--the crowd would call it conscience-- Moves me--to what? I am dreaming; for the past Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' her's-- A spell upon me! Surely I loved Eva More than I knew! or is it but the past That brightens in retiring? Oh, last night, Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester, I dozed upon the bridge, and the black river Flow'd thro' my dreams--if dreams they were. She rose From the foul flood and pointed toward the farm, And her cry rang to me across the years, 'I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar!

Come, you will set all right again, and father Will not die miserable.' I could make his age A comfort to him--so be more at peace With mine own self. Some of my former friends Would find my logic faulty; let them. Colour Flows thro' my life again, and I have lighted On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must Move in the line of least resistance when The stronger motive rules.

But she hates Edgar.

May not this Dobbins, or some other, spy Edgar in Harold? Well then, I must make her Love Harold first, and then she will forgive Edgar for Harold's sake. She said herself She would forgive him, by-and-by, not now-- For her own sake _then_, if not for mine--not now-- But by-and-by.

_Enter_ DOBSON _behind_.

DOBSON.

By-and-by--eh, lad, dosta knaw this paaper? Ye dropt it upo' the road.

'Philip Edgar, Esq.' Ay, you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, I hev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw what tha means wi' by-and-by? Fur if ye be goin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved our Eva--then, by-and-by, if she weant listen to me when I be a-tryin' to saave 'er--if she weant--look to thysen, for, by the Lord, I'd think na moor o' maakin' an end o'

tha nor a carrion craw--noa--thaw they hanged ma at 'Size fur it.

HAROLD.

Dobbins, I think!

DOBSON.

I beant Dobbins.

HAROLD.

Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow.

DOBSON.

Tha lies! What hasta been saayin' to _my_ Dora?

HAROLD.

I have been telling her of the death of one Philip Edgar of Toft Hall, Somerset.

DOBSON.

Tha lies!

HAROLD (_pulling out a newspaper_).

Well, my man, it seems that you can read. Look there--under the deaths.

DOBSON.

'O' the 17th, Philip Edgar, o' Toft Hall, Soomerset.' How coom thou to be sa like 'im, then?

HAROLD.

Naturally enough; for I am closely related to the dead man's family.

DOBSON.

An 'ow coom thou by the letter to 'im?

HAROLD.

Naturally again; for as I used to transact all his business for him, I had to look over his letters. Now then, see these (_takes out letters_). Half a score of them, all directed to me--Harold.

DOBSON.

'Arold! 'Arold! 'Arold, so they be.

HAROLD.

My name is Harold! Good day, Dobbins!

[_Exit_.

DOBSON.

'Arold! The feller's clean daazed, an' maazed, an' maated, an' muddled ma. Dead! It mun be true, fur it wur i' print as black as owt. Naaay, but 'Good daay, Dobbins.' Why, that wur the very tw.a.n.g on 'im. Eh, lad, but whether thou be Hedgar, or Hedgar's business man, thou hesn't naw business 'ere wi' _my_ Dora, as I knaws on, an' whether thou calls thysen Hedgar or Harold, if thou stick to she I'll stick to thee-- stick to tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. Ay! and I'd like to shoot tha like a rabbit an' all. 'Good daay, Dobbins.' Dang tha!

ACT III.

SCENE.--_A room in_ STEER'S _House. Door leading into bedroom at the back_.

DORA (_ringing a handbell_).

Milly!

_Enter_ MILLY.

MILLY.

The little 'ymn? Yeas, Miss; but I wur so ta'en up wi' leadin' the owd man about all the blessed murnin' 'at I ha' n.o.bbut larned mysen haafe on it.

'O man, forgive thy mortal foe, Nor ever strike him blow for blow; For all the souls on earth that live To be forgiven must forgive.