Chapter XII: Act III

SCENE.--_Interior of DRUCE’S cottage. Time, evening. DOROTHY is
discovered pale and weak, sitting by the fire, reading an old and
tattered letter, her head resting in her hand. DAN’L discovered at
back--he has a bundle and stick in his hand as if prepared for a
journey. He is pale and anxious._

_Dan._ Eventide, and he’s not yet come to claim her. It’s weary waitin’ for a blow that is to fall, and we’ll wait no longer. It’s hard to have to creep away from the old forge, like a thief in the night, and begin the weary struggle anew, God knows where! But that it should ha’ come through him whom I loved like a son, and whom I’d ha’ taken to my heart as a son--it’s doubly hard it should ha’ come through him! (_Looking at DOROTHY._) Poor maiden! She thinks him false to her. Well, it’s better so. I’ll keep that thought alive; ’twill account for much that I may not explain. One word would lift that sorrow from her gentle heart; but it must not be spoke--not yet--not yet! (_Aloud._) What art thou readin’, lass?

_Dor._ It is the letter he wrote to me from Morocco, two years since. I am bidding farewell to it ere I destroy it--for he is betrothed to another, and I may not keep it now. He spake to me in jest! Oh, father, it’s hard to bear.

_Dan._ Ay, ay--hard to bear, Dolly--hard to bear.

_Dor._ And to vaunt his unfaithfulness in the ears of a very stranger! It was a cruel boast--for I loved him with all my heart!

_Dan._ Better learn the truth now than later--as I did--as I did. Early fall, light fall, Dolly. When my sorrow come it had like to ha’ crushed the life out o’ me--but thou’rt young, my child, and time will heal thy wound.

_Dor._ If he had but known how I loved him,--but in truth I knew it not myself. It is hard to bear, for he had truth in his face, and I doubted nothing!

_Dan._ Trust no faces, Dolly--they lie--they lie.

_Dor._ Nay, but it is not like thee to say these bitter things.

_Dan._ More like me than thou wottest of, Dolly. I have told thee what I was afore thou camest to me--the past fourteen year are gone like a dream, and I’m wakin’ from it, Dolly, I’m wakin’ from it. (_Takes up his bundle._)

_Dor._ Why, father, art thou going away?

_Dan._ Ay, lass,--we’re both goin’ away.

_Dor._ (_surprised_). To-night?

_Dan._ To-night. Make thy bundle, for time presses.

_Dor._ But whither are we going?

_Dan._ Whither? What odds whither, so that we leave this place! Out into the cold world--it matters little where. Thou’lt fret here--it’s better to take thee hence--for a time--only for a time. Get thy bundle quickly--take all thou hast. I’ll tell thee more anon--we’ve no time to lose.

_Dor._ (_going_). As thou wilt, father. (_Aside._) To-night! Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, this is indeed the end! [_Exit._

_Dan._ Poor child, poor child! My heart smites me for deceivin’ her--for harmful as he’s been to me, he never had thought for aught but her. I’m a’most sorry I was so rough wi’ him--he did not know--but the harm’s done, and there’s no undoin’ it! So, old forge, the time has come when thou and I must part for ever! May he who comes arter me have as good cause to love thee as I have, for I have been ower happy here! (_Weeping._)

_REUBEN has entered and overheard the last few lines._

_Reu._ What, Dan’l Druce on the eve of a journey? Nay, thou’lt take no journey to-night, I promise thee. Unstrap thy pack and burn thy staff; for thou’lt eat here, drink here, sleep here, make money here, lose money here, laugh with joy, frown with anger, groan with pain--mope here, sicken here, dwindle here, and die here; take an old warrior’s word for it!

_Dan._ Reuben Haines, art thou here to take her from me?

_Reu._ No, Master Dan’l, I am _not_ here to take her from thee--and yet, in a sense, _yes_, Master Dan’l, I _am_ here to take her from thee. Weigh these words well, and store them away in the museum of thy mind, for they are rare words--containing, as they do, truth commingled with wisdom, which is an observable union, as these qualities consort but rarely together--for he hath no wisdom who tells the plain truth, and he hath no need to tell the plain truth who hath wisdom enough to do without it. It is a paradox.

_Dan._ (_impatiently_). To the devil wi’ thy chop-logic, I canna wait for it. Speak out, and let me know the best and the worst. Does--does thy master know?

_Reu._ He does _not_ know, as yet. And why does he not know? Because the mighty should be merciful--and I have refrained.

_Dan._ If thou art not mocking at my sorrow, speak plainly.

_Reu._ Then observe. I am a Potent Magician, or, if thou preferrest it, a Benevolent Fairy, who hath certain gifts to dispose of. On the one hand, I have Family Union, Domestic Happiness, and Snug Old Age--on the other, Blank Misery, Abject Despair, and Desolation, utter and complete. Which shall I give to Sir Jasper, and which to thee? Now, I am a pleasant old gentleman--well to do--not so very old neither, yet old enough to marry. Dorothy and I are good friends; she listens to me when I talk, which many won’t; it is a good sign and augurs well, for I love a good listener. How say you? Come, give me _thy_ daughter, and I will give thee Sir Jasper’s daughter. (_Aside._) Ha! ha! It is neatly put. It is a quip.

_Dan._ Give thee my Dorothy! (_With an effort to be calm._) No, no--it canna be--she is promised. True, I drove him forth; but still she loves him. No, no--I canna do that--I canna do that!

_Reu._ Reflect. Sir Jasper will take her from thee for ever--thou wilt never behold her again. He will drive thee from thy forge, and thou wilt be a desolate old vagabond, while she is learning day by day to forget thee, and to give her love to another. Thou refusest? It is well done. Brave old man! Thou shrinkest not from the troubles that environ thee, though they threaten to crush thee utterly; and so I say, brave old man! (_Going._)

_Dan._ Nay--stay--one moment--give me time to think. How am I to do this thing? And yet--I will consent--that is, if Dorothy will. I will ask her--nay, I will persuade her. God forgive me!

_Enter DOROTHY._

Dorothy, my child, come hither. I have somewhat to say to thee. I--I am not long for this world, and when I am gone---- Oh, Dorothy, bear with what I have to say! This man--this Reuben Haines--he loveth thee, and would make thee his wife.

_Dor._ Oh, father----

_Dan._ Ay, I know what thou wouldst say--thou lovest Geoffrey, but bear in mind, he loves thee not--he spake slightingly of thee--he did deny thee--he loveth other women; thou didst hear him say as much. See, this man will love thee better than Geoffrey. He--he is not a young man--he is of sober age, and a man of good substance. Oh, Dorothy, my child, have pity on me!

_Dor._ I cannot answer--I am lost in wonder.

_Dan._ Dorothy, my little girl--for a reason which I canna tell thee, it concerns my life--ay, my life--that thou shouldst take this man. I--I have been a kind father to thee, have I not? I have asked naught of thee till now. Oh, my child, it is for thine happiness as well as for mine. If thou didst but know! If thou didst but know!

_Reu._ Behold, maiden, I am worth consideration. I am not as other old men are. In all but years I am a boy--a very boy.

_Dor._ My father, I know naught of the sorrow that hangs over thee, but it must needs be heavy if thou canst suffer this man to say this thing to me!

_Dan._ Dorothy--have patience; if to yield up my life would serve thee, I would yield it, ten times told--the time may soon come when I shall prove thee this--for I canna live alone!

_Dor._ Father, I know naught of this man but what is ill--nevertheless, as thou hast been to me as my father, and I to thee as thy child, bound in all lawful things to obey thee, so will I obey thee even in this. Sir, I cannot love you, for my heart is given, but if my father bids me, I must needs do his bidding. (_Kneels._) Oh, my father, if the breaking of my heart can save thee, it is thine to break!

_Reu._ It is dutifully spoken. It is a bargain. Give me thine hand on it, Dan’l Druce. Set thine heart at rest--it is settled.

_Dan._ (_furiously_). Ay, it is settled. Get thee hence, now and for ever, and do thy worst. Dorothy, forgive me--’twas but for a moment I wavered--I am strong again now. (_To REUBEN._) Thou hast a master--thou owest him a duty. Go, do it--I’ll do mine. We will wait here, she and I, and when the blow comes, we’ll bear it together.

_Reu._ Dan’l Druce, I warn thee----

_Dan._ And I warn thee, Reuben Haines! Quit my roof, and that quickly, if thou settest value on thy blood, for it’s ill trifling wi’ me now! As yet, I’m master here--’twon’t be fur long, but while I am, I’ll be obeyed. Get thee hence--take thy damned face out, I tell ’ee, lest I do that which none can undo. Go! Do thy worst!

_Reu._ Brave old man! Thou defiest me to my very face, and I honour thee for it. There is sore tribulation in store for thee, likewise much bitter wailing and anguish without end. Yet thou shrinkest not. It is well done, and damme, I honour thee for it. Brave old man! [_Exit REUBEN._

_Dor._ Father, thou wast wont to tell me thy sorrow--hide not from me the source of this bitter grief. Am I not in all things thy daughter, and who should comfort thee if I may not?

_Dan._ My child, I’ve naught to hide from thee now. The reed on which I leant is broken--and---- (_Knock. DAN’L starts in terror._) Who’s there?

_Geof._ (_without_). Master Druce!

_Dor._ It is Geoffrey.

_Dan._ He had best not see thee. Get thee hence, I’ll open to him.

_Dor._ Father, deal gently with him for the love I bear him.
[_Exit DOROTHY. DAN’L opens the door._

_Enter GEOFFREY._

_Geof._ Master Dan’l, I’m going to sea. I have written to refuse the post that Sir Jasper would have given me, and I am going to-night. I come to pray your pardon for the sorrow I have brought upon your home. Give me that before I go.

_Dan._ Ay, I pardon thee, my lad. Thou didst not know. Heaven prosper thee. Is that all?

_Geof._ I have something to ask about--about Mistress Dorothy.

_Dan._ Too late! She is not mine to give. Her father--he’s coming fur to take her from me. Oh, Geoffrey, he’s comin’ to take her from me, and I’m waiting here for the blow to fall! I’m waiting here for my death!

_Geof._ I did not come to seek her love--I know that that has gone from me for ever. Master Dan’l, she heard me deny her, and she believes that I spake in earnest. I’m going from her now--for ever; there’s no chance that she’ll ever see me again. I think I should go with a lighter heart if I knew that when I’m gone and there’s many a mile of stormy water betwixt us, some one would tell her that I’m not so bad and cruel and heartless as she thinks me--if some one would tell her that it was for _her_ sake that I denied her--for her sake and for thine. I think I could go with a lighter heart if I knew she would be sure to think rightly of me in the end. That’s all I’ve got to say.

_Dan._ My lad, I’ve dealt hardly with thee, but I was sorely put about and not rightly master o’ myself. If it lay wi’ me, I’d give my girl to thee wi’ a light heart; but, my poor lad, it doan’t lay wi’ me now. He’s coming fur to take her from me! (_Knock._) At last! at last! Sir Jasper is here. Get thee within there. (_Pointing to inner room._) I have business wi’ this man.

[_Exit GEOFFREY into room as Dan’l opens door and admits SIR JASPER
and REUBEN._

_Jas._ So, Dan’l Druce, thou art the man who for fourteen long years has hidden my daughter away from me!

_Dan._ Sir, I am indeed he.

_Jas._ Oh, shame upon thee--shame upon thee!

_Dan._ I crave your mercy, for I knew not her father’s name till to-day.

_Jas._ Yet it would seem that, having learnt it, thou wouldst nevertheless have fled with her, had not this good fellow arrested thy flight.

_Dan._ I have naught to say that your honour’s kind heart will not more fitly say for me. We love one another dearly. Truly in the bitterness of my grief I had thought to flee with her, but my better self prevailed, and I stayed.

_Reu._ Credit him not, sir, for he lieth. He was in the very nick of departure when I interposed, and with stern upbraiding, withering invective, and threat of instant death, did bid him await your honour’s commands. The palsied coward trembled and obeyed.

_Dan._ Nay, sir, this man--this traitorous man--offered to keep the matter from you for ever if I would consent to give him the child to wife. She will herself bear witness to this.

_Jas._ (_to REUBEN_). Art thou indeed guilty of this treachery?

_Reu._ Why, sir, there is a measure of truth even in this fellow’s speech, inasmuch as I did indeed say it; but (herein lurks the humour of the thing) I did it but to try him. It was, as it were, a subtle essay or delicate test, prepared and carried out to the life with much ingenuity, in pursuit of the grandest of all studies--the conduct of a man under the influence of extraordinary temptation. I am a philosopher!

_Jas._ Thy philosophy shall be severely tried. Deliver thy books and papers to Master Geoffrey Wynyard, whom I appoint steward in thy place. Thy stewardship is at an end. Begone!

_Reu._ But, sir--consider----

_Jas._ Begone, I say, and let me see thee no more!

_Reu._ (_at door_). I am a philosopher!

_Jas._ Begone! (_Exit REUBEN, dolefully._) Now, Dan’l Druce, if thou hast aught to say in defence of thy conduct, I am prepared to hear it.

_Dan._ Aught to say? No, sir, I’ve naught to say worth saying. Thou’st seen the maiden--thou’st seen how fair she is--how good she is--how pure, and gentle, and tender, and true she is. That says more for me than I could say for myself. She softened my stubborn heart--she made me a man. I’ve learnt to look on her as my daughter--she on me as her father. We’ve bin all in all to each other; and at the thought o’ losin’ of her my poor old heart’s ’most broken in twain. I dunno as I’ve any more for to say. No, sir, that’s all. (_Sighing._)

_Jas._ I am sorry for you--but you have brought this grief upon yourself; you have been guilty of gross injustice both to myself and to the girl.

_Dan._ (_furious_). What!

_Jas._ Knowing as you did that enquiries would certainly be made for the child, you nevertheless stole away from the town, and left no clue whatever as to your destination.

_Dan._ Knowin’ as I did! How did I know--what was there for to tell me? Was it the love that her father showed for her when he left her to perish on that stormy Norfolk coast? Did that reckless profligate set such value on his treasure as to make it so sure he would ever come for it agen? Why, he set _his_ life afore hers! That he might live he left her to die! Why, she was well quit of such a father! Take her from me, Jasper Combe, if thou’st the heart to do it--but do it wi’ a shut mouth; for God knows, with all my sins--and they’re many--I done my duty by her!

_Jas._ Dan’l, I spake harshly--I am sorry for it. You are right. That she was not my own child, but a step-child, matters nothing. I loved her mother dearly. It was my duty to protect the child, and I basely forsook my trust. But for this misdeed I have suffered bitterly. It killed her poor mother, who loved her beyond measure, and on her deathbed I swore to search out the child that I might make amends--and now that after many years of weary searching I have found her, shall I yield her up, even to you? Come, Dan’l, be just, and ask yourself this.

_Dan._ I have nowt to say agin it, sir. It’s right--but it’s ower hard--it’s ower hard! (_Calls._) Dorothy, my child, come hither.

_Enter DOROTHY._

(_To SIR JASPER._) I ask your pardon, sir, if I call her my child still, for she’s bin more than that to me! (_To DOROTHY._) Dolly, my lass, there’s a change in store for thee--a grand change; thou’rt a lady, ay, a great lady, too. I allers knowed thou wast a lady. (_To SIR JASPER._) She doan’t talk like us common folk, sir! This gentleman, Sir Jasper Combe--he’s come to claim thee--he’s thy father, Dolly--think o’ that! And he’s--he’s goin’ to take thee from me--only to Combe-Raven, Dolly, where I’ll come and see thee often. (_To SIR JASPER._) Thou’lt let me come and see her odd times? (_To DOROTHY._) And thou’lt come and see me, and there’ll be grand doins then, eh, Dolly? There, there, go to thy father--he’ll be a kind father to thee, and he’ll love thee well, never doubt it--and--and I shall love thee too, and thou’lt have two fathers ’stead o’ one, Dolly, that’s all! (_She is about to speak._) Doan’t speak! doan’t speak; for God’s sake, doan’t speak! (_He rushes out. DOROTHY stands dumb with surprise._)

_Jas._ Dorothy, my child, I am indeed he who should stand to thee in the place of a father. I know that I seem to thee to be doing a hard thing--for thou hast learnt to love him, and he hath earned thy love. But, Dorothy, I am childless and alone, wealthy, honoured, and of good repute, yet alone in my old age. Dorothy, come to me--come to me!

_Dor._ (_who has been sobbing through this speech_). Oh, sir, forgive me if I seem to speak thoughtlessly, for I am but a poor untaught girl, and I know not how to reply. He has been so good to me, and I love him with all the love of my heart. Oh, sir, it cannot be that after these long years of tender love I am to be taken from him now. Oh, it will kill him! Have pity on him, sir, for it will kill him! I cannot leave him now. I am the very light of his eyes--the very heart of his life (_sobbing_)--I cannot leave him now! Oh, sir, if thou hast no care for him, yet for the love of my mother have pity upon me!

_Jas._ (_after a pause_). I had thought my atonement was at an end, but my bitterest punishment is yet to come, and I am to suffer it at thy hands. So be it--it is just! Dorothy, my child, whom I have sought so long, I will not break another heart. Thou art free to go to him who has been more to thee than many fathers.

_Dor._ Heaven bless thee for those good words; they have sown seed in my heart that will bear thee truer love than could have come in many years passed away from him! Sir, thou hast spared his life. When his wife left him it drove him to the very verge of madness, and this last blow would have ended his life!

_Jas._ Did his wife leave him?

_Dor._ Alas! yes, many years since--before I was sent to him.

_Jas._ And he loved her very dearly too?

_Dor._ So dearly that he would have taken her to his heart if she had returned to him--so dearly that he called me Dorothy because he read her name in mine eyes.

_Jas._ Dorothy! was that her name?

_Dor._ Ay, Dorothy Marple, for that is rightly my father’s name. But to save her good fame he gave out that he was dead, and he took the name he now bears.

_Jas._ (_aside_). My sin has borne bitter fruit! Oh, Dan’l Druce, give me thy pardon! Dorothy, for the sake of the Dorothy who is dead, give me thy pardon!

_Enter DAN’L DRUCE._

Master Druce, Heaven has interposed to save me from unwittingly working on thee a deep and bitter injury. Take the child that is thine own in the eye of God and of man. As she has been thy daughter hitherto, so shall she be thy daughter to the end!

_Dan._ (_amazed_). Why, sir--Dorothy, my child--is he not goin’ to take thee from me?

_Jas._ I have no right with her. She is thine, to bless thine old age, and to bring thee comfort to the very last.

_Dan._ Dorothy--my child--my child! (_Takes DOROTHY in his arms._) Oh, sir, I know not how to bless thee for this blessing!

_Jas._ Give me no blessing. I have done thee a wrong that is beyond the power of man to repair. Think of the deepest injury that man’s wickedness has ever wrought on thee, and place it to my account. (_DAN’L thunderstruck._) If it lies within thee to extend the hand of pardon to him who laid waste thine home and made thy life desolate, read in my blighted life the punishment that the sin of my youth has brought upon me in my old age. As I have sinned, so before Heaven I have atoned! [_Exit SIR JASPER._

_Dan._ (_as SIR JASPER’S meaning breaks upon him_). Stay! come back--if this be not a devil-born dream, come back and hear me out. Oh, source of all the sorrow I have known! Oh, black and bitter curse of two poor lives! Thy life for hers--thy cursed life for hers!

_Dor._ Father, spare him--be merciful--be just. He is an old man now--thou art an old man--is it in the winter of your lives that the heart-burnings of hot youth are to be avenged? He has wronged thee, but he has suffered and will yet suffer. As I have prevailed to turn thee to mankind, so let me, thy daughter--thy daughter indeed--thine own flesh--_her_ own flesh--prevail against this one surviving sorrow. Spare him and pardon him--for her sake and for mine! (_Kneels._)

_Enter GEOFFREY._

_Dan._ Oh, Dorothy, dead and in heaven, when God took thee He left an angel behind to plead for thee and for this man! It is Heaven’s voice--my anger has gone out of me!

_Geof._ Dorothy, wilt thou believe now that it was for thy sake and for thy father’s that I did deceive thee? (_DOROTHY rises; DAN’L sits._) Wilt thou believe, now, that I love thee truly and beyond all on earth?

_Dor._ Oh, Geoffrey! forgive me--forgive me! I acted in haste! I knew not what I did! (_Embracing him._)

_Geof._ My darling! (_Kisses her._)

_Dor._ Art thou happy, Geoffrey?

_Geof._ Passing happy! And thou?

_Dor._ Passing happy!

GRETCHEN.

_A PLAY_, IN FOUR ACTS.

_First produced at the Olympic Theatre, on March 24th, 1879._

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DOMINIC.
ANSELM.
FAUSTUS.
GOTTFRIED.
MEPHISTO.
AGATHA.
BESSIE.
BARBARA.
LISA.
GRETCHEN.
MARTHA.
FRIEDRICH.

NOTE.--The leading idea of this play was suggested by Goethe’s “Faust.” The author is indebted to that work for the scene between Mephisto and Martha in Act II. In every other respect the dialogue is original.

GRETCHEN.