DORA (ringing a handbell).
Milly!

    MILLY.
The little ’ymn? Yeäs, Miss; but I wur so ta’en up wi’ leädin’ the owd man about all the blessed murnin’ ’at I ha’ nobbut larned mysen haäfe on it.

But I’ll git the book ageän, and larn mysen the rest, and saäy it to ye afoor dark; ye ringed fur that, Miss, didn’t ye?

    DORA.
No, Milly; but if the farming-men be come for their wages, to send them up to me.

    MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss.

    DORA (sitting at desk counting money).
Enough at any rate for the present. (Enter FARMING MEN.) Good afternoon, my friends. I am sorry Mr. Steer still continues too unwell to attend to you, but the schoolmaster looked to the paying you your wages when I was away, didn’t he?

    MEN.
Yeäs; and thanks to ye.

    DORA.
Some of our workmen have left us, but he sent me an alphabetical list of those that remain, so, Allen, I may as well begin with you.

    ALLEN (with his hand to his ear).
Halfabitical! Taäke one o’ the young ’uns fust, Miss, fur I be a bit deaf, and I wur hallus scaäred by a big word; leästwaäys, I should be wi’ a lawyer.

    DORA.
I spoke of your names, Allen, as they are arranged here (shows book)—according to their first letters.

    ALLEN.
Letters! Yeas, I sees now. Them be what they larns the childer’ at school, but I were burn afoor schoolin-time.

    DORA.
But, Allen, tho’ you can’t read, you could whitewash that cottage of yours where your grandson had the fever.

    ALLEN.
I’ll hev it done o’ Monday.

    DORA.
Else if the fever spread, the parish will have to thank you for it.

    ALLEN.
Meä? why, it be the Lord’s doin’, noän o’ mine; d’ye think I’d gi’e ’em the fever? But I thanks ye all the saäme, Miss. (Takes money.)

    DORA (calling out names).
Higgins, Jackson, Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, Skipworth! (All take money.) Did you find that you worked at all the worse upon the cold tea than you would have done upon the beer?

    HIGGINS.
Noä, Miss; we worked naw wuss upo’ the cowd tea; but we’d ha’ worked better upo’ the beer.

    DORA.
Come, come, you worked well enough, and I am much obliged to all of you. There’s for you, and you, and you. Count the money and see if it’s all right.

    MEN.
All right, Miss; and thank ye kindly.

    DORA.
Dan Smith, my father and I forgave you stealing our coals.

    DAN SMITH (bellowing).
Whoy, O lor, Miss! that wur sa long back, and the walls sa thin, and the winders brokken, and the weather sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin’ ower ’er lyin’-in.

    DORA.
Didn’t I say that we had forgiven you? But, Dan Smith, they tell me that you—and you have six children—spent all your last Saturday’s wages at the ale-house; that you were stupid drunk all Sunday, and so ill in consequence all Monday, that you did not come into the hayfield. Why should I pay you your full wages?

    DAN SMITH.
I be ready to taäke the pledge.

    DORA.
And as ready to break it again. Besides it was you that were driving the cart—and I fear you were tipsy then, too—when you lamed the lady in the hollow lane.

    DAN SMITH (bellowing).
O lor, Miss! noä, noä, noä! Ye sees the holler laäne be hallus sa dark i’ the arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi’es a turn like, and ’ow should I see to laäme the laädy, and meä coomin’ along pretty sharp an’ all?

    DORA.
Well, there are your wages; the next time you waste them at a pothouse you get no more from me. (Exit Dan Smith.) Sally Allen, you worked for Mr. Dobson, didn’t you?

    SALLY (advancing).
Yeäs, Miss; but he wur so rough wi’ ma, I couldn’t abide ’im.

    DORA.
Why should he be rough with you? You are as good as a man in the hayfield. What’s become of your brother?

    SALLY.
’Listed for a soädger, Miss, i’ the Queen’s Real Hard Tillery.

    DORA.
And your sweetheart—when are you and he to be married?

    SALLY.
At Michaelmas, Miss, please God.

    DORA.
You are an honest pair. I will come to your wedding.

    SALLY.
An’ I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waäge.

’A cotched ma about the waäist, Miss, when ’e wur ’ere afoor, an’ axed ma to be ’is little sweet-art, an soä I knaw’d ’im when I seed ’im ageän an I telled feyther on ’im.

    DORA.
What is all this, Allen?

    ALLEN.
Why, Miss Dora, meä and my maätes, us three, we wants to hev three words wi’ ye.

    HIGGINS.
That be ’im, and meä, Miss.

    JACKSON.
An’ meä, Miss.

    ALLEN.
An’ we weänt mention naw naämes, we’d as lief talk o’ the Divil afoor ye as ’im, fur they says the master goäs cleän off his ’eäd when he ’eärs the naäme on ’im; but us three, arter Sally’d telled us on ’im, we fun’ ’im out a-walkin’ i’ West Field wi’ a white ’at, nine o’clock, upo’ Tuesday murnin’, and all on us, wi’ your leave, we wants to leather ’im.

    DORA.
Who?

    ALLEN.
Him as did the mischief here, five year’ sin’.

    DORA.
Mr. Edgar?

    ALLEN.
Theer, Miss! You ha’ naämed ’im—not me.

    DORA.
He’s dead, man—dead; gone to his account—dead and buried.

    ALLEN.
I beä’nt sa sewer o’ that, fur Sally knaw’d ’im; Now then?

    DORA.
Yes; it was in the Somersetshire papers.

    ALLEN.
Then yon mun be his brother, an’—we’ll leather ’im.

    DORA.
I never heard that he had a brother. Some foolish mistake of Sally’s; but what! would you beat a man for his brother’s fault? That were a wild justice indeed. Let bygones be bygones. Go home.’ Goodnight! (All exeunt.) I have once more paid them all. The work of the farm will go on still, but for how long? We are almost at the bottom of the well: little more to be drawn from it—and what then? Encumbered as we are, who would lend us anything? We shall have to sell all the land, which Father, for a whole life, has been getting together, again, and that, I am sure, would be the death of him. What am I to do? Farmer Dobson, were I to marry him, has promised to keep our heads above water; and the man has doubtless a good heart, and a true and lasting love for me: yet—though I can be sorry for him—as the good Sally says, ‘I can’t abide him’—almost brutal, and matched with my Harold is like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. But then, he, too—will he ever be of one faith with his wife? which is my dream of a true marriage. Can I fancy him kneeling with me, and uttering the same prayer; standing up side by side with me, and singing the same hymn? I fear not. Have I done wisely, then, in accepting him? But may not a girl’s love-dream have too much romance in it to be realised all at once, or altogether, or anywhere but in Heaven? And yet I had once a vision of a pure and perfect marriage, where the man and the woman, only differing as the stronger and the weaker, should walk hand in hand together down this valley of tears, as they call it so truly, to the grave at the bottom, and lie down there together in the darkness which would seem but for a moment, to be wakened again together by the light of the resurrection, and no more partings for ever and for ever. (Walks up and down. She sings.)

There, there, I am a fool! Tears! I have sometimes been moved to tears by a chapter of fine writing in a novel; but what have I to do with tears now? All depends on me—Father, this poor girl, the farm, everything; and they both love me—I am all in all to both; and he loves me too, I am quite sure of that. Courage, courage! and all will go well. (Goes to bedroom door; opens it.) How dark your room is! Let me bring you in here where there is still full daylight. (Brings EVA forward.) Why, you look better.

    EVA.
And I feel so much better that I trust I may be able by-and-by to help you in the business of the farm; but I must not be known yet. Has anyone found me out, Dora?

    DORA.
Oh, no; you kept your veil too close for that when they carried you in; since then, no one has seen you but myself.

    EVA.
Yes—this Milly.

    DORA.
Poor blind Father’s little guide, Milly, who came to us three years after you were gone, how should she know you? But now that you have been brought to us as it were from the grave, dearest Eva, and have been here so long, will you not speak with Father today?

    EVA.
Do you think that I may? No, not yet. I am not equal to it yet.

    DORA.
Why? Do you still suffer from your fall in the hollow lane?

    EVA.
Bruised; but no bones broken.

    DORA.
I have always told Father that the huge old ashtree there would cause an accident some day; but he would never cut it down, because one of the Steers had planted it there in former times.

    EVA.
If it had killed one of the Steers there the other day, it might have been better for her, for him, and for you.

    DORA.
Come, come, keep a good heart! Better for me! That’s good. How better for me?

    EVA.
You tell me you have a lover. Will he not fly from you if he learn the story of my shame and that I am still living?

    DORA.
No; I am sure that when we are married he will be willing that you and Father should live with us; for, indeed, he tells me that he met you once in the old times, and was much taken with you, my dear.

    EVA.
Taken with me; who was he? Have you told him I am here?

    DORA.
No; do you wish it?

    EVA.
See, Dora; you yourself are ashamed of me (weeps), and I do not wonder at it.

    DORA.
But I should wonder at myself if it were so. Have we not been all in all to one another from the time when we first peeped into the bird’s nest, waded in the brook, ran after the butterflies, and prattled to each other that we would marry fine gentlemen, and played at being fine ladies?

    EVA.
That last was my Father’s fault, poor man. And this lover of yours—this Mr. Harold—is a gentleman?

    DORA.
That he is, from head to foot. I do believe I lost my heart to him the very first time we met, and I love him so much—

    EVA.
Poor Dora!

    DORA.
That I dare not tell him how much I love him.

    EVA.
Better not. Has he offered you marriage, this gentleman?

    DORA.
Could I love him else?

    EVA.
And are you quite sure that after marriage this gentleman will not be shamed of his poor farmer’s daughter among the ladies in his drawing-room?

    DORA.
Shamed of me in a drawing-room! Wasn’t Miss Vavasour, our schoolmistress at Littlechester, a lady born? Were not our fellow-pupils all ladies? Wasn’t dear mother herself at least by one side a lady? Can’t I speak like a lady; pen a letter like a lady; talk a little French like a lady; play a little like a lady? Can’t a girl when she loves her husband, and he her, make herself anything he wishes her to be? Shamed of me in a drawing-room, indeed! See here! ‘I hope your Lordship is quite recovered of your gout?’ (Curtsies.) ‘Will your Ladyship ride to cover to-day? (Curtsies.) I can recommend our Voltigeur.’ ‘I am sorry that we could not attend your Grace’s party on the 10th!’ (Curtsies.) There, I am glad my nonsense has made you smile!

    EVA.
I have heard that ‘your Lordship,’ and ‘your Ladyship,’ and ‘your Grace’ are all growing old-fashioned!

    DORA.
But the love of sister for sister can never be old-fashioned. I have been unwilling to trouble you with questions, but you seem somewhat better to-day. We found a letter in your bedroom torn into bits. I couldn’t make it out. What was it?

    EVA.
From him! from him! He said we had been most happy together, and he trusted that some time we should meet again, for he had not forgotten his promise to come when I called him. But that was a mockery, you know, for he gave me no address, and there was no word of marriage; and, O Dora, he signed himself ‘Yours gratefully’—fancy, Dora, ‘gratefully’! ‘Yours gratefully’!

    DORA.
Infamous wretch! (Aside.) Shall I tell her he is dead? No; she is still too feeble.

    EVA.
Hark! Dora, some one is coming. I cannot and I will not see anybody.

    DORA.
It is only Milly.

    DORA.
Well, Milly, why do you come in so roughly? The sick lady here might have been asleep.

    MILLY.
Pleäse, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me to saäy he’s browt some of Miss Eva’s roses for the sick laädy to smell on.

    DORA.
Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady thanks him! Is he here?

    MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss; and he wants to speäk to ye partic’lar,

    DORA.
Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet.

    MILLY.
Yea’s, Miss; but he says he wants to tell ye summut very partic’lar.

    DORA.
Not to-day. What are you staying for?

    MILLY.
Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-sweäring like onythink.

    DORA.
And what harm will that do you, so that you do not copy his bad manners? Go, child. (Exit Milly.) But, Eva, why did you write ‘Seek me at the bottom of the river’?

    EVA.
Why? because I meant it!—that dreadful night! that lonely walk to Littlechester, the rain beating in my face all the way, dead midnight when I came upon the bridge; the river, black, slimy, swirling under me in the lamplight, by the rotten wharfs—but I was so mad, that I mounted upon the parapet—

    DORA.
You make me shudder!

    EVA.
To fling myself over, when I heard a voice, ‘Girl, what are you doing there? It was a Sister of Mercy, come from the death-bed of a pauper, who had died in his misery blessing God, and the Sister took me to her house, and bit by bit—for she promised secrecy—I told her all.

    DORA.
And what then?

    EVA.
She would have persuaded me to come back here, but I couldn’t. Then she got me a place as nursery governess, and when the children grew too old for me, and I asked her once more to help me, once more she said, ‘Go home;’ but I hadn’t the heart or face to do it. And then—what would Father say? I sank so low that I went into service—the drudge of a lodging-house—and when the mistress died, and I appealed to the Sister again, her answer—I think I have it about me—yes, there it is!

    DORA (reads).
‘My dear Child,—I can do no more for you. I have done wrong in keeping your secret; your Father must be now in extreme old age. Go back to him and ask his forgiveness before he dies.—SISTER AGATHA.’ Sister Agatha is right. Don’t you long for Father’s forgiveness?

    EVA.
I would almost die to have it!

    DORA.
And he may die before he gives it; may drop off any day, any hour. You must see him at once. (Rings bell. Enter MILLY.) Milly, my dear, how did you leave Mr. Steer?

    MILLY.
He’s been a-moänin’ and a-groänin’ in ’is sleep, but I thinks he be wakkenin’ oop.

    DORA.
Tell him that I and the lady here wish to see him. You see she is lamed, and cannot go down to him.

    MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss, I will.

    DORA.
I ought to prepare you. You must not expect to find our Father as he was five years ago. He is much altered; but I trust that your return—for you know, my dear, you were always his favourite—will give him, as they say, a new lease of life.

    EVA (clinging to DORA).
Oh, Dora, Dora!

    STEER.
Hes the cow cawved?

    DORA.
No. Father.

    STEER.
Be the colt deäd?

    DORA.
No, Father.

    STEER.
He wur sa bellows’d out wi’ the wind this murnin’, ’at I tell’d ’em to gallop ’im. Be he deäd?

    DORA.
Not that I know.

    STEER.
That hasta sent fur me, then, fur?

    DORA (taking STEER’S arm).
Well, Father, I have a surprise for you.

    STEER.
I ha niver been surprised but once i’ my life, and I went blind upon it.

    DORA.
Eva has come home.

    STEER.
Hoäm? fro’ the bottom o’ the river?

    DORA.
No, Father, that was a mistake. She’s here again.

    STEER.
The Steers was all gentlefoälks i’ the owd times, an’ I worked early an’ laäte to maäke ’em all gentle-foälks ageän. The land belonged to the Steers i’ the owd times, an’ it belongs to the Steers ageän: I bowt it back ageän; but I couldn’t buy my darter back ageän when she lost hersen, could I? I eddicated boäth on em to marry gentlemen, an’ one on ’em went an’ lost hersen i’ the river.

    DORA.
No, father, she’s here.

    STEER.
Here! she moänt coom here. What would her mother saäy? If it be her ghoäst, we mun abide it. We can’t keep a ghoäst out.

    EVA (falling at his feet).
O forgive me! forgive me!

    STEER.
Who said that? Taäke me awaäy, little gell. It be one o’ my bad daäys.

    DORA (smoothing EVA’S forehead).
Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You heard him say it was one of his bad days. He will be sure to know you to-morrow.

    EVA.
It is almost the last of my bad days, I think. I am very faint. I must lie down. Give me your arm. Lead me back again.

    MILLY.
Miss Dora! Miss Dora!

    DORA (returning and leaving the bedroom door ajar).
Quiet! quiet! What is it?

    MILLY.
Mr. ’Arold, Miss.

    DORA.
Below?

    MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss. He be saäyin’ a word to the owd man, but he’ll coom up if ye lets ’im.

    DORA.
Tell him, then, that I’m waiting for him.

    MILLY.
Yeäs, Miss.

    HAROLD.
You are pale, my Dora! but the ruddiest cheek
That ever charm’d the plowman of your wolds
Might wish its rose a lily, could it look
But half as lovely. I was speaking with
Your father, asking his consent—you wish’d me—
That we should marry: he would answer nothing,
I could make nothing of him; but, my flower,
You look so weary and so worn! What is it
Has put you out of heart?

    DORA.
                        It puts me in heart
Again to see you; but indeed the state
Of my poor father puts me out of heart.
Is yours yet living?

    HAROLD.
No—I told you.

    DORA.
                                        When?

    HAROLD.
Confusion!—Ah well, well! the state we all
Must come to in our spring-and-winter world
If we live long enough! and poor Steer looks
The very type of Age in a picture, bow’d
To the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to,
Beneath the burthen of years.

    DORA.
                    More like the picture
Of Christian in my ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ here,
Bow’d to the dust beneath the burthen of sin.

    HAROLD.
Sin! What sin?

    DORA.
                    Not his own.

    HAROLD.
                            That nursery-tale
Still read, then?

    DORA.
Yes; our carters and our shepherds
Still find a comfort there.

    HAROLD.
            Carters and shepherds!

    DORA.
Scorn! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion—
My mother used to say that such a one
Was without rudder, anchor, compass—might be
Blown everyway with every gust and wreck
On any rock; and tho’ you are good and gentle,
Yet if thro’ any want—

    HAROLD.
                        Of this religion?
Child, read a little history, you will find
The common brotherhood of man has been
Wrong’d by the cruelties of his religions
More than could ever have happen’d thro’ the want
Of any or all of them.

    DORA.
                —But, O dear friend,
If thro’ the want of any—I mean the true one—
And pardon me for saying it—you should ever
Be tempted into doing what might seem
Not altogether worthy of you, I think
That I should break my heart, for you have taught me
To love you.

    HAROLD.
What is this? some one been stirring
Against me? he, your rustic amourist,
The polish’d Damon of your pastoral here,
This Dobson of your idyll?

    DORA.
                                No, Sir, no!
Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy,
Had threaten’d ev’n your life, and would say anything?
Did I not promise not to listen to him,
Not ev’n to see the man?

    HAROLD.
            Good; then what is it
That makes you talk so dolefully?

    DORA.
                                I told you—
My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now,
One that has been much wrong’d, whose griefs are mine,
Was warning me that if a gentleman
Should wed a farmer’s daughter, he would be
Sooner or later shamed of her among
The ladies, born his equals.

    HAROLD.
                                More fool he!
What I that have been call’d a Socialist,
A Communist, a Nihilist—what you will!——

    DORA.
What are all these?

    HAROLD.
                        Utopian idiotcies.
They did not last three Junes. Such rampant weeds
Strangle each other, die, and make the soil
For Cæsars, Cromwells, and Napoleons
To root their power in. I have freed myself
From all such dreams, and some will say because
I have inherited my Uncle. Let them.
But—shamed of you, my Empress! I should prize
The pearl of Beauty, even if I found it
Dark with the soot of slums.

    DORA.
                        But I can tell you,
We Steers are of old blood, tho’ we be fallen.
See there our shield. (Pointing to arms on mantelpiece.)
For I have heard the Steers
Had land in Saxon times; and your own name
Of Harold sounds so English and so old
I am sure you must be proud of it.

    HAROLD.
                                        Not I!
As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took it
For some three thousand acres. I have land now
And wealth, and lay both at your feet.

    DORA.
                            And what was
Your name before?

    HAROLD.
Come, come, my girl, enough
Of this strange talk. I love you and you me.
True, I have held opinions, hold some still,
Which you would scarce approve of: for all that,
I am a man not prone to jealousies,
Caprices, humours, moods; but very ready
To make allowances, and mighty slow
To feel offences. Nay, I do believe
I could forgive—well, almost anything—
And that more freely than your formal priest,
Because I know more fully than he can
What poor earthworms are all and each of us,
Here crawling in this boundless Nature. Dora,
If marriage ever brought a woman happiness
I doubt not I can make you happy.

    DORA.
                                You make me
Happy already.

    HAROLD.
                            And I never said
As much before to any woman living.

    DORA.
No?

    HAROLD.
No! by this true kiss, you are the first
I ever have loved truly.

    EVA (with a wild cry).
Philip Edgar!

    HAROLD.
The phantom cry! You—did you hear a cry?

    DORA.
She must be crying out ‘Edgar’ in her sleep.

    HAROLD.
Who must be crying out ‘Edgar’ in her sleep?

    DORA.
Your pardon for a minute. She must be waked.

    HAROLD.
Who must be waked?

    DORA.
I am not deaf: you fright me.
What ails you?

    HAROLD.
Speak.

    DORA.
                You know her, Eva.

    HAROLD.
                                        Eva!

    EVA.
Make her happy, then, and I forgive you.

    DORA.
Happy! What? Edgar? Is it so? Can it be?
They told me so. Yes, yes! I see it all now.
O she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sister!
He is yours again—he will love you again;
I give him back to you again. Look up!
One word, or do but smile! Sweet, do you hear me?
[Puts her hand on EVA’S heart.
There, there—the heart, O God!—the poor young heart
Broken at last—all still—and nothing left
To live for.

    HAROLD.
Living . . . dead . . . She said ‘all still.
Nothing to live for.’
                She—she knows me—now . . . 

    MILLY.
Pleäse, Mister ’Arold.

    HAROLD (roughly).
                                        Well?

    MILLY.
The owd man’s coom’d ageän to ’issen, an’ wants
To hev a word wi’ ye about the marriage.

    HAROLD.
The what?

    MILLY.
        The marriage.

    HAROLD.
                The marriage?

    MILLY.
                        Yeäs, the marriage.
Granny says marriages be maäde i’ ’eaven.

    HAROLD.
She lies! They are made in Hell. Child, can’t you see?

Tell them to fly for a doctor.

    MILLY.
                        O law—yeäs, Sir!
I’ll run fur ’im mysen.            [Exit.

    HAROLD.
                                All silent there,
Yes, deathlike! Dead? I dare not look: if dead,
Were it best to steal away, to spare myself,
And her too, pain, pain, pain?
                                My curse on all
This world of mud, on all its idiot gleams
Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities
That blast our natural passions into pains!

    DOBSON.
You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or whativer
They calls ye, for I warrants that ye goäs
By haäfe a scoor o’ naämes—out o’ the chaumber.

    HAROLD.
Not that way, man! Curse on your brutal strength!
I cannot pass that way.

    DOBSON.
                Out o’ the chaumber!
I’ll mash tha into nowt.

    HAROLD.
                The mere wild-beast!

    DOBSON.
Out o’ the chaumber, dang tha!

    HAROLD.
                Lout, churl, clown!

    DORA (to DOBSON).
Peace, let him be: it is the chamber of Death!
Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman,
A hundred times more worth a woman’s love,
Than this, this—but I waste no words upon him:
His wickedness is like my wretchedness—
Beyond all language.

    DOBSON (agitated).
Theer, theer! ha’ done. I can’t abeär to see her.

    DORA.
A child, and all as trustful as a child!
Five years of shame and suffering broke the heart
That only beat for you; and he, the father,
Thro’ that dishonour which you brought upon us,
Has lost his health, his eyesight, even his mind.

    HAROLD (covering his face).
Enough!

    DORA.
It seem’d so; only there was left
A second daughter, and to her you came
Veiling one sin to act another.

    HAROLD.
                                No!
You wrong me there! hear, hear me! I wish’d, if you——        [Pauses.

    DORA.
If I——

    HAROLD.
                Could love me, could be brought to love me
As I loved you—

    DORA.
                        What then?

    HAROLD.
                                I wish’d, I hoped
To make, to make——

    DORA.
What did you hope to make?

    HAROLD.
’Twere best to make an end of my lost life.
O Dora, Dora!

    DORA.
What did you hope to make?

    HAROLD.
Make, make! I cannot find the word—forgive it—
Amends.

    DORA.
                For what? to whom?

    HAROLD.
                        To him, to you!

    DORA.
                To him! to me!
                No, not with all your wealth,
Your land, your life! Out in the fiercest storm
That ever made earth tremble—he, nor I—
The shelter of your roof—not for one moment—
Nothing from you!
Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism,
Push’d from all doors as if we bore the plague,
Smitten with fever in the open field,
Laid famine-stricken at the gates of Death—
Nothing from you!
But she there—her last word
Forgave—and I forgive you. If you ever
Forgive yourself, you are even lower and baser
Than even I can well believe you. Go!