Ay, if the wretch were dead I might forgive him; We know not whether he be dead or living.

HAROLD.

What Edgar?

DORA.

Philip Edgar of Toft Hall In Somerset. Perhaps you know him?

HAROLD.

Slightly.

(_Aside_.) Ay, for how slightly have I known myself.

DORA.

This Edgar, then, is living?

HAROLD.

Living? well-- One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in Somerset Is lately dead.

DORA.

Dead!--is there more than one?

HAROLD.

Nay--now--not one, (_aside_) for I am Philip Harold.

DORA.

That one, is he then--dead!

HAROLD.

(_Aside_.) My father's death, Let her believe it mine; this, for the moment, Will leave me a free field.

DORA.

Dead! and this world Is brighter for his absence as that other Is darker for his presence.

HAROLD.

Is not this To speak too pitilessly of the dead?

DORA.

My five-years' anger cannot die at once, Not all at once with death and him. I trust I shall forgive him--by-and-by--not now.

O sir, you seem to have a heart; if you Had seen us that wild morning when we found Her bed unslept in, storm and shower lashing Her cas.e.m.e.nt, her poor spaniel wailing for her, That desolate letter, blotted with her tears, Which told us we should never see her more-- Our old nurse crying as if for her own child, My father stricken with his first paralysis, And then with blindness--had you been one of us And seen all this, then you would know it is not So easy to forgive--even the dead.

HAROLD.

But sure am I that of your gentleness You will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'd A miracle of gentleness--would not blur A moth's wing by the touching; would not crush The fly that drew her blood; and, were she living, Would not--if penitent--have denied him _her_ Forgiveness. And perhaps the man himself, When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'd More than we know. But wherefore waste your heart In looking on a chill and changeless Past?

Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the Past Remains the Past. But you are young, and--pardon me-- As lovely as your sister. Who can tell What golden hours, with what full hands, may be Waiting you in the distance? Might I call Upon your father--I have seen the world-- And cheer his blindness with a traveller's tales?

DORA.

Call if you will, and when you will. I cannot Well answer for my father; but if you Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva When in her brighter girlhood, I at least Will bid you welcome, and will listen to you.

Now I must go.

HAROLD.

But give me first your hand: I do not dare, like an old friend, to shake it.

I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege When you shall know me better.

DORA.

(_Aside_.) How beautiful His manners are, and how unlike the farmer's!

You are staying here?

HAROLD.

Yes, at the wayside inn Close by that alder-island in your brook, 'The Angler's Home.'

DORA.

Are _you_ one?

HAROLD.

No, but I Take some delight in sketching, and the country Has many charms, altho' the inhabitants Seem semi-barbarous.

DORA.

I am glad it pleases you; Yet I, born here, not only love the country, But its inhabitants too; and you, I doubt not, Would take to them as kindly, if you cared To live some time among them.

HAROLD.

If I did, Then one at least of its inhabitants Might have more charm for me than all the country.

DORA.

That one, then, should be grateful for your preference.

HAROLD.

I cannot tell, tho' standing in her presence.

(_Aside_.) She colours!

DORA.

Sir!

HAROLD.

Be not afraid of me, For these are no conventional flourishes.

I do most earnestly a.s.sure you that Your likeness-- [_Shouts and cries without_.

DORA.

What was that? my poor blind father--

_Enter_ FARMING MAN.

FARMING MAN.

Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart hes runned ower a laady i' the holler laane, and they ha' ta'en the body up inter your chaumber, and they be all a-callin' for ye.

DORA.

The body!--Heavens! I come!

HAROLD.

But you are trembling.

Allow me to go with you to the farm. [_Exeunt_.