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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.d'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 defense, to Thorold; he was breathless For the least hint of a defense: 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?

Or 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 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 honor 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!