A Blot In The 'Scutcheon [16]
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 defence, to Thorold; he was breathless For the least hint of a defence: 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? Oh 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 confused boy's-speech
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? Oh 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 confused boy's-speech