Successful Recitations Part 61

So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side; Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died.

Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.

And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, "Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed."

Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest.

DORA.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought "I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match.

Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.

She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wished this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answered short: "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack And never more darken my doors again."

But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he looked at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law,"

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pa.s.sed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.

But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

"I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and the land was dark.

But when the morrow came she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.

Then when the farmer pa.s.s'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"

"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: "Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"

And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

I must be taught my duty, and by you!

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To G.o.d, that help'd her in her widowhood.

And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more."

Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home, And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.

The door was off the latch: they peep'd and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out And babbled for the golden seal that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.

Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down, and Mary said:--

"O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.

O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 'G.o.d bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd His face and pa.s.s'd--unhappy that I am!

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:--

"I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son.

I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son.

May G.o.d forgive me!--I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times, And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William.

So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

MRS. B.'S ALARMS.

BY JAMES PAYN.

Mrs. B. is my wife; and her alarms are those produced by a delusion under which she labours that there are a.s.sa.s.sins, gnomes, vampires, or what not, in our house at night, and that it is my bounden duty to leave my bed at any hour or temperature, and to do battle with the same, in very inadequate apparel. The circ.u.mstances which attend Mrs.

B.'s alarms are generally of the following kind. I am awakened by the mention of my baptismal name in that peculiar species of whisper which has something uncanny in its very nature, besides the dismal a.s.sociations which belong to it, from the fact of its being used only in melodramas and sick-rooms.

"_Henry, Henry, Henry!_"

How many times she had repeated this I know not; the sound falls on my ear like the lapping of a hundred waves, or as the "Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe," of the parrot smote upon the ear of the terrified islander of Defoe; but at last I wake, to view, by the dim firelight, this vision: Mrs. B. is sitting up beside me, in a listening att.i.tude of the very intensest kind; her nightcap (one with cherry-coloured ribbons, such as it can be no harm to speak about) is tucked back behind either ear; her hair--in paper--is rolled out of the way upon each side like a banner furled; her eyes are rather wide open, and her mouth very much so; her fingers would be held up to command attention, but that she is supporting herself in a somewhat absurd manner upon her hands.

"_Henry_, did you hear _that_?"

"What, my love?"

"That noise. There it is again; there--there."

The disturbance referred to is that caused by a mouse nibbling at the wainscot; and I venture to say so much in a tone of the deepest conviction.

"No, no, Henry; it's not the least like that: it's a file working at the bars of the pantry-window. I will stake my existence, Henry, that it is a file."

Whenever my wife makes use of this particular form of words I know that opposition is useless. I rise, therefore, and put on my slippers and dressing-gown. Mrs. B. refuses to let me have the candle, because she will die of terror if she is left alone without a light. She puts the poker into my hand, and with a gentle violence is about to expel me from the chamber, when a sudden thought strikes her.

"Stop a bit, Henry," she exclaims, "until I have looked into the cupboards and places;" which she proceeds to do most minutely, investigating even the short drawers of a foot and a half square. I am at length dismissed upon my perilous errand, and Mrs. B. locks and double-locks the door behind me with a celerity that almost catches my retreating garment. My expedition therefore combines all the dangers of a sally, with the additional disadvantage of having my retreat into my own fortress cut off. Thus c.u.mbrously but ineffectually caparisoned, I peramulate the lower stories of the house in darkness, in search of the disturber of Mrs. B.'s repose, which, I am well convinced, is behind the wainscot of her own apartment, and nowhere else. The pantry, I need not say, is as silent as the grave, and about as cold. The great clock in the kitchen looks spectral enough by the light of the expiring embers, but there is nothing there with life except black-beetles, which crawl in countless numbers over my naked ankles. There is a noise in the cellar such as Mrs. B. would at once identify with the suppressed converse of antic.i.p.ated burglars, but which I recognise in a moment as the dripping of the small-beer cask, whose tap is troubled with a nervous disorganisation of that kind. The dining-room is chill and cheerless; a ghostly armchair is doing the grim honours of the table to three other vacant seats, and dispensing hospitality in the shape of a mouldy orange and some biscuits, which I remember to have left in some disgust, about----Hark! the clicking of a revolver? No! the warning of the great clock--one, two, three.... What a frightful noise it makes in the startled ear of night! Twelve o'clock. I left this dining-room, then, but three hours and a-half ago; it certainly does not look like the same room now. The drawing-room is also far from wearing its usual snug and comfortable appearance. Could we possibly have all been sitting in the relative positions to one another which these chairs a.s.sume? Or since we were there, has some spiritual company, with no eye for order left among them, taken advantage of the remains of our fire to hold a _reunion_? They are here even at this moment perhaps, and their gentlemen have not yet come up from the dining-room. I shudder from head to foot, partly at the bare idea of such a thing, partly from the naked fact of my exceedingly unclothed condition. They do say that in the very pa.s.sage which I have now to cross in order to get to Mrs. B. again, my great-grandfather "walks"; in compensation, I suppose, for having been prevented by gout from taking that species of exercise while he was alive. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, I think, as I approach this spot; but I do not say so, for I am well-nigh speechless with the cold: yes, the cold.

It is only my teeth that chatter. What a scream that was! There it comes again, and there is no doubt this time as to who is the owner of that terrified voice. Mrs. B.'s alarms have evidently taken some other direction. "Henry, Henry!" she cries, in tones of a very tolerable pitch. A lady being in the case, I fly upon the wings of domestic love along the precincts sacred to the perambulations of my great-grandfather. I arrive at my wife's chamber; the screams continue, but the door is locked.