HAROLD. Eva! [EVA _opens the door and stands in the entry_. She!
EVA. Make her happy, then, and I forgive you. [_Falls dead_.
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. [_Falls on body of her sister_.
HAROLD. Living ... dead ... She said 'all still. Nothing to live for.' She--she knows me--now ... (_A pause_.) She knew me from the first, she juggled with me, She hid this sister, told me she was dead-- I have wasted pity on her--not dead now-- No! acting, playing on me, both of them. _They_ drag the river for her! no, not they! Playing on me--not dead now--a swoon--a scene-- Yet--how she made her wail as for the dead!
MlLLY. The owd man's coom'd ageän to 'issen, an' wants To hev a word wi' ye about 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. [_Dragging him past the body_.
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.
[_While they are shouting and struggling_ DORA _rises and comes between them_.
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. (_To_ HAROLD.) You--you see her there! Only fifteen when first you came on her, And then the sweetest flower of all the wolds, So lovely in the promise of her May, So winsome in her grace and gaiety, So loved by all the village people here, So happy in herself and in her home--