Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BETROTHED, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BETROTHED, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Why, frances, you're not gone
Last Line: Frances. I will not leave you.


Persons:

DEBORAH GREY, Edward Grey's mother.
FRANCES HALL, betrothed to Edward Grey.

Scene: A fishing village, on the return of the Boats from
the season's fishing in foreign waters. DEBORAH
GREY'S cottage. DEBORAH GREY, an infirm, middle-aged
woman, sits by the hearth. FRANCES HALL enters, and
sits down with her knitting.

DEBORAH. Why, Frances, you're not gone
To watch the Boats come in?
When I was but a wench,
With lad aboard a homing boat,
I could not rest, nor work,
For days and days before,
But spent my whole time on the quay,
To catch the first glimpse of his sail;
And little recked, although my mother chided.
But you...
FRANCES. The Boats are not in sight yet.
DEBORAH. They're due to-day, lass, surely?
And, if you tarry here,
You'll miss the first sight of the sails,
That brings such sweet relief
Unto the anxious heart.
How often have I stared
Upon the far horizon,
Until it seemed his sail
Would never sweep in sight;
And, in the end,
I looked in vain.
FRANCES. In vain!
I, too, shall look in vain.
DEBORAH. Why, Frances, lass,
What ails you?
Is this a brave girl's heart?
Though, in the end,
I looked in vain,
Good hope was ever in my breast,
Until I knew.
A woman who gives way to foolish fears
May bring about the thing she dreads.
O lass, cast out that thought,
Lest it should bring his boat in peril!
He will return.
Tell that unto your heart,
Till it believes.
Your doubt may breed disaster.
But, away!
You should be with the other women-folk,
As I would be,
If I could crawl as far.
Your eager eyes
Should welcome the first speck that swims in sight,
And know it for his sail.
FRANCES. Nay, I would stay with you.
We soon shall hear
When any boat's in sight.
DEBORAH. One scarce would think you had a lover, Frances.
In my young days,
No girl could keep indoors,
Knowing the Boats were due.
Yet, here you sit
So calmly, knitting.
FRANCES. If I don't knit,
What can I do?
DEBORAH. What can...
FRANCES. I only knit,
Because I dare not think.
DEBORAH. You dare not think?
FRANCES. But you...
You have no mercy...
Nay, forgive me!
I did not mean to hurt...
And yet,
If you had only let me knit in peace.
DEBORAH. In peace?
FRANCES. And now,
I cannot even knit.
Why should I knit for him?
DEBORAH. For Edward?
FRANCES. Yes, for him.
Why should I,
Knowing that I knit in vain?
DEBORAH. What ails you, lass?
Do you not love my son?
FRANCE. Do I not love him?
Love him ... woman ... love!
Why, you know naught of love
To question this!
Have you no eyes, no heart?
Ah, God!
I thought the dullest would have seen...
And you, his mother...
And you once were young!
But you are young no longer.
You look on Edward as a child.
Still, you were young once,
And have loved, you say...
DEBORAH. Yes, lass, I loved.
God knows, none ever was more true to love...
FRANCES. Then you should know the terror and despair.
DEBORAH. At your age, Frances, love, to me,
Was naught but happiness and hope.
FRANCES. You have not loved!
DEBORAH. Yes, I have loved!
I, too, have known the terror and despair;
But never looked to meet it ere its time.
I doubted naught,
Until disaster fell.
I did not go half-way to meet disaster.
FRANCES. And yet, disaster came?
DEBORAH. Disaster came...
But I had known some happiness.
My maiden days of love
Were one long, happy dream.
Your heart should know no care now.
What can it dread?
FRANCES. If I but knew!
DEBORAH. You foolish girl!
When you know more of life,
You will not spend your heart so easily
On idle fancies.
'Twill be time enough
To meet your trouble, when it comes.
I know, and none knows better,
The bitterness life brings.
And still, we better naught by dark foreboding,
And brooding on unknown...
FRANCES. It's the unknown I dread.
DEBORAH. Nay, lass,
Enough of this!
There's naught to fear.
Your lover, even now, is on his way,
And strains his eyes to catch the earliest glimpse...

[A noise of voices and running footsteps without.]

Hark, lass!
They cry:
The Boats!
The Boats in sight!
Why do you tarry, lass?
Away with you!
Oh, would that I could go
To meet my son!
FRANCES. The Boats are still far off.
I cannot go yet.
DEBORAH. You must! Away!
Why, what would Edward think,
Were you not there,
The first to greet him
As he steps ashore?
FRANCES. I nevermore shall greet him...
DEBORAH. Woman, peace!
I am his mother.
Could I fail to know,
If death had taken him?
The sea could not withhold
Such knowledge from me for a single hour.
He is not drowned...
May he forgive my lips that slipt the word!
Your folly goaded me.
And, surely, never word of mine
Can bring my son in peril!
[FRANCES goes out.]
And yet, I too, have feared...
Nay, surely, I have come
Unto the end of all my misery!
Life cannot hold fresh woe in store.
My days began in happiness;
And now, it seems,
Though I have passed through terrors and despairs,
That I shall come again to happiness,
Before the end.
Nay, there is naught to dread.
My son is hale and hearty,
And comes to wed a lass who loves him;
And she, I know, is true to him;
And such a handy girl
Will make the best of wives.
And I, one day,
Shall nurse his child upon my knee.
[Shouting without.]
The Boats are in!
I know that cry!
How oft my heart has leapt with hope to hear it;
Then fallen dead,
When no one came to answer my heart's cry.

[A long pause, during which DEBORAH sits gazing at the fire.]

But I'll not think of that now.
Edward comes --
My son comes home --
And with him comes the hope
Of all my happiness.
For, surely, life...
How long it takes to get the nets ashore...
But I hear footsteps coming...
They stop short.
Some one has crossed his threshold, and won home.
Joy has come home to some one's heart.
Again, a rush of feet...
But they have passed the door.
I might have known 'twas not his foot.
And still, I thought
That no one could have beaten my boy home.
Surely, by now, the nets are out,
And all made trim and ship-shape.
And yet,
He does not come.
Some one must keep him...
Some one ... I forget!
Nay, I'm no longer all-in-all to him.
Why should he haste,
With Frances by his side?
Two never trod a road as quick as one.
I must be patient still...
But hark!
A woman's step...
A woman's...
And ... alone!
She stops, thank God!
Nay ... she comes slowly on.
O God, that she may pass!
She stops...
She only stops for breath.
She will go by.
Perhaps, poor soul, her lover has been drowned --
Her lover,
Or her husband...
Or her son.
I wonder who...
And still
She lingersk...
I hear no sound.
Could I but rise!
She stirs at last.
Ah, God! she's drawing nearer;
Her foot is on the threshold...

[FRANCES enters, slowly, and sinks wearily into a
chair, without speaking.]

DEBORAH. You come, alone?
FRANCES. I come, alone.
DEBORAH. The Boats are in?
FRANCES. The Boats are in.
DEBORAH. All in?
Say, lass, that one has not yet reached the harbour.
Have pity!
FRANCES. All are in.
DEBORAH. No boat is missing?
FRANCES. The Family's Pride has foundered.
DEBORAH. But that was not his boat.
He was not on her, lass, when she went down?
Speak, lass!
FRANCES. He was not on her.
Her crew went down with her...
But he...
DEBORAH. He is not drowned?
FRANCES. He is not drowned.
DEBORAH. Thank God!
And yet, he stays...
What keeps him, Frances?
Will he soon be home?
Are all the nets not out yet?
And you...
Do you but come before him?
You frightened me;
You walked so slowly;
And you looked ... you look...
O woman, tell me that he follows you!
FRANCES. He does not follow.
DEBORAH. Oh, you'll drive me crazed!
Have you no heart!
Speak out.
And tell me quickly
What keeps my son from me.
FRANCES. How should I know what keeps your son from you?
DEBORAH. He is not dead?
FRANCES. He is not dead.
DEBORAH. And yet he bides from home.
O woman, speak!
For pity's sake,
Tell all you know --
For you know something;
And I'm strong;
I've gone through much.
Speak out the truth.
FRANCES. There is not much to tell.
He left the Boats,
Ere they put out for home.
He gave no reason.
He only asked his mates
To let you have his share,
When they should make the season's reckoning.
He said he needed naught;
As he had done with fishing,
And never would return.
DEBORAH. My son!
And they knew nothing of the way he went?
FRANCES. Nothing!
They tried to turn him:
But in vain.
Woman ... your son...
DEBORAH. He left no word for you?
FRANCES. Nay, not a word.
He had no thought for me...
Nor for his child.
DEBORAH. His child?
FRANCES. His child, that, even now,
Within my womb...
DEBORAH. Ah, God, had I but known!
Had I but known!
He is his father's son.
FRANCES. Woman, what's that you mutter?
Were you not married ... you?
DEBORAH. Yes, I was wedded,
Ere my boy was born.
But that meant little:
For his father left me,
Ere Edward saw the light.
He went away,
Without a word;
And I have not set eyes on him again.
He may be living still,
For all I know.
FRANCES. And you...
You let me love his son.
DEBORAH. His son?
But Edward was my son as well.
He never knew his father;
And could I dream
He'd follow in his steps?
Believe me, or believe not,
As you will,
This thing my heart could never have foreseen.
I have been blind and foolish, maybe, lass,
Because I loved my son;
Yes, I was blind,
And you must curse me for that blindness,
And not for any evil purpose.
If I had seen,
I should have told you all;
Ay, even though my words estranged
My only son from me.
Ah, God, that he had died,
Ere this could happen!
But time re-tells the old and bitter tale
I know too well already.
That he...
You say
The Family's Pride went down with all her men;
And Martha Irwin is left desolate
Of all her sons;
And still I envy her.
Her sons have gallantly gone down to death,
But mine...
I would that he, too...
I would that he...
FRANCES. Nay, woman, hush!
For he may still return.
And yet you say
His father came no more.
DEBORAH. He came no more.
FRANCES. Then there is nothing left for me,
But death...
And I ... I loved him...
DEBORAH. No love is spent in vain.
Don't talk of death.
FRANCES. What else is left me, woman?
DEBORAH. Life!
FRANCES. Life ... without him!
Ah, God, I love him still!
And life without him were a living death.
And I would rather lie
Cold in my grave,
If I must die.
DEBORAH. You must not die.
FRANCES. Who bids me live?
DEBORAH. The child.
FRANCES. His child!
Far better I should die
Than it be born to misery.
DEBORAH. 'Twas even so I talked,
Before my boy was born;
And yet, I lived.
FRANCES. And what has life been worth to you?
DEBORAH. I have not found much happiness in life;
And now all that I've worked for,
The happiness I thought within my reach,
That I have laboured after all these years,
Is snatched from me;
And, in the end,
I find no peace.
And still, have I not worked?
And work is something more than happiness;
It's life itself.
I have not flinched from life,
But looked it in the face.
My son was born to me in bitterness,
And he has passed from me again
In bitterness.
And yet, meanwhile,
I've found my life worth living.
I have worked;
And I am old,
And broken ere my time --
The woman's life
Is not an easy one, at best.
But you are strong;
And unto her who labours for a child
Life cannot be all barrenness.
Ay, you must live life out.
You cannot see the end;
And happiness, that slips me, at the last,
May still be yours.
The child may be your child and mine --
Not Edward's and his father's.
We two have loved,
And we will both be faithful to the end.
I have not many years to live out,
But I would not die now;
For I yet hope to nurse
My grandchild on my knee.
Life has denied me much;
But you will not deny me this?
Have pity on me,
Old and desolate.
Would you forsake me, lass?
FRANCES. I will not leave you.





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