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



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BRIDAL, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Wife, welcome home!
Last Line: Come, take your seat.


Persons:

HUGH SHIELD, a young shepherd.
ESTHER SHIELD, his bride.
ANN SHIELD, his mother.

Scene: The living-room of Bleakridge, a lonely shepherd's
cottage on the fells. In one corner is a four-post
bed on which ANN SHIELD, an old, bed-ridden woman,
lies sleeping, unseen behind the closed curtains. On
the table in the middle of the room a meal is spread.
The latch clicks, the door op

HUGH. Wife, welcome home!

[Embracing her, and leading her to a chair.]

Come, rest, for you are tired.
ESTHER. No, I'm not weary. [Looking towards bed.]
Does your mother sleep?
HUGH [crossing to bed and peering betwixt the curtains].
Ay, she sleeps sound, and we'll not waken her,
For she is ever fretful when she wakes.
It would not do to break the news...
ESTHER. The news!
Did she not know we were to wed to-day?
HUGH. She did not know I was to wed at all.
ESTHER. Hugh! Why did you not tell her?
HUGH. I don't know.
I would have told her when I spoke to you --
Just seven nights since -- it seems so long ago! --
But when I breathed your name she put me off
Ere I had told my will. She's sorely failed,
And wanders in her speech. A chance word serves
To scare her like a shadow-startled ewe,
And send her old mind rambling through the past
Till I can scarce keep pace with her. Next morn
I spoke, and still she would not hear me out,
And yet she ever liked you, lass, and naught
She spoke against you; only her poor wits
Are like a flock of sheep without a herd;
And so she mumbled idle, driftless things;
Unless it were a mother's jealous fear
That made her cunning, and she sought to turn
My thoughts from you. Old people aye dread change.
ESTHER. You should have told her ere we wedded, Hugh.
HUGH. When I arose this morn, I went to her
To tell her, but she slept; and when I set
Her breakfast on the table by her bed,
I would have waked her, and stretched out my hand
To rouse her, and the words were on my lips;
And yet, I didn't touch her, spoke no word.
I was afraid to speak, I don't know why.
'Twas folly, lass, and yet I could not speak.
ESTHER. You should have told her.
HUGH. Well, it doesn't matter;
For we are wedded, Esther. I'm no boy,
That I must ever ask my mother's leave
Ere I do aught. I left her sleeping still;
And when she waked, she'd think me with the sheep;
And sup her meal in peace; and little know
Into what fold I wandered, and with whom!
ESTHER. You should have told her, Hugh. She will be wroth
To wake and find you wed. If you were frightened
To tell her then, how will you tell her now?
HUGH. 'Twas not her wrath I feared. I scarce know why
I did not tell her; for I would have wed
Though she had bidden me "Nay" a thousand times.
Lass, do you think a word would hold me back,
Like a cowed collie, when I would be forth?
Not all the world could keep me from you, lass,
Once I had set my heart on you. D'you think
I should have taken "Nay," lass, even from you!
ESTHER. Ay, you are masterful; and had your way
To church ere scarce I knew it; and, yet, Hugh,
You had not had your way so easily
Had it not been my way as well!
HUGH. Ay, lass,
Naught could have held us from each other -- naught,
And naught shall ever part us.
ESTHER [glancing towards the bed]. Hugh, she stirs.
Your voice has wakened her.
ANN [from the bed]. Hugh, are you there?
HUGH [going towards the bed]. Ay, mother.
ANN. Lad, what hour is it?
HUGH. Nigh noon.
ANN. I did not wake till you had gone this morn.
I must have slumbered soundly, though I slept
But little in the night. I could not sleep.
I lay awake, and watched the dark hours pass;
They seemed to trail as slowly as the years
On which I brooded, and did naught but brood,
Though my eyes burned for slumber -- those dark years
So long since passed! I did not sleep till dawn;
And then I dreamt again of those dark years;
And in my dream they seemed to threaten you.
And when I waked the clock was striking nine,
And you were gone. I must have slept again,
For you are here. I did not hear the latch.
HUGH. Mother, I spoke to you the other eve
Of Esther -- but you did not heed...
ANN. My dream!
Hugh, lad, I heard your words with fearful heart,
Yet, could not speak. Son, you must never wed.
HUGH. What say you, mother! Am I yet a boy --
A pup to bring to heel with "must" and "shall"?
Mother, this cur's beyond your call!
ANN. Nay, lad,
I don't bid you for bidding's sake; nor yet
Because I dread another mistress here.
Hugh, son, my mother's heart would have you wed;
Yet this same heart cries out to hinder you.
Believe me, for your happiness I speak.
You must not wed.
HUGH. Hush, mother! Don't speak now.

[He motions to ESTHER, who comes forward to the bed.]

ANN [turning towards ESTHER]. Is some one there? You
should have told me, Hugh.
Who is it, lad; for my old eyes are weak,
And the light dazzles them? I know the face.
Is't Esther Ord?
HUGH. No, Esther Shield, my bride.
ANN [after a pause]. Then it's too late! Had I but spoken then,
Or held my tongue for ever!
HUGH. That were best.
Don't heed her, lass. She doesn't know what she says.
ANN. Would that I didn't know, had never known!
O son, it's you who do not know. But now,
It is too late, too late. How could I think
That you would wed, and never breathe a word!
And yet, I might have known, I might have known!
You have your father's will.
HUGH. Ay, mother, words
Are naught to me but words: and all your words
Would never stay me when my heart was set.
If 'twas my father's way, I am his son.
ANN. You are his son. Would, lad, that you were not!
HUGH. Mother!
ANN. You're right, son, I will say no more.
I should have spoken then, or not at all.
It's now too late to speak.
ESTHER. It's not too late.
HUGH [slowly]. Esther says truly. It's not yet too late.
You shall speak on now; it's too late to leave
Your thought unspoken, mother. You have said
Too much -- too little to keep silence now.
The gate's unbarred; you cannot stay the flock.
ANN. Have I not kept my counsel all these years?
Nay, I'll not speak now; it's too late, too late.

[Turning to ESTHER.]

Esther, my lass, I would you had not heard.
I wish you well, though you may doubt it now --
I wish you well with all my heart. Come nigh
That I may kiss you.
ESTHER. It is not too late.
If you have any mercy in your heart,
Speak out your mind as though I were not here.
HUGH. Ay, you shall speak out now.
ANN. Then I shall speak.
Maybe it's not too late. I shall speak out
As I would one had spoken out to me
Upon my bridal-morn. If my words seem
Too fierce, too bitter, it's because they spring
From a fierce, bitter heart. O Esther, lass,
'Twere better you should die than your young heart
Grow old and fierce and bitter -- better far
That it should break, and you should die, than live
To grow old in black bitterness and wrath
As I have done. I have not much life left,
But I would save you, lass, with my last breath,
If any word can fend off destiny.
And, Hugh, my son, though I speak bitter things
To your unhappiness, I only seek
To snatch you from disaster. You have said
That words are weak: yet, I have nothing else.
You will not hate a poor, old woman, Hugh,
Because she snatches at a wisp of straw
To save the son who drowns before her eyes?
I must speak out the bitter, galling truth,
Though you should hate me, son, for evermore.
HUGH. Say on: I shall not hate you. Speak out all
If it will ease you.
ANN. Naught can bring me ease
Save death, and death bides long. Yet, I will speak.
You did not know your father, Hugh; he died
When you were in your cradle. You have heard
How, on a hurdle, he was brought home dead
From Thirlwall Crags; for folk have told you this,
Though I have never breathed his name to you.
They wondered how he fell. He did not fall.
And when I never spoke of him, they thought
That I was dumb with sorrow. It was hate
That held me mute. How should I mourn him dead
Whom I had hated living! Don't speak, Hugh,
Till I have told you all. Then you shall judge.
I scarce have breath to tell the tale; and yet,
'Twill soon be told; and if you hate me, son,
As I did hate your father, I fear not,
For I am too nigh death; and soon shall lie,
Unmindful of your hate as he of mine.
I could not hate you, son, although you bear
His name, and though his blood runs in your veins.
When first I knew him he was much like you --
As tall and broad and comely, and his eyes
The same fierce blue, his hair the same dull red.
Ay, you are like your father to your hands --
Your big, brown, cruel hands! You have his grip.
And he was just about your age; and lived
Here with his father, a fierce, silent man --
Mad Hugh the neighbours called him -- whose wife died
Ere she could weary of her wedding-gown.
Folks said that fear had killed her. Yet, when Hugh,
Your father, wooed, I could not say him nay,
Though he was like his father. I was young,
And loved him for his very fierceness; proud
Because he was so big and strong; and yet,
I ever feared him; and, poor, trembling fool,
'Twas fear that drove me to him; and we wed
When old Hugh died. The day he brought me home --
Home to this self-same house, I shrank from him
Because I feared him, and he saw my fear.
I feared the passion in his wild, blue eyes,
And loathed his fiery love -- so nigh to hate.
But I was his; and there was none to speak
As now I speak, or, on that very morn,
I should have left him. Ah, had I but known!
I was so young. A bitter year wore through,
And you were born, son: still I could not die,
Though fear was ever on me, and he knew
I feared him, and for that he hated me.
Have patience, lad; the tale is well-nigh told.
One day, when his hand touched me, I shrank back.
He saw, and sudden frenzy filled his eyes;
He clutched me by the throat with savage grip,
And flung me fiercely from him; and I fell
Against the hearthstone, and knew nothing more,
Till, coming to myself again, I found
That he was gone; and all the room was dark.
The night had fallen; and I heard you cry --
For you were in your cradle, Hugh -- and rose,
Though all my body quivered with keen pain,
To suckle you. Next morn they brought him in,
Dead on a hurdle. When I swooned and fell,
They thought that grief had killed me; but, even then,
I could not die, and came to life again,
And wakened on this bed I have not left
So many years. The folk were good to me,
And as they tended you I heard them talk,
And wonder how your father came to fall;
Yet, I spoke naught of him, because I knew
He hadn't fallen; but headlong to death
Had leapt, afraid his hand had murdered me.
Ay, panic drove him.... You must hear me out.
Don't speak yet, lad. I have not much to say.
But you are all your father!
HUGH. I shall speak!
Say, mother, have I ever done you ill?
ANN. No, son, you ever have been good to me,
Because I knew you, and I did not fear you.
Yet, you are all your father. When a babe
I knew it, for your little fist would smite
The breast from which it fed in sudden wrath.
When you were barely weaned, a shepherd brought
A poor, wee, motherless lamb for you to tend;
And though you loved it with your hot, young heart,
And hugged it nigh to death; and, day or night,
Would not be parted from it; yet one morn,
When it shrank from your fierce caress, your hands
In sudden fury clutched its throat, and nigh
Had strangled it, ere it was snatched from you.
That day I vowed that you should never wed
If I might stay you. But I speak too late.
'Twere as much use to bid the unborn babe
Beware to breathe the bitter breath of life!
HUGH. It is not yet too late. [Turning to ESTHER.]
Lass, you have heard.

[Going to the door and throwing it open.]

The door is open; you are free to go.
Why do you tarry? Are you not afraid?
Go, ere I hate you. I'll not hinder you.
I would not have you bound to me by fear.
Don't fear to leave me; rather fear to bide
With me who am my father's very son.
Go, lass, while yet I love you!
ESTHER [closing the door]. I shall bide.
I have heard all; and yet, I would not go,
Nor would I have a single word unsaid.
I loved you, husband; yet, I did not know you
Until your mother spoke. I know you now;
And I am not afraid.

[Taking off her hat, and moving towards the table.]
Come, take your seat.





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